How to Win Friends and Influence People by olivieblake

Category: Harry Potter

Genre: Humor, Romance
Language: English
Characters: Draco M., Harry P., Hermione G., Theodore N.
Pairings: Draco M./Hermione G., Harry P./Theodore N.
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15 13:12:51
Updated: 2018-06-05 02:20:30
Packaged: 2019-07-03 10:43:19
Rating: M
Chapters: 42
Words: 403,894
Publisher: www.fanfiction.net
Summary: Real heroes never quit. Real villains never die. Dramione with ensemble cast, post-war, espionage AU.
COMPLETE.
 1. Destiny Says So

How to Win Friends and Influence People

Summary: After the war, Hermione discovered she liked to break things; bones, specifically. Similarly, Draco,
whose life had crumbled to rubble, became fascinated with explosives. Dramione, post-war, espionage AU.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and claim no profit from this work. Credit where credit is due, Joanne
Rowling. Additionally, the story's title is adapted from the book "How to Win Friends and Influence People" by Dale
Carnegie, but it shares none of Carnegie's content.

a/n: There will be some espionage-related violence in this story, so please note the rating. Expect the following
tropes: (1) forced partnership, (2) fake relationship, (3) enemies-to-lovers, and (3.5) at least one instance of
inadvisable desk sex.

As ever, I can't wait to start another story with you, and hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: Destiny Says So

The first time:

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Sept 3, 1998

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she growled, glaring at him. "I was here first."

"If you would kindly untwist your knickers, Granger, you might bring yourself to notice that I am simply reaching
for a book," he retorted, making a show of picking one up off the shelf. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to be
polite?"

She flipped a page, scowling. "I see you haven't changed a bit, Malfoy."

"No, I haven't," he told her, "and regrettably, neither have you."

She slammed the book shut, throwing her bag over her shoulder and rising to her feet.

"I don't know why I thought I'd be able to come back here with you," she muttered. "I should have known you'd be
the exact same bullying prat you always were - "

"Look," he interrupted, waving her opposition away. "I'm just here to take my N.E.W.T.s and get out, same as you."
She made a face, and he glowered back. "I'm not looking for any sort of reconciliation. You just stay out of my way,
Granger," he offered forcefully, "and I'll stay out of yours."

"You'd better, Malfoy," she snapped. "Don't think I've forgotten about everything you did."

"Don't think I care," he retorted, and crossed his arms over his chest. "So are we clear?"

"That you're an arse, and nothing's changed?" she prompted, artificially sweet. "Crystal."

"Good," he said flatly.

"Good!" she yelled back.

"SHHH," Madam Pince interrupted loudly, and they stared at each other, fuming.

"Get out of my w- "

"With pleasure," he drawled, stepping aside with a derisive bow, and she promptly stormed out.

The second time:

The Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade Village
December 25, 1998

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he groaned. "What in the name of Salazar's wrinkled ballsack are you doing here?"

"Oh, shove it, Malfoy," she retorted. "Go away."

"You go away," he snapped. "I'm just trying to have a drink - "

"What are you even doing here?" she demanded. "Why aren't you with your family? Or better yet, at the bottom of
the lake," she muttered under her breath, "being swallowed by the giant squid - "

"They're n- " he began, cutting himself off, and then immediately grimaced. "I just can't go back there right now,
okay? And anyway, listen, I really don't have the energy for this," he told her. "What with all the effort at pretending
you don't exist that I've had my hands full with over the last four months - "

"Please," she scoffed. "I'm not the one moping around the castle at all hours, staring broodily into space - "

"Why aren't you with Weasley, anyway?" he cut in brusquely, glaring at her. "I thought you two were supposed to
be some sort of disgusting apocalyptic approximation of romance - "

"He's busy," she said flatly. "He's an Auror now, so - "

"Well, what a mindless fucking endeavor," he interrupted, arching a brow. "You must be so proud."

"Oh, shove it, Malfoy," she said, curling a fist and then promptly pivoting to exit. "Have a bloody happy Christmas,
then, will you?"

"I bloody will," he shouted, slamming his fork down and glaring after her as she left.

The third time:

Outside Twilfitt and Tattings, Diagon Alley
July 10, 1999

"Oh no, don't look," she whispered to Ron. "No," she groaned, bringing her hand to her face as he spun over his
shoulder. "I said don't look - "

"Oh, wonderful," she heard Draco drawl, and wanted instantly to sink below Diagon Alley's cobbled steps. "Look,
it's my two favorite war heroes, just out for a romantic stroll - "

"Shut up, Malfoy," Ron said, promptly throwing his arm around Hermione and discarding the argument they'd been
having; the usual one, as always, about when she'd be halting her research at Hogwarts and joining him in London.
Much as she hated to admit it, she wasn't entirely sure whether Draco Malfoy's appearance was a curse or - under
those circumstances - a rather unfortunate blessing. "Get lost, would you?" Ron snapped, glaring at the other wizard.
"I'm surprised they're still willing to serve you around here."

Draco blinked, furious, and then he licked his lips, forcing a smile.

"So am I," he said coolly, "but money will get you everywhere, won't it, Weasley? Oh, wait," he lamented,
facetiously tapping his mouth. "You wouldn't know, would you?"

"I'm a fucking Auror, Malfoy," Ron snarled. "I could arrest you right fucking now - "
"Ron," Hermione whispered, clutching his arm. "Don't start."

"Yes, listen to your fiancée," Draco advised, pointedly inspecting his fingernails. "Many happy returns, by the way.
I'm ever so pleased you two paired off so magnificently, especially after such a - what are the papers calling it? A
'rocky start,' was it? I knew those articles about the strained long-distance relationship couldn't be true. Anyway," he
said, shrugging, as Ron's face promptly turned scarlet with rage, "do look out for my congratulatory fruit basket, in
between the photoshoots and all the convincing yourselves you're doing this for the right reasons that surely must be
taking up all your time - "

"Say one more word, Malfoy, and you'll have to look out for my wand up your arse," Ron seethed, and Hermione
sighed.

"Come on," she said, tugging him after her. "Let's go - "

"Bye, Granger," Draco called cheerfully. "Do send a postcard when you've birthed the first of the new Weasel clan,
will you?"

"I'll make sure of it," she shouted over her shoulder, shoving Ron into Florean Fortescue's.

The fourth time:

Somewhere on Shaftesbury Avenue, London
May 20, 2000

It was just her luck that on the rare occasion that she wasn't looking where she was going, she would have to bump
shoulders with Draco Malfoy.

"Hey, wait a second," he called, turning around as she kept walking. "Granger, is that you?"

She sped up, pulling her coat tight around her.

"Granger, aren't you supposed to be at - "

He caught her arm, a little breathless, and she spun, glaring at him.

"What?" she demanded, and he stared, brows furrowed.

"Are you - " he swallowed. "Are you crying?"

"No," she lied, and turned to keep walking. He, irritatingly, held on.

"Wait, I just - wait," he pressed, rooting her in place. "Are you wearing - "

"My wedding dress? No," she said, laughing. "Nope. Just a long white dress, actually," she added, hiccuping once.
"No reason."

His eyes narrowed.

"Granger," he said forcefully. "What the fuck?"

She looked down, staring at her feet, and he sighed.

"Come on," he muttered, glancing over his shoulder, and then surreptitiously pulled out his wand, apparating them
elsewhere. "There," he said, as her feet settled on a lush set of gardens. It was dewy, and fragrant, and would have
been beautiful had it not been tainted with the particular intrigue of things-after-midnight and places she shouldn't
have been.

"Talk," he instructed, gesturing to a bench.

He sat. She didn't.

"Suit yourself," he remarked indolently, and leaned back. "I suppose I can talk, if you prefer. For one thing, fuck
London," he told her. "Do you know how much a pint costs? Outrageous. I hardly need concern myself with money
but it's bloody thievery is what it is, really - "

"I just wanted a happy ending," she told him blankly. "Was that too much to ask?"

He cleared his throat, pausing, and then gestured beside him.

She, reluctantly, sat.

"So," he said. "You walked out on Weasley?"

"He was having cold feet," she said, hearing the robotic tone of her voice and wishing there was something she
could do about it. "I heard him telling Harry he wasn't sure. That he thought maybe we'd rushed into it," she added,
"because it wasn't working between us, and we'd thought maybe if we were more committed, it would, but - "

She trailed off, and he said nothing.

"I did us a favor," she ruled, shivering. "And anyway, I paid all the vendors before I left," she added, "and I sent
apology owls to all the guests individually, and - "

"Fuck, Granger," he exhaled, shaking his head. "You're the only person on earth who could make a traumatic
breakup sound like an expertly planned logistical feat."

"I'm considerate," she told him. "And realistic, and - "

"What was it?" he interrupted. "What you were fighting about."

She blinked.

"We weren't fighting," she insisted. "It wasn't that we were fighting, exactly, and everything was fine, it was just - "

"Was it about how you can't sleep at night?" he asked. "That you don't come to bed, because you don't want to come
to bed, and yes, you're reading that book for the twentieth time, because it's easier than sleeping? Easier than
thinking, and easier than remembering, and thus, a better use of time? Or was it because you don't like to come
home," he ventured, staring out into the dark. "That you'd rather be working - and that no, you don't use your time
together well, you're not fully present, because you don't feel normal - you can't feel normal, because everything
went wrong and so, maybe, it'll just go wrong again? And then she leaves you," he finished, clearing his throat.
"Because you don't make her happy, because you aren't happy, and you don't know why."

Hermione swallowed, letting a heavy swell of time pass.

"He wanted me to be his wife," she said eventually. "You know? His wife. Hermione Weasley." She turned, facing
him. "Does that make sense?"

Draco shrugged. "Stupid of him," he said. "Terrible name, firstly, and extremely poor grasp of your personality, if
we're being realistic - "

"Well, I mean, to his credit, he never actually said that," she murmured. "I just - I felt it." She took a deep breath; let
it out. "And maybe that's not fair, but - "

"Who cares what's fair?" he retorted. "What part of our lives was ever fair? We want what we want," he said dully,
"and we get almost none of it, so - "

He trailed off. She grimaced.

"I don't know what I want to do with my life," she confessed, saying the words out loud for the first time that she
could remember. "And he does, and I don't think - I don't think it would be right if we - "

She sighed. "It's better this way," she finished, and he didn't move; didn't breathe.

They looked out into the night, tacitly agreeing to silence, as a peacock warbled something that sounded
suspiciously like a long string of expletives.

"So," Draco drawled. "Should we have sex?"

She turned, staring at him.

"No," she said, and he shrugged, unsurprised.

"Just trying to make you feel bet- "

"There is something I want from you, though," she ventured slowly, and he lifted a single pale brow.

"Well, spit it out, Granger, I haven't got all n- "

"I want to hit you," she informed him. "I want to hit you right in your stupid, terrible face."

There was a pause.

"Kinky," he said eventually.

She glared at him, and then softened, looking down at her hands.

"Do you ever just want to - " she trailed off, eyeing the lines of her palm. "Hurt something? Because you've lived
this fragile, breakable life, and so everyone thinks you're fragile and breakable too, and you just want to - " she
turned her hands over, clenching them into fists. "Ruin something?"

He stared at her, eyes narrowed, and then launched unsteadily to his feet.

"How many people have you hit, Granger?" he asked. "Is this a common impulse?"

"Just the one," she told him, smirking, and he rolled his eyes at the memory. "But I found it rather a relief at the
time, so I imagine it would be equally satisfactory on a second go."

"But what about diminishing returns?" he countered. "Maybe you should find someone else to hit. Like Weasley,"
he suggested brightly. "That would be fun for everyone."

She glowered at him, and he sighed.

"Fine," he said. "You can have one hit."

She blinked. "What?"

"You can have one hit," he told her. "And only because you've been crying, and crying women make me supremely
uncomfortable."

She looked down, eyeing her hands again, and then nodded, feeling her heart pound as she rose suddenly to her feet.

"Okay," she said, feeling her pulse skip. "Okay. One hit?"

"One hit," he agreed. "And if you break anything - "

"Jesus, Malfoy, how delicate are you?"

"Delicate? Where do you get off - ? That offends."

"It offends?"

"Excuse me, you're obviously in some kind of state of - OUCH, fuck me - "

"Oh, it didn't hurt that bad. Don't be a baby."

"Don't be a baby? You nearly shattered my nose!"

"I did not - "

"You did - "

"You're an intolerable little pantywaist, Malfoy - "

"You're a vicious little brute, Granger!"

She laughed, and laughed and laughed and laughed, and then, abruptly, the laughter spoiled itself in her throat,
sticky and hot and painful, and he seemed to hear it too, something in his expression vanishing at the sound.

"I need to go," she said hoarsely; after the laughter had burned at the back of her eyes, and when she was suddenly
more certain of that than anything. "I have to get out, you know what I mean? I have to just - go."

He stared at her, breathing hard.

"Then go," he said, blinking, and she swallowed it; the tears and heartache and loss.

"Bye," she said dully, and disapparated, leaving him cradling his stinging cheek in his hand.

The fifth time:

Interior of the Sultanahmet Mosque, Istanbul
July 8, 2001

"Well, well, well," he muttered, and she nearly jumped. "Nearly didn't recognize you with that bushy head of yours
covered, Granger."

"Not now, Malfoy," she whispered, pointedly staring up at the mosque's high ceiling. "Don't you know when a space
is sacred?"

"I often say that about my bedroom, and yet nobody ever listens," he told her, following her as she shifted, trying -
or at least appearing to try - to get a better view of the tiled dome. "What are you doing here?"

"Living my life," she informed him, and then let her gaze flick askance, glaring at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, nothing important," he said, shrugging. "Business."

"Business," she echoed skeptically, scoffing. "I doubt that." She turned, unhappily facing him. "Isn't this place a
little too muggle for you, Malfoy?"

"Hardly," he said. "You really think there's no magic to this?" he asked, gesturing to the tiles above. "It's so blue."

"That's - " she started to say, and then cut herself off. "Nevermind," she told him briskly, heading for the west
entrance. "I'm leaving."

"Bye, then," he called after her, not following. "Do be careful, though, would you?"

She stopped, pivoting in place.

"Why?" she asked suspiciously, and he shrugged.

"Avoid the Turkish Ministry," he clarified. "At least for the afternoon."

She glared at him. "What?"

"Just keep that big, bushy head down, Granger," he said, unfazed, and then he turned, tucking his hands in his
pockets, and walked out without another word.

The last time:

The One-Eyed Crone, somewhere outside Dublin
February 17, 2002

"Oh, not again," they groaned in unison, abruptly knocking shoulders as they reached for the same freshly-poured
pint of Guinness.

"Give me that," she snapped, slapping his hand away and snatching the glass from his reach. "What are you doing
here?"

"What are you doing here?" he countered, gesturing to the barkeep for another and then turning to scowl at her.
"Aren't you supposed to be trolloping around Europe or something?"

"I was never trolloping," she told him, and pursed her lips, taking a pointed sip of her beer as he grunted his
disagreement, waiting. "What about you, anyway?" she prompted. "Blowing up pubs now, Malfoy, or are you
sticking with foreign ministries?"

He narrowed his eyes, conspicuously not answering. "You have bruises," he told her, his gaze flicking over her
cheek. "Found someone new to hit, Granger? Looks like they hit back," he noted, accepting the Guinness from the
bartender and smirking at her. "I have to say, it's an improvement."

"Hilarious," she muttered, and they both paused, eyeing each other over their drinks.

"So," he said, clearing his throat. "There's an underground fighting ring beneath this bar," he suggested slyly. "Isn't
there?"

She took a sip, biding her time, and then turned, gesturing to a man who sat in the corner.

"That," she said, jutting her chin towards him, "is a wanted fugitive from the Bulgarian Ministry. A purveyor of
illegal herbs who owes some Welsh vampires a coin or two," she added knowingly. "Isn't he?"

Their eyes narrowed in unison, each silently gauging the other's offering.

"I'll say nothing if you will," Draco determined eventually. "Deal?"

She smiled darkly.

"Deal," she agreed, and they nodded, parting ways to opposite ends of the pub without another word.

Today:
The Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement
September 23, 2003

Hermione Granger had been back in London for the first time in three years for the duration of approximately two
weeks. Not surprisingly, it had taken the exact same amount of time for Ron to leap without restraint from gentle
curiosity to hysterical obsession over her activities.

"Harry," Ron opened seriously, holding his fork aloft, "I think Hermione's seeing someone."
"Convenient," Harry replied. "Aren't you?"

Ron ignored him, picking at his food.

"I saw her this morning," he continued. "I was going to see if she wanted to get some coffee or breakfast or
something, and then she came out, and - "

"Did you say anything?" Harry prompted. Ron, predictably, opted to ignore him again.

"She went for a run, Harry. A run." Ron grimaced. "Have you ever seen Hermione run?"

"I have not," Harry confirmed, taking a bite of his salad. "Though, short of wartime necessity, I suppose I've never
given much thought to her exercise regimen."

Ron nodded, stabbing gracelessly at a cherry tomato.

"She met someone afterwards," he remarked carefully, and Harry sighed.

"Ron. You followed her?"

"It was Marcus Flint," Ron supplied loudly, and then glanced around. "You don't think - no," he said, leaning
forward conspiratorially. "It can't be - but then again, can it? But no - "

"Ron," Harry sighed. "Spit it out."

Ron's cheeks promptly flushed violet.

"I think she's dating Marcus Flint," he blurted, shoving his food away. "MARCUS FLINT!" he roared, slamming a
fist down on Harry's desk.

"Okay," Harry said. "Well, that's - "

"Unholy," Ron supplied, shuddering. "Indecent!"

" - nice," Harry finished, and carefully prepared another bite. "Good for her."

"No, no, not good for her," Ron corrected impatiently, his arms flailing as he spoke. "She's got bruises, Harry, lots of
them - on her arms, and her legs, even - "

Harry stopped chewing, frowning. "Bruises?"

"And scars," Ron said, nodding frantically. "What if he's hurting her, Harry? He's a brute, and an utter hulking arse,
and I won't stand for it," he added, rising to his feet and pacing Harry's office. "I won't, Harry, we're supposed to
protect her - "

Harry sighed, wiping his mouth on his napkin.

"Fine," he said, nodding once. "I'll talk to her."

"You?" Ron asked, surprised. "But - "

"Not you," Harry said quickly. "Last time you two spoke about her love life, she sent you that howler that nearly
burned down the living room - and I'm sorry, Ron, but I can't take another bout of Kreacher's depressive episodes if
another one of Walburga's doilies is scorched, so - "

"Fine," Ron muttered, crossing his arms and staring moodily at his lunch. "But do it soon, would you? Today, in
fact. Immediately, if not sooner - "

"I will," Harry promised him. "She's our best friend, Ron, obviously I care if someone's hur- "
"Knock, knock," Kingsley said, pairing the statement with two perfunctory knocks on the open doorframe. "Are you
available, Harry?"

"Oh, Minister, hello," Harry said, promptly vanishing his and Ron's lunches and giving Ron a pointed look. "Yes, I
am."

"I was just leaving," Ron agreed, stepping towards the door. "Harry," he muttered, glancing meaningfully at him,
"you'll look into that thing?"

"Yes, Ron - "

"Because if you don't, so help me - "

"Ron," Harry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I will check it out this afternoon, okay? I promise."

Ron nodded stiffly, grunting his acknowledgement, and then turned to leave, nodding politely to Kingsley before
exiting Harry's office.

"Sorry about that," Harry offered, gesturing to Ron's vacant chair. "Care to sit?"

Kingsley nodded, shutting the door and then gliding over, settling himself across from Harry with his usual
effortless grace.

"A member of the Scandinavian Wizengamot's just been murdered," Kingsley said without preamble, and Harry
grimaced. "That makes three similar cases in the last six months."

"Hm," Harry said, leaning back in his chair and pulling at his beard. "So that makes the French Ministry, MACUSA,
and - " he paused, thinking. "The Turkish Ministry had a problem a couple of years ago too, didn't it?"

"No," Kingsley said, shaking his head. "There was an attack at the Turkish Ministry, but it was an assassination to
take out a visiting businessman. No known political affiliation."

"Hm," Harry said again. "So what happened?"

"Same thing as the others," Kingsley confirmed. "Untraceable poison with a letter pinned to his chest."

"Do you want the Aurors on it?" Harry asked. "Extra security for the Wizengamot members until we can sort out
who's behind this?"

To his surprise, Kingsley hesitated.

"Yes and no," Kingsley ventured tentatively. "The Ministry doesn't exactly have the funds to support redirecting our
Aurors right now, what with our slow recovery from the war. I think, more likely, we'll have to be a bit more
intelligent about it." He paused, grimacing. "A bit more … covert, I should say."

Harry arched a brow. "What are you suggesting?"

"Perhaps if we hired someone for security," Kingsley suggested. "A third party - someone who could investigate as
well protect, and also identify any potential threats?"

"Are you suggesting we hire … a spy?" Harry asked, startled. "Does the Ministry even have those?"

"Not in any official capacity, no," Kingsley admitted. "But perhaps if we could identify someone with the means to
blend in. Someone not officially within the official Ministry capacity," he clarified, "but who could potentially
ingratiate themselves within its functions."

"Huh," Harry said, and grimaced. "I think I have an idea, but I don't think you're going to like it."

Kingsley's mouth tightened.

"Is this about Malfoy again?" he guessed, sighing. "I know you feel bad for him, Harry, but as I've told you before, I
simply can't get the rest of the approving board members to warm up to the prospect of bringing him into the
Ministry. Too much bad blood, firstly, and after Lucius' many years of deception - "

"Well, what if he wasn't doing it alone?" Harry interjected, frowning. "What if I could get him on board with
someone who could provide the legitimacy you're looking for?"

"Can't be Nott," Kingsley said, shaking his head. "Or Parkinson. They're no better off than he is, unfortunately."

"I know," Harry agreed. "But there's got to be someone, right?"

Kingsley sighed again, rising to his feet.

"It would have to be quite the individual," he lamented, "but you're more than welcome to try. Just - give it some
thought, would you?" he asked. "Whether it's Malfoy or not, I'd like to come up with something by the end of the
week."

"Sure," Harry agreed, nodding. "I'm sure I can think of something."

"The other Ministers have assured me that their respective Head Aurors will be available, if you'd like to
collaborate," Kingsley added. "Janvier from the French Ministry, Poliakoff - "

"Poliakoff?" Harry echoed. "Wasn't he at Durmstrang for the last Tri-Wizard Tournament?"

Kingsley shrugged. "Possibly," he said. "And Carnegie, the MACUSA Head Auror, has offered her services as
well."

"Well, shouldn't be a problem, then," Harry assured him. "I'll assemble a team and get back to you as soon as
possible, Minister."

Kingsley smiled.

"You make my job easy, Harry," he told him, pulling the door open and rumbling his gratitude before entering the
corridor, his shoes tapping down the marble floor.

"I do, don't I," Harry murmured to himself, shaking his head. He glanced down, checking Fabian Prewett's battered
watch, and sighed. "And now," he told himself, gathering his things and throwing his work bag over his shoulder, "I
suppose I'm off to save Hermione."

After the war, Hermione discovered that she liked to break things.

Bones, specifically.

It started when she left London - and her doomed wedding to Ron - for Marseille, reliving happier times and
deciding, on a whim, to take a job as a waitress in an intimate seaside cafe amidst what was essentially a small, very
French version of Diagon Alley; a little wizarding corner called Avenue des Balivernes. Waitressing wasn't
particularly satisfying, but the company was worthwhile enough. The restaurant was a hot spot for lutins, little
French goblin-like fairies, who were mostly good - mostly.

When they weren't good, they were fighting, and that's what eventually drew Hermione in.

The first time she entered a lutin-sponsored tournament she was utterly, unforgivably sloshed, having been
spectacularly unused to their particularly potent drinks. She'd lost, terribly, and to great and raucous celebration -
lutins, she learned, treasured the opportunity to savor the humiliation of a loser almost as much as they buried
themselves in the glory of a winner - but even from the flat of her back, her ears ringing from the pressure in her
head, she could finally manage to forget what she had gone through, and the many ways she had hurt.
She had learned to take a beating, and she liked it. She told herself she'd learn to pay the favor back.

She learned to box in Turkey, after growing weary of the lutin overindulgence in spirits; she worked for a time
selling dates and figs for a merchant who had a daemon problem, having made an unwise deal for what was
essentially a haunted house. The daemons, who lacked much other entertainment, redirected their mirth from the
merchant to Hermione, taking her under their wing and teaching her where to aim, how hard and fast to jab, and
when to tilt and when to duck, until she could best an orek - corpse-like zombies, which she learned, eventually, not
to retch in the presence of - with both hands tied, and both eyes closed.

She learned the art of bloodletting in Norway, where wizards and creatures alike seemed to manifest into being
holding knives in both hands. She learned to draw one faster than her opponent could blink, and how to hold it
between her teeth just as comfortably as the lies she told herself; I'm fine, she'd whisper in her mind, no longer
fearful of shadows that lurked in the dark. I'm fine.

But it was the bruises on her knuckles that she loved the most; the way her face got lean and shadowed, and how the
muscles on her arms were sleek and firm, and how the landscape of her was a smooth, hardened shell of defiance, an
exterior that matched her insides. There was a time when Hermione Granger considered herself plain, but those days
were long gone.

Perhaps she still wasn't the prettiest girl, but now she was extraordinary, and it showed.

She'd decided to move back to London two weeks ago after bumping into Seamus Finnegan in a pub outside of
Dublin. He, it turned out, had bought a vacant public house in Diagon Alley and restored it to something of a
contemporary gastropub, calling it - appropriately - The Arsonist, and then deciding to host bare-knuckle boxing
tournaments in the basement. After watching Hermione thoroughly trounce a lightweight Irishman called Thumbs,
he offered her a slot.

The more difficult decision, in the end, had been whether to tell Ron and Harry she'd decided to come home. She
wasn't quite ready to be the Hermione they'd known, and despite the fact that Ron had insisted he'd forgiven her for
leaving, she wasn't sure he'd understand her rather drastic reincarnation.

So she'd kept her distance. Not that hard.

She had other things to think about.

"Hey," Marcus said, nodding to her as she approached. "I see the bruise from last night is healing up nicely."

"I wish," she told him, rolling her eyes. "This is that concealment balm Wood gave me. Which is way too expensive,
by the way - "

Marcus shrugged. "He likes nice things," he said innocently, smirking as Hermione arched a brow. "Only the best
that money can buy."

"Buy, Flint?" she echoed. "Are you calling yourself a commodity?"

"The finest of commodities," he purred in agreement, and she rolled her eyes again, giving him a shove as they
headed down to The Arsonist.

Marcus Flint was, like Oliver Wood, an ex-quidditch player who hadn't quite lost the taste for being thrown around,
either on a broom or in the ring; he'd been standoffish towards her at first (read: blatantly rude) but had been willing
to see things differently when she'd cracked three of his ribs with a technique she'd learned during a brief stint in
Moscow. He, in turn, had knocked the wind out of her for what had felt like millennia, and they'd mutually decided,
in a wordless acknowledgement of collective respect, that friendship was a more palatable option.

"Hey, Sea," Hermione called, ducking her head as she padded rhythmically down the steps to The Arsonist's
basement, fondly called the Underground. "Got something good for me tonight?"

"I think you'll like it," Seamus agreed, grinning at her, and gestured to the back wall. "Take a look."
She leaned over, squinting in the dim lighting. "Oh, excellent," she said brightly, giving into a rather self-satisfied
smirk. "Millicent Bulstrode."

"God, remember when she put you in a headlock, Granger?" Dean asked, materializing from the back room.

"Which time?" Hermione asked brusquely, making a face. "It's about time I paid her back for that."

"What a brute," Oliver agreed, emerging from the shadows to jut his chin out brusquely at Marcus. "Flint," he
grunted, pretending at nonchalance. "Care to go a few rounds before Warrington tonight?"

"Christ, Wood, if you want foreplay, you just have to ask nicely," Marcus drawled, stepping towards him and
winking over his shoulder at Hermione. "Don't wait up, Granger - "

"Bye," she told him, shaking her head as he went, and wandered over to Seamus and Dean. "Do you think those two
think they're subtle?" she asked, gesturing after them.

"Doubt it," Seamus said, shaking his head. "But they're too hopped up on adrenaline to care."

"It's amazing either of them have day jobs," Dean commented, and Hermione glanced at him, surprised.

"Marcus doesn't," she said. "He's just the inheritor of a pureblood fortune."

"Eh, well, I'm sure he'll be working for the Ministry sooner or later," Seamus said. "Isn't that what all quidditch
players do when they age out of playing professionally?"

"Oliver didn't age out," Dean reminded him. "He broke his broom over a ref's head."

"Which is a perfect precursor to working for the Ministry," Seamus insisted, unfazed, and Hermione laughed.

"So what do you think," she asked, catching sight of Millicent warming up on the other side of the room. "Should I
let her go a few rounds?"

"Normally I'd say yes," Seamus said, grimacing as he glanced over, "but she's quite a bit bigger than you, so - "

"So?" Hermione demanded. "Everyone's bigger than me," she reminded him, "but I've got endurance on my side.
Besides, look at her," she added, watching Millicent tilt her head, rubbing her ear. "Something's wrong with her
equilibrium."

"That's our killer queen," Dean chuckled proudly, toasting her with a pint. "If only Weasley could see you now, eh?"

She grimaced as she reached into her bag for her athletic tape, specially charmed to cushion the blows around her
knuckles. "I hope not," she told him seriously. "I don't really think he or Harry would get it."

"You never know," Dean countered, but she silenced him with a look.

"Eh, don't think about them," Seamus offered reassuringly, stepping out from behind the bar to kiss her cheek.
"Alright," he announced, nodding to Dean. "I've got to get upstairs and make sure the restaurant hasn't burned down
-"

"Ironic that you'd be doing that," Hermione judged, and he grinned.

"Good luck, Granger," he tossed over his shoulder. "Make her cry, yeah?"

"We'll see," she called back, and then resumed her careful scrutiny of Millicent, watching her undertake some
practice jabs in the corner.

Hermione Granger, despite not looking or behaving like the person she'd once been, had not morphed quite fully to a
different species; the one thing she hadn't lost had been her particularly studious nature (or, she supposed, her unruly
hair, though that was less relevant at the moment). She read Millicent like a textbook, making mental notes of what
she saw and tucking her observations away for later use, the same way she'd prepared for exams. She watched
Millicent jab with her elbow out, leaving it vulnerable; watched her throw with her shoulders too low, noting the
gaping opening to the face; watched her rotate her hips, a prelude to each move that made her predictable,
calculable, and ultimately, despite the advantage of her size, thoroughly beatable.

Hermione also noted the hardened line of Millicent's mouth, the bitterness buried there; she knew, unfairly, that
Millicent's life after the war had been no idle pureblooded fantasy, but she shoved aside her misgivings, recalling the
time she'd spent as a victim of Millicent Bulstrode's errant fists and determining privately that mercy wasn't an
option.

"Ready?" Dean asked, and Hermione smiled, finishing the tape around her knuckles and flexing her fingers, slowly,
before passing him a nod.

"Always," she said, and she meant it.

The ring at the center of the Underground was relatively small, and observed by only the shiftiest of audiences;
goblins, for example, who frequented the space, their long fingers wrapped gruesomely around their tankards, and
Knockturn's finest (read: most wanted) purveyors of skullduggery, who seemed to turn up in droves, managing bets
around the outside.

There was a series of whispers as Hermione stepped into the space; she was hardly bigger than the goblins, who
leered at her through narrowed eyes, and Millicent, she knew, was a local favorite, having been fighting in these
underground circuits since shortly after the war. Hermione waited, rolling out her shoulders, until Millicent finally
turned, staring at her.

"Granger," she grunted; and then, without warning, she dove.

Hermione knew the benefit of an overly emotional opponent, and so she consented to take the first hit; she took the
blow to her cheek, twisting mid-impact to land facing forward and then hit the ground hard, sparing a moment
before heaving herself up on her knees. She waited, taking her time, as Millicent towered over her.

"Stay down, princess," Millicent spat. "You don't belong here."

"COME ON, GRANGER," she heard Marcus yell. "HIT HER BACK!"

"Good strategy, Flint," Oliver mocked.

"Fuck off, Wood," Marcus retorted.

Hermione smiled, rising to her feet, and then cracked her neck, beckoning to Millicent.

"Come on, Bulstrode," she coaxed with a laugh. "Put me in my place, then, would you?"

Millicent - predictably - obliged, grabbing Hermione by the shoulders and throwing her back against the wooden
barricade of the ring before gritting her teeth, tightening her bruised fingers in the worn fabric of Hermione's sports
bra.

"This isn't Hogwarts anymore, princess," Millicent snarled, curling a fist and then drawing it back, coiled tight and
prepped for release, like an arrow in a bowstring. "This isn't a war you get to win this time around - "

She delivered her waiting fist, aiming for Hermione's cheek, and Hermione swiftly ducked to the side, drawing
Millicent forward. Hermione twisted, aiming the blade of her hand against the back of Millicent's neck, and struck
once, merciless, as Millicent fell forward, blinking back a haze.

"This isn't war anymore, Millie," Hermione corrected grimly, ducking out towards the center of the ring. "This is a
fight," she clarified with a laugh, and Millicent spun, aiming unsteadily for her abdomen.

Hermione took the hit to the stomach, prepping for the impact, and then permitted another tackle against the far end
of the ring; she heard whispers, a few clattered exchanges of coins, and then smiled darkly, aiming a hard slap near
the ear she'd seen Millicent favoring. Millicent groaned in pain, stumbling aside, and then aimed a blind jab at
Hermione's face; Hermione countered with an uppercut, the heel of her hand hitting Millicent's nose, breaking it in a
quick motion and then following it up with a fist to her jaw with the opposite hand, leaving Millicent dazed.

"Come on, Millie," Hermione crooned, darting back towards the center with her hands up, beckoning to her.
"Having fun yet?"

Millicent let out a gurgle of opposition, stumbling forward, and Hermione wasted little time, taking advantage of the
other woman's disorientation to draw her forward and blocking her poorly aimed jab, countering with a punch to her
left cheek. Millicent, furious, attempted a wild knockout swing from the left - normally a weak side, though she
couldn't possibly know yet that Hermione Granger had no weak sides - but Hermione hit first with a shot to
Millicent's ribs, immobilizing her dominant arm before aiming a second blow to Millicent's jaw, breaking it, and
then sending a traumatizing blow to Millicent's solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her.

Millicent stepped back, staggering, and Hermione waited, knowing the fall was imminent.

"We can stop now," Hermione offered genially, arching a brow, and Millicent's expression darkened as she turned,
dragging out a breath and spitting blood.

"Not quite," she rasped, and Hermione's eyes widened as Millicent shifted, drawing her wand from somewhere
beneath the band of her loose-fitting pants.

"HEY," Marcus yelled from the side, "NO MAGIC - "

"Get Seamus," Hermione heard someone urge, and Oliver disappeared, racing up the stairs.

"Deprimo," Millicent snarled, and Hermione dove, scrambling to pull her own wand from the inside of her pant leg
and just missing the impact of the spell where she'd been standing as a cloud of dust rose from the blasting curse.
She threw up a silent Protego, avoiding the blow of another incoherent curse, and then slid across the dirt floor,
narrowly avoiding the splintering of the ring's wooden barricades.

"Expelliarmus," Hermione attempted, rubbing dust from her eyes and aiming before launching herself to her feet,
wincing as a small shard of wood lodged itself in the skin between her ribs. She stood, blinking, and then waved
away the cloud of rubble.

"GRANGER," she heard Marcus shout. "ON YOUR LEFT - "

"Stupefy," she shouted, aiming her wand blindly, and then there was a loud thud; she muttered a spell to dissipate the
dust, coughing up particles of dirt, and then let out a sigh of relief as she nearly tripped over Millicent's unconscious
form. "Jesus, Bulstrode," Hermione muttered to Millicent's unmoving torso, half-swaying where she stood. "There
are rules - "

"Granger," Marcus said, catching her elbow and holding her upright. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said, blinking. She looked up, searching for Seamus. "Did anyone go get - "

She trailed off, her heart stopping, as she caught the small flutter of a familiar wave from someone in the crowd.

"Brilliant, Hermione," Harry called brightly, his face materializing across the ring as the rubble from Millicent's
curse finally cleared.

She held her breath; choked on it.

"Flint," she said, coughing, and dragged him around, letting her nails dig into the flesh of his forearm as she stared at
the vision of Harry. "Did I take a hard fall," she asked, pointing, "or is that actually Harry Potter?"

Marcus turned, his eyes narrowing.

"Scarhead?" he muttered, and grimaced. "Unfortunately, that's really him," he lamented flatly, and Hermione slowly
let out a sigh.

"Fuck," she declared, and across the ring, Harry smiled brilliantly.

a/n: Welcome to the start of something new! Let's meet back here next week to see what Draco's been up to, shall
we?
 2. You Again

Chapter 2: You Again

"So," Harry said, grinning at her from behind a pint of Hog's Head Brew as she made a face, reaching over for her
shirt. "This is what you've been up to, huh?"

"Stop staring," she sighed, fighting a laugh as he reached out, deliberately poking at the line of her obliques. "Oh my
god, Harry, stop - "

"I'm just curious," he said, reaching for her again and flashing her a merciless smile as she smacked his hand away.
"I didn't know you looked like this."

"Well, in fairness, I didn't used to look like this," she reminded him, shaking her head as she picked up her glass of
firewhisky. "It's a recent development."

"Ron," Harry remarked gleefully, taking another sip, "is going to lose his mind."

"Don't tell him," she warned, brandishing a finger at him. "I'll kill you."

"I believe you," he assured her, and then glanced around, surveying the room. "Anyone bet on you?"

"Doubt it," Hermione said, shrugging. "Who would bet on me when they could put money on Bulstrode?" she asked,
gesturing to where Millicent had dazedly risen to her feet before being escorted out - roughly, and with some less-
than-covert muttering - by Oliver and Marcus. "Honestly, I don't blame them."

"I'd bet on you," Harry told her, with his usual enthusiasm. "And Ron would, too."

Hermione groaned.

"Stop bringing up Ron," she told him, making a face. "I can tell you're trying to get at something, and I can tell you
right now I won't like whatever yo- "

"You should tell him," Harry cut in, precisely as she'd been expecting, and Hermione let out an impatient sigh.
"What?"

"You know he wouldn't understand," she muttered, and Harry gave her another impish grin.

"Well, I clearly understand," he reminded her. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes, and while we're on the subject, why are you here?" Hermione demanded, pulling her shirt on as Harry's eyes
drifted again to her stomach. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I didn't," Harry admitted. "Ron, er - "

He trailed off, looking sheepish, and Hermione huffed a sigh. "Ron what?"

"He saw your bruises," Harry explained. "And he saw you meeting up with Marcus Flint, so he figured you were
seeing him. You know - seeing him. Are you, by the way?" he asked innocently, taking a pointed sip from his beer.

"No," Hermione scoffed, making a face. "I'm not his type."

"What's his type?"

"Oliver Wood," Hermione supplied unambiguously, and Harry paused, a little stunned.

"Oh," he said, and blinked. "Oh," he repeated, comprehension suddenly registering on his features. "So many things
make sense to me now - "
"So wait, Ron followed me?" Hermione asked, abruptly recalling where they'd been in the conversation and drawing
back in furious disbelief. "And then you followed me?"

"Hermione," Harry admonished her, rolling his eyes, "I'm an Auror. There's some level of investigatory prowess
involved," he added smugly, deliberately lifting a pinky as he raised his glass to his lips. "And for the record, when
you do things like go to the same place at the same time every night for two weeks, it doesn't take that long for
people to notice you have a schedule. Tom at the Leaky told me where to find you," he admitted, and she groaned.

"My landlord ratted me out?"

"To be fair, I think he thinks you work here," Harry conceded. "Personally I thought I'd find you waiting tables," he
added, "though this" - he gestured around the Underground - "makes a bizarre amount of sense to me."

"Sense?" she sniffed skeptically, and he shrugged again.

"Hermione Granger, veritable badass, would have bruises from being champion of an underground fighting ring, not
from an abusive relationship with Marcus Flint," he told her, as though this were obvious. "So, yeah."

"Eh," she permitted, giving his shoulder a playful shove, and he threw an arm around her.

"So," he ventured. "The thing is, now that I've seen you in action, I actually have a proposition for you."

"I don't think Ginny would be happy to hear that," Hermione replied teasingly, and Harry shook his head firmly.

"We broke up," he said, "but that's not what I meant. I was actually thinking - "

"You broke up?" Hermione echoed, drawing back. "When?"

"A year ago," Harry said, "but that's not important. What I'm trying to say is - "

"Not important?" Hermione gasped, her voice just loud enough to prompt several wizards and creatures around the
Underground to glower at her with displeasure. "How can it not be important, Harry?" she hissed, lowering her
voice. "You broke up a year ago and didn't tell me?"

"You seemed like you had other things on your mind," Harry explained, shrugging. "Anyway, she's off with the
team, and with the distance, you know, and my job, and - " he trailed off, grimacing. "Whatever. Anyway, my point
is - "

"Harry," Hermione wailed, twisting in place to throw her arms around his neck. "I would have been there for you if
you'd asked me," she told him furiously, resting her chin on the dip of his shoulder and letting out a burdened sigh.
"I care about you, you stupid, stupid man, how could it not be important - "

"Well, bearing that in mind," Harry said lightly, gently disentangling from her, "can I ask you for that favor now?"

"Favor?" she echoed, blinking vacantly. "Your proposition is a favor?"

"Well, it's a job offer," he amended, looking suddenly very serious. "I want you to come work for me."

"For the Auror office?" Hermione asked, bewildered. "With you and Ron? Harry, I can't - "

"Yes, and no," he corrected her, shaking his head. "Actually, it's for sort of a separate, smaller operation. A two-
person operation," he clarified, clearing his throat, "wherein you'd be responsible for, um - " he flapped a hand
vacantly. "Hand-to-hand combat. That sort of thing."

She stared at him. "What?"

"It's sort of a long story," he offered hastily, "and a little bit too private to discuss around here, but I need someone I
can trust, and that's you. You'd be totally independent, for the most part," he assured her. "You wouldn't be directly
under Auror supervision or anything."
She frowned. "But I thought you said it was a two man job," she said slowly, feeling her brow furrow. "Who's the
other person?"

Harry looked down guiltily. "Well," he said with a grimace, "that's where the favor comes in."

The thing about Draco Malfoy was that he was very, very good at potions. It wouldn't seem like an important thing
to know about him upon first glance, but if you failed to take notice, he would likely prove that to be deeply unwise.

The process of making potions was a complex sort of endeavor - far more complex than it looked, though
admittedly he'd had some serious doubts when he'd seen Harry Potter temporarily excelling at it - and it required a
bit of subtlety, and an understanding that time was required for a perfect brew. Draco was many things, a fool
among them; but patience, at least, he generally possessed in abundance. After all, he'd taken nearly a year to kill
Dumbledore, hadn't he?

He'd ultimately failed, of course, but the patience involved was certainly not unremarkable.

It helped that Draco hadn't wasted time taking Defense Against the Dark Arts, or Muggle Studies, or Astronomy or
Divination or anything else archaic and purposeless and thus unlikely to manifest in anything of use. He hadn't seen
the point, really, and so had not overcrowded his schedule, leaving room for only the things he found most
interesting, and most fruitful.

So, in the end, Potions was the sweet spot, and Draco Malfoy, whose life had crumbled to rubble, soon gathered that
he had an affinity for explosives.

Well - eventually, anyway, though it was a rather convoluted process. Where to begin?

The beginning, perhaps; or, rather, what was in many ways the end.

The fall of the Dark Lord was a blessing in many ways; Draco was free to admit that. He was aware that he'd made a
stupendously catastrophic error in judgment, after all, and there's much to be said for persisting in the world without
the constant threat of impending torture, so for a time he thought things would get better.

And perhaps if he'd been someone else, they would have.

It all started out pleasantly enough. Draco's eighth year at Hogwarts had been mostly focused on his school work,
and, unexpectedly, on making amends. He ran into Katie Bell in Hogsmeade during one of the colder autumn
weekends, noting that she'd taken a job waiting tables at the Three Broomsticks and forcing himself to speak to her;
call it a penance of sorts. It was ironic, really, that he would run into her there, considering what he'd done to her the
last time that had happened, and he'd nearly said so aloud, but instead he glanced at his feet and said he was sorry -
so sorry, so very, humbly sorry - and after perhaps four more apologies over seven shots each of Ogden's they
stumbled upstairs, and ended the night in her bed.

I was young, he said to her, pleading, nearly tripping over her shoes as she kicked them to the side, shimmying out
of her skirt and yanking him on top of her. I was young, and stupid, and he was going to kill me if I didn't -

I don't care, she muttered into his mouth, her nails digging into his hips. We were kids. We were all kids, and it was
all bad, and I forgive you, Draco, she said, I forgive you, and he felt a thrill up his spine, a beatific release that had
nothing whatsoever to do with sex.

That night Katie tasted like whisky and redemption, and for the first time in the six months since the Dark Lord had
died, Draco finally slept through the night.

He took his N.E.W.T.s and finished with a full set of Outstandings, permitting him the promise of a future; a taste.
He helped Katie move into a new flat in Diagon Alley, spent a lazy, blissful week with her, and then even
considered moving in with her when she asked. He didn't like living at the Manor anyway, and she'd whispered it in
his ear, a sticky question on a too-hot day in early July while he'd been fucking her on the kitchen floor, their
middling quality take-away sitting forgotten on the counter as in a hazy moment of optimism he'd said yes, fuck yes,
yes Katie, yes -

But he should have never mistaken motion for action. He had felt time moving, slipping from his fingers, and
assumed that it was changing; but as far as the world was concerned, he still existed in the past.

Their past.

He was still Draco Malfoy, wasn't he? And so he still had the damnable misfortune of possessing his unmistakable
face, and shouldering his indisputable name, and bearing his undeniable Mark, and after being turned away from
four different establishments in a single night he'd taken the Floo home while Katie was sleeping, disappearing back
to the Manor and laying awake for nearly three straight days before finally returning her owls, the letters now full of
I'm sorry and forgive me instead of yes, Katie, yes.

The drugs started shortly after that. No, wait - no.

First Narcissa got sick, and then the drugs started.

It was easy enough to hide at first. He brewed them himself on days Katie was working, and since she didn't like to
come to the Manor, he generally came to her, and by the time he got there he was usually sober - mostly. Katie had
gotten a job at the Ministry (Muggle Artifacts division) and she worked long hours, so they mostly saw each other at
night. She offered to try to find him a job; he declined, thinking he'd been kind in not telling her how the Ministry
had already turned him away several times. He didn't want her to know, at least not as clearly as he knew it, that
she'd made a wretched mistake in forgiving him, because the rest of the world had not.

Time trudged forward.

Narcissa died.

Draco stopped sleeping entirely.

It devolved in pieces. Sometimes he didn't stay the whole night with Katie. Sometimes he did, because she asked,
and he simply stared at her ceiling, counting her breaths and wishing he could leave. Sometimes sex was too rough,
too fast, too mean. Sometimes it was terrible. He'd always stuck with elixirs, vapors and inhalants brewed for the
temporary relief offered by euphoria, but the one time he'd tried injecting it - when he needed something, and needed
it fast - it had hit him too hard and he'd never even gotten to the point of disappointing sex, instead passing out face
down on her floor.

She begged him to stop. He did, but he wasn't happy about it, and they'd both known that she didn't understand.

Never mistake motion for action, he reminded himself. The two are not the same.

Eventually he stopped pretending he could sleep, stopped lying down beside her, stopped listening when she spoke
and stopped closing his eyes when he kissed her, and even though he still felt something thudding around perilously
in his ribs at the thought of losing her he'd said almost nothing when she finally left.

I can't do it, she sobbed, pacing the floor, her hair flowing loose around her shoulders. I already forgave you, Draco.
It's your turn.

Okay, he'd agreed dully. Okay, then I'll -

It's been your turn for a year and a half. Now it's too late, she told him, her voice breaking, and then she was gone,
and all his fine work at redemption gone with her.

The irony? It had been the second of May, of all days. He wondered how she could have managed to forget - how
she had woken up like it was a day like any other - and privately, he envied her for it.

Fuck redemption, he'd thought hazily, standing in the middle of the Manor's vacant ballroom floor and staring at his
warped reflection from the mirrored ceiling.
And then Theo had shown up.

"Fuck redemption," Theo had said, always an echo of Draco's darker thoughts. "I've got something better."

"What's that?" Draco asked, vacantly blowing a ring of smoke into the summer air as elsewhere in the garden a
peacock pointedly coughed its opposition. "Better potions?"

"Depends," Theo said wryly. "Remind me," he added, picking up one of Draco's vials. "What would you do to make
these toxic?"

"Just add hemlock," Draco said, coughing. "Or essence of murtlap, or any sort of asp extract, or venomous tentacula
-"

"Pretty and smart," Theo mocked approvingly, and Draco reached over, smacking his abdomen. "Ouch," Theo
scolded him, making a face, and then refocused. "What if," he announced, shifting out of Draco's reach, "I wanted
something toxic that wouldn't get caught by oh, I don't know," he said carefully. "Wizard prison guards?"

At that, Draco sat up.

"What," he began, and blinked, "the fuck are you talking about?"

Theo shifted.

"A job," he said flatly. "We're going to help kill Dolohov."

"Huh," Draco said, blowing another ring of smoke.

It wasn't quite as mad as it sounded.

Antonin Dolohov, upon being sentenced by the Wizengamot, had been sent to serve his life sentence in a Russian
wizarding prison called Dvorets, a desperately unfunny name ("the Palace") for a desperately unfunny place
(decidedly not a palace) and had offered, through backchannels that Theo could neither guess nor relay, to pay them
more in galleons than Katie would have made in a year at her Ministry job.

"How'd you get it?" Draco asked, and Theo shrugged.

"Dear old dad," he supplied, and Draco made a face.

Life imprisonment, he knew - or had at least second-handedly gleaned from his father's experience - was a terrible
sentence, made worse by solitary confinement. Dolohov was begging for death, pulling strings to ensure it, and
Draco, who'd never much cared for him, found he wasn't opposed to the prospect of making an honest galleon.

A clandestine galleon, certainly, but who said anything about lying?

Lacking any other options, Draco had agreed.

They'd picked Pansy as a decoy, and she'd gotten them in the door by means of a ruthless combination of legs and
tits and unapologetic sucking on the end of a pastel-pink sugar quill (a signature move that had taken Draco nearly
six years to fully develop immunity to) in an endeavor that had almost gone smoothly until they'd arrived at a solid
iron door, warded and locked, and then proceeded to stare at the vial in Draco's hand.

"Well," Theo suggested. "Could always just blow it up."

Draco turned his head, brightening, and they'd both smiled.

News of the explosion - and the tragic, mysterious loss of the late Antonin Dolohov, may he rest in peace - soon
reached a variety of sources, including a certain son of Slytherin who'd recently found himself in a position of
requiring experts.
"Esmeranda's offered me a job, boys," Blaise announced, toasting a nearby portrait of his mother. "You in?"

"For what?" Draco asked skeptically, though he'd been bored, and unemployable, and thus likely to agree.

"Oh, you know," Blaise said, smiling. "A bit of fireworks."

It turned out that Esmeranda Zabini, seven times widowed, was not even remotely the murderous opera-singing tart
Draco had always assumed she was; she was murderous, yes, but as more of a vocational calling, and she'd brought
her son into the family business.

"Murder," Theo repeated slowly, and Blaise cocked his head.

"Ah-ah-ah," he corrected, tutting in disapproval. "Contract killing."

"My god," Draco drawled morosely. "What a distinction."

(He'd seen Katie that day. She'd looked good, and happy, and it had given him a rather unpleasant stomachache.)

"I hardly think we're qualified for that sort of thing," Theo commented, but Blaise had only laughed.

"Are you going to tell me you had nothing to do with Dolohov?" he commented, arching a brow. "You do know that
you're both wanted in Russia, right?"

"No," Theo and Draco lied in unison, and Blaise rolled his eyes.

The job had been moral, in a sense, or at least morally driven. The mark was a Turkish businessman who'd been
illegally smuggling runes from dig sites in Asia to the European markets, and had been trafficking in underaged
witches to do it. After a week of following the man around Istanbul and managing to gather (regrettably) one of his
fingernail clippings, Draco had been able to tailor the requested explosive to meet the man's specific genetic
markers, ensuring that the hybrid potion would be delivered to harm only the mark in question. The particulars of
the assassination had been efficiency, effectiveness, and secrecy in its undertaking, all of which were met with
satisfaction.

Pain, of course, had been Draco's personal addition to the mix, but that, too, was almost certainly met in spades.

"Huh," Theo said, surveying the result of the potion's effects, administered via tampered Howler. "You should really
get yourself a patent for this. Is it - "

"Part blasting charm, part swelling solution? Yes," Draco confirmed drily, eyeing his fingernails as he stepped over
the puddle that remained of the offending Turk. "I'll contact the Ministry post-haste."

There were markets for this sort of work, with deep pockets, and thankfully nobody in them cared much that the
names Malfoy, Nott, Zabini, and Parkinson (or Greengrass, on the rare occasion that Theo could manage to coax
Daphne into one of their schemes) had been blacklisted from most of the social and political affairs of the high-brow
wizarding world. By the time Blaise took over the contacts from his mother and Theo opened the now-vacant Nott
Manor for their professional use under the Malfoy Incorporated umbrella of companies, business was booming.

Not that Harry Potter knew that.

"Hi," Harry offered, shifting earnestly in the doorframe, and Draco pursed his lips in consummate displeasure,
moving to shut the door. "No, Malfoy, wait - " Harry hissed, shoving brusquely through it and glaring at him. "I'm
trying to be nice, you prat!"

"I know," Draco replied bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I rather don't care for it."

Harry grimaced.

"Look," he sighed. "I ran into Katie at the Ministry."

"Lovely," Draco said, bristling at her name. "You know, you should tell that story on Witch Weekly's morning
programme - "

"She told me you'd been trying to get a job at the Ministry," Harry pressed on, ignoring him. "I thought maybe I
could help."

"You can't," Draco said curtly, moving to shut the door again. "And on that note, goodbye forever - "

"Come on, Malfoy," Harry groaned. "I owe you. Your mother saved my life," he reminded him. "That means
something to me."

Draco flinched.

"Marvelous," he said, forcing his feelings aside. "Excellent. I'm sure she found it the highlight of her existence.
Now, if you don't mind - "

"Just let me help you," Harry offered. "Please?"

"Thank you, Potter, but my answer is an exquisitely final no," Draco said. "I don't need help."

"Malfoy, you don't have to be embarrassed," Harry urged, with such incurable sincerity that Draco nearly vomited.
"I just want to do something for you, okay? And look, we don't even have to call it help if it's a problem with
semantics - "

"It isn't," Draco cut in sharply, and Harry groaned again.

"Look, I checked your N.E.W.T.s, and they're incredible," Harry insisted, almost angrily, as if Draco had done well
just to spite him. "McGonagall wrote you a shockingly good recommendation, and maybe I can use that to get you
an interview. I know you didn't take Defense," he admitted, frowning, "but I'm sure we could get around that - "

"Potter, are you trying to recruit me to be an Auror?" Draco interrupted stiffly. "What makes you think I would even
want to do that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Harry retorted, rolling his eyes. "Maybe because then you'd have fewer problems with the rest of
the world if you could actually prove you've changed?"

"I haven't changed, Potter," Draco snapped. "Ask Granger, I'm sure she can tell you."

"I haven't heard from Hermione for about six months," Harry informed him, "but that's not the point. If you could
just - "

"I can't," Draco cut in, voice clipped. "And anyway, not even the Git Who Lived can get me a job at the Ministry,"
he added, spilling a regrettable bit of honesty before he could stop himself. "They're not letting me within breathing
distance of that place, Potter, trust me. I've tried."

At that, Harry's face fell.

"Malfoy," Harry said, looking so childishly disappointed that Draco had let out an audible groan. "It's not that bad, I
promise - I can just - Malfoy, don't - MALFOY, I'M STILL TALKING!"

But it was too late, as Draco had finally managed to shut the door.

He'd thought that would be the last of it, but he'd forgotten exactly who it was he'd been dealing with, and the visits
from Harry Potter continued every couple of months or so. Usually the topic of conversation was some sort of
reassurance, in which Harry tried valiantly to convince Draco he was "working on it," and "I'm almost there,
Malfoy, I'm so close to convincing Kingsley to reconsider," but really, Draco began to suspect they were just
meeting semi-regularly to chat.
"Since when do you watch muggle films, Malfoy?" Harry asked once over coffee, and Draco frowned.

"What?"

"Your company," Harry clarified. "Deathstar Enterprises?"

"What?" Draco repeated, blinking. "It's just a name, Potter."

Get it? Theo had said, looking unforgivably delighted with himself. Because you're a constellation, and we kill
people.

Yes, Theodore, I get it, Draco had retorted. It's not that clever.

Yes it is, Theo replied gleefully, and that had been that.

"Oh boy," Harry sighed, shaking his head. "You should probably watch the movie."

"Whatever," Draco sniffed, promptly leaving Harry with the bill and taking the Floo back to the office.

"It's weird," Theo had commented, looking up upon Draco's arrival. "It's like you two are friends or something."

"No, it isn't," Draco corrected. "It's like maybe I have the fucking Ministry's Head Auror up my arse, and I really
don't need him looking into my suspicious activities."

"Potato, potato," Theo said, shrugging, and Draco rolled his eyes.

"Does he still think you're not making any money, then?" Blaise asked.

"Yep," Draco confirmed, making a face. "Thinks I'm down on my luck," he added, popping the cork on a thousand
galleon bottle of elf-wine that had been a gift from a previous client.

"Potter's always been thick," Theo commented, expectantly sliding a glass over without looking up from his book,
"but even for him, that's a new level of oblivion."

"He's not that bad," Draco said, pouring, and then paused as he tipped the bottle up, noticing the other two staring at
him. "What?" he demanded, setting it down. "He's no Weasley. And seeing that I'm not getting tortured right now by
an evil fucking megalomaniac, did you ever consider that maybe I owe him the favor of my presence?"

"No," the other two replied in unison, returning to their respective tasks.

By then, the particular specialities of Deathstar Enterprises had risen to a popular method of comeuppance among a
variety of creatures. Vampires, in particular, tended to be repeat customers. They were primitively blood-thirsty
beings to begin with (albeit without the proper patience to be clever as well) and as far as moral constitutions went,
anyone wanted by a gang of vampires possessed more than enough deviance to merit the more extreme forms of
retribution, which justified Draco's work to some fragile degree.

Very fragile, and his moral constitution was often in flux. Did he sleep well at night? If he were being honest, then
no, not particularly. But what else was new there? He'd given up on redemption a long, long time ago, and not even
Harry Potter's refusal to disappear (or die) was going to change that.

So, for a long time, nothing changed.

Time trudged on; motion without action.

At least there were no Dark Lords.

Deathstar's most recent assignment had been something almost insultingly simple. A deadbeat Hungarian named
Gomola with gambling debts and blood on his hands was owed a straightforward serving of recompense, and once
Theo had dug Gomola's crew up in Mykonos and Blaise had paid a visit to his empty flat in Budapest, Draco made a
fresh draught and went to Greece alone, sitting at the balcony of a restaurant outside the man's lodgings and waiting
for his deliverance.

"Hey," Pansy said, appearing behind him with a soft crack. "Got a message for you from the office."

"Can it wait?" Draco asked without looking at her, sipping his glass of ouzo and gesturing off the balcony. "I'm
working."

Pansy looked up, catching sight of the innocuous-looking barn owl they'd hired from a goblin who specialized in
untraceable avian deliveries. The bird waited, bored, occasionally reaching beneath its wing to nip at something
lazily, and Draco watched without expression, observing silently from above.

"Mm," Pansy agreed, slipping the chair out beside him and taking a seat. "I thought you'd want to know that Potter
wants to see you."

"Ugh," Draco said, unfazed. "And?"

"Tomorrow morning," she clarified, drumming her fingers against the table. "I know you like to take your time on
jobs - "

"I like to luxuriate in my surroundings while traveling," he corrected, which she blatantly ignored.

" - but not this time. He's having you meet him at the Ministry," she added grimly. "To be honest, it sounds
important."

"Doubtful," Draco replied, licking the bitter anise flavor from his lips. "Don't you think?"

They both paused as the door opened and Gomola stepped out, his head covered. He glanced with confusion at the
owl, blinking, and then slowly accepted the letter from its beak, peering over his shoulder.

The moment Gomola accepted the letter, the draught on the envelope was triggered, blazing under Gomola's
fingernails and convulsing in an explosion just loud enough that everyone at the restaurant looked up, startled,
before returning to their food. There was a scattered series of popping sounds, like a crackle of fireworks, and then a
puff of smoke, followed by a hazy spattering of ash; then, as the dust cleared, the remainder of Benjamin Gomola sat
in a pile of rubble that scattered towards the sea on a warm autumn breeze, glowing with a fuchsia tint against the
crimson line of the horizon.

"Pretty," Pansy remarked, and Draco took another sip of ouzo, buttoning the jacket of his suit as he stretched
indulgently to his feet.

"I've seen better," he replied, setting the glass down on the table, and as she took his arm they promptly
disapparated, heading back to the office after a job well done.

"Are you serious?" Hermione asked, staring at Harry. "You want me to work with Malfoy? That's a hell of a lot
more than a favor, Harry!" she snapped. "You can't seriously think I'd do that for anything, much less for - " she
paused, making a face. "For him - "

"Oh, come on." Harry nudged his glasses up his nose, imploring her. "Please?" he asked, batting his lashes. "For
me?"

"Don't do that," she warned. "Don't be cute."

He grinned.

"Well, if you won't do it, then I suppose I'll just have to arrest Seamus," he reminded her, gesturing around the
Underground before gesturing surreptitiously to his badge. "You do know how many laws he's breaking, right?"
"You wouldn't," she said, glaring at him, and he raised his beer to his lips, shrugging.

"I don't know, Hermione," he said slyly. "Would I?"

"My god," she groaned. "You've only gotten worse with time, haven't you?"

"I am the Chosen One," he reminded her, and she sighed, shaking her head.

"I can't believe I'm even considering this," she muttered, and Harry cocked his head, smiling.

"But you're considering it, right?" he asked, nudging her as she made a face. "Come on. It could be good for both of
you, you know. It seems like this stuff'll satisfy you for a little while," he said dubiously, gesturing around the room,
"but I know you, Hermione. You need a purpose, a real one, and eventually this will get old."

She sighed, knowing he was right.

"Okay," she ventured tentatively. "I'll meet with him. One meeting," she warned, and at his fervent nod she took a
deep breath, letting it out sharply. "But Harry, I swear, if he's anything but completely professional, I will - "

"Punch him in the kidneys," Harry supplied happily, leaning over to smack a kiss against her cheek. "Yes, ma'am."

She paused, picking up her whisky before letting out another groan.

"This is going to be the worst," she declared flatly, and he smiled.

"Or," he countered, toasting her with his beer, "will it be the best?"

"The worst," she corrected, and he shrugged.

"Yeah," he confirmed, chuckling into the glass. "Probably."

Today:
The Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement
September 24, 2003

"Alright, Potter," Draco sighed, striding through the door without pause and letting it slam shut behind him. "What
is i- "

He cut off, catching an all-too familiar head of impossibly curly hair.

"Oh, fuck off," he muttered to no one in particular, and Hermione Granger glared sourly at him, crossing her arms
tightly over her chest.

"Nice to see you, too, Malfoy," she said tightly, and behind her, Harry leaned back in his desk chair, reaching up to
rub absentmindedly at his temple.

"I see we're off to a transcendent start," Harry remarked quietly, managing to conjure a decently sheepish look as
Hermione spun around, transferring her ire to him. "What?"

"You know what," she snapped, and he raised his hands innocently, shrugging.

"What in Salazar's name are you wearing, Granger?" Draco demanded, eyeing the set of fitted black trousers and
ankle-high boots she was sporting as she leaned against Harry's desk. "Is this the fashion now in the war hero
traveling circus?"

She scowled, and he felt his blood quicken in his veins, the resurgence of their familiar animosity greeting him with
a rush of something akin to satisfaction. In reality, he thought she looked more than a little appealing, but he
certainly wasn't going to admit that out loud.
"What are you wearing, Malfoy?" she countered, gesturing brusquely to his suit. "You look like a bad comic book
villain."

"I don't know what that means," he told her, sniffing airily, "but I unequivocally reject it."

"Marvelous," she snarled, and then turned to Harry, slamming her palm against the desk. "I changed my mind," she
announced flatly. "I won't work with him."

"Excuse me?" Draco said, stepping further into the room and glowering at her. "If anyone's not working with
anyone, it's me not working with you, Granger, not - " he broke off, pausing. "Wait," he said forcefully. "Why the
fuck would we be working together?"

Harry sighed.

"Sit," he instructed flatly, and neither Hermione nor Draco moved. "NOW," he barked, glaring between them, and
Draco unhappily consented to ease himself into one chair as Hermione stiffly dropped into the other, both of them
conspicuously leaning away from each other.

"Now," Harry began slowly, "before either of you throw a fit - "

"After, you mean," Draco corrected, gesturing to Hermione, who scowled again.

" - here's my offer," he pressed, snapping his fingers to regain Hermione's attention. "Are you listening?"

"Harry James Potter," she growled, "if you try to patronize me one more time - "

"The Ministry's run into a problem," Harry informed them, forcibly continuing on as Hermione shifted in her chair,
sulking. "Kingsley's asked me to put together something of a special task force to get ahead of an international
problem - "

"You mean the MACUSA poisoning," Draco and Hermione said in unison, pausing again to glare suspiciously at
each other before Hermione spoke, turning back to Harry.

"Was there another one?" she asked, and Harry nodded grimly.

"Yes," he confirmed. "The Scandinavian Ministry lost one of their Wizengamot members just yesterday, and a
similar case happened at the French Ministry a couple of months ago."

"Okay," Draco acknowledged flippantly. "And why are we here?"

Harry hesitated, pausing briefly before clearing his throat, forging ahead.

"The Ministry can't afford to have our Aurors split time between doing their normal jobs and investigating a series
of international crimes," Harry supplied, cringing slightly. "The long and short of it is that I want to hire the two of
you to handle the investigation and any potential security, with the Department's support. My support," he explained
pointedly, and Hermione frowned.

"Why hire outside the Ministry?" she asked him, blinking with confusion. "I imagine if the Daily Prophet got wind
of this, there'd be quite a lot of opposition - "

"Well, that's just it," Harry cut in uncomfortably. "They, er." He paused. "Can't. Can't get wind of it, I mean," he
clarified, coughing. "It would have to be sort of a, um." Another cough. "Secret."

Hermione frowned. "What?" she asked, and Draco, by contrast, promptly burst into laughter, leaning forward with
his head bent for what amounted to at least an entire minute of awkward silence from the other two.

"Potter," Draco sputtered eventually, swiping at the corners of his eyes. "You're saying you want to hire Granger and
me as spies?"
"Of course that's not what he's saying," Hermione scoffed, and then paused, frowning, before turning to Harry. "Is
it?" she asked him, blinking.

"Er," Harry said. "Well - "

"Oh no," Hermione exhaled, as Draco vehemently shook his head.

"Riddle me this, Potter," he ventured, kicking his chair back and rising to his feet. "On exactly which occasion did
you knock your little head against your desk and lose consciousness? Because there's no way I'm going to agree to
this - much less Granger," he added, gesturing carelessly to her, "who's clearly not built for this sort of wildly
implausible endeavor - "

"Excuse me?" Hermione snapped, lurching furiously to her feet. "Why me? Why not you?"

"Granger, have you ever met you?" Draco asked her, not even bothering to hide his disdain. "You're three foot
nothing and you can't possibly weigh much more than an oversized kneazle. And besides," he drawled, "this isn't
school, this is real life, which isn't exactly your strong suit, is it?"

"Oh, you've got a lot of nerve," she countered, with a very real flicker of anger. "What are your qualifications,
Malfoy? Your hair can barely stand a gust of wind, much less any real arena of danger - and just because you blew
up that - "

She broke off. His eyes narrowed warningly, and her mouth snapped shut.

"Uh," Harry said, squinting between them. "What?"

"NOTHING," they snapped at him in unison, and Harry let out a deep sigh of frustration.

"Here's my proposition," he continued, gesturing to the chairs, and Draco and Hermione stared at each other for a
moment before cautiously taking their respective seats, silently agreeing to a ceasefire. "Draco has an outstanding
academic record, and - yes, Hermione," he sighed, holding up a hand as she opened her mouth, "I know you do, too.
But what I would like," he continued, with an irritating brush of moral superiority, "is for the both of you to realize
that you both bring things to the table. I want to approach this strategically, with one of you as the boots on the
ground and the other as the tactical lead on the investigation. Now, since Hermione can very easily ingratiate herself
with the Wizengamot and the Ministry," he acknowledged, nodding to her, "I want her to be responsible for
attending political events and keeping an eye on what's happening. Meanwhile, I'd like Malfoy to run point on larger
investigatory strategy - "

"What?" Hermione squawked gracelessly, cutting him off. "You want Malfoy to be the brains of the operation? He's
not even qualified - "

"Oh, cock off, Granger," Draco sniffed, and her face flamed warningly as Harry let out an exhausted sigh.

"Draco runs a company, Hermione," he began, "and so has some experience with - "

"What company?" she demanded. "I've never heard of Malfoy having a company - "

"To be fair, it's not very profitable," Harry told her, and Draco glanced at him sharply. "What?" Harry asked
rhetorically, shrugging. "I looked into your tax records. Of all the companies in Malfoy Incorporated, Deathstar
Enterprises is the only one that hasn't made a prof- "

"Your company," Hermione cut in brusquely, swiveling to face him, "is called Deathstar Enterprises?"

"Theo named it," Draco muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "And listen, Potter, I know it looks like we haven't
made a profit, but - "

"Careful, Malfoy," Harry warned, tucking his hands behind his head and grinning with the distinctive expression of
someone who knew far more than they had previously admitted to. "Don't want to say anything that might get you
brought in for fraud before you agree to work for the Ministry, right?"

"Hold on," Hermione said, throwing an arm out to forcibly drag conversation to a halt. "What does 'Deathstar' even
do?"

"Uh," Draco said, clearing his throat as Harry arched a brow, waiting expectantly. "Event planning," he lied, picking
the first innocuous thing that came to mind.

Both Harry and Hermione blinked, looking skeptical.

"Event planning," Harry repeated slowly. "What, like weddings?" he asked dubiously. "You went with the name
'Deathstar' for a company that plans weddings?"

Draco sighed, realizing he had made at least one terrible misstep, not the least of which being the decision to let
Theo choose the company's name.

"Well," he began, floundering. "Because our events are to die for," he offered unconvincingly, and Hermione let out
a loud, unintelligible scoff.

"You do realize that a former Death Eater naming a company Deathstar is completely stupid, right?" she prompted
snottily, and Draco let out a growling sigh.

"Okay listen, it's under the umbrella of Malfoy Incorporated, so it's not like anybody's going t- you know what? I
don't care," he barked, throwing his hands up in frustration. "As Potter has already pointed out, I don't need your
help counting the many ways I'm fucking unemployable, Granger!"

"It's also the name of an orbital battle station," she remarked clinically, unable to let it go, and Draco let out an
unimpeded groan, rising again to his feet.

"I don't see why you take issue with me, Granger, when you're the one Potter's putting in the way of actual physical
harm," he snapped. "What do you expect to do if you end up face-to-face with an international serial killer?"

"Well, if they're anything like you, a good slap should do it," she retorted irritably, and Draco made a face.

"I'm serious, Granger - "

"You think I can't take care of myself?" she demanded, rising to her feet and glaring up at him. "Why don't you put
me in my place, then, Malfoy? Let's see which one of us walks away without broken bones," she added furiously,
"shall we?"

"Oh boy," Harry remarked, shaking his head. "Okay, let's all just - "

"Oh, fucking come at me, then, Granger!" Draco shouted, her eyes narrowing warningly. "Just because you've won
over a leprechaun or two in some shady Irish fight club doesn't mean you can just - "

He was cut off sharply as she moved without warning, faking a jab at his abdomen and prompting him to lurch
forward before she struck the side of his neck with the blade of her hand, hitting a nerve that promptly made him go
limp. She twisted around, pinning him with his arms locked firmly behind his head, and held him there, giving his
head a hard shove for emphasis.

He didn't need to turn around to know that she was smirking triumphantly.

"Anything you'd like to say now, Malfoy?" she mused darkly.

He attempted to jerk himself free of her surprisingly ironclad grip, but as usual, Hermione Granger did not relent,
and Draco let out a frustrated grunt of annoyance.

"Yes, actually, I do have something I'd like to say," he retorted. "Give me my arms back - "
"Nope," she sang, and his scowl deepened.

"Fine," he said flatly. "Then reach into my trousers, Granger."

"Gross," she muttered, and he groaned.

"Not like that," he snapped. "There's a vial in my right-hand pocket. Take it out," he invited, and she slowly reached
over, her hand brushing his abdomen in the midst of a horrifying, shiver-inducing mistake before slipping into his
pants. "Got it?"

"Yes," she muttered gruffly, pulling out the vial and looking at it. "What the hell is this?"

"That," he explained stiffly, "is a draught of my invention. It's an inflammatory explosive that will, upon contact
with skin, result in spontaneous thermodynamic degeneration. Basically instant obliteration," he explained,
shrugging with difficulty. "I call it Draught of Entropy," he added on a whim, and across from him, Harry looked
stunned - and, in Draco's opinion, thoroughly impressed in spite of himself.

"Holy - what," Hermione squeaked, promptly releasing Draco and holding the glass vial at arm's length between two
fingers. "Malfoy, take this - "

"Yes, yes, thank you," he said, delicately accepting it back from her and tucking it securely in his pocket. "For the
record, it's safe, but - "

"Safe?" Hermione demanded, her arms flailing wildly. "Why would anyone need something like that? And, by the
way, how do we know that you aren't the one killing people?" she added forcefully, at which point Draco's shoulders
stiffened, prompting him to indulge a furious step towards her that sent her stumbling against the leg of her chair.

"Okay, okay, hold on," Harry said agitatedly, hopping artlessly over his desk and shoving himself between them,
holding them both at arm's length. "Malfoy didn't kill the Wizengamot members, Hermione," he opened, glancing at
her first. "He just has a, um, talent for potions, and - " he paused, grimacing, and then glanced at Draco. "You didn't
kill them, right?" he whispered loudly, and Draco let a sharp, barking scoff escape between his teeth.

"No, I did not," Draco gritted angrily before turning back to Hermione. "And frankly, how dare you, Granger - "

"Oh, like it's really a stretch," she countered obnoxiously, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring meaningfully
at him. "And why don't you just admit that you're too childish to work with me, Malfoy - "

"Me?" he half-shouted, stepping towards her again before being shoved away by Harry. "I never said anything,
Granger - you're the one refusing to work with me - "

"I never said that!" she retorted at a yell, curling her small hands into fists. "I said absolutely nothing about not
working with you, Malfoy, so - "

"Great," Harry huffed, panting slightly as he continued to wrest them apart. "Wonderful, so it's settled, then - "

"What's settled?" they shouted at once, rounding on him, and Harry stepped back, his hands still out warningly.

"You'll do it," he told them, and as they both opened their mouths, he shook his head, cutting them off before they
could speak. "Here's the deal," he told them sharply, with a sternness that Draco had never seen from him before.
"This is good for both of you. Malfoy needs the job, Hermione," he began emphatically, before being immediately
cut off.

"No I don't - "

"SHUT UP," Harry roared, pulling his wand from his pocket and swiftly depositing them in their respective chairs,
effectively startling them both.

"Now," Harry exhaled heavily, leaning against his desk and straightening his glasses, "here's the deal. Malfoy needs
the job because he needs an in at the Ministry, and he needs to be reintegrated in society. The fact that this would be
good for you is not up for debate," he added, glaring preemptively at Draco, who withered, still a little too alarmed
to speak. "And you, Hermione," he continued, turning to her as she ducked her head sheepishly, "you need to put
your skills to use, okay? You're brilliant, you're capable, you're qualified. This is a good thing you'd be doing - a
good thing, for each other, for the Ministry, and for me. Got it?"

He flicked his gaze between them, waiting.

"GOT IT?" he shouted again, and the other two jumped, grudgingly nodding.

"Fine," Hermione muttered, glaring up at Draco. "I'll do it. If," she sniffed, "Malfoy agrees not to be a massive twat -
"

"First of all, I agree to nothing of the sort," Draco retorted airily, "but fine. I'll do it," he grunted, nodding at Harry.
"You're right. I could use the work."

"And you should probably change your company's name," Harry added. "Seriously."

"Fine," Draco sighed, his fingers gripping the arms of his chair. "So are we done here, then?"

"For now," Harry agreed, nodding once. "Can I trust you two not to kill each other?" he asked, brandishing his wand
at Draco first, who huffed an indignant grunt of acknowledgement, and then Hermione, whose lips sealed
themselves into a thin line of agreement.

"Yes," they muttered.

Fuck you, Draco mouthed, and Hermione scowled.

Sod off, you prick, she mouthed back.

"Excellent," Harry said happily. "I can't wait to get started."

a/n: Dedicated to orangepine, nymphadoraholtzmann, and rowaphox!

 3. Birds of a Feather

Chapter 3: Birds of a Feather

"Stop," Theo interrupted flatly, rising to his feet. "Start over. From the beginning."

Draco sighed.

"Once upon a time," he muttered, "Harry Potter was born, and right from the start he made my life an utter fucking
hellscape - "

"Go forward a bit more," Pansy sniffed impatiently, her foot tapping against Nott Manor's marble floor. "Did you
say you told him that we're party planners?"

"Event planners," Draco corrected unnecessarily, to which Blaise rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and say that you were obviously cornered," Blaise remarked, eyeing
the condensation on the glass of grappa he held delicately between his fingers, "because even you, had you been
remotely logical, could not possibly have thought that was an acceptable cover for what we actually do."

"Look, he offered us a job, okay?" Draco insisted, and then flinched. "Well. Me a job," he amended, "but I think the
company is implied."

"A job doing what?" Theo demanded. "Does Potter want someone killed? Oh," he said, pausing in momentary
delight. "Does he? Is it Weasley? Because I would happily - "

"Stop," Draco said, shaking his head. "No. He wants us to solve an international case. Protective services," he added.
"Investigation." He shrugged. "That stuff."

"And you told him," Blaise supplied drily, "that we're event planners."

They each wore grim expressions of disapproval, and Draco sighed again.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "I mean, I get it. Not my finest moment."

"Draco, the time you failed to match your belt to your shoes was 'not your finest moment,'" Pansy snapped, her ankle
dancing agitatedly as she crossed one leg over the other. "This is catastrophically idiotic. We don't know the first
thing about party planning, firstly - "

"Event planning," Draco mumbled.

" - and secondly, we can't work for the Ministry!" Pansy reminded him, gritting her teeth. "They'll put us all in
Azkaban without even blinking - "

"Yeah, well, they won't find out, will they?" Draco cut in, glowering at her. "Look, it'll be simple. I'll work under the
guise of Ministry approval for a while, and then when we're done we can resume our usual business. Except," he
said emphatically, "we might actually be respected in society again, so - "

"Hold on. Resume our business?" Blaise demanded, cutting him off. "We can't stop working, Draco. We already
have a new mark - "

"Yes, and I'm telling you now that we can't follow through," Draco replied impatiently. "Let the vampires handle
their own murders for a week or so. If we work out these international poisonings, we'll be lauded in the papers, and
then we won't have to fucking" - he grimaced, gesturing to the glass in Blaise's hand - "hide out in Theo's house. We
can actually go places, and do things, and have lives - "

"We understand the appeal," Theo acknowledged unhappily, "but still. How do you plan to get away with this?"
"Not much has to change," Draco told him. "I figure, what? A little investigation, maybe a little surveillance? Easy.
Even if we have to throw some kind of event to look legitimate - how hard can that be?" he prompted, eyeing them
expectantly. "We'll put Pansy on the details, and in the meantime, the rest of us can - "

"Wait - why do I have to be the party planner?" Pansy cut in loudly, glaring at him. "Because I'm a woman?"

"Yeah," Draco said, shrugging. "I mean, not just that, but - "

"I've killed just as many people as these two have!" she reminded him, her fingers clenched tightly in fury. "It's not
my job to figure out whether we need music, or - " she paused, looking genuinely adrift. "Or fucking - doilies, or
whatever - "

"First of all, no matter what happens, we do not need doilies," Draco muttered, rubbing his forehead. "And secondly,
unless - I don't know. Unless Blaise wants to be" - he flapped a hand, shrugging - "intensely gayer, I really don't
think either of these two are going to sell it."

"Really, Draco?" Theo drawled, pursing his lips in disapproval. "Stereotypes, much?"

"I mean, if you're trying to tell me I have suspiciously refined taste," Blaise suggested, eying his fingernails, "and
impeccable grooming - "

"I'm trying to tell you that you're an assassin, and that anyone who spends five minutes with you is going to pick up
on it," Draco snapped. "And since Theo's just generally fucking unbearable - "

"Too true," Theo agreed.

" - that leaves Pansy, who could very conceivably be someone who plans events," he finished, glaring pointedly at
her. "Is that clear enough?"

"What about you?" she asked stubbornly. "You're the only person I've ever met who has an opinion about
gardenias."

"That was one time," Draco reminded her. "And it wasn't gardenias, it was gladiolus, so - "

"Not an effective sell," Blaise pointed out, and Draco groaned aloud in frustration.

"Look, you miscreants," he snapped. "I'm going to be the one dealing with Potter and Granger, okay? So if you
could all find it within yourselves to not be cunts about this, then - "

"Hold up," Theo said. "Did you say Granger?"

"Yes," Draco muttered, shuddering with displeasure. "Granger's also working on this, so the quieter you three can
be, the bet-"

"Granger," Theo interrupted flatly, "will figure you out in ten seconds. Or less!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands
up. "We're fucking doomed, Draco - "

"Put the apocalypse away, Theodore, your neuroticism is showing," Blaise sniffed to him, rising to his feet and
refilling his glass before pouring another, handing it to Draco. "So," he ventured listlessly, lifting the glass in a silent
toast. "What's the deal with Granger?"

Draco accepted the drink, raising it to his lips with a bitter grimace.

"Potter said the Ministry wouldn't agree to me working with him unless Granger was attached," Draco admitted
eventually, feeling irritable all over again at the reminder. It dug into him, bristling up the expanse of his arms and
thundering back down his spine; fury, really, that he would need her to babysit him. "I'm supposed to be working
with her."
"Well, you'll have to keep her at arm's length," Pansy pointed out. "If she figures out what we've been doing - "

Draco groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Granger's discreet, okay?" he said. "It's not a big deal. I've got this."

"Discreet?" Theo echoed dubiously. "You're calling the woman who once openly slapped you 'discreet'?"

"I just - " Draco grimaced. "She's - " He chewed his lip, biding his time with another deliberate sip. "She's just not
going to say anything, alright?" he managed eventually, not looking up.

The other three of them abruptly froze in place, all sharing a collective look of displeasure before turning back to
Draco, arms crossed.

"How the fuck," Theo began, "would you know that?"

He sighed. "I just - "

"She already knows," Pansy scoffed. "Doesn't she? You already told her."

"I didn't tell her shit," Draco snarled, bristling. "She figured it out once, okay? She doesn't know specifics, and she
certainly doesn't have proof. We don't have to worry about her."

"Still," Blaise said uneasily. "The more we can do without her, the better off we'll be, I think."

"No arguing that," Pansy agreed. "I mean, how can we be sure Potter didn't recruit her just to watch you?"

Draco remained silent, not wanting to indulge her.

"That would be unusually cunning of Potter," Theo commented thoughtfully, "but stranger things have happened.
Like Draco agreeing to do this," he added, smirking. "Which about takes the cake for strange things."

"Well, the sooner we can work out who's behind the Wizengamot poisonings, the better," Draco muttered, slumping
down in his seat. "We've got better networks of information than the Ministry. Isn't there someone who would
know? The draught," he ventured, remembering. "The poison. Someone in the circuit had to've recognized the
signature."

After all, he thought, everyone certainly knew his; effective obliteration, delivered by post.

"It's possible," Blaise admitted, "though the international contacts are normally fairly tight-lipped." He paused,
thinking. "Maybe you can ask Trelawney."

"Trelawney?" Draco echoed skeptically, balking. "That Divination loon?"

"No, not her," Blaise amended hastily, making a face. "Her sister. Runs a brothel of sorts in Knockturn."

"Oh, I volunteer," Theo offered loudly. Pansy glared at him.

"She's been an informant for my mother in the past," Blaise continued, ignoring Theo. "I think her first name's
Dionisia. Up to her ears in criminal activity," he added, smirking, "and oddly, sex is the least of it."

"Seems a good enough place to start," Draco agreed. "Better than waiting for Potter to give me instructions like I'm
some kind of lap dog. Oh, though, speaking of him - before I forget," he recalled, turning to Theo. "We have to
change the company name. Today."

"Why?" Theo demanded. "And how am I supposed to come up with a clever new pun on such short notice?"

"I know you don't want to hear this, but maybe no puns?" Draco suggested, to which Theo made a face. "And don't
blame me, blame Potter. He said something about a film, or a ship, or something about planetary space exploration -
"
"BALLS," Theo declared, as Pansy let out a loud, dramatic sigh.

"I'll tell you one thing, Draco Malfoy," she informed him snottily. "Potter and Granger are bad enough, but if I have
to speak to any Weasleys - "

"You won't," Draco assured her, rising to his feet and reaching for his robes. "I'll give Trelawney a try, then. Are we
all clear on our instructions?" he asked, shrugging on the garment and eyeing them expectantly.

"Abandon our brilliantly sophisticated name with unsavory haste," Theo confirmed.

"Disappoint our numerous blood-thirsty clients," Blaise contributed.

"Determine the negligible difference between ivory and ecru," Pansy muttered belligerently, "and bask in the searing
inequity of antiquated gender roles."

"Excellent," Draco asserted, and pivoted to exit the room, heading for the Floo.

"Give me someone," Hermione demanded brusquely, throwing her things down at Seamus' feet and yanking her
shirt over her head. "Anyone."

"Well, hello to you too, sunshine," Marcus commented, patting the top of her head as she tossed the garment into her
bag and pulled out her athletic tape. "Charmed, I'm sure."

"You're not on the board," Seamus reminded her, glancing up from his ledger to gesture to the wall behind her.
"Thought you said you were busy today?"

"I was," she replied, wrapping the tape tightly around her knuckles. "And now I'd like to ruin someone else's day, if
you don't mind."

"That bad, huh?" Marcus asked. "What'd Potter have you do?"

"Nothing," she muttered, rolling a kink out of her neck and glancing over at the ring. "Who's that?" she asked,
eyeing the man who was taking a few practice swings mid-air. He was superficially muscled, she noticed; a little
bulky where leanness would better serve.

A little slow, too, which was her favorite of possible weaknesses.

"Some Welsh bloke," Oliver supplied, as she watched the man shake a bit of nerves out of his shoulders. "New to
the sport."

"Looks clean," Hermione noted with interest, eyeing the lack of bruising on his bare chest, and set her jaw,
determined. "I'll take him," she offered briskly, taking the whisky from Marcus' hand and knocking back a full shot.

"He's mine," Oliver told her, gesturing pointedly to his pre-taped knuckles as she wiped the liquid from her lips,
returning the glass to Marcus' hand. "Not exactly in your weight class, Granger."

"Aw, worried about me, Wood?" she asked, blinking coquettishly at him as she pulled her arm across her chest,
stretching. "Gone noble, have you?"

"More worried about him, I'd guess," Marcus remarked, yawning. "You get him on his back, he'll hurt something for
sure. He's got, what - " he squinted, frowning. "Fifty-some pounds more than he needs on him?"

"And about a hundred more on him than on her," Seamus pointed out, grimacing. "Not your best idea, Hermione."

"Believe me," she told him, shaking her head. "After today? Not my worst."

"You're making this up to me, Granger," Oliver muttered in displeasure, and she tossed the tape over to Marcus,
winking at him.
"Flint can do the honors," she called back, and headed into the ring, taking a couple quick warm-up jabs and then
walking up to the Welshman, tapping him on the shoulder.

"You ready?" she prompted.

He grinned at her, his overly-moussed dark hair falling into his eyes.

"Brought me a kiss for luck, darling?" he asked, giving her a smile that she briefly considered might have been
roguish, had she not been about to ruin it entirely.

"Not quite," she admitted, and then she coiled a fist, striking him hard on the right side of his jaw to watch him
stagger backwards, colliding with the wooden barricade and blinking, staring at her with confusion.

"You're not Oliver Wood," he croaked, dazed, and she smiled, beckoning for him to counter.

"No," she agreed, taking a step towards him. "I'm much, much worse."

His smile broadened.

Then he threw a jab, aiming for her cheek; she darted to the side, dancing to his left and drawing him forward. He
threw another, intended for her nose this time, and she stepped back onto her left foot before ducking his shot to
strike forward, hitting him in the stomach.

She hissed slightly, drawing her hand back from the impact of her knuckles against his muscle, and he circled her
predatorily, looking pleased.

"Not just for decoration, doll," he told her cheekily, gesturing to his abs, and struck again.

This time she swung back, just missing his fist, and ducked under his arm, drawing it over her shoulder to thrust her
heel directly onto his toe, sending him howling as he hunched over in pain. She leaned back, pulling her arm up, and
struck him behind the ear with her elbow, throwing her body weight into the motion until he had dropped to the
ground, breaking his fall with his hands.

"Bad move," she noted, circling him. He drew himself up and winced, sucking in a breath of displeasure. "All that
weight on your wrists? You're not going to be able to take much more, darling."

"Jesus," he gasped, shaking his head. "What kind of demon are you?"

"The quick kind," she assured him, waiting for him to stand. "The worst kind."

"GRANGER, STOP FLIRTING AND KNOCK HIS LIGHTS OUT," Marcus shouted, and she rolled her eyes,
watching the Welshman stagger to his feet.

"Okay," the Welshman said, swaying slightly. "Let me get in one shot, will you? My reputation's on the line here - "

"If it helps, you wouldn't have gotten one on Wood, either," she informed him, matching each of his steps as he
struggled to regain control of his faculties. "Have to learn to be a bit quicker."

"Like this?" he asked, and shot a fist out at her stomach, nearly catching her around her ribs as she quickly spun out
of reach.

"Almost," she agreed, breathing heavily for the first time in their match-up. She grinned, feeling elated; feeling
alive, and remembering just why she loved to do this, bruises and all. "Nearly had me."

"Nearly," the Welshman agreed, licking a spot of blood from his lips. "Any chance you'll let yourself be caught?"

She laughed. "Never," she said, and from the side of the ring, she heard a loud groan.

"For this I gave up my spot?" Oliver muttered to her, leaning sulkily against the barrier with Marcus' arm thrown
over his shoulders. "Come on - "

She turned, blowing him a kiss.

"This is for you, Wood," she sang, and as the Welshman's eyes widened in alarm, she lunged forward, feinting to the
right and then, as his balance shifted, she ducked the return shot and hit him in the stomach - bracing herself this
time. He aimed for her face; she blocked with her forearm, dropping low, and as he leaned forward she took her
elbow to his kidney, sending him lurching forward and then pivoting to strike her knee against his face, swiftly
breaking his nose.

He let out a groan of pain and dropped, hitting his chest against the floor.

"You gonna get up?" she asked him, innocently eyeing her fingernails.

"Can't - " he paused, spitting blood, and shook his head as one of the goblins began counting down, watching him
struggle to lift his head. "Can't you leave me my dignity?" he asked, more breathless than broken.

"Mm, no, sorry," she told him, shaking her head. "There's really only one way to get me on my back - but you'll
have to buy me a drink first, sweetheart," she added, smirking down at him.

He blinked, staring up at her.

"You really are a demon," he ruled deliriously, but then he shook his head, slamming his palm against the floor. "I'm
done," he announced, and Hermione nodded her approval, promptly exiting the ring and accepting the towel Seamus
offered her, using it to mop up perspiration from her forehead before tossing it across her shoulders.

"So," Seamus noted, half-smiling. "Potter got you all worked up, huh?"

"Not him," Hermione corrected, grimacing as Draco Malfoy's pointed blond face resumed its insufferable sneer in
her mind. "Though it's entirely his fault."

"What'd he need?" Seamus asked. "Something for the Ministry?"

"Yes and no," Hermione confirmed, shrugging as she hefted herself into a seat at one of the barstools. "Has to do
with those Wizengamot poisonings."

"What, you mean the one in New York?" Seamus asked, frowning. "What've you got to do with that?"

"Nothing yet," Hermione said. "But there was another one, so the Ministry's trying to be prepared. The unfortunate
thing," she sighed, "is that Harry wants me to work with - "

"Oi, Granger," Marcus drawled, cutting in beside her and taking the seat on her left. "Good show, minus all the
chatty bits."

"Shut up, Flint," she told him, rolling her eyes. "Go punch Wood."

"Not a bad idea," he agreed, and glanced between Hermione and Seamus. "What're you hens clucking about?"

"Nothing that concerns you," she informed him, and he made a face as Seamus chuckled.

"You know," Seamus told her, "if it's information you're wanting, it might be worth it to go see Lady Revel in
Knockturn. Knows pretty much everything there is to know," he remarked, looking thoughtful, and then grimaced.
"And also quite a lot that isn't worth knowing at all."

"Lady Revel," Hermione repeated, frowning. "In Knockturn Alley? Sounds - " she paused. "Illicit."

"Sounds like a good time, more like," Marcus chimed in, smirking, as Oliver appeared behind them.

"Flint," he said sharply, gesturing to the ring. "You in for a round?"

"One round?" Marcus asked, drawing a hand to his chest in mocking disbelief. "Oliver Wood, how dare you
underestimate my stamina - "

"Oh, shut up, you blathering peacock," Oliver growled, grabbing the back of his neck and half-hauling him out to
the ring as Marcus saluted Hermione, winking at her and smacking his palm against Oliver's backside.

"Look," Seamus continued, after Hermione had shaken her head and turned back to the bar. "The Ministry'll be left
in the dark, but anyone with international assets is going to have a close watch on these things. The seedier
networks'll know quite a bit more about the attacks than will Potter and his boys," he added, grimacing. "However
good they are."

"Guess it's worth looking into," Hermione permitted, shrugging. "From the discussion we had, I don't think Harry
really knows anything yet."

"There you go," Seamus agreed, nodding. "Get your answers right away, and then you won't have to spend much
time with whoever it is that's making you feel the need to destroy men's egos."

"God, if only you knew," she said, rolling her eyes. "Harry wants me to work with - "

"Hey," someone interrupted, and Hermione turned as a glass of Ogden's slid towards her across the bar.

"Bought you a drink," said the Welshman.

His face had been healed, she noted, and looked about as good as it had when they'd started. His hair was a bit
askew, but it served to improve him now; enhanced him, really, to see him a little mussed.

"That you did," she noted carefully, as Seamus discreetly passed her a wink. "Takes a pretty remarkable man to
recover so quickly from a loss like that," she commented, raising the glass to her lips.

She watched the Welshman eye the motion of her mouth as she took a sip, letting it burn soothingly on her tongue.

"I'm fairly remarkable," he agreed. "Though I do have a bit to learn about fighting demons."

"That you do," she confirmed, and turned to Seamus. "When does this Lady Revel person leave her - " she hesitated.
"Establishment?"

Seamus checked his watch. "An hour," he guessed. "About."

"Mm, pity," Hermione muttered, taking another sip from her glass and reaching into her bag for her shirt, slipping it
over her head before turning back to the Welshman. "I'm afraid I have some things to do before my night is over,"
she said, handing the glass back to him. "You understand."

Their fingers touched momentarily, his gaze drifting down to the liquid in the glass before returning, with a
deliberate suggestiveness, to her face.

"I stay up late," the Welshman offered.

Hermione smiled.

"Keep the light on for me, then," she suggested, and then, with a nod to Seamus, she slid from the barstool, picking
up her bag and letting the Welshman's gaze follow the motion of her hips to the door.

Percy Weasley was a very busy man.

Which was a fact, unfortunately, that his family didn't seem to understand, his brother Ronald included.

Percy's recent appointment to the Wizengamot was by far the highlight of his career, and served, to him, as proof of
what he'd always known - that despite the constant mocking of his siblings, his professional success was quite within
reach; an inevitability, even. And despite the misalignment of his priorities in the past, he was quite certain that his
position among the other judges, if played correctly, would soon catapult him to political success, providing him the
means for an election run.

Within four years, he estimated, nodding to himself. Four years, and then he'd have solidified enough of a platform
on which to run, and with supporters along the way.

Four years, and then Minister Weasley. Not even the rise and fall of a Dark Lord could derail his plan, which had
been scribbled in his diary at the tender age of six.

The trouble, of course, was the stigma.

It was no great pleasure to disclose that the early part of his career had been spent under the purview of a literal
puppet. The very public revelation that Pius Thicknesse had been under the Imperius curse, and yet Percy himself
had not noticed, nor revealed the transgression, had been a major point of contention with regard to his appointment
to the Wizengamot. In fact, had the person whose name had been tossed in with his not ended up having some kind
of terrible scandal (something involving a Knockturn brothel, as he'd heard among horrified whispers) Percy wasn't
entirely sure he would manage to outrun his past indiscretions.

It also helped very little that he was a Weasley - and a forgettable one, considering his elder brother, the infamous
curse breaker, and his younger brother, the war hero - and so, without the Wizengamot appointment, he had very
nearly lost sight of his goals.

Very nearly.

But not quite.

Now, of course, he was back on track; even if it wasn't quite the track he'd intended.

Percy had no great love for magical law; not comparatively, anyway. As far as careers went, it was a death trap,
leading its victims to a droning life of paperwork and case law and trapping them inside dreary courtrooms. The
better political foothold was in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, really. While Percy might come to
find some level of approval by more intellectual circles if he were to find success among the Wizengamot, it was
still going to be his brother Ron in the papers for his work as an Auror.

But Percy did not begrudge his brother his accomplishments, and he certainly knew the value of connections; so
while he was far too busy to have dinner with his brother when asked, he relented. Despite their mutual discomfort
in the past, he knew that the possibility of a fruitful relationship with Ron could ultimately prove worthwhile.

After all, Ron had at least been a Prefect, and he had once been engaged to quite a lovely young witch.

Though, come to think of it, Percy had not heard anything about her in rather a long while.

"How's Hermione?" he asked, taking a deliberate sip of wine as Ron fidgeted across the table. Percy assumed the
invitation to discuss Ron's personal life might aid his agitation, but he quickly found his presumption quite incorrect
as his brother's ears promptly reddened. "I'm sorry," Percy offered. "Are you two not - "

"Actually, that's sort of what I wanted to talk to you about," Ron admitted, clearing his throat. "So. As you know,
Hermione and I broke up three years ago - "

Ah, Percy thought. That's right.

" - and while we're on well enough terms now," Ron added hastily, "we're still not particularly, um." He fidgeted.
"Close."

"I understand," Percy offered kindly, attempting familiarity. "I like to think Penelope and I are friends, but we
certainly don't communicate more than necessary."
In truth, she'd been assigned to his office for about three months last year.

They only fucked on his desk once.

Twice.

Well, there was no use in counting, was there?

"Yeah, well, I think something's going on with Hermione," Ron continued, distracting Percy from his reverie. "I've
asked Harry to look into it, but all he did was send me an owl saying everything was fine - but she hasn't been home
for three years," he insisted, looking concerned, "and now she's back, so I was just hoping you might - "

He trailed off, and Percy frowned.

"Ronald," he said, blinking. "Are you suggesting I speak with Hermione? In some sort of - " he grimaced. "Social
situation?"

"Well, you two always got on, didn't you?" Ron said, looking flustered and very much like the younger brother
Percy had known rather than the Auror he'd become. "She's just gotten back into town a couple of weeks ago, so I
thought maybe you could ask her for drinks or dinner or something."

Percy paused, considering the request.

"You're not suggesting I take your ex-fiancée on a date, are you?" Percy asked him. "I'm afraid I'm rather not
interested, Ronald. Though it's kind of you to offer, considering - "

"No, no, not a date," Ron snapped, the color rising in his cheeks. "Just - a friendly visit. See if she'll tell you what
she's been up to. That sort of thing."

"Seems as though you should ask her yourself," Percy replied, mulling it over. "Though I'm no great study of human
nature," he added under his breath, recalling the arguments the Wizengamot had made against him and feeling the
taste of their accusations souring on his tongue.

"Well, I'd like to, but she's avoiding me," Ron said, looking disheartened. "I mean, we were engaged, and now it's
like she doesn't want me to know what's going on with her life at all."

He slumped slightly in his chair, and Percy sighed, taking in the dejected look on his brother's face.

"Well," Percy said. "I suppose if it would help, then I can certainly extend an offer."

Instantly, Ron seemed to relax.

"Oh good," Ron exhaled, relieved. "Thanks, Perce."

"You're welcome," Percy replied, picking up his glass again.

A few minutes passed in silence; Percy tried not to think about the paperwork waiting on his desk, or the owls he'd
have to reply to in the morning, or the -

"So," Ron said, interrupting again. "What's new?"

Percy blinked.

"With what?" he asked.

"Uh." Ron cleared his throat. "You?"

Percy paused, thinking about it.

"I recently purchased a new bookcase," he said. "Mahogany."

He was pleased with it. It was nice, frankly, having things. Perhaps it was selfish, but he'd found there was a rare
kind of delight in owning things that had never belonged to someone else.

"Oh," Ron remarked. "For all your leather-bound books?"

Percy paused, glancing at him, and recognized this as yet another of his brother's jokes; Percy found Ron was quite
prone to them when uncomfortable.

"Some of them are leather-bound," Percy agreed. "Though it's certainly not a requirement."

Ron's brow furrowed.

"Right," he said, and shifted uncomfortably.

Percy's mind drifted again, wondering whether he had remembered to sign the paperwork his legal clerk had left for
him that morning. The brief itself was finished, he knew, but had he -

"So," Ron said, interrupting his thoughts again. "Anything else?"

Percy paused again, dragging himself back to the conversation.

"We're hearing a very interesting case," he began, missing the look of dismay on his brother's face, "about the merits
of upholding mandatory minimum sentences with regard to longevity-related crimes, meaning that - "

"You know what? I'm sure you're very busy," Ron cut in hurriedly, an observation Percy was privately relieved to
see his brother actually recognized. "If you want, we can take dinner back to the Ministry. Harry's working late," he
babbled, "so - "

"Oh," Percy said, unable to prevent himself from leaning forward. "You're going to see Harry?"

That was the golden ticket, of course. Any endorsement by the Chosen One himself was no small thing by any
standards, and to Percy's dismay, Harry had clearly never cared much for him. Percy had hoped that perhaps Harry
Potter's relationship with his sister Ginny would have improved the state of things - she was, after all, more inclined
to give him a chance that the rest of their brothers, despite her not being much of a vault of secrecy - but then those
two had broken up as well, and Percy saw Harry less and less as time went on. The previous year Harry had not even
stayed for Christmas, so Percy supposed he should take his chances where they came.

"Yes," Ron confirmed. "Do you, er - want to come?"

"Yes, actually," Percy said, feeling pleased that he came out with his brother after all. "Yes, I think I would."

"Hey," Ron said, peeking his head into Harry's office. "You busy? I've got Percy with me."

"Oh, come in," Harry said surprise, looking up and briefly removing his glasses, rubbing wearily at his eyelids. "I
was just finishing up."

"Writing poetry?" Ron asked wryly as Percy strode in behind him, looking over what appeared to be a rapidly
updating agenda. A quill floated beside him, furiously scribbling dates and times, and he himself nearly walked into
the doorframe.

"Not quite," Harry chuckled, rising to his feet and abandoning his letter to the MACUSA Head Auror to greet Percy
as he entered. "Good to see you, Percy."

Ron's older brother looked up, slightly startled.

"Oh, thank you, Harry," he said, nudging his horn-rimmed glasses further up his nose.
It was funny how much Percy looked like Bill, Harry thought, despite sharing almost none of his characteristics. He
was incredibly awkward company for the most part, literal to the point of near madness, and always seemed to be
occupied by some other, more lofty thought. Percy had learned to relax his appearance, though, at the very least; he
had grown into his lanky frame, and while he remained tall and thin, there was a distinctive sense of adulthood about
him. His features had sharpened, coming to mimic Bill's expression; albeit, of course, with a persistent furrow
between the brows of his dark blue eyes.

Serious, Harry thought. If Bill was cool, and Ron was sort of goofily charming, then Percy Weasley was definitely
serious.

"What are you working on?" Harry asked, gesturing to the quill beside Percy's head. "Looks like you've got quite a
lot on your plate."

Percy sighed, seeming to finally orient himself in the room.

"I do," he admitted. "It seems it's a bit of a hazing ritual to make the newest member of the Wizengamot plan the
annual Ministry Address," he lamented, "so I'm afraid I'm a bit up to my ears in details at the moment."

Harry paused, dropping his quill.

"Wizengamot," he repeated, realizing he'd forgotten about Percy's recent appointment. "Yes, of course, Percy," he
said quickly, his brain buzzing with opportunity. "Anything my department can do to help?"

"Not unless you can fill out venue insurance permits," Percy returned with a burdened sigh, "or arrange seating
charts - "

"Huh," Harry cut in, pausing. "So this is an event planning situation, is it?"

"It is, I'm afraid," Percy confirmed. "An utter headache, really, and I wouldn't want to trouble you with it at all,
Harry, so - "

"Owl," Ron commented loudly, gesturing to the window. He was slumped down in his seat, looking incurably bored,
and Harry stepped towards the waiting owl, giving him a questioning glance.

Why'd you bring him? Harry asked tacitly, gesturing to Percy, and Ron shrugged.

No reason, he mouthed, and then, sorry.

Harry chuckled, taking a set of papers marked with the Malfoy Incorporated seal. "Oh, Percy," he said brightly,
realizing what he held in his hands. "I actually might have someone who might be able to help. A company, I mean,"
he clarified. "Event planners."

"Oh," Percy noted, nudging his glasses up to stare, unblinking, at Harry. "Whose company?"

"Draco Malfoy," Harry replied, as Ron's face contorted in a scowl.

"You're not really going to hire Malfoy, are you?" Ron groaned. "Harry, come on."

"Well, now, let's not be too hasty, Ronald," Percy said primly, admonishing his brother. "After all, provided they
have some sort of portfolio of work, or previous Ministry clientele - "

"Just my endorsement, I'm afraid," Harry said, shrugging. "Hope that's enough for you?"

Privately, he guessed that it would be.

"Hm," Percy remarked, looking oddly thoughtful. "What's the name of Malfoy's company?"

"Well, I believe they've just changed it," Harry replied, looking over his paperwork. "Ah, yes, these are the name
change forms. It's called Potter Stinks Enterpr-" Harry stopped, sighing. "Sorry," he muttered. "I'm sure this is an
error. Wait, please," he told the owl, and then walked over to his desk, scribbling out the name.

Malfoy, he wrote. I have VERY GRACIOUSLY declined to reference the events of our past, but if I need to
personally refile this paperwork under the name 'Incredible Bouncing Ferret and Co.,' I absolutely will. - HP

"Here," he said to the owl, sending it back from whence it came, and then turned back to Percy. "Anyway, if you'd
like, I can have Malfoy work on the, um." He paused. "What was it, again?"

"A conference," Percy explained. "Three days. Mostly talks, et cetera, and certainly an unholy level of schmoozing,
but all in all mostly speeches."

"Wonderful," Harry said, ignoring Ron's look of utter horror at the concept. "Malfoy will love that."

"Excellent. Have his people owl my people the details, then," Percy said, rising to his feet. "I should let you get back
to your work, Harry. I'm sure you have quite a lot of it."

"Well, it was great seeing you," Harry offered, and Percy extended a hand stiffly, forcing a smile that looked like it
caused him considerable pain.

"And you," he returned grandly, nodding to his brother. "Have a lovely evening, Ronald. I'll be sure to proceed as
discussed with regard to your favor."

Favor? Harry mouthed, and Ron's face flushed.

"Thanks," Ron returned uncomfortably, and Percy nodded curtly, gesturing for his quill and diary to follow as he
slipped out of Harry's office.

"What," Harry began as the door closed, "possibly possessed you to bring Percy Weasley to my office?"

"Obviously turned out useful, didn't it?" Ron countered, looking more than a little smug. "I saw your face. You got
that smacked-in-the-arse look you always get when you're having an idea. And anyway, what's this about Malfoy?"
he pressed, leaning forward. "Does this have to do with why you called him in this morning?"

"It does," Harry confirmed grimly, falling back into his desk chair. "You'll have to keep this quiet, but there's a
possible threat to the Wizengamot."

"Really?" Ron asked, concern flitting over his brow. "Is Percy in danger?"

Harry shrugged. "Hope not," he said. "But this Ministry conference does seem like a good opportunity to kill
someone off, were someone in a mind to do so."

"So you're having Malfoy plan it?" Ron asked, bewildered. "Why?"

"Well, not just him," Harry supplied, purposefully busying himself with nonexistent work and declining to look Ron
in the eye. "Hermione's working on it, too," he said, as casually as possible.

It took a moment.

"WHAT," Ron erupted, rising to his feet with a clatter. "I thought you said you were - "

"I checked in with her," Harry confirmed, motioning for Ron to calm down. "She's fine. She's more than fine.
There's a logical reason for the bruises," he added, but closed his mouth on further commentary, clearing his throat
and glancing back down at his desk.

"Well?" Ron demanded, waiting. "What is it?"

Harry sighed.

"She'll tell you in her own time, I'm sure," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "Please don't make me betray her
confidence, Ron."

Gratifyingly, Ron sat back down, grimacing.

"This is the woman I almost married, Harry," he ventured after a moment, sounding unusually pained. "I've got a
right to know that she's okay, don't I?"

"She's definitely okay," Harry assured him. "She just needs time, I think."

Ron groaned, sliding down in his chair. "Guess I didn't need to meet up with Percy after all, then," he muttered,
shaking his head. "What a waste."

"Ron," Harry sighed, glancing up at him. "You weren't going to have Percy spy on her, were you?"

"Not spy," Ron protested guiltily. "Just - have a little check-in, that's all." He looked away, sheepish and crimson. "I
know," he said, and Harry, rather than make it worse, simply shrugged.

"Well, much as I hate to say it, perhaps that's for the best," Harry suggested, drumming his fingers against the desk.
"After all, she might end up spending quite a lot of time with Percy, considering."

"God, poor thing," Ron remarked, letting out a breath and then straightening in the chair, looking for a change in
topic. "What about Malfoy?" he asked casually. "You still trying to legitimize him or something?"

"Something like that," Harry agreed. "I feel bad for the guy. Katie said he once tried to go out for dinner and got
refused service at four different places because, you know." He shrugged. "He's Draco Malfoy."

"Look, don't ask me to sympathize, okay?" Ron grumbled. "It's a shit situation, but the prat did make our lives hell
for seven years, so - "

"I'm not asking you to sympathize," Harry assured him. "Just try to keep your cool if you run into him, would you?"

"So long as he stays away from Hermione," Ron said. "If I so much as hear him breathe insultingly in her presence,
I swear to Godric - "

"This," Harry said, pointedly nudging his quill at Ron. "This is why she can't talk to you."

Ron groaned.

"Fine," he muttered. "But if something goes horribly wrong - "

"After what I saw today?" Harry said, rubbing his temple. "I'll be satisfied with them managing not to kill each
other."

Lady Revel's House of Fortune

Knockturn Alley
Somewhere around midnight

The shop was somewhat off the beaten path - even a path so beaten as Knockturn Alley, where truly, nobody
seemed to sleep - and there was nothing but an iron placard beside a single wooden door. Hermione took a couple of
deep breaths, steeling herself, before lifting her hand to the knocker.

"Okay," she told herself, glancing again over her shoulder. "One, two, thr-"

There was a soft pop behind her, and then an all-too familiar scoff.

"Great," drawled Draco Malfoy, as Hermione stifled a growl of displeasure. "Thank goodness you're here. To think,
I was nearly forced to live my life unencumbered by the exhaustion of your presence," he lamented dramatically, his
usual smirk stretched across his face as she spun around to face him. "By all means, let the nightmare continue."
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Are you following me?"

At that, he drew back, comically affronted.

"I most certainly am not following you, Granger, you vainglorious menace," he informed her, his expression souring.
"I think the better question is what are you doing here?"

"I'm - " she frowned, glancing again at the sign. "I'm, um. Playing cards."

Draco paused, staring at her, and then he laughed; a rather patronizing laugh, she thought, and one that leaned more
towards mockery than humor.

"That," he said, taking a step towards her and gesturing to Lady Revel's placard, "is not the kind of 'fortune' that the
lady of this house sells, Granger."

She felt her cheeks heat, realizing the naivety of her mistake.

"I'm here for sex, then," she attempted brusquely, and Draco crossed his arms over his chest, consummately
unconvinced. "Fine," she muttered, grimacing. "I was told Lady Revel might have information about the other
poisonings."

"Why you little snake," Draco remarked, tutting as he took another step towards her. He leaned his elbow against the
wall, eyeing her with amusement. "It's not even twenty-four hours after agreeing to be partners, and already you're
plotting to leave me in the dark?"

She refused - refused - to let him make her feel guilty.

"Isn't that the same reason you're here?" she demanded. "If anyone's a snake, Malfoy, I think we know it's you."

He scowled.

"Perhaps I want my dick sucked, Granger," he retorted, looking as though he luxuriated in her discomfort. "I'm
Draco Malfoy, after all. Widely known for my deviance, and my impenetrable inhumanity." At that, his mouth
tightened, and she saw, for the first time - or second, perhaps, but certainly a rare occurrence - the amount of
disillusionment the world had managed to bestow upon him. "Who says I'm here for anything other than a nice bit of
explicit impropriety?"

"Stop," she said. "You're being ridiculous. Besides," she added, giving into a brush of irritation. "Don't tell me Draco
Malfoy himself would ever stoop to pay for his attentions."

The corners of his mouth quirked up; a near indication of satisfaction.

"If I did, that'd be no concern of yours," he replied, leaning towards her. "And anyway, why don't you just admit that
y- "

They both cut off as the door opened, revealing a rather extravagantly dressed woman in the frame. She looked as
though she could have been anywhere from thirty to seventy years old, the majority of her features buried beneath
layers of pastel blush, but Hermione was largely struck by something familiar about the eyes; a bit of lunacy, which
wasn't particularly aided by what looked to be an elaborate powdered wig.

"You two," the woman said stiffly, "are making life extremely difficult for anyone trying to get anything done."

At her appearance, Draco's expression changed in an instant; he seemed to have slithered into an entirely different
persona, and the vastness of it - the enormity of whatever he was now pretending to be - served to practically fill the
doorway, nearly blocking Hermione from sight.

"My sincerest apologies," Draco offered smoothly, cutting Hermione off before she could speak and offering the
woman an elaborate bow. "Miss Dionisia Trelawney, I presume?"
"Trelawney?" Hermione echoed, alarmed. "You're - "

"If either of you mention my sister, I'll have you both strapped down and mercilessly teased," the woman replied,
turning around and walking down the hallway. "Shut the door after you," she called over her shoulder, and
Hermione obliged, letting Draco follow before pulling the door shut behind her.

"Are you two Aurors?" Dionisia asked them, scrutinizing them closely as she led them into her parlor. It was a bit of
a mish-mash of contrasting aesthetics, combining gothic iron-wrought fixtures and Georgian pastels. "You both
stink of good behavior."

Hermione and Draco exchanged dubious glances.

"We're not Aurors," Hermione assured her. "Though we did wonder if you had some information about the poisoni-"

"Please excuse my associate," Draco cut in, glaring at Hermione once before turning back to Dionisia, softening to a
level Hermione would have deemed seductive, had she ever experienced such a thing from Draco Malfoy. "She's
rather overeager, I'm afraid."

"Ah, yes," Dionisia remarked knowingly. "Well, then it was earnestness I smelled, I suppose. Have a seat," she
added, gesturing to two chairs near the parlor's fireplace. "I'll bring champagne."

"Oh," Hermione said, shaking her head as she eased herself into her seat, the chair lasciviously stroking the small of
her back. "No, that's quite alr-"

"I said," Dionisia sniffed, "I'll bring champagne. Come, Morton," she said, speaking to a small, gloomy-looking
house elf who had been playing the harpsichord in the corner of the room. "We have guests to attend to," she coaxed
him, and then they disappeared, her heeled progress slowly echoing down the corridor.

The moment she was gone, Draco leaned over, glaring at Hermione.

"It's tit-for-tat, Granger," he hissed, looking supremely irritated. "You can't just come in here - " he paused,
sputtering, and gestured with his hands. "Waving your Gryffindor around," he gritted out, "blindly saying whatever
you want - "

"How'd you know about this place?" Hermione interrupted, not feeling quite in the mood for any of his snobbish
commentary. "How is it that you know how to behave, Malfoy? And what sort of 'tit' am I expected to - "

He cut her off with a warning glance as Dionisia's footsteps resumed themselves in the corridor, followed by the
appearance of the woman herself.

"You know," Dionisia remarked, sweeping into the room as Morton struggled to balance three crystal glasses atop
an overlarge tray. "On another night I'd have simply told you to leave my stoop, but if I'm being honest, it's been
quite awhile since I've had a couple. Personally," she added, snapping her fingers for Morton to pour, "I find I'm
rather delighted."

"Oh god," Hermione whispered to Draco, as Morton handed them each a glass. "You didn't mean literal tit, did
you?"

"We're not a couple," Draco told Dionisia loudly, ignoring Hermione. "Sorry to disappoint you, my Lady Revel, but
we are in the business of procuring your expertise."

"In what, pray tell?" Dionisia asked him, smirking as she draped herself against a patterned fainting couch. "You
know, you both nearly woke the whole neighborhood with your prattling," she commented, drawing her champagne
flute slowly to her lips. "In my experience, that sort of opposition is rather magnificent in the bedroom. Some people
want spark," she murmured, toasting them from afar. "But I rather prefer a wildfire."

"Oh, no," Hermione corrected quickly. "We hate each other," she declared, making a face, and Dionisia turned,
fixing her with an unnervingly scrutinizing stare.
"My darling," she offered softly, her painted lips curling up in a smile. "You pretty little fool." Dionisia leaned her
head back, indulging a laugh that was nearly as false as her wig. "Hatred," she continued, burying the remains of a
chuckle in her glass, "is merely nature's most sadistic form of foreplay. Have a libation," she suggested, gesturing to
the champagne in Hermione's hand. "Then we'll see what you really think."

Hermione, despite an overwhelming urge to run, shuddered violently, eyeing her glass with discomfort.

"I was sent here by a friend of yours. Lady Songbird, as you might know her," Draco supplied, thankfully
interrupting. He leaned forward, engaging a bit of a conspiratorial posture. "A mutual friend, I believe."

Dionisia shifted, lips pursed, to lock eyes with Draco.

"I believe you mean Lady Songbird's little princeling, don't you?" she corrected, and Hermione saw the slightest
flicker in Draco's brow; the tiniest indication of uncertainty. "Oh yes, I know quite well who's sent you. I've heard it
told you're a very busy man these days, Draco Malfoy. My goodness, have you heard the latest?" she prompted
innocently, sipping from her champagne flute. "A Hungarian just up and disappeared the other day. Blown to dust,
they say," she added, laughing delightedly into her glass. "Isn't that sensational?"

Hermione frowned as Draco's gaze drifted, his mouth lined with discomfort.

"So," Dionisia continued, looking euphoric at having earned a step. "You wish to know about the Wizengamot
killings, then?"

Hermione leaned forward. "Ye-"

"Well, I've got nothing," Dionisia informed her flatly. "So if that's all you want from me, you'll have to just go."

Hermione gaped at her, unconvinced. "But - "

"Drink this," Draco muttered to her, lifting the champagne glass towards her mouth and flashing her a warning glare.
"Let me handle it," he muttered between gritted teeth, and she tightened a fist, furious, but relented, feigning a sip.

"Lady Revel," he ventured, resuming his slicker persona and turning back to Dionisia. "I've heard it told you like to
play games."

She smiled a rather fox-like grin.

"I'm a lady of revelry, am I not?" she prompted. "I adore a good game, Mr Malfoy, like anyone subject to a healthy
sense of whimsy."

"Perhaps we could indulge you in one, then," Draco suggested, prompting Hermione to cough indelicately into her
glass. "Within the realm of reason, of course. My associate and I are not very experienced in your particular - " he
hesitated. "Specialities."

"Oh, but just a very small game," Dionisia offered him, smiling, "as it will be a very small tidbit, I'm afraid."

"That's certainly fair," Draco confirmed, turning to Hermione. "Isn't it, Grang- " he stopped. "Isn't it?" he prompted
emphatically, and she sighed.

"Fine," she permitted. "What game?"

"Hmm," Dionisia murmured, tapping her mouth. "Tell me, Miss - Granger, is it?" she asked, and Hermione
blanched uncertainly. "Well, you know my name, so it's only fair," Dionisia reminded her, and Hermione grimaced,
but permitted a hesitant nod. "So, Miss Granger, indulge me." She leaned forward, setting her glass down on the side
table. "Why do you hate Mr Malfoy?"

"I - " Hermione blinked. "What?"

"You hate him, yes?" Dionisia asked. "Tell me why."

"Um - " she looked uncertainly at Draco, who shrugged. You're getting off easy, he mouthed, and she rolled her
eyes. "Fine. He's arrogant," she said. "Unbearably so. Conceited and smug."

"Mm, quite," Dionisia greedily confirmed. "Go on."

Once she had started, it was difficult to stop. "He undervalues me," Hermione continued. "Underestimates me.
Treats me as inferior. And all his rubbish about blood purity - "

"That's not fair," Draco cut in sharply, growling under his breath. "That's - leave that out of it."

"Leave it out?" Hermione demanded in disbelief, turning to him. "How can I leave it out when it's been the basis of
our entire relationship?"

"Ah," Dionisia noted, looking smug. "So you admit that you have one, then."

"Have what?" Hermione snapped, and she smiled.

"A relationship," she said gleefully, as Draco leaned forward.

"Some things have changed, Granger," he told her gruffly. "I don't much appreciate being held to the limitations of
my childish misconceptions."

"You're calling everything you did a simple 'misconception'?" Hermione echoed in disbelief. "How can you be so -
so flippant?" she demanded, her fingers tightening around the crystal glass. "You can't put on all these different
faces and expect me to forget the ones I've seen from you before, Malfoy - "

"Ah, so that's it, is it?" Dionisia interrupted, her eyes widening as she suddenly sat upright. "The man bears too
much falsehood for you? Then what he needs is to show you his true face. His true self." She paused, her lips curling
upwards. "What he needs," she added, shifting her gaze from Hermione to Draco, "is to be stripped."

"I - " Hermione inhaled sharply, watching Draco's expression stiffen. "What?"

Dionisia clapped her hands together, elated.

"Here is the game," she declared, and Hermione, who had been certain they'd played several games already, felt a
wave of nausea. "You, Miss Granger," she said, gesturing to her, "will divest Mr Malfoy of his clothing. For each
item you remove, I will reveal a bit of information." She leaned back, predatorily revealing her teeth as she smiled.
"Fair, isn't it?"

Draco passed his tongue over his lips, looking grim.

"Fine," he said, his voice clipped, and rose to his feet. "Come on, then, Granger," he beckoned, seemingly unable to
look at her. "Let's get this over with."

She gaped at him. "But - "

"They're just clothes, Granger, come on," he sighed impatiently, jutting his chin out. "Just give the lady what she
wants. However demented it is," he added unhappily, arching a brow, and Dionisia lifted her glass, toasting him.

Hermione let out a growl of displeasure, rising to her feet. "Fine," she said, standing behind him. He didn't turn to
look at her, and she reached up, briskly nudging his traveling robes over his shoulders and letting them fall to the
ground, leaving him in a shirt and trousers.

And presumably underwear, she told herself, flinching slightly.

She desperately hoped he was wearing underwear.

Dionisia smiled.

"The poison," she said, "is developed by a master potioneer."

"That's obvious," Draco gritted out, and Hermione, still standing behind him, blinked temporarily, watching the
motion of his shoulders and back as he shifted his stance, shaking his head combatively. "Don't toy with us,
Dionisia. I won't play the game if there's nothing in it for me."

"Oh, hush," Dionisia said, waving a hand. "You're hardly even playing yet. Continue," she added, gesturing to
Hermione, who grimaced. "His shirt, I believe?"

Hermione shifted around to face him, standing in front of him and reaching for the button at his neck. Draco
swallowed uncomfortably - her fingers grazed the bobbing motion of his throat as she slipped the first button from
its hold - and he looked down, locking eyes with her.

He was so much taller than she remembered.

"Granger," he said, clearing a rasp from his throat. "Can we get moving, please?"

She blinked.

"Right," she agreed, dropping to the next button. Her fingers brushed his chest and she felt him inhale sharply,
holding his breath.

When she reached the next button, he let the breath out. She could smell something sweet; dessert wine, she
guessed.

Another button; she felt the motion of his ribs.

Another; his abdomen stuttered under her touch.

There were so many fucking buttons.

Hermione slid the hem of his shirt from his trousers, her fingers briefly brushing skin, and then hastily yanked the
last button apart, shoving the fabric over his shoulders - pointedly not looking at the muscle on his stomach and
chest, lean and intently coiled, and not at all like the Welshman's showy bulk - before turning around to face
Dionisia.

"Well?" she prompted furiously, knowing her cheeks were burning.

Dionisia looked positively euphoric.

"There's a group," Dionisia said. "A society of sorts. They're incredibly secretive. So secretive, in fact," she said
hesitantly, looking slightly less confident for the first time, "that I'm afraid I cannot even give you proof that they
exist; but it's been said that - "

She broke off as two sets of stags suddenly materialized from the walls; one each that trotted themselves directly in
front of Hermione and Draco.

"Hermione," one said in Harry's voice, as the other said, "Draco," and continued. "I need you to come into my office
at the DMLE tomorrow morning. 9 am sharp, don't be late. I have more details for you. And please," he added, "try
to get along. See you then."

Hermione's message cut off, while Draco's stag remained, flashing him a withering look.

"'Potter Stinks,' Malfoy, really? At least be creative," it said, and Hermione had the odd inclination that if the stag
could have eyed Draco through the bottom half of a pair of glasses, it would have. "I'll look out for new paperwork
in the morning. Welcome to the Ministry, you prat."
The stag dissolved, and then Hermione blinked.

"What was th-"

"So much for not being Aurors," Dionisia remarked bluntly, rising to her feet and casting them off with a wave of
her hand. "The game is done."

"Wait," Hermione said, taking a step towards her. "You have to at least finish your sentence. This - this group," she
said frantically. "This society, what do they - "

"I do not have to do anything," Dionisia corrected her, her painted lips bearing, for the first time, a rather impatient
frown, and one that reminded Hermione of quite another Trelawney who'd been persistently dissatisfied with her.
"Please leave," Dionisia said lazily, exiting the room as Draco reached for his shirt, pulling it back on. "And do not
return. You," she added to Draco, who was re-fastening his buttons with a stoic look of displeasure. "Tell both
Princeling and Songbird that they have lost my employ as well."

"Wait," Hermione pleaded. "But - "

"Morton," Dionisia said impatiently, and the elf appeared at her side with a pop. "Remove them."

"WAIT," Hermione said again, but the elf had already snapped his fingers and she landed in the street with a thud,
Draco materializing to land on his back beside her.

"Well," he said, after a moment of two of silence. "Remind me to strangle Potter when I see him, will you?"

Hermione sighed, rubbing her backside where she'd landed. "It's not his fault," she said, and Draco shrugged.

"No, it isn't," he agreed. "But recreationally, I find I'm inclined." He stood, dusting himself off, and reached down,
offering her a hand.

"Better call it a night, Granger," he told her. "Early meeting with our scar-faced overlord, after all. Unless, of course,
you have other forms of revelry planned for the evening," he added, as she placed her hand in his and he quickly
pulled her to her feet, hastily dropping her hand. "In which case, be sure to work the buttons with a bit more
urgency."

He was taunting her.

After everything, he was still taunting her.

"You're completely intolerable," she informed him, and he tipped his head, shrugging.

"Until tomorrow, Granger," he said, and disapparated, leaving her behind in the street.

Hermione sighed, checking the time, and wondered whether the Welshman were still awake. She supposed it was
possible; though, suddenly, she realized she felt rather exhausted.

Just her luck, she supposed.

"Damn you, Draco Malfoy," she muttered into the dark, and headed down the street, walking off her unsettled
nerves and heading, alone, to her bed.

a/n: Dedicated to Saay, fluidangles, and arayabrown!

 4. Belligerent Sexual Tension

Chapter 4: Belligerent Sexual Tension

The Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement

September 25, 2003
8:30 a.m.

"Hello?" someone called, knocking on Harry's open door. "Is this Head Auror Potter's office?"

Harry looked up to see a woman in the doorframe, her long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail at the apex of her skull
that bounced somewhat jauntily as she threw her shoulders back, tugging stiffly on a blazer that looked relatively
new.

"Yes, I'm Harry," he offered slowly, his gaze flicking into the hallway. It was still too early for many other people to
have arrived at the office, he knew, and she certainly wasn't a Ministry employee; she seemed, in fact, distinctly
American. "May I help you?"

She smiled, flashing him a row of very straight, very white teeth. "I'm Daisy Carnegie," she said, stepping forward
and thrusting out her hand. "Head Auror at - "

"MACUSA," he supplied, blinking in confusion as he shook her proffered hand. "I just responded to your owl last
night. You didn't mention that you were planning to come to London," he added, arching a brow, and she shrugged.

"Well, you know, the whole magic thing," she said ambiguously, flapping a hand. "Easier to just pop by and get my
bearings than to send some poor owl across the pond, right?"

"Isn't it like - " Harry glanced down, checking his watch. "Three in the morning in New York?"

"Well, people like us don't get to be Head Auror by sleeping," she informed him conspiratorially, leaning in and
pursing her lips. "I'll have a power nap, grab an espresso, you know." She shrugged, and then smiled again, tugging
once more at her blazer. "It'll be fine."

"Right," Harry permitted, adjusting his glasses. "So," he ventured, suddenly realizing how messy his desk was, and
how very unprepared he was for this meeting. "You were saying you had some details for me?"

"Yes, right," Daisy confirmed, as he gestured for her to take a seat. "Do you have somewhere I can put this?" she
asked, holding out something that looked like a muggle compact disc.

"Uh," he said, and she shook her head.

"Nevermind, I brought hard copies," she sighed impatiently, suddenly slamming a massive set of folders onto his
desk that he was certain she had conjured from nothing. "So, I don't know if you know this, but the Wizengamot
member who was killed in Manhattan was sort of low-ranking. One of the younger ones," she clarified, pulling out
his picture. "Ernest Fallon. Apparently the Scandinavian and French victims were a similar story. We were able to
confirm poison," she continued, pulling out what looked like a series of lab reports, "though we couldn't determine
the method of ingestion or the particular toxin, unfortunately. We ruled out non-magical substances, though," she
said, looking up at Harry.

He got the distinct feeling she wanted some sort of acknowledgement, so he nodded.

"What about the note?" he asked, and she sighed.

"Another dead end," she muttered unhappily, digging out a photograph from the file. "This," she said, sliding it
towards him, "was pinned to his chest."

Harry glanced down at the picture. "Is this a - "

"Lemniscate," she supplied, nodding. "The mathematical symbol for infinity."

"Right," he said, squinting at it. "Hand drawn?"

"Silk-screened," she corrected, grimacing. "And we weren't able to get any sort of particulates out of the ink."

"Huh," he said, sliding it back to her. "And you've already spoken to the French and Scandinavian Ministries?"

She nodded. "I spoke to Janvier at the French Ministry about a week after Lefebvre was murdered, but they weren't
able to get much more than we did," she confirmed. "I haven't actually spoken to the Scandinavian Head Auror, yet -
he has his hands full with press, I think. Poliakoff, right?" she asked, frowning. "Do you know him?"

"Not well," Harry admitted. "He and I were both at Hogwarts for the Tri-Wizard Tournament, but I sort of had other
things going on at the time."

"Right, the dragon thing," Daisy said, leaning forward. "And the murder. And the homicidal teach- "

"Yep, right, thanks," Harry confirmed, rubbing his temple. "Did your research, then, I take it?"

"God, hard not to," she said, her eyes widening. "You're aware you're fascinating, right? This whole Chosen One
thing," she said, shaking her head in what appeared to be tempered awe. "You're practically a living saint - "

"It's all a bit overstated," he assured her uncomfortably, as there came a loud, singular scoff from the doorway.

"More than a little," remarked Draco Malfoy.

Nott Manor
7:17 a.m.

Draco woke up that morning to a pounding headache, a painfully dry mouth, and to Theo holding a mirror under his
nose.

"Oh good," Theo remarked brightly. "You're not dead."

"Go away," muttered Draco, shoving him away and struggling to sit up, glancing around the room before squinting
up at him. "Where's the stuff?"

"The 'stuff'?" Blaise echoed drily, wandering into the living room fully dressed in what appeared to be a crushed
velvet tuxedo. "Are you also wanting the 'things' and the 'what-nots,' or - "

"Are you wearing an ascot?" Draco demanded, looking around for his shirt. "Where on earth are you going?"

"I'm off to smooth things over with Dionisa," Blaise supplied, spritzing some cologne into the air and drifting, chest
out, through the mist of it. "Which I do not thank you for, by the way," he added, emerging from the cloud of
conjured amber-smelling musk to glower pointedly at Draco.

"Blame Potter," Draco reminded him, raking a hand through his hair and yawning. "Not me."

"You say this," Theo trumpeted, "but then when I name our company accordingly - and very cleverly, I might add,"
he pronounced, as Draco rolled his eyes, "I get ruthlessly reprimanded. Now what do you expect me to do with the
badges?"

"Oh, no more badges?" Daphne asked, popping her head in from the office. "What am I supposed to do with all
these, then?"

"No," Draco said flatly, shaking his head. "Tell me you didn't, Theo -"

"Of course I did," Theo said, tossing one to him and clipping him in the shoulder with it. "I mean, history has shown
that you are very pro-badge, Draco Malfoy," he added smugly, and Draco sighed, looking down at the luminous
green button that offered the message POTTER STINKS.

"This," he said, "is horrifically unfunny."

"It was your idea," Theo reminded him, grinning wickedly. "Take that one to Potter," he suggested, winking. "We've
got loads."

Draco groaned, scrubbing at his eyes.

"I take it you didn't sleep well," Blaise commented, mixing a little vodka into his orange juice and then pausing,
vanishing the juice and opting to take the vodka straight, closing his eyes and shuddering. "Something else happen,
besides ruining my mother's hard-fought contacts?"

"Nope," Draco muttered, trying not to think about the details he'd left out when he'd relayed the story the night
before; specifically, the entire episode in which Hermione Granger had been undressing him. "Nothing to report."

"A full vial, though," Theo noted, picking it up from the table. "And you didn't make it home. Even for you, that's
not a great sign."

Draco glared at him.

"You're hovering," he muttered impatiently, finally spotting his shirt and picking it up from the floor. "Don't fucking
hover. I'm fine."

"Actually, you're self-medicating," Daphne corrected, emerging from the office and handing him an envelope.
"Here's the new name change forms Theo asked me to fill out, by the way."

"Great," Draco said, shoving them artlessly into the pocket of his robes. "And look, it was either stay up all night or
take something and get some sleep. I don't see what any of you are so concerned about."

"Well, in fairness, if you're going to be damaged, I do prefer you to do it in the house," Theo sniffed airily, and
Blaise walked over, taking the vial from his hand and waving it experimentally under his nose.

"This is new," he remarked, frowning at it. "Is that a little Dreamless Sleep in there?"

"Obviously," Draco confirmed, shuddering at the thought of his usual dreams; variants between the Dark Lord's
slanted red eyes and his mother's pained blue ones, with moments in between of panic that woke him, that broke
him, leaving him to wake in a cold pool of sweat. "Sort of the point of the whole operation, isn't it?"

"Mm," Blaise confirmed, glancing up at him. "Got any extra?" he asked, and Draco reached into his pocket, tossing
him a spare vial.

"Don't waste it," he warned, and Blaise offered him a salute, draining the remainder of his glass of vodka and
slamming it down on the table.

"See you on the other side, mates," he said, aiming himself at the Floo.

"Good luck," Daphne called, perching on the arm of the couch. "Remember to reach all the erogenous zones."

Blaise grimaced, turning over his shoulder. "You owe me," he muttered brusquely to Draco, who shrugged.

"Elbows in," he advised, and with one last spectacular scowl, Blaise was gone, stepping through the fireplace with a
crisp shout of "Knockturn Alley!"

"Well," Theo said, falling to the couch beside Draco. "Off to the Ministry again, then?"

"Yes," Draco confirmed morosely. "Like a good little lapdog." He sat back, propping his feet up on the table. "You
sure you've changed the name successfully this time?" he asked, gesturing to the envelope.
"Absolutely," Theo confirmed. "Very straightforward."

"No puns?" Draco prompted, and Theo shook his head.

"No puns," he confirmed. "Swear on my word as a gentleman."

"Well, if that isn't the most mythical of creatures," Daphne commented, sitting herself down on Draco's other side.
"Though as far as the name goes, I can confirm it's at least relatively accurate."

"Fine," Draco said blankly. "I don't care." He stood, pausing a moment to mentally swim through the after-effects of
the draught he'd taken, and then picked up his things, heading to the Floo.

"Bye, then," Theo called after him, blowing him a kiss, and Draco closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"Bye," he returned dully, and stepped through to Malfoy Manor, fighting the nausea that always came upon arriving
at the tainted remains of his childhood home.

He showered quickly and industriously, putting on a fresh suit - charcoal grey, just a step off from matte black;
sharp, he thought, but not aggressively so - and procuring himself a cup of coffee - definitely black, and violently so
- before steadying himself, staring blankly into the flames for several minutes before finally stepping through to the
Ministry.

There was something very strange about arriving there now; the strangeness being the coexistence of both the
building as it existed in his memory and as it existed now. It hadn't changed much visually from when his father had
ruled it, but there was something very different about the way people's eyes now fell on him. Heads swiveled,
finding him from every corner of the atrium, and after a breath's pause he hastily propelled himself forward, ducking
his head and heading for the lifts.

"Draco?" he heard behind him, and froze. "Is that you?"

He didn't turn.

"Sorry," he said. "Have to run."

He picked up the pace, half-sprinting for the lifts.

"Draco, wait - "

He spun, conjuring a practiced look of ambivalence as he met Katie's eye.

"I have a meeting," he explained bluntly. "With Potter. Harry," he amended. "I - I work here. Sort of. He's a client,"
he clarified. "That I have a meeting with. Now."

Katie frowned, blinking at him. "He's - Harry's a - "

"I have to go," Draco said. "I have a meeting."

"Wait," she said again, reaching forward to grip his arm and then promptly freezing in place, meeting his gaze with
horror. "I - you look good," she offered frantically, the words seeming to spill helplessly from her lips. "You know?
I hope - I hope you're doing well," she managed, and then floundered, her fingers floating around his elbow before
falling awkwardly back to her side.

"I'm very well," he told her, clearing his throat and pointedly not returning the compliment she'd offered. "Extremely
well."

"I mean, I know that," she assured him, her cheeks flushed. "Of course, but - "

"I'm late," he said again, and forced something he hoped resembled a smile but guessed was more of a grimace.
"Nice to see you, Katie."
She wilted. "Draco - "

"Goodbye," he said firmly, and then stepped into the lift, inhaling deeply and forcing himself to stare straight ahead
until the doors had closed.

"Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror
Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services - "

He stepped out hurriedly and strode to Harry's office, tapping his fingers against his thigh in agitation and entering
in time to hear a perky blonde American witch refer to Harry as a 'living saint,' at which he could not prevent a scoff
of derision.

"It's all a bit overstated," Harry told her, and Draco rolled his eyes.

"More than a little," he contributed, entering the room and pausing in the doorway. "I thought you said 9 a.m. sharp,
Potter?"

"It's only 8:59," he heard Hermione growl from behind him, "and you could have at least held the lift, Malfoy."

The Leaky Cauldron

8:24 a.m.

Hermione sat at the bar at the Leaky and took a sip of tea, scouring the Daily Prophet for anything of relevance and
sighing as she found little more than gossip, shaking her head at the picture splashed across the front page.

Melibea Warbeck, daughter of famed singer Celestina Warbeck, stepped out on Tuesday with longtime beau, Auror
and war hero Ron Weasley, the caption read. The couple, seen here in Warbeck's latest for Twilfitt's line of couture
evening robes, recently celebrated two years together since their first introduction at the Annual Ministry Gala in

"For heaven's sake," Hermione muttered aloud, rolling her eyes at the picture and promptly tossing the paper aside.
"Whatever happened to good journalism, Tom?"

Tom the barman shrugged, promptly vanishing.

"Well," Hermione heard behind her, and jumped, nearly spilling her tea. "It seems the demon sleeps after all, doesn't
she?"

She turned to find the Welshman from the night before smiling expectantly at her, pulling out the stool next to hers
and settling himself atop it.

"Right," she said, feeling her cheeks heat. "Sorry about that. The errand I had to run sort of wore me out,
surprisingly."

"Too bad," he lamented. "I'd have liked to have done that."

She bit her lip, shaking her head as he grinned.

"Do you often hit on women who beat you up?" she asked, lifting her cup of tea to her lips and hiding a smile behind
the porcelain. "Seems a rather reckless way to live, don't you think?"

"Would it surprise you to hear you're the only woman to ever manage it?" he replied, glancing down as a cup of tea
manifested in front of him. "Only person, actually," he corrected, eyeing her purposefully.

She scoffed, disbelieving. "That's got to be a lie," she said, shaking her head. "Someone who never loses never
learns how to do it as commendably as you did."

"Not sure that's really a compliment," he remarked wryly, adding a little sugar to his tea, "but I suppose you caught
me. Brothers," he explained, grimacing. "I'm the youngest."

"Brothers," she echoed, sipping her tea and glancing again at the picture of Ron, the crease of the newspaper cutting
his face in half. "Not five of them, I hope?"

"Six, actually," he said, and she choked, coughing on her Earl Grey. "Sorry, is that a problem?"

"No," she forced out, wiping moisture from her eyes. "Just - funny." She cleared her throat. "Odd coincidence."

"Your boyfriend have six brothers too?" he asked innocently. She glanced aside, arching a brow, and he shrugged.
"Hey, can't blame me for asking, right?"

"I don't have one," she assured him. "A boyfriend, I mean. But you're half right," she conceded, gesturing to the
paper, "since my ex did have six siblings."

"This is your ex?" he asked, unfolding the paper. "This goofy-looking redhead? Wait a minute," he realized,
blinking, and turned back to her, staring. "Are you Hermione Granger?"

"Oh god," she groaned, rubbing her temple. "Seriously?"

"Well, you're kind of famous," he reminded her. "And I mean, you look really different now, but this is Ron
Weasley, and he hasn't changed, so - " he paused, frowning with thought. "I take it you didn't want me to recognize
you, did you?" He grimaced. "Did I just fuck this up?"

She shook her head, reassuring him. "I mean, I can't really be surprised," she offered. "I just haven't had anyone
recognize me in a while."

"Well, your breakup was kind of public," he said. "I mean, not to upset you or anything, and - " he groaned. "God,
I'm coming off like a fucking stalker, aren't I?"

"No, no, you're right," she assured him, carelessly waving a hand. "That's half the reason I left London three years
ago. Couldn't go anywhere without being recognized," she muttered, "which is fine and all, but - "

"I'll keep it quiet if you want," he assured her. "I mean, I'm guessing you don't want people talking about what you
do in the evenings. Though I, for one, feel much better about losing," he realized brightly. "You fucking took down
Voldemort, so - " he shrugged. "Hey, is Harry Potter cool?" he asked tangentially. "He seems like he'd be chill."

"Yeah, he is," she permitted, shaking her head with a laugh. "Ron is too, I guess. When he's not being completely
overprotective."

"You keep in touch?" he asked, gesturing to the picture. "I mean obviously he's with this socialite or whatever - oh,
fuck, sorry," he amended, his cheeks burning. "Is this a sensitive subject? Fuck, I'm - sorry, I'm being so fucking
nosy - "

"No, no, it's fine," she assured him, laughing. "I know about Mel, he told me. We tried this thing for a while where
we were really open about our lives," she added wryly, and the Welshman made a face.

"Went badly, I'm guessing?"

"Very badly," she confirmed. "I think the last time we tried that he tried to give me relationship advice on 'finding
nice boys' and I sent him a howler that evidently singed his eyebrows. Or so Harry tells me," she said, shrugging,
"though that was more added bonus than actual intent."

The Welshman chuckled.

"Exes, man," he said. "Always a minefield."

"Minefield," she echoed, surprised by the reference. "Are you - "

"Half. Ish," he supplied, nodding. "Mum's muggleborn. My name's - "

"YOU'RE LATE," squeaked her watch, interrupting. "YOU'RE RUNNING LATE, YOU HAVE FIVE MINU- "

"Oh hush," she told it, shaking her head and tapping it. "Sorry, birthday gift," she offered sheepishly. "Still haven't
really worked out how to turn down the volume."

"Well, clearly you're running late," he told her, offering her a disappointed smile. "See you tonight, maybe?"

"I'll let Wood have you tonight," she promised him. "Though you should really watch your shoulders. They're too
low," she explained, stepping off her stool and gesturing for emphasis. "Makes your defensive jabs too slow."

"Good to know," he replied, rising to his feet. "Though, for the record, I meant tonight," he clarified, leaning in to
brush his lips against her cheek, pointedly lingering. "If you're interested," he murmured, his voice a subtle offer in
her ear.

She leaned back, considering him.

"I suppose I could do that," she agreed, as her watch began to wail its opposition.

"YOU'RE RUNNING LATE, YOU HAVE FOUR MINUTES - "

"Have to run," she said apologetically, and headed to the Leaky's fireplace, grabbing some Floo powder from the
mantle and stepping through to the Ministry, glancing around to orient herself before heading for the lifts.

Her eye caught on a pale head that stepped into a vacant lift, catching the motion of Draco leaning over to push the
button.

"Malfoy, hold that!" she yelled, accidentally bumping into someone. "Oh sorry, I didn't - Katie?" she asked, vaguely
recognizing her, and then looked back to find that the lift doors had shut. "God, he's the worst," she growled, as the
person she was now quite sure was Katie Bell stared after it. "Sorry," she offered again, hitting the button to call
another lift. "Wasn't quite looking where I was going."

"No problem," Katie said back, though she didn't look to be paying attention. "I was, um. Rather distracted myself,
sorry."

"How've you been?" Hermione asked, stepping into the lift as the doors opened. "I heard you work in Muggle
Artifacts now."

"I do, yeah," Katie said, agitatedly playing with her fingers. "Yeah, I, um - how are you, Hermione? It's been ages - "

"Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror
Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services - "

"Oh, sorry, this is me," Hermione said, the lift doors opening in time for her to catch a glimpse of Draco stepping
into Harry's office. "We can catch up another time, I'm sure - "

"Mm," Katie agreed, staring at her shoes, and Hermione promptly chased after Draco.

"I thought you said 9 a.m. sharp, Potter?" he demanded, and Hermione groaned.

"It's only 8:59," she informed him, pointing to her watch, "and you could have at least held the lift, Malfoy."

"Oh excellent, you're here," Draco muttered, glaring down at her as she deliberately shoved him aside. "Thank
goodness, now we can all breathe - "

"Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger," Harry sighed, violently massaging his temples before gesturing to a woman
that Hermione just noticed was sitting at his desk. "Meet Daisy Carnegie."
"Hi," Daisy offered, leaping up from her chair to extend a hand, shaking Hermione's first, and then Draco's. "Heard
of both of you, of course. Thought you'd be taller," she commented offhandedly to Hermione, "and am frankly very
surprised to see you here," she remarked to Draco, "but that can't be too surprising, right?"

Predictably, Harry caught the motion of Draco bristling in indignation.

"Never heard of you," he sniffed to her in return, and Daisy smiled.

"I'm a Carnegie," she told him. "You don't know what that means yet, but you will."

"As in the Carnegies?" Hermione asked her, and Daisy nodded, more buoyant than smug. "I thought the family
name died out."

"The No-Maj line did," Daisy confirmed slyly, as Draco made a face.

"No-Maj? Christ, how pedestri- "

"Malfoy," Harry sighed, conjuring an extra chair and waving for the three of them to sit. "If you wouldn't mind - "

"I mind," he sniffed, but sat, and Hermione took the chair beside him as Daisy resumed her seat. "If you have to
finish up with Miss Carnegie - "

"Auror Carnegie," Daisy corrected. "Head Auror Carnegie, actually."

"MACUSA," Harry explained, and Hermione nodded as Draco shrugged, indifferent. "She and I were just reviewing
the details on Fallon, the American Wizengamot vict- "

"That's very sensitive information," Daisy admonished, her brow creasing as she interrupted him. "I'm not sure you
should disclose anything to civilians."

"These are my two specialists on the case," Harry explained, gesturing to them. "Hermione's an expert in hand-to-
hand combat - "

"Like hell she is," Draco muttered, as Hermione promptly brought her heel down on his toes. "FUCK, Granger - "

" - and Draco's the lead on operations," Harry supplied, beginning to wonder if he were not developing a case of
chronic headaches as Hermione scowled, and Draco firmly drove an elbow into her ribs. "They're both extremely
professional, I assure you."

"Clearly," Daisy agreed, eyeing them with skepticism.

"Listen," Draco said, leaning over Hermione to address her, "I'm going to need whatever you've got of the poison
that was used. I'll need to run some tests on it, and - "

"Oh, really, you're going to need it?" Hermione demanded, shoving him away. "What on earth makes you think that
you can find something that the entire American Auror department didn't?"

"Granger," Draco snapped, "I think I know a thing or two about potions - "

"And you know this based on what?" she demanded. "Your event planning expertise?"

"For fuck's sake, Granger, who spat in your coffee this morning?"

"Oh shove off, you're such a - "

Harry waved his wand, muting them both and turning pleasantly back to Daisy.

"It's a work in progress," he assured her. "But I promise you, they are the best."
"I mean … if you say so," she permitted, shrugging. "I'll take what I can get," she sighed, and he nodded
sympathetically. "These poisonings really made asshats of our entire department, and I don't care how much these
two fight so long as one of 'em can figure something out. They're not sleeping together, are they?" she asked, leaning
towards Harry as the other two continued to shout their muted opposition. "I mean, it's super unclear."

"No, no, it's just a very gentle hatred," he assured her. "And listen, I'm happy to work with you on this. Whoever this
guy is, we'll catch him," he promised, and she nodded, relieved. "So are there any suspects, or - "

He stopped, jolted back as Hermione suddenly slammed her palms against the desk, pointing to her throat.

"What?" Harry asked, and then blinked, waving his wand. "Oh, right - "

" - and in conclusion, fuck you and your horse," Draco informed Hermione, who promptly shoved his face aside.

"Harry, I think we might be looking for a network, not an individual," Hermione said. "I don't know much more than
that, really, but from what Malfoy and I gathered last night - "

"Last night?" Harry echoed in confusion, and Draco sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yes, last night," he confirmed moodily. "And we'd know a lot more, Potter, if you could manage to restrain
yourself from interrupting our work."

"Work?" Harry repeated blankly, as Hermione stepped in front of Draco, blocking him from Harry's view.

"We went to go see an informant last night," she explained. "She said something about a secret society, but then the
game was over and she found out we worked for you," she said, grimacing, "so we never got anything else - "

"Organized crime!" Daisy exclaimed, rising to her feet. "I should speak to someone in that division while I'm here.
Is it down the hall?" she asked Harry. "Like, investigative services or something?"

He blinked at her.

"Yeah," he said, and she nodded brightly.

"Great," she declared, aiming herself at the door. "I'll find it. You three go ahead and have your meeting," she urged
them, "and I'll just stop over and talk to whoever you've got working the gang circuits. I'll get you the lab results
from the toxin, and - " she paused, pulling a small notepad from her pocket and scribbling in it. "Lab results for
blond dude," she muttered to herself, and nodded, clicking her pen. "Okay, bye!" she said, shutting the door behind
her.

Hermione and Draco exchanged glances, frowning.

"What's her deal?" Hermione asked Harry, who shrugged.

"Not sure. Enthusiastic, I guess," he said. "Younger than I thought she'd be."

"She's not much older than we are," Draco pointed out, and paused. "Though, I suppose that is pretty young to be
Head Auror for someone who doesn't have 'murdered a Dark Lord' on their CV - "

"It wasn't murder," Harry groaned, "and that's not why you're here. I had no idea she was coming," he added, waving
to where she'd disappeared, "but I called you in because - "

He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Yes?" he called, frowning, and Percy Weasley poked his head in.

"Oh, so sorry," Percy offered, nudging his horn-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose as his scribbling
quill floated in behind him. "I hadn't gotten anything from you yet this morning, Harry, so I was wondering if you
had any details on - oh, Draco Malfoy," he said, spotting him and blinking. "I don't suppose we could discuss it now,
could we?"

"What?" Draco asked, as Harry beckoned for Percy to come in.

"I was actually just telling Malfoy that you'd been considering his company, Percy," Harry told him, giving Draco a
meaningful glance. "Wasn't I, Draco?"

Draco blinked.

"Right," he confirmed. "For the, um - "

"Ministry Conference," Harry supplied. "I was giving Percy details on your company last night," he explained.
"Have you changed the name, by the way?"

"Oh, right," Draco said, digging an envelope out of the pocket of his robes. "Hold on - "

"Hello, Miss Granger," Percy said to Hermione, who seemed startled to be addressed. "How are you?"

"I'm … fine," she said, as Percy offered her a deeply awkward smile.

"Here," said Draco, handing it to Harry. "Sorry about the last one. Theo," he explained, and Harry smirked, tearing
open the envelope.

"Right, so, Malfoy's company - " he trailed off, staring at it.

"Problem?" Draco asked, and Harry shook his head.

"It says you've changed your name to 'Parties Parties Parties Parties' - "

"Nope," Draco said flatly, reaching for it. "No way - "

"I'm not finished," Harry said, holding up a finger. "'Parties Parties Parties Parties, Party Time, Party All the Time' -
"

Draco leaned forward, snatching it from his hands and throwing it back in his pocket. "I'll change that," he said
briskly, turning back to Percy. "But look, as for the conference - " he paused, glancing at Harry, who nodded
encouragingly. "We can definitely take care of that for you."

"Fantastic," Percy said. "Is there someone at your office I can speak to?"

"Sure," Draco offered smoothly. "Pansy can help you out."

Harry caught Hermione making a face.

"You mean Pansy Parkinson?" Percy asked. "A Prefect, wasn't she?"

"Yes," Draco confirmed. "She's very, uh." He paused. "Qualified."

Hermione's face contorted further.

"Wonderful," Percy said. "Would you mind letting her know that I'll be by this morning to speak with her about the
details? Shouldn't take too long," he said. "I've gotten most of it worked out, so what's left will be largely paperwork
-"

"She'll love that," Draco offered, which Harry guessed to be a flagrant lie. "I'll send her a memo."

"That," Percy declared, "would be sublime. That's all. Oh, but Miss Granger," he offered offhandedly, pausing by
her chair. "I wondered - "
"Hermione," she reminded him, looking vaguely amused. "You can definitely call me by my first name, Percy."

"Right, of course," he confirmed, nodding. "I wonder if you have any plans. Perhaps this evening?" he asked,
turning to the scribbling quill beside his head. "I'm free, aren't I?"

The quill squeaked its confirmation and Percy turned back to Hermione, expectant, as Harry watched Draco smother
a harsh bark of laughter.

"I - " Hermione froze. "I'm - I don't - "

"Just wondered if you might consider having dinner," Percy offered. "Platonically, of course. As friends,
specifically," he clarified unnecessarily, looking pleasantly unbothered by the emphasis.

"Oh," Hermione said, glancing at Harry. "Uh - "

"She'd love to," Harry confirmed, leaning back with a grin. "Thank you for asking, Percy."

She hid a scowl. "Yes," she agreed faintly. "Yes, that's - I'd love to."

"Yes, thank you for asking," Draco contributed, his face turning scarlet with withheld laughter.

"Wonderful," Percy said brightly. "Somewhere in Diagon, perhaps?"

"I'm staying at the Leaky Cauldron," she told him, and he nodded curtly.

"I'll collect you there around 8 o'clock, then, if that works for you," he said, and she offered him an uncomfortable
smile of confirmation. "Tonight, then. And I'm sure I'll speak to you soon, Draco," he offered - to which Draco
managed, with great difficulty, to offer him a small nod - before glancing back at Harry. "Thanks for permitting me
to interrupt, Harry," Percy concluded gravely, and Harry gave him something of a salute, watching him close the
door behind him.

"Granger," Draco managed once Percy had gone, still battling a fit of laughter. "My god, it's so perfect."

"Stop it," she growled, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Your children," he forced out, pulling at his mouth, "will be so incredibly bookish - "

"Malfoy, for heaven's sake - "

" - so completely socially inept - "

" - stop - "

" - they'll come out wearing Prefect badges - "

" - I'm going to hit you, Malfoy, don't make me - "

" - and wearing cardigans - "

" - Malfoy, I'm warning you - "

" - you think they'll come out reading? Just - too busy to be born, even, just reading, and - OUCH, Granger - "

"Hermione," Harry sighed, leaning over his desk to nudge them apart. "Malfoy - look, if you could just - "

"God, can you imagine the dinner conversation?" Draco pressed, leaning towards her and convulsing with laughter.
"Miss Granger, tell me," he mimicked, "what are your thoughts on the developmental progression of flobberworms
with regard to larval phases during periods of drought - "
"I'll take that over dinner with you any day," Hermione grumbled.

"Oh please, I'm an unparalleled delight - "

"You are an unparalleled bag of dicks - "

"Listen," Harry interrupted, glaring at them. "Obviously you two realize you need to find a way to get along," he
told them, as they both made similar faces of opposition. "You'll have to stay under the radar, you know. Only
Kingsley knows I've got you on this, so you're going to have to work something out," he warned. "You'll have to
find a way to blend."

"Ah yes, blend," Draco said, flashing Hermione a look. "Something I've mentioned before, haven't I?"

She gave him a radiantly fearsome scowl.

"You're provoking me," she informed him. "Do you want to fight?"

"Please don't," Harry begged, as Hermione rose to her feet, shaking her head.

"Look, just find me after Pansy's met with Percy, okay?" she told Draco, aiming herself at the door. "Harry's right,
you know. We have to work together, Malfoy, so no more sneaking around - "

"What does that mean?" Harry asked, frowning, as they both ignored him.

"You're the one who was sneaking around, Granger," Draco retorted brusquely. "I hardly think I'm the one who
needs to be reprimanded."

"Is anyone," Harry sighed, "going to tell me what this is about?"

"You're - " she grimaced, clenching a fist. "You're impossible!" she shouted at Draco, and then strode to the door,
pausing just before she opened it. "Good to see you, Harry," she muttered, keeping her back to him, and Harry
sighed.

"Everything's going to be fine, Hermione," he assured her. "I promise."

"Yes, quite," Draco drawled. "Have fun on your date, Granger - "

"BYE," she shouted, pulling the door open and then letting it slam shut behind her.

"My goodness," Draco said, dusting his immaculate robes and rising to his feet. "Quite a temper on that one."

Harry shook his head, eyeing Draco skeptically.

"You really are antagonizing her," he warned, stretching his arms up and resting them behind his head. "She'll give
you a chance, you know, if you could just manage to contain your douchery, Malfoy."

Draco scoffed. "No she won't - "

"Yes," Harry interrupted emphatically, "she will. She's like that," he added. "She's not like anyone else you know,
Draco, I promise you."

At that, Draco grimaced, and Harry caught a telling indication of a swallow of discomfort from him that appeared to
be resignation.

"What are you doing tonight?" Harry asked him, entertaining an idea, and Draco threw his head back, groaning.

"No," he said flatly. "Whatever it is, no - "

"There's something I think you should see," Harry interrupted slyly, drumming his fingers on the desk. "Ever been to
The Arsonist?"

"In Diagon? They won't serve me," Draco snapped, glaring at him. "You know perfectly well that they won't."

"They will if you're with me," Harry reminded him, and Draco moodily crossed his arms, saying nothing. "Come
on," he urged. "One drink, Malfoy. It won't be the worst thing."

"You have absolutely no proof of that," Draco countered, but at Harry's unyielding expression, he sighed. "Fine," he
muttered. "One drink, okay? That's it. And if you drink too slowly, I'm still leaving."

"Fair enough," Harry offered amicably, leaning forward. "But just to warn you," he said, privately delighted, "I have
a feeling you're going to want to stay for a bit."

Pansy Parkinson was a woman who enjoyed a certain degree of freedom.

It was why being cast out of society wasn't nearly as bad as she'd thought it would be. If anything, it just meant she
was no longer obligated to go anywhere, or do anything, and could instead indulge in catering to her own personal
whims, which today included wandering Nott Manor in a pair of slippers until late in the morning, rejoicing in a rare
day off.

She enjoyed working at Deathstar (or whatever it was called now; Potter Eats Dicks, or whatever Theo had decided
for the day) for the most part, even though she was often relegated to the most unsavory tasks. Whenever someone
needed to be distracted, she was the one they called on to wiggle into her shortest skirt and drop things, playing the
clueless idiot and letting her mouth linger on whatever phallic item was in sight (from pens to bananas to, once, an
actual dick, albeit one made of chocolate).

Was it ideal? Of course not. But why have such fabulous tits and spite nature by failing to use them?

Besides, distraction wasn't the whole job. They were killers, after all. When someone needed to be taken out, that
was when she was really in her element. She'd been a fairly good dueller in school and she remained quick with a
wand, which most people didn't expect (much to their detriment, she would add). Draco had the potions and sure,
Theo was quick and Blaise was stealthy enough, but she had the element of surprise, and there was nothing she
loved more than seeing the wide-eyed look on someone's face that had meant they had judged her incorrectly.

She often took a moment to pity them; only a moment, though, because she enjoyed watching the wreckage.

She didn't have it as bad as Draco, because she'd never been quite as loved as Draco to begin with. She hadn't had as
far to fall, and so she didn't especially mind being turned away - though she was getting pretty sick of being
reminded that she'd been the one to suggest turning Harry Potter over to the Dark Lord.

They'd all been thinking it, as she continually insisted. Was it her fault she'd simply been the one to say it out loud?
Was it really such a stretch to think she hadn't felt that some twatting hero she barely knew was worth dying for?
She found she could only muster up so much of an apology, and while Draco was possibly willing to grovel, she
certainly was not.

And so freedom it was, she thought, sipping a mimosa and closing her eyes as Daphne materialized in the office,
clearing her throat.

"Hey," Daphne said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. "Two things."

"No thanks," Pansy replied, and Daphne rolled her eyes.

"You'll want this first," she said, handing her a note that contained Draco's linear handwriting, and Pansy sighed,
leaning forward to accept it.

"Just play along, I'll explain later," she read, and frowned. "What the fuck?"
"The second thing, and the thing I assume this is referring to," Daphne said, gesturing to the note from Draco and
wincing apprehensively, "is that Percy Weasley is currently waiting for you in the hall."

Pansy gaped at her.

"Nope," she said firmly, shaking her head. "No. Draco said no Weasleys, and I'm holding him to it. Can't Theo take
care of it?"

"He's out," Daphne replied. "And Blaise is still with that brothel lady, so I have to assume whatever he's doing is
worse than this. Or better," she permitted, shrugging. "But either way, he is definitely occupied."

"But - "

"Hey, Draco said this was important," Daphne reminded her. "And I don't really work here, Pans, so - "

"UGH," Pansy muttered, letting her feet drop from the desk and transfiguring her slippers into stilettoes with a loud,
impatient groan. "Fine. But remind me that I owe Draco whatever the equivalent of this is," she said. "A punch in
the balls or something."

"If it helps, he's actually kind of hot," Daphne offered, aiming for optimism. "In like, a professorial kind of way, like
maybe he'd tell you your homework was late and you'd actually feel bad. And he doesn't look like his brother at all,"
she added, and made a face. "Well, at least not the one we went to school with," she amended. "And sure, he's a little
stiff, but - "

"Just let him in," Pansy grunted impatiently. "Let's get this over with."

"Okaaaay," Daphne sang, winking, and Pansy sat expectantly as she opened the door, gesturing for their guest to
follow. "Mr Weasley, Pansy will see you now."

"Thanks very much, Miss Greengrass," he said, nodding to her, and strode through the door, a quill scribbling
something behind him. "Ah, add the catering contract to the list," he said to it, suddenly freezing in place, and Pansy
waited, brow furrowed, as he seemed to temporarily lose his placement in the room, frowning into nothing.

"Uh," she said, eyeing him. "Mr Weasley?"

"Oh, yes," he remembered, shaking himself of his temporary distraction and reaching forward, offering her his hand
and gripping hers with a firm, perfunctory shake. "Hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Nothing I can't recover from," she assured him. "How can I help you?"

"Well, I spoke to Mr Malfoy this morning about hiring your company to handle some of the remaining details for the
Ministry Address next month," he said. "Harry Potter was kind enough to suggest your work, and I thought I would -
"

"Ministry Address," Pansy echoed, confused. "Is that some kind of party?"

Percy blinked, somewhat owlishly.

"It's - no," he said slowly. "It's more of a conference."

"Huh," she said, leaning back. "And Draco said we would do it?"

"Well, he said for me to give you the details, yes," Percy replied, frowning. He glanced around the office, suddenly a
bit skeptical. "You are event planners, aren't you?"

She paused, pursing her lips.

"Yes," she conceded unhappily. "Yes, I suppose we are."

"Marvelous," Percy said, snapping his fingers at the quill behind him and producing from his diary a tightly wound
roll of parchment. "Here's everything I'll need done."

"Oka- oh, fuck," Pansy said under her breath, as the end of the parchment unrolled itself towards her feet and
dropped somewhere near her ankles. "Right, so - "

"This is a list of all the paperwork you'll need, plus explicit instructions for each aspect of the conference. Also,
information about the Ministry's preferred vendors, and usually we have sponsors, so I've compiled a list for people
to contact - "

"Hold on," Pansy interrupted, holding up a hand as she stared at the list. "How much of this did you say was done?"

"Oh, most of it," Percy assured her. "Except for all of the deposits, and most of the paperwork, and obviously I
assume you can handle the more aesthetic details with regard to the venue, so - "

"Great," Pansy said, blinking at the dizzying perfection of his handwriting. "Yep, this all looks - " she paused, her
eyes swimming with details; some of the notes were simply alphanumeric combinations, which she realized after
several moments of staring meant they were items to be filed. "Yes. Quite."

"Excellent," Percy said, rising to his feet. "I'll check in next week, then, to see how things are progressing. If you
have any problems with the paperwork, do let me know," he added, brandishing a very formal business card from
nowhere and placing it on her desk. "I may be the newest on the Wizengamot, but I've got some pull," he remarked,
chuckling to himself, and she wondered if he believed that he'd told a joke.

"Right," she confirmed, rising to her feet to escort him out of the office as he nudged his glasses up his nose, turning
towards the door.

"Oh, right, and - " he turned sharply, colliding with her, and she froze, his hands wrapping around her upper arms as
he steadied them both. "Can you just tell me," he said, frowning slightly as they regained their balance. "How good
are you?"

She stared up at him. "What?"

"How good are you?" he asked again. "I really don't want to be disappointed."

"I - " she swallowed, vacantly noting the motion of his hands loosening around her arms. "Disappointed?"

"Yes," he said curtly. "I know you don't have much experience," he added, and she leaned back, affronted. "Under
other circumstances I would ask for a reference, but I'm a bit pressed for time, so I'm afraid I just need a little added
assurance as to your abilities. You're going to impress me," he prompted, "right?"

"Impress you," she repeated, conscious now of the precise shade of his eyes as he stared at her, waiting for a
response.

"Yes," he said. "Well, not just me - the Ministry of course," he amended, and she nearly groaned, instantly feeling
stupid. "If this event is anything less than perfect, then I'm afraid - "

"Oh, fuck, of course," she exhaled, shaking her head. "Yes - no, right. Yes, the event will be perfect. The, um - " she
paused, swallowing, and he arched a brow expectantly.

"The conference?" he supplied, and she snapped her fingers, nodding.

"Right," she confirmed. "That."

He paused, unconvinced, but ultimately sighed, glancing at his quill and evidently determining he had other things
to do.

"Thank you, Miss Parkinson," he said, releasing her and promptly taking a step back. "I look forward to working
with you."

"Pansy," she offered, following him and pausing with her hand on the door. "Just Pansy."

He stopped on the other side of the door, turning to glance at her.

"Pansy," he echoed, the corners of his lips tilting up slightly as he paused, his gaze flicking over her face. "Pretty,"
he commented.

For no reason whatsoever, she shuddered.

"Bye," she said flatly, and as he nodded in parting she immediately shut the door, throwing herself against it and
slamming her head back, groaning.

"Pans?" Daphne called, her heels echoing from the hall. "You okay?"

No, she was not okay, Pansy thought, eyeing the massive roll of parchment on her desk.

For a woman who valued her freedom, she'd certainly just given quite a lot of it away.

Outside the Leaky Cauldron

7:57 p.m.

"Oh, hi Percy," Hermione said, relieved to see him waiting outside for her without his quill floating around near his
head. "You're early."

"Am I?" he asked, glancing down at his watch. "Hm. Would you like me to wait?"

"No, I'm - " she frowned, wondering if he were joking. "No, I'm here," she informed him slowly, gesturing to
herself, and he nodded, looking pleased.

"I'm sure you find this odd," he commented, grimacing slightly as she joined him. "I have to tell you, I find it rather
odd myself."

"Did Ron put you up to it?" she asked, and Percy shrugged, wearing the motion uncomfortably.

"Am I that transparent?" he asked her, and she laughed, shaking her head. "How unfortunate."

"It's alright," she assured him. "I see no reason why we can't have dinner, anyway. We have things in common, don't
we?" she added optimistically, forcing herself to shove aside Draco's smug mockery on the subject. "And I hear you
have some interesting cases on the docket."

"Yes, I do," Percy confirmed, suddenly flushed with excitement. "Excellent, well - "

He started walking and she hurried to follow, nearly colliding with a witch in an extremely large hat before catching
up to Percy's stride.

" - you don't mind, but I do have to speak quickly with someone from work," he said, clearly continuing with
whatever he'd been saying while she'd been dodging passersby. "Hawkworth," he clarified, glancing down at her.
"Do you know him?"

"Senior member on the Wizengamot, isn't he?" she asked, and Percy nodded. "I did some research for one of his
cases my final year at Hogwarts."

"Oh good, then he knows you," Percy said, relieved. "Excellent. I rather loathe introductions."

"I kind of agree," Hermione permitted, hurrying to keep up with him and nearly being bowled over by a goblin that
barrelled past. "Sorry, just - "
She lost him momentarily, searching the crowd, and then caught up, breathless.

" - can't remember her name now. The daughter of that singer Mum loves. She's nice enough, I suppose, now that
I've actually remembered who she is, but of course I thought her a passing fling at the time - "

"Um," Hermione said, chasing him. "What are you - "

" - faintest idea, when you're such a respected academic," he continued. "But I've never really understood my brother
much. Anyway, It's owned by Seamus Finnegan, did you know? Gryffindor," he added proudly. "One of mine. Oh,
yes, in your class," he babbled, nodding. "I remember now. Anyway, when we get to The Arsonist - "

"Wait," Hermione panted, grabbing onto his arm. "Percy. Did you say The Arsonist?"

"Yes," Percy replied, pausing to look down at her. "Is that a problem?"

"Oh no," Hermione sighed under her breath, and then swallowed, forcing a smile. "Nope," she lied brightly. "Not a
problem at all."

a/n: I hesitate to confirm an update schedule because it seems as soon as I confess to having one, it gets interrupted,
but ideally it will be long chapters once a week. Dedicated to Blueberry Bliss, andreabl2, and sophiesax (with extra
love for your good news)!
 5. L'appel du Vide

Chapter 5: L'appel du Vide

The Arsonist
Diagon Alley
8:15 p.m.

The pub was as crowded as ever, though Hermione rarely used the front entrance these days. They arrived to a wait,
and while part of her was pleased for Seamus' success, the majority of her was distinctly displeased with being made
to stand for observation near the host stand, noting with frustration the sets of too-interested eyes that seem to linger
on her where she stood near the door. It was odd, really, seeing people who often frequented the Underground
making some sort of effort at social niceties; they, at least, simply sat with their friends and families, pointedly
avoiding eye contact with her. She, similarly, made an effort to turn away, hoping to shrink behind Percy.

"Ah, there he is," Percy said, calling out to a vaguely familiar face as the salt-and-pepper head near them turned to
reveal Ifan Hawkworth, a senior member on the Wizengamot. "Warlock Hawkworth - "

"Ah, Mr Weasley," Hawkworth returned, nodding politely to him. "You brought the case briefings I requested?"

"I did," Percy confirmed, withdrawing them from a briefcase Hermione hadn't even noticed he'd been carrying.
"You're familiar with Miss Granger, as I understand it?" he added, gesturing to her. "She mentioned she'd assisted
with the research for one of your cases while she was at Hogwarts."

"Ah, yes," Hawkworth said, brightening a little upon seeing her. "Miss Granger, how are you?"

"I'm quite well, Warlock Hawkworth," Hermione returned, relieved that things were going so smoothly.
"Congratulations, by the way, on the progress you've ma-"

She'd spoken too soon, jostled into an unseemly halt as someone threw an arm around her from behind.

"Oi, Granger," Marcus said, promptly causing her tongue to settle uncomfortably in her mouth and leaving her to
choke slightly. "You look a little overdressed for a figh-"

"Ah, Mr Flint," Hermione managed loudly, coughing twice to clear her throat before turning to him and Oliver. "So
lovely to see you, Marcus, but I'm afraid our business matters will have to wait until tomorrow, as I have a rather
important social engagement this evening - Warlock Hawkworth," she added, gesturing wildly to him, "perhaps you
remember Mr Flint from his days as one of the premiere chasers for the Falmouth Falcons?"

"'Premiere' is a bit of a stretch," Oliver muttered, as Marcus stiffly backhanded him in the stomach.

"Ah, yes, Flint," Hawkworth hazily agreed, looking less than impressed. "Are you handling a legal case for him,
Miss Granger? You were such a promising student," he added, seeming very conscious of the compliment he was
awarding her and brandishing it proudly for her consumption. "I would hope you've ventured into magical law since
I last saw you."

"A case?" Marcus echoed, looking ruffled by the suggestion. "Excuse me, but what exactly are you impl- "

"No, I'm afraid not," Hermione said loudly, glaring warningly at him before turning back to Hawkworth. "Actually,
I'm, um - I'm working for the Ministry right now," she said, regretting the admission the instant she said it.

"Oh?" Hawkworth asked, leaning forward. "In what capacity?"

"I'm - " Hermione paused, glancing at Marcus, who gave her a look of bemusement. "I'm an event planner," she said
eventually, cursing herself internally.

"Event planner?" Hawkworth and Percy echoed in unison.

"Yes," Oliver contributed drily. "Flint here is having a gala."

"Shut up," Hermione muttered under her breath, glaring warningly at him, and Percy turned to her with surprise.

"Hermione, I had no idea you worked with Mr Malfoy," Percy remarked. "Is that why you were both meeting with
Harry this morning?"

"Malfoy?" Hawkworth echoed, his face contorting slightly ar the reference. "Since when is the Ministry hiring
Death Eaters?"

"Yes, Granger," she heard behind her, and struggled to contain a groan, recognizing his voice. "Since when, indeed.
Hello, Warlock Hawkworth," Draco offered, nodding once to the elder man and pointedly smirking at her. "I see
Hermione was just taking flagrant liberties with our business association, then."

"Stop," she hissed through gritted teeth, elbowing him as forcefully and discreetly as their proximity would allow.
"Just - let it go, Malfoy - "

"Excuse me, sir," the host asked, interrupting their party to frown at Draco. "Miss, is there a problem?"

"I - what?" Hermione asked, turning to him with confusion. "Problem with what?"

"I'm waiting for someone," Draco explained curtly, nodding at the host. "I'm meeting a Mr Harry Potter here. I
believe you may have heard of him," he added, looking somehow vigorously unperturbed despite the bristled tone of
his voice. "I presume that's a sufficient enough name drop to permit me to stay, isn't it?"

"Is that true, Miss?" the host asked Hermione, who stared at him, bewildered.

"I don't know," she said bluntly, frowning. "I'm not in on his plans - "

"Granger," Marcus said, clearing his throat slightly and obviously itching to escape, nudging Oliver away. "I've got
to go, but we'll discuss the, um - "

"Gala," Oliver reminded him flatly, rolling his eyes.

" - yes, that. Later," Marcus confirmed with a nod, shoving him towards the back stairs to the Underground. "Bye,
then - "

"Bye," she returned vacantly, and realized the host was still staring at her. "I - look, if he says he's meeting Harry,"
she sighed exasperatedly, "then I don't see what that has to do with me - "

"It's fine," Draco said, his expression souring. "I'll just wait outside."

"I think that would be best," the host suggested, not altogether unkindly, as yet another familiar face suddenly
appeared from the direction of the bathrooms.

"Father, I - "

"Ah, Rhys," Hawkworth said, as the man that Hermione had thought of only as the Welshman stepped beside him,
catching her eye and promptly looking taken aback. "Do you know Warlock Weasley and Miss Granger?"

The Welshman blinked, seeming to process her very slowly; she felt a similar blow of unsteadiness, processing the
image of him in an impeccably tailored suit, the waves of his dark hair appealingly swept back from his forehead.

"Oh, yes - we, um - "

"My goodness," Draco murmured in her ear, pausing mid-retreat as he caught the interaction. "Your cheeks are
positively flaming, Granger - "

"Shut up - "
"Sir," the host warned, eyeing him pointedly, and Draco held up his hands, hastily reassuring him.

"Yes, yes," he murmured, quietly delighted. "Just one second - "

"Do you know each other?" Hawkworth asked, glancing between his son and Hermione, who were still sharing an
awkward glance. "Rhys was homeschooled, you know," he explained to Percy, who nodded enthusiastically, as if to
express some sort of approval. "We sent his brothers to Hogwarts, of course, but then when everything went belly-
up for a bit there - "

"We're, um - old friends," the Welshman who was apparently called Rhys interrupted his father, taking a step
towards her. "Are you joining us for dinner, Hermione?"

"Oh," Hermione said, blinking, as she glanced at Percy. "I - I don't know - "

"Oh, are you all one party?" the host asked, pointedly ignoring Draco's lingering presence and directing his remark
to Hermione. "If so, we could get you seated much quicker. There's a larger table just opening up," he pointed out,
gesturing over his shoulder. "If you'd like to take that one."

"Well, I suppose we should, then," Percy contributed, turning to Hawkworth with something akin to exuberance.
"After all, we were just having a very casual dinner," he offered, gesturing to Hermione, "and if your son and Miss
Granger are familiar, then perhaps we'd be better served combining parties - "

"I am immensely curious to hear how you two met," Hawkworth commented, arching a brow at his son and looking,
in Hermione's opinion, quite suspiciously pleased. "You know, I've been pestering Rhys to spend more time
amongst academics," he remarked to Percy, who nodded vigorously, "but it seems he'd rather spend his time
slumming around Diagon, you know. I'd love him to have a more positive influence," he added slyly, giving
Hermione a distinctly knowing smile. "What the boy needs is direction - "

"Father," Rhys cut in, looking flustered. "I'm sure we shouldn't interrupt - Hermione obviously has her own" - he
paused, grimacing slightly at Percy - "entanglements for the evening, so - "

"No, no," Hermione said quickly, half-consciously stepping towards him. "No, it's - it's nothing like that - "

"Well, on this magnificent note, I shall take my leave," Draco declared loudly, turning to the door, and Hermione,
sensing his presence as a welcome distraction, reached out, gripping his arm.

"Wait," she said, yanking him back. "If you're just waiting for Harry, then perhaps you can join us, Malfoy," she
muttered to him, sparing him a meaningful glance. He pursed his lips, displeased, and she turned to Percy, nodding
to him. "That wouldn't be a problem, would it?"

Percy, however, hesitated. "I - " he glanced back at Hawkworth, whose mouth twitched slightly in displeasure.
"Well, I suppose it wouldn't harm anyone, would it?" Percy suggested. "After all, Mr Malfoy has been very helpful
to me in planning the Ministry Address," he said slowly, and with what Hermione judged to be a rather conscious
tentativeness. "And, of course, considering that he and Miss Granger are working together - "

"Yes, working together," Hermione confirmed hastily, dodging Rhys' skeptical glance. "As business associates."

"Our events are to die for," Draco contributed drily, as Hawkworth gradually relented, giving a brusque grunt of
agreement.

"Fine," he permitted. "I suppose you could join us for a drink, Mr Malfoy."

"Oh goody," Draco muttered, and Hermione dug her nails into his arm. "Ouch - "

"Well, right this way, then," the host offered, though Hermione noted his gaze flicking repeatedly to Draco. "I'll just,
um. Add another chair - "

"How utterly within your job description," Draco murmured under his breath, and Hermione gave him another sharp
nudge. "How do you know Rhys Hawkworth?" he asked her, looking altogether far too entertained as they lagged
behind the others. "Something to do with one of your more deplorable hobbies, is it?"

"Why are you here?" she hissed, glaring at him.

"I suppose it's Potter's idea of a hilarious joke," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "He told me there was something here I
needed to see, and while I'm certainly enjoying it, I wouldn't necessarily agree it was in any way necessary - "

"This isn't what he was showing you," Hermione growled, realizing what Harry must have had planned. "Though do
remind me to kill him when he shows up."

"Happy to," Draco contributed, shrugging. "Though, if he doesn't show," he muttered, glancing somewhat skittishly
around the room, "I give it about ten minutes before I get kicked out."

Hermione shoved him down into the seat beside hers. "Just behave," she whispered firmly. "Harry said we have to
look like work partners anyway, so - "

"Sure, except that's not at all why you've trapped me into staying," he told her, snickering to himself as they both
caught Rhys' gaze lingering in her direction. "It seems someone's having quite an effect on your eternally twisted
knickers, Granger."

"Shut up," she muttered, glancing over the beverage list as the waiter arrived at her seat. "I'll have a glass of
Ogden's, please," she said, and turned to Draco. "And you," she muttered, "just one drink, okay? Just enough to
throw suspicion, and - "

"Same as the lady, then," Draco told the waiter, smirking.

Hermione leaned over, planning to continue her admonishment, but paused as she noted something in the waiter's
expression changing, his mouth tightening as Draco handed him the beverage list; the waiter's brow furrowed, and
then he wandered over to one of the other waiters, clearly gesturing to Draco from afar.

"What's that about?" Hermione asked, gesturing with her chin, and Draco glanced over, grimacing.

"The usual song and dance," Draco said. "He's asking if he has to serve me."

"What?" Hermione demanded. "Why wouldn't they?"

" - isn't it, Hermione?" Percy asked, and she blinked, startled, before turning to stare at him.

"I'm sorry," she said slowly, still watching the waiter in her periphery. "What did you say, Percy?"

"The case you worked on for Warlock Hawkworth - "

"Ifan," Hawkworth corrected. "By all means, Percy, we're peers now - "

Percy positively beamed.

"Of course - Ifan, then - "

"Uh oh," Draco murmured, watching a woman two tables over flag down the waiter and then point inconspicuously
towards him, glaring at him. "Granger," he murmured, quietly sliding his chair back, "I should go."

"What? Why?" she demanded, forgetting entirely that Percy had been asking her a question. "What's she doing?"

"I'm sure her son or husband or someone was tortured by the likes of me," Draco supplied, rising to his feet. "My
guess is I'm ruining the ambiance. Warlock Hawkworth, a pleasure," he said, nodding to him. "Percy, Mr
Hawkworth - "

"That's not fair," Hermione said firmly, shoving her chair back as the waiter came over to their table. "That's - she
can't - "

"Mr Malfoy," the waiter said. "I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Frankly, I'm surprised I got as far as ordering," Draco remarked, yanking his collar up and shaking his head. "As
ever, this has been a pleas-"

"You can't do that," Hermione argued, faintly realizing she'd risen to her feet, staring up at the waiter. "He's not
doing anything!"

"Miss, this establishment reserves the right to serve or not s-"

"I know the owner!" she countered furiously, feeling her brow furrow. "Get Seamus," she instructed. "He'll have
something to say about this - "

"Granger," Draco murmured, nudging her. "Do calm down," he said, pointedly gesturing to where Percy, Rhys, and
Hawkworth were all conspicuously looking down, idly fascinated with their menus. "You have company."

"But - " she gaped at him. "But you haven't done anything," she repeated, unsure whether she were enraged or
perplexed. "They can't just - they can't just remove you - "

"They can, and they have," Draco said, tipping his hat to the woman who'd complained and grimacing as her eyes
narrowed. "We'll talk tomorrow, Granger - "

"No!" Hermione insisted wildly, pulling him back. She caught the stares from around the room but persisted,
shaking her head. "He's with me," she said, pivoting to reference the others at the table. "With us - "

She stared in disbelief as Hawkworth deliberately scooted away from her end of the table, pointedly putting distance
between them.

"Hermione," Percy warned softly, glancing up at her as Rhys stared at his empty water glass. "I understand your
opposition, I do," he murmured, "but I'm afraid this is a bit of a scene - "

"Then make a scene, Percy!" she shouted, her hands flying down to her hips. "This is wrong, and - "

"Granger," Draco said warningly, reaching out to grip her elbow. "Weasley's right. They're on the Wizengamot, and
this doesn't look g-"

"Miss," the host said, suddenly materializing beside the waiter. "I'm afraid we're going to have to ask both of you to
leave."

"Done," Draco agreed, pulling her away. "Again, so sorry for the inconvenience."

"I'm not sorry," Hermione protested, tripping over a chair as Draco hauled her out, half-dragging her behind him.
"This is inhuman, this is INDECENT - "

"Christ, Granger," Draco said, pulling her back into Diagon Alley and shaking his head. "Not everything's a war,
you unstable maniac - "

"I already fought a war!" she shouted at him, uncertain why she was so inescapably furious. "I already fought one,
and this is - "

Before she realized what was happening, Draco had bent his head to hers, silencing her with the shock of drawing
her face towards his. It wasn't a kiss - far from it, despite the mechanization of the motion being so similar - but it
was the equivalent of non-violently clapping a hand over her mouth, leaving her flustered opposition to dissipate
between them, vanishing amidst the chasm of his vacantly irritated expression.

"People are staring," he muttered to her, gripping the back of her neck tightly in warning and disguising it as
affection, moving his hands to shield both their faces from view. "I'm going to disapparate, and you're free to
continue your tantrum elsewhere, or to continue raining volatility in the streets. Your choice. So," he concluded,
slowly releasing her, "are you coming or not?"

She leaned away, glaring at him.

"Go on, then," she muttered furiously, and he sighed, shaking his head as he disapparated them out with a crack.

Nott Manor
8:40 p.m.

Draco landed in the middle of the living room of Nott Manor, hastily stepping away from Hermione as he noted
Blaise sitting on the couch.

"Listen," Hermione said, wobbling as they landed and immediately launching into yet another tirade, "we need to
talk about this. That was completely ridicu-"

"Hello," Draco said, pointedly speaking over her and turning to Blaise. "Zabini, you're looking well."

"Indeed," Blaise commented, nudging his reading glasses down his nose and looking up at them from a glass of
champagne, his gaze traveling suspiciously from Draco to Hermione. "And you're looking productive, then."

"Remind me to kill Potter," Draco returned, an explanation of sorts. "Better make it a daily reminder, actually."

"Wouldn't have to remind you if you'd just follow through," Blaise commented, pointedly flipping a page of his
book. "Granger," he added, toasting her. "What brings you to this ancient house of degenerates?"

"I haven't - " she paused, looking around. "Which house of degenerates, specifically?"

"Theo's," Draco supplied, snatching Blaise's glass and draining it, shaking his head. "Oddly," he added, swallowing
the contents and permitting a face of approval, judging it to be decent, "I didn't think you'd care to visit my house."

She grimaced. "Fair. But," she continued emphatically, "as I was saying, I - "

"On a field trip to see how the other half lives, then, are you, Granger?" Blaise interrupted, and then turned to Draco,
smirking at him. "I didn't realize this was what you meant when you said you were out for the evening, Malfoy."

"It wasn't," he confirmed, "but Potter failed to show, and someone" - he glanced pointedly at Hermione - "has spent
the last five years living in some kind of cave of delusion. Hence my previous threats against Potter's life," he
clarified, though he hardly saw why any explanation was necessary.

"Delusion?" Hermione sputtered, looking appalled. "But - "

"Well, that's a first, isn't it?" Blaise asked Draco, frowning. "Potter's never late for your little clandestine meetings."

"No," Draco agreed, "but there's a first time for everything, the success of his murder included, so - "

"Meetings? Plural?" Hermione demanded, staring at Draco. "Since when do you hang out with Harry?"

"Oh, relax," Draco scoffed, glancing around for a bottle of something and finding himself displeased with his
options. "Since he made it his business to become some sort of human infestation in my life, I've been rather
obligated," he muttered, wandering out of the living room. "Are you coming?" he called, pausing before turning the
corner, and Hermione stared at him, blinking, before realizing Blaise was watching her with a truly unsettling grin.

"You know," Blaise commented, eyeing her. "You could do with a little unwinding, Granger. Sit back, relax," he
offered, gesturing around the house and smirking. "Make yourself at home."

Draco rolled his eyes, and Hermione's cheeks flushed.

"Malfoy, wait for me," she erupted, hastily chasing him, and Draco continued his path down the stairs, heading to
Theo's vault of spirits.

"What's your drink," he called over his shoulder, and turned, squinting at her. "Was it Ogden's you ordered at the
pub?"

"Yes," she confirmed, and glanced around, frowning. "Where are we going?"

"God, how utterly uninteresting," he remarked, shaking his head and pointedly ignoring the question, choosing
instead to focus on her plebeian drinking preferences. "Picked that habit up from whatever dirty little fight clubs
you're in, I presume?"

"Harry told you about that, did he?" she sighed, as Draco stepped off the landing and tapped his wand, opening the
vault. "I can't believe he told you about the Underground. I think we both have fair cause to kill him at this point,"
she commented vacantly, wandering inside and eyeing a dusty bottle of pixie-made brandy with suspicion, wrinkling
her nose. "He's rather a disaster at keeping secrets."

"What underground?" Draco asked briskly, snatching a bottle of aged Bordeaux and then gesturing again for her to
follow, heading back up the stairs. "He just asked me for a drink at that Arsonist place. Which I told him I wouldn't
get into, so - "

He paused, turning around, and she barreled into him, scowling. "What was going on with you and Hawkworth,
Granger?" he asked, remembering their telling interaction, and she huffed her opposition, crossing her arms over her
chest.

"I did some research for him," she explained. "A long time ago. Though I had no idea he was still so prej-"

"Not him," Draco interrupted. "The son. Rhys, was it?"

"Ah," she said, conspicuously skirting the question. "I don't know. We just met."

Draco scoffed, consummately overrun with disbelief.

"Fine," he said brusquely, resuming his trip up the stairs. "Don't tell me, then."

"I'm not not telling you - "

"Sure," he sniffed, wandering into the kitchen and picking up two glasses, handing one to her by the stem. "Hold
this," he instructed, and she sighed.

"Fine," she said, rolling her eyes as he processed back into the living room, popping the cork on the bottle. "But I'm
telling you the truth, Malfoy, there's nothing t-"

"Oi, Granger," Blaise said, rising to his feet. "Smell this, would you?"

He held out a glass, and Draco watched, silently amused, as Blaise winked furtively at him, hiding the motion
behind his hand.

"Why?" Hermione asked suspiciously, her brow furrowing as she accepted it.

"Because," Blaise said smoothly. "I can't tell if that's topnotes of grapefruit, or if it's something richer, like plum - "

She leaned over, sniffing it, and then inhaled sharply, coughing.

"What the - "

"Welcome to our home," Blaise informed her, gleeful. "Do enjoy your trip," he added, producing an empty vial from
his pocket and dropping it in Draco's palm before promptly leaving the room, whistling as he went.
Hermione, alarmingly, was still coughing, choking on the vapor she'd inhaled. "What the hell was that - "

"The most important thing," Draco sighed, facing her, "is that you have to breathe. In," he said, gesturing, and she
followed. "Out. Keep doing that," he instructed, taking the wine glass from her hand and raising his wrist, setting a
timer on his watch. "In, out - "

"I don't need you to teach me to breathe," she sputtered, coughing again before forcing an unsteady inhalation. "I've
been doing it rather well thus far, thank you - "

"Well, here are the relevant facts," Draco said, tapping his watch and then eyeing the vial in his hand, pointedly
holding it up for her to see. "You've just taken a hit of a potion that's a bit too strong for you. I presume you don't
normally indulge in inhalants?"

She stared at him, her eyes wide, and he shook his head.

"Didn't think so," he confirmed flatly. "I'd have started you off with something milder myself, but of course, here we
are, so - "

"Did Zabini just - " she sputtered. "Did he drug me?"

"Oh, don't be dramatic," Draco said, waving her off. "It's perfectly safe."

"Perfectly safe?" she demanded, horrified, as she watched him pour himself a glass of wine. "There could be toxins
in here, Malfoy, or - I could - "

"There aren't," he informed her. "I brewed it. You're fine."

"I'm - " she paused, glaring at him as he poured another glass, handing it to her. "What do you mean you brewed it?"

"I mean precisely what I said," he told her, and traded the potion in her hand for the wine glass in his, lowering his
head to inhale the potion's vapors himself. "There," he pronounced, with a single, dignified cough. "Now we're even.
Have a drink - "

"Have a drink?" she echoed furiously, flailing. "Have you drugged this, too?"

"Can you please stop being so narcissistic?" he asked her, taking another hit and swiping delicately beneath his nose.
"Nobody is drugging you, Granger, we're just doing drugs. There's a difference," he informed her, taking a sip of
wine and shaking his head. "Think of it like initiation," he postulated, aiming for optimism. "It's like, a welcoming
gift, really. And," he added, remembering, "when Blaise did it to Theo the first time, we all got to benefit by
watching his one-man show, which I'm pretty sure was called 'Nott Your Baby' - "

"Isn't this Theo's house?" Hermione demanded, which Draco happily ignored. "And what do you mean the first time
-"

"Now," he continued, pressing on. "About Rhys Hawkworth - "

"I don't care if I'm on drugs," she protested, crossing her arms stiffly. "I'm still not talking about him. And I'm not
happy about this, either!" she added, as though such a thing would bother him.

He shrugged, falling back on the couch. "Suit yourself, then," he invited, and sat down, settling himself back against
the cushions and crossing one leg over the other. "Better take a seat, Granger," he advised, holding up his glass of
wine as he set the potion down on the side table. "It'll hit you quite soon."

She made a face.

"Fuck you," she managed, just as her knees collapsed beneath her.
Nott Manor living room
9:03 p.m.

" - so I punched him," Hermione announced from the floor, draining the rest of her glass. "And now I think he wants
to sex me up. Sex with me." She blinked. "He wants to sex me."

"Sex you?" Draco echoed. "He wants to fuck, Granger, don't be so naive."

"Anyway," she told him, leaning over, as he obligingly offered her another hit of the potion from Blaise's glass. "As
I was previously mentionitizing, I - " she paused to hiccup, taking a sip of wine, "am an excellent fighter."

"I'm an excellent drug user," Draco informed her, clinking his glass against hers. "Also, I make potions."

"Yeah," Hermione said, frowning at him. "How do?" She paused. "You."

"With talent," he told her. "Oodles of it."

"Oodles," she grunted skeptically. "I doubt that."

He launched to his feet, swaying forward, and gestured broadly with his head. "Come on," he said, making a grand
sweeping motion. "I'll show you where I do the thing. Not that thing," he added, as her eyes narrowed. "I do that
thing everywhere."

"Gross," she said, but rose to her feet, following him. "I think I'd die before sexing with you, Malfoy."

"I think you'd die during, Granger," he said. "Which is, frankly, very tempting."

"Shut up," she mumbled, half-tripping as he led her up the stairs. "Where's everyone else?"

"Don't know where Theo is," Draco replied, frowning as came to a rigid stop on the stair. "He's usually home, except
for when he's not."

"Bastard," Hermione declared, and Draco nodded his agreement, continuing up the stairs and shoving open the door
to his workspace.

"Here," he said, pulling her into a room. "This is where I do the thing."

"That thing?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"The other thing," he clarified. "Though I have also done that thing in here."

"Gross," she said again, but leaned over, eyeing a jar of his ingredients. "Are these - "

"Acromantula tentacles," he said. "Very rare. Super poisonous, when brewed for poison."

"Fun," she said, squinting at them. "So what do you do? With them," she clarified unsteadily. "The tarantulacles."

"Kill people," he announced, and turned over his shoulder, watching her reaction. "Why, what else does one do with
them?"

She blinked at him. "You're lying," she decided, squinting.

He shrugged.

"Drink," he suggested, and she made a face, complying.

The roof of Nott Manor

9:43 p.m.
"Okay, so," she said, as they lay on their backs, staring up at the sky. "One more time. Blaise gets a client - "

"Yes," he said. "Sometimes Theo, but more often Blaise."

"Right," she agreed. "Then Theo does surveillance."

"Yes," he confirmed. "Nobody notices him. He's got a gift for resembling tables and lamps. Provided his mouth is
closed," he amended, and Hermione made a face.

"Yes," she agreed. "And then Pansy. Is - " she paused. "Slutty?"

"She does other things," Draco assured her, tacitly giving Pansy her due, "but yes, she's the bait, when we need it."

"Daphne does paperwork," she said, and he shrugged.

"Honestly, I think she really loves logistics," he said. "She doesn't actually work here, so - "

"And you," Hermione continued, picking up the bottle, having discarded the glass. "You make the death potions."

"I do," he confirmed. "Which is why, Granger, I should be the one to test the MACUSA poison."

"Well, you could have just said so," she muttered, lolling her head to the side to stare at him. "Why didn't you just
tell me you're a murderous mad scientist?"

"A what?" he said. "Salazar's tits, you're stoned as fuck, Granger - "

"I thought you were just a smug idiot," she interrupted, shaking her head. "I didn't know you were a smug lunatic. I
might have forgiven you your smugness if I'd known there was some intellect involved," she added thoughtfully.

"Well," he said, taking a sip from the bottle and swallowing, clicking his tongue. "Why ruin the delightful surprise?"

She reached for the bottle, struggling slightly to prop herself up on her elbows. She took a swig, swallowing, and
then let it slip from her hand, sliding down the roof and crashing to the ground below.

"Oops," she said, staring after it, and Draco sat up.

"Sometimes," he said, eyeing the glass on the ground below, "I think about what it might feel like to fall. Sometimes
I come up here just to think about jumping off," he commented. "You know what I mean?"

She nodded. "Sometimes," she said blearily, rubbing her eyes, "when I know someone's going to throw a punch, and
I know it'll hit somewhere that could knock me out, part of me wants to just - sit still," she said. "Part of me wants to
take it. Just to - " she shrugged. "Feel pain. Or feel nothing, maybe," she amended, tilting her head. "Pain first," she
decided, nodding, "and then nothing."

"Morbid, Granger," Draco said, and she made a face.

"You just talked about jumping off the roof," she reminded him. "Hello," she added, swaying slightly. "I think you
can do morbid all by yourself, Malfoy."

"Well that's different than whatever you're going on about," he said, flapping a hand at her. "I don't usually imagine
myself getting beaten into oblivion - "

"Well, I don't get beaten," she cut in, with an assertiveness that bordered on conceit. "I know what the fuck I'm
about, son."

He turned, blinking at her. "What?" he demanded.

Nott Manor gardens

10:15 p.m.

"Okay," she said, circling him in the garden. "Put your fists up, like this," she said, demonstrating, and he groaned.

"Granger, this shirt is hand-sewn," he told her. "Custom made, extremely expensive, a special Italian silk blend, and
-"

"If you bleed, I'll buy you a new one," she offered, rolling her eyes, and he scoffed loudly.

"I hardly think you can aff-"

"You're not exactly convincing me not to hurt you," she warned, and he growled in resignation, loosening his cuffs
and pulling them up over his forearms.

"Fine," he said, mimicking her stance. "Show me your genius, then."

She circled him slowly, taking her time, and he scowled. "Granger," he muttered impatiently, "this is - "

"This," she said, tapping something near his back, prompting him to jump, "is your kidney. Under your ribs," she
explained, jabbing them as he winced, "and near your spinal cord. If I did this," she said, pressing the heel of her
hand where she'd nudged him, "you'd go down hard."

"Okay," he said, swallowing forcefully as her fingers spread across his side. "Done, then."

"Well, that's hardly expertise," she said; rather snottily, in his opinion. "They're behind you, so they're hard to get to.
Anyone worth fighting isn't going to make it that easy," she added, pointedly making eye contact. "Unlike you," she
clearly couldn't help adding, and he rolled his eyes.

"I don't appreciate the sentiment, Granger, but thanks," he said, shaking his head. "Move on."

"This," she said, running a finger along his ribs and then flicking it just under his sternum, "is your solar plexus. If I
did this," she said, lightly curling a fist and aiming it upwards, "I'd knock the wind out of you. Making it easy to get
to your kidneys," she added, tapping them again as he hunched over slightly, "if I were so inclined."

"Fine," he muttered. "But this can't be easy to get to, either - "

"It isn't," she agreed. "Not as easy as the side of your neck," she offered, holding the blade of her hand against it,
"which would cut off blood flow to your brain. Or your nose," she said, holding the back of his neck and lifting his
head, pressing the heel of her hand into his nose, "which only requires about seven pounds of force to break,
dizzying you with pain and prompting significant blood loss."

Her gaze slipped slightly at that, and he couldn't quite tell if she were admiring him or studying him; either as
entertainment, possibly, or as prey.

"Okay," he said, clearing his throat, and she smiled.

"Your throat," she continued genially. "Your larynx is particularly fragile," she said, swiping her thumb across it and
watching him swallow beneath her touch. "I could break it," she murmured. "Could kill you."

He stared at her, imagining the motion of her hand against his neck.

Imagining her touch against his neck.

"L'appel du vide," he announced suddenly, startling her, and she blinked, looking up at him. "The call of the void,"
he explained, coughing slightly. "The, um. The feeling," he offered, gesturing to his neck. "The inclination that it
might be fun to let myself get my larynx broken."

Her smile twitched, and she took a step back.

"Or fall from a building," she confirmed, pointedly arching a brow. "Sometimes I think about getting hit by a car,
too," she murmured, staring into space. "Or when I'm cutting something, the knife is always so fascinating for a
minute - "

"Why, do you think?" he asked her, somewhat gruffly. "Are we just fucked up?"

She paused, thinking it over.

"I mean, we should be," she reminded him. "It's normal to have those thoughts to begin with, and then add in that
whole - " she flapped a hand. "That whole war thing we did that one time - "

He grimaced, promptly desperate to change the subject.

"What's the quickest way to knock me out, you think?" he joked, and she frowned.

"Your neck," she supplied, and then, without warning, "it's not fair, you know," she said, locking eyes with him.
"What they did to you."

He frowned, confused, as his watch alarm began to beep at him. He looked down, silencing it, and then looked back
at her.

"What?"

"The restaurant," she said again, shaking her head. "That wasn't fair. You didn't deserve that - you don't," she
amended. "You don't deserve that."

"I think other people beg to differ, Granger," he reminded her. "Quite a lot of people died because of choices I made,
whether I'm responsible or not."

"Yeah, but - " she frowned. "But that's - "

She swayed slightly, blinking, and fell forward; he caught her, sighing.

"Well," he remarked, shaking his head. "Right on schedule."

"What's happening," she mumbled incoherently, her eyes falling shut, and he sighed again, tucking one arm under
her legs as the other supported her back, taking her in his arms.

"Tell you in the morning," he murmured, and apparated them back into the house.

12 Grimmauld Place
10:30 p.m.

Ron Weasley was very much invested in his relationship with Melibea Warbeck, despite what his present actions
reflected.

Sure, he was curious about what Hermione was up to. How could he not be? He thought he'd be spending the rest of
his life with her, after all, and then she'd come back after three years away and had said almost nothing to him the
night they'd all met up, focusing her attention on Harry and flashing a set of deltoids so sharply defined that he
swore he could have used to them to cut glass.

She was an enigma, that was all. Ron couldn't help his curiosity, and he'd never really understood her, so it's not like
this was new.

Mel, however, was another matter altogether. She was delightfully uncomplicated, which was fully unlike any other
relationship he'd been in. Communication had always been rocky and passive-aggressive with Hermione, and
everything with Lavender had been generally unhinged (a symptom of youth and inexperience, he supposed), so his
experience with women who announced, without hesitation, what they were feeling, was more than a little bit
limited. His interactions with Mel had been curious from the start; mostly because there had been almost no
ambiguity involved.

"I like you," she told him, sidling up to him at a Ministry party. "You make me laugh."

He looked around, assuming she'd been talking to someone else. "I haven't - " he paused, frowning. "Have we met?"

"Melibea Warbeck," she'd offered, extending a hand. "Call me Mel. And no, we haven't met," she clarified, "but I
overheard you tell Harry Potter this party had more bloodsuckers than a leech hotel, and I thought it was very funny.
If you want," she added, raising her glass to her lips and taking a very dainty sip, "I'll let you go down on me in the
bathroom. My mum's famous," she added, shrugging, and downed the rest of her glass. "You coming?"

Ron blinked at her.

"What the fuck," he'd breathed, and she, rather indulgently, had smiled.

Perhaps it was because Mel had always gotten what she wanted, or because her mother had sent her to Beauxbatons
rather than Hogwarts to advance her appreciation of the arts (a well-intentioned concept that led exclusively, as far
as Ron could tell, to little more than sexual fluidity and what Mel referred to as 'her eye,' meaning specifically her
rigid opinions on what was or was not fashion) and thus delivered her to a life of perpetually not understanding
British sensibilities; but Ron found she had an air of irresistibility about her, and so he'd consented to her
proposition.

"Hey," she'd said, showing up at 12 Grimmauld Place the next day. "Wear this," she instructed, thrusting a garment
bag into his chest and staring expectantly, as though she expected him to change on the spot.

He stared at her. "What the - "

"I need a date," she explained. "Very fancy party. Very expensive booze. I'll blow you," she clarified, her expression
never changing. "Provided you keep me entertained."

"Bloody hell," said Ron, but again, he'd relented.

She wasn't particularly manipulative, despite the way she carried herself. He always had the distinct feeling that if he
ever declined an offer of sexual favors, she would simply shrug and walk away, moving onto someone else who
struck her fancy. He'd guessed, too, that perhaps commitment and exclusivity would not be in her retinue, but he'd
been wrong about that. Mel Warbeck fancied a snuggle from time to time, and she seemed to like them coming from
him.

He warned her he wasn't sure about marriage anymore; she, in response, had shrugged.

"Institutions," she'd remarked, shaking her head and scoffing in disapproval. "They're for people who find their own
imaginations lacking. What if you leave me? What if I leave you? Think of the possibilities," she ranted. "Why
commit ourselves to staying when I could write odes to plausible futures of pain and ceaseless trauma?"

"What?" he'd asked, staring in confusion.

"Nothing," she said, laughing. "Just poeticizing."

"So, about the whole failed engagement thing," he pressed, trying to make his stance on it inescapably clear, and
she'd pressed a crimson-manicured finger to his lips.

"If I ever want you to propose, I'll say so," she told him unambiguously, and despite a long history of women who
had never, ever said what they meant, he realized that he suspected she'd told him the truth.

That was six months ago, and it hadn't come up since. And he'd been perfectly happy the last two years, fully
content with the life he shared with her (which was not at all like life with Hermione; this, rather, was separate
homes with no tangible future, and yet something oddly stable) until Hermione Granger herself had walked back
into his life, covered in bruises; reminding Ron that she, unlike Mel, could not be counted on to simply be honest
with him when asked.

Hence sending his brother off to dinner with her, which was admittedly not his finest moment.

"Hey, Mel?" Ron said, fidgeting beneath her as she, curled up in his lap, flipped through a Witch Weekly editorial
featuring her new collection of dragon-scale handbags. She was humming A Cauldron of Hot, Strong Love under her
breath and making him wonder, not for the first time, if there was something Oedipal about how his girlfriend sang
the same songs as his mother. "You know I love you, right?"

"Yes, I know," she said vacantly, turning the page. "You've mentioned it."

"I guess I should tell you Hermione's back in town," he said, swallowing uneasily. "I, um. I don't want you to find
out from - "

"The Daily Prophet?" she guessed, and looked up from beneath a pair of fashionably (or so she claimed) oversized
tortoise-shell frames, eyeing him skeptically. "I think she's more discreet than that, Ron."

He frowned. "You already know, don't you?"

She nodded, returning to the magazine.

"Harry told me," she confirmed, shaking her head as her finger paused over one of the images. "God, they went with
a pastel spread for a Georgian-inspired line? How utterly predictable," she muttered. "How hard is it to fucking thrill
me? Honestly - "

"Harry told you?" he interrupted, shaking his head. "Since when do you and Harry talk?"

"Since we ran into each other in the kitchen the other night," she supplied, though she was clearly still displeased
about the lack of groundbreaking material in wizarding editorial fashion. "I was hungry, and he was just getting
home."

"From what?" Ron demanded, and Mel sighed, setting down the magazine.

"You are entirely too nosy," she admonished him, removing her glasses to eye him wearily. "I didn't ask."

"But - "

Ron broke off as a sound came from the Floo, revealing Harry's agitated form as he stalked through the fireplace,
dusting ash from his unruly hair and wiping his glasses on his robes.

"Well, fuck," Harry declared flatly. "Remind me to never be late ever again."

"Noted," said Mel, as Ron shifted beneath her, sliding out from the couch and rising to join Harry by the fire.

"What happened?" he asked, and Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses.

"Well, I was meeting Malfoy at - " he paused, seeming to deliberately screech to a halt before confessing.
"Somewhere."

"Good cover, Potter," Mel called.

"Hey Mel," Harry muttered in greeting, raking his hand through his hair, and she waved. "Anyway, I was late, and
he was kicked out of the restaurant. Caused a whole scene, apparently, and - "

"That's not good," Mel commented, interrupting Ron's response. "Didn't you just hire him for something?"

"How much do you two talk?" Ron demanded, turning to glare at her. She shrugged.
"You sleep a lot," she reminded him. "You miss things."

"But - "

"Luckily I ended up having dinner with Percy, and someone on the Wizengamot, which might be useful at some
point," Harry sighed, throwing himself down beside Mel. "Where's Kreacher?"

"Polishing silver," Ron said, and frowned. "What do you mean 'luckily'?"

"Well - "

Harry paused as a throat-clearing sound came from the Floo, promptly followed by Percy's head in the flames.

"Ronald," he called primly, and Ron jumped.

"Perce, bloody hell - "

"Do you have a moment?" Percy asked, though he notably did not wait for confirmation. "Unfortunately," he
continued, as Ron waited helplessly, "I didn't get much information from Hermione as to her current state of being -
"

"Nosy, Ron," Mel murmured, tutting, which he resolutely ignored.

" - but I do think she's doing quite well," Percy concluded, nodding firmly. "Unfortunately, I don't think she quite
understands the pressure I'm under with regard to my professional image, but overall I think she's rather doing fine.
She and Draco are, of course, an odd pairing; perhaps ill-timed, as far as couples go - "

Ron, without warning, promptly choked, the air in his lungs turning vicious and beating its way out his larynx.

"What - " he gasped, struggling to master language. "What d- what'd you mean - "

"Oh, well, I suppose I'm drawing conclusions, but the evidence is certainly there," Percy remarked, looking down to
enumerate on his fingers. "There's the fact that they're working together, which isn't much on its own," he murmured
vacantly, hedging, "nor is the fact that she rather publicly fought on his behalf when the waitstaff refused to serve
him - "

"Well," Ron sputtered. "All of that is - that's normal for Hermione, so - "

"The kiss, though, was a bit obvious," Percy said, as Ron immediately choked again, battling a gasp of alarm. "I'm
quite certain I saw at least one photograph being taken, and we know how much those go for - "

"He - they - "

"It certainly looked like a kiss," Percy said, indulging a bit of doubt. "I'd gone after her, of course, seeing as she was
in quite a state - but you see a thing like that, you know, and it just seems rather poor form to interrupt, so -"

Ron stared at his brother's head in the fire, trying to process what he was hearing.

"They - she - what - "

"This sounds like an existential crisis," Mel noted, as Harry sighed loudly, rising to his feet.

"If you'll excuse me," Harry announced, shaking his head. "It seems I'll have to send an owl."

a/n: literally scribbling this down and running out the door, as I shall be unavailable for the next week; dedications
will be distributed in double for the next update! Thanks a million times for reading!
 6. Troubled, but Cute

Chapter 6: Troubled, but Cute

Nott Manor
Spare bedroom on the third floor
September 26, 2003
6:59 a.m.

"Good morning, children," Theo announced, thrusting the curtains open, and Draco groaned, shifting in bed.

"Go away," he muttered, but then, upon feeling an alarming surge of movement beside him, promptly jolted awake.

"What's going on?" Hermione asked, yawning, and then seemed to register what was happening, staring at Theo in
horror before promptly checking beneath the covers. "Oh, good," she breathed, letting her head fall back against the
pillows. "Thank god."

"Excuse me," Draco snapped. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Hermione's mouth opened indignantly but Theo spoke first, cutting her off.

"Yes, yes, you're both clothed," he assured them, tossing a copy of the Daily Prophet at them and looking
spectacularly unbothered as it smacked Draco in the face. "I checked."

Hermione balked. "What do you mean you checked - "

"Theo, you know very well I expect coffee with my morning paper," Draco told him airily, swiping a hand through
his hair and sitting up, tossing the paper aside. "Your efforts at hospitality have gone entirely to hell."

"Just wait," Theo warned, smirking, and turned towards the door. "That's your cue," he called, and then, just as
Draco had the foolish audacity to wonder if things could, in fact, get worse, Harry Potter kicked in the door and
strode in, bearing a deeply disapproving grimace.

"You two," he announced, jabbing a finger at each of them, "are going to have to explain yourselves."

"Christ, is no place safe from you, Potter?" Draco mumbled, as beside him, Hermione turned a deep shade of violet,
sitting up and yanking the duvet to her chin.

"Harry, I can explain," she offered, perilously approaching a variety of her personality that could only be called, in
Draco's opinion, peak swot. "First of all, he drugged me - "

"Oh come on," Draco groaned. "Not this again - "

"Do you expect me to forget?" she countered furiously, turning to admonish him. "And anyway, why the hell are we
in the same bed?"

"Do you see other beds, Granger?" he prompted, gesturing around the room. "What do you think this is, some kind
of full service hotel-spa where we can all just conjure beds willy-nilly - "

"You're a wizard, Malfoy," she retorted, becoming even swottier than he'd ever imagined physically possible. "I
absolutely think you possess the ability to conjure an inanimate object, seeing as that's quite literally a rudimentary
skill - "

"Oh," he scoffed, "so because you're a drug-riddled miscreant suddenly I'm expected to be the bearer of all things
magic, then?"

"I'm just saying - "

"Oh my god, my head," Harry said wearily, rubbing at his temples. "It hasn't pained me this much since Voldemort
was living in i- "

They were interrupted as Theo took a loud, slurping sip of his coffee, propping his feet up in the corner.

"Oh, sorry," he said, waving a hand as they glanced at him. "Carry on, would you?"

Hermione let out a huff, turning back to Harry. "As I was saying, I'm only here because - "

"I'm not talking about whatever this is," Harry cut in, waving a hand at the bed before picking up the copy of the
Daily Prophet that Draco had carelessly brushed aside. He handed it to Hermione, unfolding it for her to peruse. "I'm
talking about this."

She accepted the newspaper with a quizzical frown, her gaze momentarily swiping up the page before she promptly
released an audible gasp.

"Oh my god - "

"Always so dramatic," Draco sniffed, pointedly looking elsewhere, and she, very barbarically, grabbed hold of his
chin, yanking it towards the paper.

"Look at this!" she snapped. "Do you see this?"

"I can barely see at all, Granger," he growled, "considering I'm being so brutally manhandl-"

"Look," she repeated, and, unwillingly, he looked.

"Oh," he said dully, catching the photograph of what was very much the back of his head as he bent towards what
was very clearly eminent war hero Hermione Granger's face, the motion repeating itself on an unending loop. "Oh,
well. Fuck me, I guess."

"Fuck you is exactly what I was going to say," Harry agreed, crossing his arms. "What's this all about?"

"Well, first of all, my humblest apologies, Dad," Draco drawled, as Hermione smacked him in the abdomen.
"Fucking, ouch - "

"It's a mistake," Hermione said flatly, handing the paper back to Harry. "I'll write something up to explain that I was
simply losing my temper over the positively gruesome injustices of complex post-war bigotry, and that Malfoy was
trying to calm me - "

"Oh, sure, sure," Harry permitted neutrally, though he looked distinctly dubious. "And when they ask you why you
picked a very public fight over him, what will you say? That you're working together," he answered himself, in what
Draco considered a wildly imbalanced inner monologue. "And what will you say when they ask what you're
working on? Oh yes, that you're both event planners, which nobody will question, I'm sure," he ranted, beginning to
pace the floor, "and when they ask the name of the company, you will of course have to then explain that it is either
nameless or named 'Parties Parties Parties Part- '"

"Nope," Theo cut in, taking another loud sip. "Changed it."

"To what?" Harry demanded, turning to look at him. He shrugged.

"Granger-Malfoy Tree-Sitting Incorpor-"

"No," Draco said immediately, as Harry let a heavy sigh escape into the palm of his hand. "I don't need to say that,
right?" Draco prompted, glancing at Hermione. "This is a very obvious rejection."

"Yes, finally we agree," Hermione contributed stiffly. "That's a hard no."

"You two," Theo sighed, "are making me work much too hard. I'm pushed to the limits of my not-inconsiderable
creativity here, and frankly, I'm causing the Ministry all sorts of labor, what with all the re-filing I've had to have
done - "

"The point is," Harry barked, glaring at Theo before returning his attention to Hermione, "I don't want you getting
into the details of your work association. I submitted a statement to the Daily Prophet myself last night,
summarizing that you two have, in fact, started seeing each other - "

"WHAT?!"

" - and are currently serving as consultants for the Ministry. As a result, you will be publicly maintaining your
relationship for the duration of the Wizengamot case," Harry concluded, "whether you like it or not."

They stared at him, both equally dumbfounded.

"I like it," Theo commented. Harry gave him a withering glance.

"Harry, you can't be serious," Hermione eventually managed, wholly aghast. "I'm not - I could never - "

"Hermione, you know I love you, but I'm also currently your boss," Harry reminded her, his expression souring
slightly as she, not surprisingly, made a face. "The fact is," he pressed, with his usual unbearability, "the two of you
will likely be seen together quite often in the near future, and if the media thinks the explanation is something as
mundane as a relationship, there'll be no need for them to delve any further."

"Fuck," Draco muttered under his breath, acknowledging Harry's point, and Hermione glanced at him. "What? It
makes sense - "

"It does not make sense," she countered, needlessly gruff. "In what world would I ever be interested in you,
Malfoy?"

"The same world, rich in macabre fantasy, in which I am interested in you, Granger," he reminded her. "There's no
need to hoard the horror," he added. "I, too, am ferociously appalled - "

"You can both behave however you like in private," Harry reminded them, brushing aside Draco's commentary.
"Just - try to be a little more discreet, you know, and don't fight with waiters," he suggested, "or get yourself
photographed canoodling in public - "

"Firstly, and this is extremely important," Draco interrupted, "never say 'canoodling' again. Secondly," he continued,
as Harry rolled his eyes, "how long is this supposed to go on?"

"However long you're working together," Harry said, shrugging. "I'm not saying you need to actively spend time
together," he added quickly, "but it's at least an easy explanation for why you're around each other, don't you think?"

"Well, what if I want to date someone else?" Hermione prompted, at which point Harry, Draco, and Theo all turned
their heads, glancing skeptically at her. "What?" she demanded, glaring back at them with her arms crossed
stubbornly over her chest. "I'm an adult. I have needs, and - "

"Ah, I nearly forgot about Rhys Hawkworth," Draco recalled, delighting in her furious scowl. "This is why drugs are
bad, ladies and gents," he lamented. "Short-term memory loss - "

"I wasn't talking about him!" Hermione insisted, though she was now resolutely flushed, and almost certainly lying.
"I just meant, you know, in general - "

"Well, in general, you can do whatever you want with whoever you want," Harry reminded her. "Just, uh - " he
faltered uncomfortably. "Don't do it anywhere anyone can see."

Theo let out a conspicuously oddly-timed cough, which everyone but Draco seemed not to notice.

"I thought you said you told the Daily Prophet that Malfoy and I just started dating," Hermione told Harry, looking
ruffled. "Why shouldn't I be able to go places with other men?"

Harry shifted. "Uh - "

"The goddamn patriarchy, that's why," Theo supplied, and Draco sighed loudly.

"Granger, how hard is it to keep it in your pants for a couple of weeks?" he admonished her, as she made a vicious
face of opposition. "Once that insane American gets us access to the potions, I doubt it will take very long to figure
out - "

"Might be faster if you actually go to New York," Harry contributed thoughtfully, and Draco, inspired, snapped his
fingers, acknowledging the unusual salience of the point.

"Perfect," he confirmed crisply. "I, your handsome and indulgent boyfriend - "

"I hate this already," Hermione grumbled.

" - will take you on a wildly romantic trip to America, wherein we can visit MACUSA - "

"Such romance," Theo remarked. "Staggering romance - "

"Actually, this isn't a bad idea," Harry interrupted thoughtfully, which seemed to upset Hermione further. "If you
keep the public distracted by your relationship, then there's no reason for them to question what you're up to, so - "

"Okay, now this is just getting ridiculous," Hermione cut in impatiently. "You've already escalated this from casual
dating to - to - " she faltered, sputtering. "Transatlantic gallivanting, and it's only been ten minutes!"

"I look forward to the wedding next week," Theo commented gravely, as Draco finally threw the covers off,
stretching to his feet.

"Well," he announced, "I suppose we can leave immediat- "

"Assuming everything's squared away with Percy," Harry reminded him, arching a brow. "You are still an event
planner, remember?"

Draco groaned, having entirely forgotten.

"My goodness, what a glorious false life I have," he muttered, kicking aimlessly at the bedpost. "Planning stuffy,
tasteless Ministry events and shagging Granger, what a bloody dream - "

"Who says we're sleeping together?" Hermione demanded, scrambling to her feet and settling her hands firmly on
her hips. "After all, aren't you the ones who suggested I pretend at some idiotic level of chastity?" she accused,
jabbing a finger at all three men in the room.

"What's it like being so painfully literal?" Draco asked her. "Tell me, do you find leaping wildly from one
unreasonable end of the spectrum to the next to be A) relaxing, B) enjoyable, C) a fucking pain in my arse - "

"Don't answer that," Harry suggested weakly, and Hermione glared at him.

"How did you even sell this?" she prompted, gesturing unflatteringly to Draco. "Everyone knows we hate each
other, and there's no way anyone's going to believe it - "

"Not true," Theo contributed, and Hermione turned, pursing her lips expectantly. "Dionisia believed it, didn't she?"

"She doesn't count," Hermione said, exasperated. "She barely even kn- "

"Dionisia?" Harry echoed. "Surely you don't mean Dionisia Trelawney," he prompted, "as in the money-laundering
madam in Knockturn Alley?"
"No," Draco lied smoothly. "Someone else, of course."

Harry scowled. "You realize we've been watching her for the last year, right?"

"Haven't gotten anything, though, have you?" Draco prompted. "I'm beginning to think maybe you're not very good
at your job, Potter."

Harry sighed. "The fact is, people believe what they see, Hermione," he said, pointedly glossing over Draco's
commentary and addressing her directly. "They're going to see your picture on the cover of the Prophet and believe
whatever they're told."

"But what they're seeing is an illusion," Hermione muttered stubbornly. "This is just a bad angle, it's not actually the
truth - "

"Well, the truth is a scarce commodity," Harry returned, and Theo leaned back, impressed.

"Potter," he remarked. "Have you put that on a t-shirt?"

"In other news," Harry continued, shaking his head, "people are going to start recognizing you now, Hermione, so
you'll have to be more careful. You look different," he clarified, "so it's been quiet until now, but now they know you
look different, so - "

"How's Monday work for you, Granger?" Draco interrupted, stifling a yawn. "We can spend a couple of days in
New York, get a little more detail from Carnegie, maybe catch a killer, maybe come back and tell the press we're
having twins, you know. Accounting for spontaneity, obviously. We could go to the Met - "

"Shut up," Hermione muttered, rubbing her temple. "You're hurting my head."

"Monday sounds good," Harry agreed, and Hermione glared at him. "But you're still working with Percy, Malfoy, so
make sure Parkinson's on board before you go."

"Yes, yes, fine," Draco said, carelessly waving a hand. "Wonderful. Magnificent."

"Thank you for the invitation," Theo announced loudly, rising to his feet, "but I'm afraid I'll have to decline. Best
wishes to all - "

"You weren't invited, Nott," Harry told him, as they both turned towards the door. "Do you even hear the things
people say to you?"

"What's that?" Theo asked, pulling the door open and dancing through it as Harry rolled his eyes, sparing a last
glance at Hermione.

"Hey," he said, with what Draco considered his own peak earnestness. "Hermione, I know this isn't what you
wanted, but - "

"I know, I know," she muttered, sinking into the chair Theo had been in before pulling on her shoes. "It's necessary."
She sighed, grimacing. "I don't blame you, Harry."

"Oh good," he said, and grinned, clearly relieved. "Bye, Malfoy," he added. "Sorry about being late last night, by the
way."

"Do I get an explanation?" Draco drawled, arching a brow.

Harry paused, considering it.

"Nope," he said, and disapparated, leaving Hermione and Draco alone in the room.

Draco glanced at her, considering the night before. He obviously remembered everything; he assumed she did, too.
Not that it made things much easier in practice. The morning's interaction clearly proved otherwise, and he supposed
he shouldn't be surprised. So they'd swapped a few secrets; so what? It wasn't the first time he'd tried being honest
with someone, and it wasn't like it was a flawless system. She still didn't look thrilled. He certainly didn't feel
thrilled.

It was a shortage of thrills all around.

"Well," Hermione said, rising to her feet. "That was - "

"Don't bother," Draco said, shaking his head. "I'll see you on Monday. I presume you can apparate home?"

For a moment, her face fell, and he wondered if he'd miscalculated.

"If you want to call my room at the Leaky home, sure," she muttered, and then, louder, "and if the question you're
meaning to ask is do I know how to wave my wand and travel magically through the air, then yeah, Malfoy," she
finished sarcastically, "I think I've got it covered."

Ah, so nothing had changed, clearly.

He supposed he was relieved, in an odd way.

"Later, then," he said, and strode out the door, heading downstairs without waiting for a response.

Daphne Greengrass was not nearly as fragile as she looked.

Yes, she understood that she had a certain aura of breakability about her, and yes, she knew she had the sort of nails
and skin and hair of a person who had never really had to do much in her entire life, and sure, maybe all those things
made it natural to suspect there wasn't much going on behind her pretty face. She understood all those things, and
figured it was an easy mistake to make, really - even for someone who knew better, like her best friend.

"I can't do it," Pansy shrieked, slamming her palms down on the desk. "This is - this is a mess, there's no possible
way that a party for a bunch of old, bumbling warlocks is supposed to require THIS MUCH OF MY SANITY - "

"Pans," Daphne sighed, patting the top of her head as she launched it into a pile of vendor permits. "Really. This isn't
so bad."

"ISN'T SO BAD - "

"No, it isn't, see?" Daphne said, slipping one of the forms from under Pansy's elbow and waving it in her face. "Once
you file this one, you'll just have to - "

She was drowned out by a loud, incomprehensible wail from Pansy.

"Look," Daphne sighed, stroking Pansy's dark hair. "I can take care of these at the Ministry this morning, okay? Let
me handle it."

Pansy muttered something into the desk.

"What?" Daphne asked, leaning towards her.

"You can't," Pansy sniffed, lifting her head. "You have that appointment this afternoon, remember?"

"Yes, well, that's this afternoon, isn't it?" Daphne said, keeping her voice to soothing, melodic tones. "I should think
I'll be able to manage stopping by the clerk's office this morning, can't I?"

Pansy grimaced. "Your mum's going to have a fit," she said, and Daphne sighed.

"I'll deal with her," she said, though she was certainly less than pleased at the thought.
Her mother had presented quite a problem since becoming deeply concerned with Daphne's social status at the end
of the war, an effect that had taken place almost overnight. The worst of it was the irony, really, considering that
Daphne herself was faring quite better than the others. Draco's position was the worst, being what he was, and what
he'd been marked with; Theo not much better, considering his parentage and the carnage at his father's hands; Pansy
had infamously offered up the precious Boy Who Lived for slaughter, so she wasn't exactly a popular party guest;
and Blaise, while not directly responsible for much, had been a little too vocal on his feelings about blood purity in
the past.

Daphne, on the other hand, had said very little, and though remaining impassive while others had suffered meant she
was not entirely without blood on her hands, it also meant that she was still a passable option as far as the stiffer lips
of pureblood society went.

The matchmaking appointments her mother arranged had begun shortly after the war and hadn't resolved much since
then. The process of shopping Daphne around for marriage was an archaic one and therefore slow, and not aided by
the fact that Daphne was often at Nott Manor, helping her friends (unofficially, of course, or else her mother would
certainly have had a thing or two to shout hysterically) with their work before returning to sit demurely with her
mother and sister, smiling when appropriate and, as usual, saying nothing much at all.

Daphne Greengrass was a pureblooded darling; that much was undeniable. But while she played the part flawlessly,
she liked to think there had always been a bit more swimming beneath the surface.

"I'm taking care of this," she told Draco, brandishing the series of Ministry forms and slipping out of the office as
Pansy remained sprawled out on the floor, babbling to herself about centerpieces. "She needs a bit of a mental health
break, so I'll take care of the mundanity."

Draco nodded loftily, grateful in his own way. "You're a fucking saint, Greengrass," he acknowledged wearily,
scrubbing briefly at his cheeks. Daphne paused, eyeing him.

"You okay?" she asked, taking in the look of misery on his face. He always looked a bit strained, but this, she
thought, eyeing the slump in his shoulders, was unusual.

Not unpredictably, he rolled his eyes. "Fine."

She lifted a brow.

"Draco," she warned. "You're cute, but you're trouble."

"I think you mean troubled, but devastatingly handsome," he told her. "Personally, I think I sell it as an overall
aesthetic - "

"Unfortunately," she interrupted, glancing down at her watch, "I don't have time to prevent everyone in this house
from having a complete psychotic break, but if I know you, Draco Malfoy - and I do," she clarified quickly,
delivering him to silence as he opened his mouth. "Then I'd say you should just apologize."

His face transitioned with unprecedented speed from alarm to indignation to displeasure.

"For what?" he demanded, and she shrugged.

"I'm sure whoever you were a dickhead to will be happy to hear it," she told him, reaching up to kiss his cheek. "I'm
off to the Ministry," she called as she walked away, turning over her shoulder, "so check on Pansy, would you?
Make sure her brain doesn't liquify."

Draco made a face but nodded his distracted agreement, and Daphne, in return, nodded her approval, heading
through Nott Manor's Floo and arriving, with a pause to dust off her robes, in the Ministry lobby.

She turned a few heads as she went, but that was normal; she knew the stares Pansy and Draco got were of another
variety altogether, so she generally lived her life without acknowledgement of the gazes she attracted. For the most
part, Daphne counted herself lucky for the way her life had turned out. Sure, her mother's paranoia about her ending
up penniless and alone had reached a point of unstable mania, but it wasn't so hard to go to the meet-and-greets and
whisper - intimately, and alarmingly sweetly - how she had no interest in marriage no matter what her mother said,
or how much her father offered, and would you please take your hand off her waist, as she didn't recall asking you to
put it there?

It was all very tiresome, and frankly, she was pretty sure the bit of a leg-stretch over to the Ministry was bound to do
her some good.

"Level Six," she heard the lift say, "Department of Magical Administration, incorporating the Floo Network
Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, Apparition Test Centre, and Ministry Clerk's Office."

"Excuse me," she said, slipping through the crowd of people on the lift and emerging onto the sixth floor, looking
around for administrative services. She headed for the queue, falling in behind a sleepy-looking witch in a large
straw hat and a goblin who repeatedly seemed to puncture himself on the hat's sharp protrusions.

"Been waiting long?" Daphne asked the goblin, checking the time on the Ministry clock. He made a face that could
have meant either yes, or no, or possibly 'do not speak,' and she nodded, shifting to quietly eye the outline of her
shoes against the Ministry's marble floors.

The service window, she noticed, was shut, but after a moment's clatter it flew open, revealing a rather handsome
man in the frame. He was somewhat older, perhaps in his late twenties, and he wore his dark hair swept off to the
side, parted against a clean line. It was so polished it was nearly old-fashioned, but it suited him; he had a regal sort
of nose, and a smoothly carved jaw, and it struck Daphne with a whimsical brand of inspiration that he seemed to
have come to life from one of the portraits in the Hogwarts halls.

"Hello," the man said, smoothing a hand through his hair. He looked slightly breathless, his cheeks flushed. "May I
help you?"

The hatted witch stepped forward, advancing, and Daphne's mind wandered again to what she'd inevitably be doing
that afternoon. Marcus Flint was to be the prize this evening, her mother had said, which Daphne supposed wouldn't
be so bad. He'd been an athlete, after all, so perhaps he was still fit, though she hadn't heard much about him since
he stopped playing professionally. She was surprised he was even still in the running, frankly, considering he'd had
quite a reputation for getting in fights, but she supposed if it would make her mother happy, then -

"Next?" she heard, and looked up, realizing that somehow both the witch and the goblin had already been served,
and that she was now the only remaining patron in the queue. She looked around, startled, and the man at the
window drummed his fingers against the counter, clearing his throat.

"Ehem," he remarked pointedly, and she stepped forward.

"Sorry," she offered, sliding the paperwork over to him. "Just need to file this for the Wizengamot Ministry Address
next month, and this - "

"Are you Pansy Parkinson?" the man interrupted, frowning, and Daphne blinked, puzzled.

"No," she said slowly, and then remembered that Pansy had probably filled out her name on the form. "No, sorry,
I'm just submitting these on Pansy's behalf," she supplied quickly. "Is that okay?"

"Depends," the man said drily, sorting through the papers with a somewhat breezy carelessness. "I mean, I suppose
if you've brought some kind of identification - "

There was a low moaning sound from somewhere on the other side of the service window, and Daphne frowned.
"What was that?"

The man's mouth tightened. "Nothing," he said, though she distinctly heard the sound of an 'oomph' from his side of
the counter as he shifted brusquely, clearing his throat. "What were you saying?"

"You were talking," she reminded him. "Something about identification?"

"Right, right," he agreed, swatting at something near the ground. "Sorry," he said, kicking something out of the way.
She leaned forward, frowning, but he promptly gathered the papers in his hands, blocking her view and waving his
wand, adding the Ministry seal to the forms.

"Let's say I give you a pass this time," he suggested, and then shifted his wand in her direction; but Daphne was
quicker, leaning her elbow onto the ledge of the window frame and aiming the tip of her own wand at his chest.

"Careful," she warned, and he raised his hands slowly, his wand delicately balanced between two fingers. "Listen,"
she told him gruffly, "I don't really care what you're up to, but you're clearly not a Ministry clerk and I really need
these papers filed properly, so I'll forget what I saw if you make sure these get to the right place. Got it?" she asked,
leaning forward to twist her wand deeper into his sternum. "Don't fuck with me," she warned.

He passed his tongue over his lips, somewhere between unwillingly impressed and faintly amused.

"Who are you?" he asked, not unfairly.

"Daphne Greengrass," she said, "and you're going to do the right thing here, aren't you?"

He smiled.

"The clerk who usually works here is currently unavailable," he told her, with a surprisingly pleasant tone of
neutrality. "But I will be certain that he files these as you requested, or I will personally take care of it myself."

"Take care of what?" she asked. "The forms, or him?"

His smile faltered, briefly, and then broadened.

"Miss Greengrass," he said. "You're no ordinary witch, are you?"

She withdrew her wand, stepping back.

"That's about all I have time for," she informed him. "I'll be expecting confirmation of the files by owl tomorrow
morning, and no later. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," he assured her, and she nodded stiffly, walking out of the room with a smile she buried covertly into the
lines of her hand, dragging it down from her mouth.

She'd learned long ago to live and let live. Was it selfish not to say something? Perhaps. But she'd always been a
beautiful girl who'd said nothing, and she'd learned from experience to conveniently forget what she'd seen.

Daphne took the Floo to Diagon Alley, dismissing the incident and deciding to do a little shopping before her
meeting this afternoon. If there was one thing that her mother approved with regard to her behavior, it was the
purchasing of new dresses, so she figured she might as well. Call it procrastination, or retail therapy, but she found it
a soothing endeavor, and in any case -

"You know, it's interesting," she heard from her left, and stopped, recognizing the voice of the man from the clerk's
office. "You're not actually listed as one of the employees of - oh, what's it called - " he paused, accommodating the
sound of rustling parchment, and cleared his throat. "Deathstar Enterprises," he read, and chuckled. "Not a very
good name, is it?"

Daphne blinked. She considered the bustling Diagon atmosphere and then, determining herself not in any particular
danger, she spun, catching his eye from where he leaned against the wall beside Florean Fortescue's.

"How did you - "

"Tracking spell," he supplied, stepping forward. "Thought you'd go somewhere more interesting," he commented,
gesturing to Twilfitt and Tatting's, where Melibea Warbeck's new couture line was gleamingly on display. "But I
guess I can't be too surprised. That is quite a facade to maintain," he acknowledged, giving her a swift, apprising
once-over. "I'm sure it requires a multitude of fancy wrappings."

She felt her cheeks flush.

"What do you want?" Daphne asked him, crossing her arms. "I don't work for Deathstar, as you obviously know."

"Yes, but you work with them, don't you?" he prompted. "And I highly doubt they do what they say they do."

Daphne reached into her robes as surreptitiously as she could, but his wand was already in his hand.

"Careful," he warned, his gaze flicking pointedly to where her wand was hidden. "I'm not here to harm you, but I'm
rather not in the mood to be cursed. You understand, I'm sure."

She felt the corners of her mouth twitch up.

"If you know what Draco and the others do, then you can take that up with them," she told him. "Blaise Zabini and
Theo Nott take care of the bookings. I'm just the face at the door."

"No way that's all you are," the man countered, shaking his head. "Impossible."

She tried not to be excessively pleased.

"I have other things on my plate," she replied airily. "Things I'm going to be late for, by the way," she added,
checking her watch, "so if you could just - "

"This isn't about the others," he cut in, comfortably falling in step beside her as she headed into Twilfitt and
Tattings, opening the door for her and waving her in. "I'm actually quite curious about you."

"Trade you, then," she said, heading directly to the handbag display and pretending to inspect one, running her hand
over the dragon-scale material. "Tell me why you were impersonating a clerk."

"I wasn't, really," he replied, as she tested the weight of a particularly ornate clutch. "I hadn't planned on actually
doing his job. In fact," he remarked, "I simply Imperiused the goblin and the witch to have them vacate the
premises."

She paused, setting the clutch down. "Why not me?" she prompted, turning to meet his eye.

He cleared his throat. "Distracted," he supplied, and she forced herself not to feel pleasure at the way he said it,
incandescent with something she might have called interest had she not been desperately opposed to giving in.

"So what did you want, then?" she pressed, walking over to a display of pixie-made pashminas, and he shook his
head, following.

"This is a trade, isn't it?" he prompted, shrugging. "So that means it's my turn."

She sighed, turning back to him. "Fine," she said, and checked her watch again. "But you only have two minutes."

He shook his head again. "Not nearly enough time. Dinner?" he suggested, leaning his elbow against the wall to face
her, brandishing a rather breathtaking self-assuredness. "Tonight."

"No," she said, and fought not to laugh at the inanity of the suggestion. "With you? Absolutely not."

"Okay," he replied, and turned, aiming himself at the shop's door and throwing it open without hesitation, returning
to Diagon's bustling crowds and immediately disappearing amidst the crowd.

Daphne watched him go, feeling a sudden lurch in her stomach, and realized her feet had moved without her brain's
approval, taking her through the door after him.

"Wait," she called, heading the direction he'd gone, and watched as he came to an abrupt halt. He paused, letting
people swarm on either side of him before turning to face her, mocking her playfully with a dastardly clever smirk.

"Yes?" he asked, as though he didn't know very well what he'd just done.

"Late dinner," she said crisply, and paused, thinking. "Quite late."

"Sweetheart, that's called dessert," he said, laughing, and she shook her head.

"Dinner," she repeated. "Somewhere public," she added quickly.

"Not very good with dating, are you?" he chuckled, and she shifted with discomfort, saying nothing. "I'm not going
to try to kill you," he assured her, and though that hadn't been her concern, she realized he was offering the
statement with a remarkable honesty - as though it had, at one point, been a possibility, but he had since decided
against it. "But sure, somewhere public, if you want."

"The Arsonist," she suggested, remembering the name of the new pub in Diagon that Draco had said was always
busy. "9 o'clock. Wear a jacket," she added, giving into an odd stirring of snobbery, if only to regain her footing.
"Got it?"

"You wear a jacket," he muttered reflexively, and she frowned. "Sorry," he said. "Force of habit."

"Last thing," she said, holding his gaze. His eyes were blue. Quite blue. "Your name?"

He smiled again.

"My friends call me Cad," he supplied obligingly. "Or at least, they would, I think, if I had any friends."

"Cad?" she echoed, skeptical. "Not a very flattering nickname, is it?"

"It's no Daphne Greengrass, but I get by," he assured her, and held up his wrist, gesturing to his watch. "My time's
up, isn't it?" he asked, tapping the face of it. "I'll see you tonight."

"Tonight," she agreed, and he held out a hand. She accepted his grip, slipping her palm against his, and he promptly
yanked her in, brushing his lips lightly against hers.

"Sorry," he murmured, and laughed, a laugh that settled into her mouth and tasted a bit like vanilla and spearmint.
"Couldn't resist."

He was trouble. She licked the taste of him from her lips.

"Wear a jacket," she reminded him dazedly, and he chuckled as he disappeared, vanishing with a crack. She stared at
the space he'd been, half-wondering if she'd imagined it, and then shook herself of the compulsion to overthink it,
determining she'd simply gather more information that evening.

She could hold her own, she knew, whatever trouble he was. If there were secrets to be uncovered, she would find
them; after all, she wasn't nearly as fragile as she looked.

Though, of course, that clearly didn't mean she was immune to being swept off her feet.

The Underground
Diagon Alley
9:00 p.m.

"Hey," Hermione exhaled, throwing her bag down beside Dean and Oliver before glancing around for Marcus.
"Where's Flint?"

"Oh, his mother's still trying to marry him off," Oliver said, tightening the wrapping around his knuckles. "You
know," he muttered, brusquely snapping the tape and sighing, reaching into his pocket for more. "Because he's such
a fucking catch and all."

"Careful, Wood, this level of devotion is doing nothing for your complexion," Dean said, grinning into his pint of
stout. "If you want to cry, I'm sure Granger's got a spare shoulder - "

"Oh, shut it," Hermione admonished him, rolling her eyes as Oliver gave him a transcendently sullen scowl. "You
know Flint isn't marrying whatever horrifying heiress it is this time, Wood," she told him, bending down to grab her
own tape, "just like he didn't last time, or the time before - "

"My word, at this rate, Flint's going to run himself right out of prospects," Dean commented, in his best imitation of
a scandalized housewife, and Hermione laughed, giving him a shove just as Seamus appeared on the stairs.

"Nope," he announced, the moment he saw Hermione. "Nuh-uh. Not you."

"What?" she asked, startled, and then let out a groan. "Is this about getting kicked out yesterday? Because Sea, I'm
sorry but I've got to tell you, your staff is just - "

"Not that," Seamus interrupted, and for the second time, she was forced to face someone wielding that morning's
copy of the Daily Prophet in her face. "This, Hermione."

"Oof," Dean said, reaching for it. "Hermione. You didn't."

"I definitely didn't," she agreed, avoiding direct eye contact with the picture of herself with Draco and turning back
to Seamus, shrugging in forced impassivity. "So?" she prompted, swatting listlessly at the paper. "Who cares about
this?"

"More than you'd think. Look around, Hermione," Seamus said, with a sweeping gesture around the room. She
glanced up, frowning, and realized that that the Underground was much emptier than it had ever been, with only a
scattered handful of people around the ring. "It was one thing when only the people down here knew who you were,"
Seamus continued regretfully, "since it's not like they were going to talk. But now that everyone knows you're in
London, and they know what you look like, and where you go - " he trailed off and shook his head, grimacing.
"Nobody's going to want to fight a war hero who works as a subcontractor for the Ministry, Hermione," he said,
grabbing the newspaper from Dean and shaking it pointedly before her, "no matter how good you are."

For a moment, she was too stunned to speak.

"Seamus," she managed, blinking. "That's - you can't - "

"I'm going to have to blacklist you," Seamus concluded, and didn't meet her eye. "I'm sorry, Hermione, but people
who come around here need their privacy, and you being here just isn't helpin- "

"But - but I moved back here for this!" she sputtered, shaking her head in disbelief. "You convinced me, Sea, and -
and you can't just - "

"Look, maybe we just need to give it some time," Seamus assured her, as beside him, Dean and Oliver
conspicuously said nothing. "But this is sort of a sensitive business, Hermione, and you've officially become a
liability to have around. There's cameras outside the front entrance," he said, gesturing above, "and if I get
photographers in here - if they start poking around and they come down here - " he grimaced. "Half these people are
bigwigs with vices," he ranted, "another third are illegally unlicensed creatures, probably a quarter of 'em have
warrants out, and if I can't guarantee secrecy to their liking - "

"But you can," Hermione protested urgently. "Or maybe I can use Polyjuice or something - "

"Against the rules," Seamus reminded her, shaking his head. "You know that."

"But Sea - "

"I'm sorry," he told her, and he really did look sorry. "For now, this is how it has to be."
Hermione opened her mouth, still wanting to argue, but at the look on his face - and Oliver and Dean's - she
withered, seeing the logic of Seamus' point, however much she hated it. In the moment, despite her more rational
side, she wanted more than anything to break something; to feel something shatter in her hands, just so that she
wouldn't have to be the one to suffer the crumbling.

"One more," she said, half-pleading. "Seamus, come on. I'm already here, just start the ban tomorrow - "

"There's nobody here for you to fight," Seamus reminded her, gesturing again. "And listen, I get it - I know this is
absolute bollocks, but - "

"I'll fight her," someone interrupted, and Hermione turned, catching sight of Rhys Hawkworth as he approached. "I
know I'll get my arse kicked again," he added, smiling wanly, "but to be honest, I probably deserve it."

"Rhys," Hermione acknowledged slowly, swallowing, as she watched the light flicker against the bare skin of his
torso. She cleared her throat, forcing herself to focus. "I was hoping for someone a little better," she managed,
remembering her irritation with him the evening prior. "Someone with a little more muscle to his convictions, maybe
-"

"Hit me," he offered, and gestured to his chest, which she resolutely avoided looking at directly. "Look, I owe you,"
he promised. "It was a dick move not to say something yesterday, and if you need a punching bag - "

He faltered, holding his hands up, and though Hermione wanted very much to lecture him thoroughly before she
actually made any physical damage, she figured she should take what she was offered.

"Someone a little bit more mobile would be preferred," she commented, and he gave her a hesitant smile, "but you'll
do. Sea?" she said, turning to him. "Am I permitted an encore?" she prompted, perhaps a little too gruffly.

He lifted a hand helplessly. "Go for it," he said, and she exhaled sharply in relief, finishing the wrapping at her
knuckles.

"Look," Rhys said, stepping closer. "I know I should have said something last night, but it's just - I already
disappoint my dad enough as it is, and I was just frozen, and - "

"Forget it," Hermione said, ripping the tape and shaking her head. "It's fine. It's not your job to fight my battles, so -
"

"It could be," he told her, and she looked up, surprised. "I - I'd want to, but - "

His gaze flicked to the Daily Prophet that Seamus had thrown onto the bar and Hermione shook her head, sighing.

"That's fake," she told him, throwing the tape back in her bag. "I'm not actually dating him, it was just - it was a
weird angle, and - "

"No explanation necessary," Rhys assured her, though he seemed noticeably relieved, heading out to the center of
the floor. "I mean, I'm glad, obviously," he clarified, placing himself across from her. "And, you know, maybe after
you break a few more of my ribs you might want to see what other parts of me you can ruin, eh?"

She let out something of a snort of a laugh.

"You're impossible," she said, settling into a starting stance, and he grinned. "You ready?" she asked, beckoning.
"Get a shot in," she taunted, "and maybe I'll let you buy me a drink."

"Ready," he agreed, raising his fists. "Though if I get a hit on you, I think I deserve a little more than a drink."

"Fine," she said, and jabbed experimentally, nodding her approval as he blocked it. "Better with the shoulders," she
noted, impressed with his timely improvement, and rocked back, anticipating a return. "What's your counteroffer?"

He aimed a sharp left uppercut, which she blocked. "A kiss," he said, and she smirked.
"Romance isn't totally dead, I guess," she mocked playfully, and his smile broadened.

"Oh, but I get to decide where I kiss you," he suggested, blocking her forearm to the rib and using it to throw her
back, momentarily foiling her impeccable balance. "Agreed?"

"Agreed," she said, using the return leverage to jab against his elbow, forcing him to use his weaker arm as he
swung without precision and granting her a shot to his jaw. He staggered back, dazed, and blinked at her.

"Fuck," he said, shaking his head. "I should have asked for more."

"Still got time," she offered genially, and swung again. This time he used her momentum to counter with a shot to
her face, which she only narrowly dodged. "You took my advice," she noted, dancing away. "Your speed's
improving."

"I listen," he told her. "I take instruction well. In all venues," he added, winking, and she lured him forward only to
force him back, slamming him against the wooden edge of the ring and stepping back as he let out a low hiss of
pain.

"You know," she commented, "most men brag about their existing sexual prowess, not their learning capacity."

"Oh, I know things," he assured her, coughing, as he struggled to catch his breath. "But whatever you like," he
rasped, launching back to his feet, "I can do that. Whatever you want me to be," he added, spitting once off to the
side, "I can be that, Hermione."

She paused, blinking, and raised her hands again.

"You're getting ahead of yourself," she warned, gesturing for him to strike again. "Still have to get a hit in, don't
you?"

He managed an exhausted smile.

Rhys aimed near her jaw and Hermione ducked the shot, taking hold of his arm. She used the entirety of her weight
to drag his shoulder towards her and took advantage of the motion's momentum to drive her fist against his cheek,
just missing his ear. He staggered forward, hunched over, and as she looked up to wait for his next move, she saw
something.

A gleaming head of pale blond hair.

She blinked twice, rapidly.

Across the room, Draco smirked.

Not bad, he mouthed as their eyes locked, and she stared at him, confused. She wanted to know how he'd gotten
there, how he'd gotten in, how he'd had the nerve - but just as she processed her anger, she remembered too late that
she'd been in the middle of something, and when Rhys countered with a right hook to her jaw, the impact - coming
from a man who was nearly double her weight, she lamented internally, if not more - promptly sent her flying back.

The moment Hermione felt herself smack against the wood of the ring - and in the breath following, as the world
danced blurrily before her eyes - she wanted to shake her head; wanted to stumble to her feet and launch into the
crowd, throwing herself right at his spectacularly punchable face.

But she couldn't, of course.

Fucking Draco Malfoy, she thought, just as everything went black.

a/n: for DrSallySparrow, whose belated birthday gift is sadly still underway, and aurorarsinistra, because … same.
As for last chapter, belated (sense a theme?) chapter 5 dedications for 65farmergirl, WitchWing107, and
usherrthaaa. Thank you for reading!
 7. Premature Exacerbation

Chapter 7: Premature Exacerbation

Marcus Flint was a competitive son of a bitch, thank you very much, and while he knew on some level that most
people disapproved of his particular brand of unapologetic aggression, in his experience, it had generally served him
well. Sure, it meant he was sort of an intense person in general, and yes, it meant that he had some problems with
authority, and okay, so he'd been called a 'liability' a few too many times for someone who suspiciously resembled a
functioning adult, but it was a facet of his personality that was, quite frankly, wholly inescapable. He was a winner -
a champion - because of it, even when he didn't always come out on top.

Which, to be fair, he often didn't when it came to Oliver Wood.

"I fucking hate you," the then-Puddlemere Keeper had said through gritted teeth, right before he'd punched Marcus
in the mouth after a particularly unpleasant match early in their careers. About midway through the game, Marcus
had taken a bat from one of the beaters and thrown it directly into Oliver's face, costing him a tooth and
spectacularly bruising his mouth until the medics had come to fix it. By then, of course, Oliver was so thoroughly
distracted he let in not one quaffle but twenty, and Marcus' Falmouth Falcons had won handily.

Marcus had waited for him in the locker room after.

Gloated, like always.

And then, considering everything, Marcus had taken the subsequent blow to the face with a certain devastating
refinement, and when his tongue had slipped out from his teeth, licking the blood from his lips, he'd caught Oliver
staring.

"You don't hate me, Wood," Marcus had realized with a laugh, backing the stockier man against his locker. "You
just want to fuck me."

Things only escalated after Oliver Wood fractured Marcus' jaw that day.

The details of how they each got removed from playing professional quidditch is, of course, of no importance; the
significance being merely that both men had gradually gotten to a point of such stupendous frustration that violence,
after a while, seemed the only thing to cure it. The fighting was a natural segue, and by the time they'd both found
themselves in the underground bare-knuckle boxing scene, perhaps they should have known that Marcus would
goad Oliver (again), that Oliver would strike (again), and that eventually, perhaps to neither man's great surprise, it
would end in one of their beds, until after a while the violence and the sex were one and the same.

Needless to say, this was not something Marcus was free to tell his mother.

Adriana Flint had not been pleased with Marcus' choice to play professional quidditch after leaving Hogwarts. The
eldest of a Sacred Twenty-Eight line, Marcus shouldered quite a bit of responsibility in eventually being wed to
some well-positioned heiress, and though being a professional athlete had never been cause for a shortage of women
of any sort (however unwanted their affections were), it was rather unacceptable for pureblood society. Of course,
with the war and everything else there had been a number of distractions, and Marcus being as headstrong as he was,
it had been unlikely for a long while that Adriana would make any headway in her matrimonial pursuits; once her
son had been blacklisted from the sport, however, she threw all of her efforts into marrying him off.

Dinner that evening (the thousandth of such dinners, he estimated) with Daphne Greengrass had not been nearly the
thunderous failure Marcus anticipated. Certainly, he had no interest in her, and she seemed thoroughly uninterested
in him, but she was at least clever and sort of quietly funny, and all things considered, he might have done worse. To
his surprise, Marcus found her the first promising bride his mother had ever suggested.

Which is why he was distinctly displeased when Daphne gave the obvious excuse that she was feeling ill, begging
his pardon and slipping out through the Floo as though he weren't going to find her behavior exceptionally odd.
When Marcus happened to see her later that evening - at the Arsonist, no less, which Marcus was beginning to feel
was a vortex for absurdly ill-timed meetings - he found himself strangely burdened by the sight of her, rather dolled
up and sitting across from a man with a particularly beguiling head of dark hair.

"Well," Marcus said, making a beeline straight for her and shoving into the seat beside her at her table, reaching
over to take a bite of her food. "Miss Greengrass," he declared, chewing aggressively, "I see my company
thoroughly disappointed you, then." He picked the napkin up from her lap, dabbing pointedly at his mouth. "What a
merciless pity."

"I'm sorry," her companion commented, arching a brow. "You are?"

Daphne at least had the decency to blush.

"Marcus Flint," she explained, gesturing to him, "meet Cad. He's just a friend," she assured Marcus, though he was a
man who knew quite well what was 'friendly' and what was not, and he'd have willingly placed his testicles on the
line had he been asked whether she was lying.

"A dying friend," Daphne added on a whim, catching his skepticism, and Marcus rolled his eyes.

"Cad, is it?" he asked, turning to the man across the table. He was extraordinarily good-looking, though Marcus
forced himself not to be overly impressed. "What sort of name is that?"

Cad, as it were, didn't answer right away. Instead he pressed his lips together, weighing a response, and then looked
up, scrutinizing Marcus.

"Marcus, you said?" Cad replied neutrally after a moment, irritatingly changing the subject. "Derived from the name
of the Roman god Mars. The god of war," he noted, taking a sip of his beer. "Tell me," he mused, glancing up at
Daphne with half a smirk before turning back to Marcus. "Do you find yourself prone to battles you cannot win,
Marcus?"

Marcus pursed his lips, thoroughly displeased. "Cad," he suggested musically. "Derived from a term used to
describe a bollocky wank shite, isn't it?"

Daphne sighed. "Flint - "

"You realize, of course, I'll have to tell my mother that my courting you is now quite impossible," Marcus
interrupted, turning to her. As expected, she grimaced, and he knew in an instant he'd been quite correct in pinning
her as a kindred spirit of sorts, at least with regard to having an overbearing pureblood for a mother. "Though, I
could be convinced to keep it to myself. If," he ventured emphatically, "you're willing to do something for me, that
is."

Daphne glanced up, eyeing Cad, and then picked up her glass of wine, weighing his offer.

"Go on," she invited, warily.

"Allow me to court you. Perhaps even wed you," Marcus suggested, and Daphne promptly choked on her swallow
of wine, half-spitting it back in her glass. "Do whatever you want on the side, and let me do whatever I want. A
betrothal of convenience," he offered. "It'll get both our mothers off our backs."

"Exactly what illicit behavior are you trying to hide?" Cad asked Marcus, as Daphne continued to cough
incoherently into her napkin. "The lady is, of course, merely comforting a dying friend," he added, with all the
artistry of a practiced schemer. "Hardly seems she requires any pretense."

"What exactly are you supposed to be dying of?" Marcus asked drily.

Cad glanced at Daphne. "Infatuation?" he asked, and she managed a weak smile.

"Well," she ventured. "You're not particularly moneyed or well-born, are you?"
"Not at all," Cad assured her, and glanced at Marcus. "So let's go with dysentery, then."

"He's clearly not a suitable match," Marcus sniffed, ignoring him and rounding on Daphne. "No reputable surname,
obviously, or he'd have used it already. Not Hogwarts educated, either, or I'd remember him - "

"Perhaps I finished before your time," Cad suggested. "Or are simple conclusions not your style?"

"You're goading me," Marcus noted with a scowl, "but I will punch you in the face."

"Mars indeed," Cad murmured into his glass, shaking his head.

"Look," Daphne sighed, "fine, Flint. If you want to carry on a charade, then by all means. Not for you," she added
quickly, admonishing Cad with a warning finger before he could open his mouth. "But because I'm already quite
positive that I won't want whoever my mother chooses for me," she said with a scowl, "and freedom, however
covert, sounds fucking idyllic."

"That was my thought," Marcus agreed, nodding, and Cad frowned.

"Such an archaic tradition, the pureblood betrothals," Cad commented. "Can you not simply refuse? Or you, O God
of War," he taunted, turning to Marcus. "Can you not simply put your muscled foot down? Insist upon your
dominion? Smite your enemies? Et cetera," he chuckled, "et cetera, et cetera - "

"Clearly your mother is dead," Marcus remarked, and Daphne made a face, nodding her agreement.

"Oh yes, quite dead," Cad confirmed, shrugging. "My father, too. My brothers are next," he added, with an
unsettling laugh. "Joking," he offered, as Daphne and Marcus exchanged a skeptical glance. "I assure you, I can't kill
them."

"Can't?" Marcus echoed dubiously, as Daphne let out a sigh.

"So what's your story, then?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and turning her attention to Marcus. "What
sort of man willingly lets himself be - " she paused, making a face. "Cuckolded?"

"The sort fucking other men," Marcus supplied easily, "and who spends his free time participating in underground
boxing tournaments."

"Oh," Daphne remarked, with a discouraged sort of surprise, but Cad, on the other hand, seemed to brighten.

"Ah," Cad murmured, glancing over his shoulder and eyeing the stairs to the Underground. "I'd wondered if this was
that sort of place."

"Don't tell me you're involved in these fighting rings too," Daphne exclaimed, frowning. "Just as I was starting to
think you're palatable - "

"Sweetheart," Cad cut in, leaning towards her with an air of lofty disagreement, "I assure you, survival is an art of its
own." He gave a small chuckle, shaking his head. "I hardly need dabble in recreation."

"That's not nearly as comforting as you think it is," Marcus cut in, and frowned. "Are you sure you don't want me to
get rid of the cad for you?" he asked Daphne, jutting a chin across the table. "Pun intended."

She, for whatever reason, smirked.

"I appreciate the thought," Daphne permitted, patting Marcus' shoulder, "but I think I've got it covered. He's either a
compulsive liar or a compulsive truth-teller," she added, arching a brow at Cad, "but either way, I can handle him."

"She handles me quite expertly," Cad agreed, indiscreetly watching Daphne's mouth as she gave him a small, sly
smile. "And nobody's asked for my opinion, but I, too, agree with your proposition. I find secrecy gives everything a
bit of a thrill," he added, glancing at Marcus. "Don't you?"
"I get my thrills from fighting," Marcus warned. "It's a useful skill, I find."

"How in keeping, Marcus," Cad said, toasting him. "But while I heartily congratulate you both on your recent
engagement, I'd like to be alone with your future wife now, if you don't mind," he murmured, watching the subtle
flush that crept into Daphne's cheeks. "I was in the middle of detailing the circumstances of a robbery when you
arrived, but seeing as it's getting late, I'm going to have to skip straight to flattery if I want to end this night the way
I'd like to."

"Did you say a robbery?" Marcus asked, alarmed, but Daphne shook her head.

"It's nothing," she assured him. "Have your mother tell mine that you wish to make an offer, and I will accept it. A
slow courtship," she added, her attention still fixed on Cad. "No need to rush."

Marcus, a man accustomed to his victories, permitted a nod, rather pleased with how easy the bargain had been to
strike; even if the Cad in question was, aptly, a bit of one.

"I'll be downstairs if you need anything," he told Daphne, but he could see he'd already lost her to the other man's
attention, his fingers toying with hers across the table. "Bye," Marcus declared unceremoniously, and then he turned,
heading towards the staircase to the Underground.

"Sorry," someone muttered, jostling him as they made their way up the stairs. Marcus frowned, catching a head of
pale blond hair, but busied his attention elsewhere, arriving to a nearly emptied Underground and permitting his
frown to deepen at the sight of Hermione Granger on the ground.

"What happened?" Marcus demanded, heading for her as Oliver stopped him.

"Got distracted," Oliver muttered. "Let the Welshman knock her out cold."

"That doesn't sound like her," Marcus said gruffly, turning over his shoulder. "And was that Draco Malfoy I just saw
leaving?"

"I advised him to step out," Seamus supplied, throwing a towel over his shoulder and shaking his head. "I can't
imagine she'll want to see him when she comes to."

"What, Malfoy is responsible for this?" Marcus echoed in dismay, frowning as the Welshman bent to dab some salve
onto Hermione's jaw, attending to her already-discolored bruising. "What is he - "

But it seemed Oliver was not going to wait for his curiosities to be satisfied.

"How was it?" Oliver hissed loudly, yanking Marcus into a corner and cutting him off nearly as soon as he opened
his mouth. "You're late."

At Oliver's obvious discomfort, Marcus had to fight a smile.

"Oh, I'm going to marry her," Marcus offered, shrugging, as he graciously allowed Oliver to bully him back against
the wall. "I have to say, I found the whole thing rather promising."

He watched as Oliver's mouth twisted with anger, his lips pressed white, and privately looked forward to the
evening's entertainment.

"Good," Oliver snapped, releasing Marcus with a growl. "I've gotten tired of bashing in your smug face, anyway.
Always fucking comes back," he muttered, turning to leave.

Marcus caught Oliver's arm, pulling him into his chest.

"Always fucking will," he promised, and Oliver stiffened, momentarily, and then gradually relaxed, leaning into
Marcus' grip.
"How about this, Wood?" Marcus suggested, his free hand dropping to covet the jut of Oliver's hip. "Let's go a
round in here, and then - " he leaned forward, laughing in his ear, "a round at your place. I want you begging for it,"
he added, delighting in Oliver's full-bodied shudder. "I want you begging, Wood - "

"Two rounds," Oliver countered, not pushing away. "Unless I break your filthy mouth before we get there."

"Done," Marcus agreed, more pleased than ever with his arrangement. He glanced around surreptitiously and then
snatched a kiss from Oliver, dragging his tongue across his lip. He bit down hard, ruthless, before throwing his head
back, accommodating the victorious laugh that crept up and burst forth from his throat, unencumbered and
unapologetic.

Marcus Flint was a competitive son of a bitch, and fuck, did he have a taste for winning.

Three hours earlier

12 Grimmauld Place
6:30 p.m.

"Potter," Draco announced crisply, stepping through the Floo. "I need to talk to you ab-"

He stopped, caught off guard by a woman who was sitting on the living room couch with her legs crossed, eyeing
him through ridiculously oversized spectacles.

"Hello," she remarked blithely, rising to her feet and delicately removing her glasses to place one of its arms
between her teeth, tilting her head to consider him. "You're Draco Malfoy," she noted, with a factual sort of tone,
and he shrugged.

"I am," he confirmed. "And you are?"

"Well, I'm - "

"Who did you say was here?" Ron Weasley suddenly squawked, his blindingly ginger head materializing from the
hallway. "What the - "

"Oh," Draco remarked dully, catching sight of the other man with displeasure. "You're here."

Ron scowled.

"Yes, I'm bloody here," he retorted, stomping into the room. "What are you doing here?" Draco opened his mouth to
answer, but Ron promptly interrupted. "You've got some fucking nerve, Malfoy, just waltzing into our living room,
blathering on like some kind o- "

"Hello, welcome to our home," the woman interrupted, silencing Ron with a less than covert jab to the ribs before
regally extending a hand to Draco. "You're looking for Harry, you said?"

"Yes," Draco confirmed stiffly, eyeing her hand for a moment before accepting it. "You are?" he prompted again.

"Melibea Warbeck," she supplied. "Call me Mel."

"Do not call her Mel," Ron muttered through gritted teeth, "as that would imply friendship, and that is certainly not
within the realm of reali- "

"What's crawled up your arse, Weasley?" Draco interrupted, pursing his lips in distaste. "I understand, of course,
that you find my continuing superiority offensive, but - "

"Oh, sure, that's it," Ron snapped. "What a tasteful way to arrive at my home after making a public spectacle of the
fact that you're sleeping with my ex-fianceé, Malfoy," he half-shouted. "Honestly, how bloody thoughtful of you - "
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Draco growled, throwing his hands up. "Are you really that stupid, Weasley? I'm obviously
not - "

"Obviously not expecting to see you," Harry cut in loudly, flashing Draco a warning glance as he trotted swiftly into
the room. "Otherwise, I'm sure Malfoy would have come with - "

"With what? Flowers?" Draco demanded, scoffing. "Please."

"A sense of camaraderie, maybe?" Harry prompted. "Or a willingness to reconcile your past ill-will," he emphasized
flatly, "and some sort of concerted effort to move forward?"

Harry's brows were arched well above his glasses and Draco, recognizing the conspiratorial expression, withered
internally, realizing that he was meant to carry on the charade he and Hermione had begun that morning.

"Well, that's a reach, but sure," Draco muttered, and Ron crossed his arms, sulking.

"In any case, come on," Harry said, gesturing pointedly for Draco to follow. "We can talk in my office."

Ron stepped after them, indignant. "I hardly think - "

"You know," Mel interrupted, looping her arm through Ron's and unsubtly yanking him back, "I think perhaps it'd
be best if we should all get together sometime. Witch Weekly's hosting a silent auction tomorrow night," she
suggested, glancing encouragingly at Draco. "Why don't you bring Hermione?"

"Oh," Draco said, making a face. "I, um - "

"No," Ron muttered flatly.

"Yeah," Draco agreed, shrugging. "What he said."

"Actually, maybe you should," Harry remarked, giving Draco another annoyingly knowing glance. "Mel's one of the
featured guests, but there are quite a lot of important Ministry personnel expected to attend. Several members of the
Wizengamot, for example," he informed Draco with a slow, irritating deliberation, before turning back to Mel.
"Could you scrape together invitations for the rest of Draco's company?"

She paused, tilting her head.

"Probably four total," Mel said, seeming to calculate it in her head. "Draco and Hermione, and two others. There's
quite an exclusive guest list," she offered apologetically. "Some foreign dignitaries, I believe."

"Good," Harry declared happily. "Excellent. Malfoy?" he prompted. "Surely you can see what a uniquely useful
situation this would be, can't you?"

Draco quickly ran through his lists of poisons, calculated how difficult it would be to gain ownership of one of
Harry's fingernail clippings, and ultimately, feeling unexpectedly exhausted at the effort involved in bringing about
Harry Potter's untimely death, he sighed, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"Of course," Draco exhaled in resignation. "Grang- I mean, Hermione and I would be happy to attend."

Ron, on the other hand, looked positively flaming.

"Well hold on just a min-"

"Come on, darling," Mel cut in loudly, dragging him towards the stairs. "So much to plan, you know, so many ascots
to choose from - "

"YOU CAN'T SERIOUSLY EXPECT ME T-"

"Well," Harry remarked, speaking over Ron's continued opposition and gesturing for Draco to follow him into the
hall, "that was timely."

"You," Draco returned, shaking his head, "are at peak unbearability, Potter. Did you really not tell Weasley, of all
people, that all of this is fake?" he demanded. "He seemed like he really believed that I'm with Granger."

"Yes, well, he does," Harry said, shrugging. "Ron's not a particularly good actor," he explained, opening the door to
his office and prompting Draco to enter. "I figure it's better if his opposition to you remains, you know." He
shrugged again. "Authentic."

"Seems stupid," Draco commented, falling into the seat opposite Harry's desk. "And anyway, I don't know if you've
considered this, but I doubt Granger's going to find much thrill in attending an auction with me."

"She will," Harry said. "She's very mission-oriented, you know."

"She's also very pro-avoiding her ex, from what I've gathered," Draco muttered, and Harry arched a brow.

"And what have you gathered?" he asked, entirely too curiously. "That sounds nearly friendly, Malfoy."

"Oh, pipe down, Potter," Draco snapped. "I think we both know Hermione Granger well enough to know that you
can't just keep pushing her. She snaps," he warned, miserably sinking lower in the chair. "And when she snaps, she
has an irritating tendency to hit people, so - "

"Is it her you're here about?" Harry asked, ignoring his opposition. "Because I don't have any news on anything else
at the moment. I'm trying to arrange for you to see Poliakoff when you're done at MACUSA next week, but - "

He trailed off, holding a hand out expectantly, and Draco sighed.

"I was - " Draco grimaced. "Not entirely pleasant to her."

Harry lifted a brow, staring at him.

"Sorry," Harry remarked facetiously, "you should have warned me to sit down for that one."

"Just - I thought - " Draco faltered, groaning, before finally resigning himself to a sigh. "You wanted me to go to the
Arsonist last night," he reminded Harry, schooling his expression. "What for?"

Harry studied him for a minute, and then nodded slowly.

"She fights there," Harry said, drumming his fingers against the desk. "She's really good."

"I know," Draco muttered, and Harry gave him a half-smile, looking knowingly pleased. "Oh, for fuck's sake,"
Draco growled, "stop - "

"You want to go see her?" Harry guessed, and Draco said nothing, tacitly confirming. "I have other plans tonight,"
Harry remarked regretfully, "but I think you can take the back stairs without going through the Arsonist's front
entrance."

It seemed an awful lot of effort, Draco thought, and sighed.

An awful lot of effort he felt awfully sure he owed, unfortunately, remembering the look on her face when he'd left
her that morning.

"I don't know," Draco lied, feeling stupid. "Maybe." He rose to his feet, turning abruptly to the door. "I'm going to
have to tell her about the auction if I do, aren't I?"

"Sure," Harry said, waving a hand. "Make it a business visit, Malfoy. By all means," he said, grinning.

"God, I hate you," Draco muttered, shaking his head as he went.

He'd known it was a mistake well before he'd gotten there, but there was nothing quite like being present to watch
Hermione Granger existing thoroughly in her element for him to feel both absurdly humbled and uncomfortably out
of place, tucked in the back of the room and watching her, a smile on her face, as she fought a man twice her size.

He'd come there to apologize, Draco knew, or to make some unsteady peace, but he didn't quite realize how sorry he
actually felt until he realized that this, the process of taunting and subsequently overpowering a heavily-muscled
man (revealing such obviously poor taste, he thought with a sniff, watching her flirt with the distracting pectorals of
Rhys Hawkworth), was the happiest he'd seen her for a long time.

"She's been blacklisted," he heard someone murmur. "Public figure and all."

"Pity," the other person replied, and in a slap of uncomfortable cognizance Draco understood, unhappily, that
whatever sacrifice he was making to commit to their unsavory facade, she'd been forced to make more.

He was surprised to see her locate him; it was a small crowd, but still, she'd been fixated on Rhys Hawkworth, and
he hadn't expected her to see him.

Not bad, he permitted, amused, and she gawked at him, coming to a complete stop just as Rhys - sluggish, but
certainly no slouch - hit her hard in the jaw, knocking her back against the wooden ring.

"Fuck," Draco gasped, launching to his feet, but he'd been too far to reach her.

He stumbled forward, trying to get to where a horde of people had swarmed to where she'd fallen, but felt himself
tugged back.

"Better not," Seamus Finnegan warned, suddenly materializing just as Draco tried to push past the small crowd of
people around her. "Can't imagine she'll be too pleased to see you."

"Great," Draco sighed, glancing at him with frustration. "So you're here to tell me what to do too, then?"

"It's my place, Malfoy," Seamus warned, shaking his head. "I'm just trying to keep the peace."

Draco watched, fidgeting, as Rhys bent over Hermione, lifting her head to check for damage and carefully calling
for his wand, setting to work.

"Fine," Draco said, clearing his throat. He obviously wasn't needed, nor wanted. "Tell her to meet me outside when
she comes to. It's important," he added. "We're, um - "

"In love," Seamus supplied, his voice clipped as he offered something of a forced smile. "We know."

Draco grimaced. "Right," he agreed, and stepped out, nearly barreling into Marcus Flint on his way out the door. He
might have bothered to be surprised, except it hardly seemed worth it, and instead he simply continued without
question, emerging onto the street and rubbing wearily at his cheeks, questioning now how much he had actually
been at fault.

He stepped out into Diagon Alley and sighed, leaning back against the building. Nearby, people were already
beginning to stare, and he pulled the collar of his robes higher, wondering for the hundredth time if he shouldn't just
dye his fucking hair.

It was Friday night, he realized with a start, and the crowds of people around the Arsonist weren't exactly thinning.
He paced for a few minutes, agitated, and briefly considered leaving altogether when he heard his name from
somewhere across the street, slowly looking up in horror.

"Draco?" he heard again, and what had been a terrible day instantly became catastrophic as he looked up, catching
Katie's eye. She crossed the alley towards him, separating from her friends - "I'll meet you," she assured them,
waving them on - and he realized with a start that he had planned this exceptionally poorly.

He was, after all, in her neighborhood, he remembered with a grimace.

"Katherine," he forced out, managing a stiff nod without meeting her eye.

"Draco," she sighed, arriving to stand across from him and shaking her head. "Come on."

She was pleading.

It always made him feel guilty.

"Fine," he sniffed, and looked up, locking eyes with her. "Katie," he said, and swallowed heavily, finding that no
matter how much time had passed, it still felt strange and painful on his tongue. "How are you?" he managed to say
without much change in tone.

"Fine," she assured him quickly, shrugging. "Are you - " she hesitated, searching his face. "Are you okay?"

He wanted to slam his head into the nearest wall.

"Peachy," he assured her. "Everything's coming up roses."

"Draco," she sighed again.

He said nothing.

"Hey, listen," Katie pressed, shifting uncomfortably. "I wanted to tell you that I saw that picture in the Daily Prophet
this morning."

Draco instantly felt a wave of nausea, followed by a thud of panic.

"I just wanted to say I'm happy for you," Katie explained, with an optimistic lilt to her voice. "I mean, I guess I
always wondered if maybe you had a thing for Hermione," she babbled, her cheeks flushed, "and you know, I saw
her at the Ministry the other day chasing after you, so I guess - " she sighed. "I guess I'm just happy that you're
happy."

Happy, he thought, and wanted to laugh.

Right.

"I've been seeing someone too," she said, "so I guess I'm just, I don't know." She glanced at her feet. "Relieved."

He swallowed.

"It's - yeah," Draco permitted, trying to stick to the lie and feeling it turn to ash in his mouth, turning his throat dry.
"I mean, it's new still, but yeah. We're - " he grimaced. "We're - I just - "

He was prepared to admit defeat - to simply turn and run, and claim illness or insanity later - when he heard
something behind them, and stopped short.

"There you are," he heard, and sucked in a breath, fearing the worst the instant he recognized Hermione Granger's
voice.

"Please," he began, turning towards her without any idea what he was going to say next; only that in the spare
moment before she surely tried to murder him, that she might at least not reveal the embarrassment of his misery. He
found, with surprise, that she was wearing something of a smile, heading towards him with one arm outstretched.

"I've been looking for you," Hermione offered pleasantly, and to his utter shock, she slipped her arm around his
waist. "Everything okay, darling?"

He blinked, wondering how badly she'd been concussed.

"Oh, everything's fine, sweetheart," Draco mumbled in return, stiffly placing his around around her shoulders as
Katie's eyes widened, taking in the scene. "Just chatting. You remember Katie Bell, don't you?"

"Of course. So nice to see you, Katie," Hermione acknowledged, discreetly passing her a smile. "You don't mind if I
steal him, do you?" she asked, her tone a saccharinely false sweetness.

"Jesus," Draco muttered under his breath, and Hermione subtly hip-checked him into silence.

"No, of course not," Katie assured her, exchanging an equally forced smile before nodding to Draco, taking a hasty
step towards him and then, at the last moment, retracting the gesture and holding herself back. "Take care, Draco,"
she said quietly, and then she turned in the direction her friends had headed, disappearing from sight.

The moment she'd gone, Draco withdrew his arm, turning to Hermione and tucking them both out of sight.

"Listen," he began airily, but he discovered, much to his dismay, that he'd been foolishly slow on the uptake.

Hermione Granger, quick as she was, had already drawn a fist.

The Underground
Diagon Alley
9:40 p.m.

Hermione opened her eyes slowly, consciousness swimming for a moment out of reach. Her head ached with a dull,
unyielding throb of something more annoying than pain, and she struggled to sit up, dragging her head to the surface
from an unsettling, unknowable depth.

"Where is he?" Hermione demanded, groaning as her vision blurred. "I'm going to kill him."

"Careful," she heard Rhys say, easing her back down. "You don't mean me, do you?"

"Not you," she muttered. "Not your fault. My fault," she muttered, bringing a hand to her head and frowning.
"Where is he?" she asked again, watching Rhys' features come into focus, a worried look on his face. "Malfoy. He
wasn't supposed to be here, and - "

"He stepped out," Rhys said, gesturing over his shoulder. "Said he'd wait for you to come to. Took a while," he
added sheepishly, hanging his head. "I'm sorry. I thought for sure you'd block the shot, or duck, at least - "

"I was distracted," Hermione grumbled, making another attempt to sit up and managing it, with Rhys' help, to some
level of satisfaction this time. "Because once again, he's just shown up somewhere uninvited, and without any
reasonable warning - "

"This false relationship of yours," Rhys commented, interrupting. "How false is it, exactly?"

Hermione grimaced, rubbing the soreness at her jaw. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he assured her. "I just meant that - " he hesitated. "Obviously you know each other well," he began, and
she cut him off with a loud scoff, shaking her head.

"I hate him," she assured him. "Truly."

"See, but I'm not totally convinced that's true," Rhys remarked, keeping to a neutral, even tone. "You defended him,"
he reminded her. "At a relatively high cost to yourself."

She groaned.

"That wasn't about him," Hermione insisted. "I just thought it was unfair. And anyway," she pressed, "wasn't the first
thing I said when I came to that I wanted to kill him? That doesn't exactly scream 'like' to me," she muttered,
wincing as she tried to stand.
Rhys reached forward, steadying her.

"Careful," he cautioned, and then glanced at her, permitting her the full blow of his features as he moistened his lips,
his brow furrowed in apprehension. "Slowly," he said worriedly, and pulled her up, helping her to her feet. "I guess,"
he ventured, his fingers gripping her around her ribcage, "I foolishly thought I might be the person on your mind
when you woke up."

Hermione swallowed carefully, feeling the heightened sensation of his touch on her skin as she met his gaze.

"I guess I do owe you a kiss, don't I?" she asked hazily, and he lifted a brow.

"You do," he agreed, searching her face, "but not tonight, I think."

She gaped at him, swaying slightly, and he held her tighter.

"Why not?" she demanded, somewhat childishly, and he laughed.

"I'm not going to kiss you, Hermione Granger," he murmured, "until it's me you're thinking about."

"I'm thinking about you," she assured him, feeling her pulse race as he took a step closer, his arms coming to circle
her waist. "I'm definitely thinking about you."

"Ah, well, forgive me my ego," he said, chuckling a little, "but I think I'd rather collect my reward when your
boyfriend isn't waiting for you outside."

"He's not my boyfriend," she said instantly, but blinked, watching Rhys' gaze settle on the contours of her face, the
corners of his lips quirking up with a smile.

"I tried to heal as much as I could, but you're still pretty bruised," he told her, brushing his thumb over the throbbing
spot on her jaw. "Try to stay away from cameras," he joked, and he moved to step away but she pulled him back, not
quite ready to let go.

"Have you decided where?" she asked, breathless.

His smile broadened.

"Well, I suppose it depends," he told her, letting one hand float down to her hip as the other rose, hovering over her
lips. "Here would be obvious," he commented, "but it's a classic, isn't it? Right here," he murmured, drawing his
thumb over her lower lip and catching his breath as she shivered. "Or, of course, there's here," he offered, tracing his
fingers under her jaw and letting them settle on the column of her throat. "Here," he suggested, drawing a line along
her clavicle as she tilted her head, accommodating his touch. "Or here," he added, continuing the line until his palm
rested flat against her sternum.

"And that's just what I can point to with your clothes on," he added with a laugh, prompting her to fight a gasp as his
other hand tightened on her hip.

"Right," she agreed, dazed, and closed her eyes, resting both her hands on his chest. "Well," she exhaled, attempting
to collect herself. "Right," she muttered, forcing a swallow. "I'm definitely going to kill him."

Rhys laughed again, the sound vibrating beneath her fingers.

"Are you friends?" he asked her. "That would be a simple explanation, don't you think?"

"Simple, sure, but it's not simple with him," she replied, sighing. "He really was awful to me, but - he knows me, you
know?" she asked, realizing she likely sounded slightly insane. "We have a history, and even if it's a bad one - "

"I get it," Rhys assured her, nodding. "He's got a decade of information about you, and I have what, a few days? I
understand," he promised, and she noted that he seemed to. "But," he added, stepping towards her again, "I'll put in
the work, if you let me."

"It's just - " she let out a breath, shaking her head. "Complicated timing."

"Well," Rhys said, grinning. "For the record, I'm always down for a fight."

"I bet you are," she muttered, and forced herself to gradually step out of the circle of his arms, reaching for her t-
shirt. "Oh," she said, pulling it on and then glancing up at him. "Nice shot, by the way."

"Yeah, I fucking decked you," he agreed, with something of an apologetic grimace. "Good thing you're a demon, or
my dad would absolutely strangle me for hitting a girl."

Hermione shook her head, pulling her bag over her shoulder and looking around with a sigh.

"Well," she said. "Bye, I guess."

Rhys' face fell slightly, accommodating a somber nod.

"You'll be back soon," he promised her. "Oh, and - " he reached into his pocket, pulling out a spare bit of parchment
and grabbing a quill from behind the bar. "Here's my address," he said, handing it to her. "It's just down the street."

She glanced down at it, thinking.

"Busy tomorrow night?" Hermione asked him.

"Yes and no," Rhys said, grimacing. "My dad's having me come with him to some Ministry auction, but I'm rarely
there long. I'll be around after," he assured her, the grimace quickly becoming a teasing grin.

"Normally, I'd say I'm not the waiting type," Hermione commented, tucking his address in her pocket with a shrug,
"but I guess you deserve it."

He smiled.

"I'll make it worth your while," he promised, and then she turned, forcing one foot in front of the other until she'd
finally vacated the Underground, surfacing outside in the Alley.

Draco was, as always, exceptionally easy to spot. He had his head bent, talking to Katie Bell, and Hermione thought
for a moment that it was an unusual surprise to see her twice in the span of a few days until recognition suddenly
dawned, and she saw Draco's slumped posture and the hesitance of his speech for what it was.

"It's - yeah," Draco said to Katie, looking consummately defeated. "I mean, it's new still, but yeah. We're - " he
grimaced. "We're - I just - "

"There you are," Hermione blurted out, inexplicably coming to his rescue. He babbled something, a plea of sorts,
and she hurried over to his side, slipping an arm around his waist. "I've been looking for you," she said, and forced
herself to behave normally - or as normal as a person would who had any sort of affection for Draco Malfoy, which
was certainly not her normal. "Everything okay, darling?"

Draco's face transitioned from shock to tempered distortion.

"Oh, everything's fine, sweetheart," he mumbled, yanking her towards him and throwing an arm around her
shoulders. ""Just chatting. You remember Katie Bell, don't you?"

"Of course. So nice to see you, Katie," Hermione said, forcing a smile despite the way she could feel Draco stiffen,
not quite comfortable with their proximity. "You don't mind if I steal him, do you?" she asked, feigning sweetness.

"Jesus," Draco muttered under his breath, and Hermione gave him a subtle shove, silencing him.

"No, of course not," Katie assured her, and seemed to wish to give Draco a hug, but decided against it at the last
minute. "Take care, Draco," she said quietly, and then she wandered away, disappearing from sight.

The moment she went, Draco promptly withdrew his hand.

"Listen," he announced, and Hermione punched him hard in the stomach, crossing her arms as he doubled over,
grunting in pain.

"Yeah, okay," he coughed, shutting his eyes. "That's fair."

"You could have told me you were coming," Hermione snapped, gesturing to the Arsonist behind her. "Would it
have killed you to give me some sort of notice?"

"Maybe it would have," he retorted, stumbling back as she shifted, idly threatening to punch him again. "Christ,
Granger, use your words - "

"That was my last fight, Malfoy," she said angrily, crossing her arms over her chest. "Because of you I can't be down
there anymore," she hurled accusatorily, watching his eyes widen, "and then - and then you just - "

Before she knew what was happening, she realized she realized she was crying, lost to a humiliating episode of
terribly ill-timed tears as she swiped furiously at her eyes. "I wasn't supposed to - it wasn't - "

Draco sighed. "Come here, Granger," he muttered, and drew her into his chest, tucking her head under his chin. She
sniffled twice, embarrassingly, and he patted the top of her head, tightening his grip on her.

This, she noted, was not nearly as awkward as his closeness had felt before.

It was very nearly nice, in fact, and she slowly relaxed, letting him absently stroke her back.

"You know," he commented, after she'd taken a couple of calming breaths, "you're always so much smaller than I
expect you to be."

She scowled into the fabric of his shirt. "What does that mean?"

He shrugged. "You project tall," he said. "Plus you showboat around that ring like a fucking hell creature," he added
wryly, "so, easy mistake."

She let out a huff of a laugh. "How much did you see?"

"Most of it," he admitted. "I didn't mean to - " he coughed, bordering on something she assumed was sentiment
(which, it seemed, he was deathly allergic to) and shrugged again. "Put it this way," he amended, leaning back to
look down at her. "I promise, if in the line of duty we are mercilessly attacked, I will gallantly let you do all the
fighting, Granger."

"What a gentleman you are, Malfoy," she remarked, pulling away and taking a step back. "Almost makes up for
getting me punched in the face."

"You took it like a champion," he assured her. "You went down with aplomb. With grace, even. With eleg- "

"Shut up," she muttered, "or I'll punch you again."

He chuckled.

"So," she said, giving his shoulder a shove. "Why are you here?"

His face fell.

"Well," he began, and stopped, hesitating.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"I needed to tell you something." He paused. "Two things," he clarified.

She waited.

"I'm waiting," she informed him expectantly, and he made a face of supreme displeasure.

"Thanks," he finally said, clearing his throat. "You know. For - " he shrugged. "Last night."

Her brow furrowed. "Nothing happened," she reminded him, and he hastily shook his head.

"I meant at the pub," he clarified quickly. "Gross," he added, pointedly making a face, and she shrugged.

"Well, carry on," she prompted, waving a hand. "You were expressing gratitude? Try not to hurt yourself," she
warned. He rolled his eyes.

"Look," he attempted again, "I realize you get the short end of the stick here. Me being associated with you is
actually a very good thing for me," he confessed, clearing his throat. "And I just wanted to tell you that it occurred to
me that it's probably not that great for you. I mean, you know, what with that," he explained, gesturing to the
Arsonist, "and, well. This," he added with a grimace, gesturing broadly to himself.

She paused, considering the offering.

He waited, shifting uncertainly.

"In fairness," she ventured after a moment, stretching her words out, "I guess it's not exactly a picnic for you, either.
I recognize that I'm not the easiest person in the world to get along with," she exhaled. "I know that."

He seemed to fight a scoff at that.

"You've met Theo, right?" he countered gruffly. "That idiot's my best friend."

She permitted a laugh, conceding the point.

"Look, we don't have to get along," she told him, somewhat reassuringly. "I'm sure we're still going to fight or
whatever, but you should know that I do want to help. If we have to pretend to date for a while, then fine." She
shrugged. "It is a pretty convenient cover."

"It is," he agreed, his gaze flicking to where Katie had been. "And thanks again, I guess, for - "

"Don't mention it," she cut in, permitting him the luxury of not having to say it aloud. "It's - I've been there, you
know, with awkward exes," she assured him, but then, to her surprise, his expression contorted, becoming even
more distressed. "What?" she asked, alarmed. "I wasn't - "

"There's something we have to do tomorrow night," he interrupted, wincing. "You're not going to like it."

"What is it?" she asked, frowning. "It can't be that bad. Unless you want me to - I don't know," she guessed,
compiling a worst case scenario. "Attend some sort of stuffy gala with my ex-boyfriend or something, then - "

She caught the motion of his brow furrowing and stopped, frowning.

"What?" she demanded, and he shook his head, looking thoroughly defeated.

"Well, that's just marvelous," he muttered. "It'll hardly be a nightmare at all."

a/n: have been having a terribly rough week, but you're all wonderful. Dedicated to A-Lovely-Villain,
anonwhohadtopee, and whyisthat!
 8. Stranger Than Fiction

Chapter 8: Stranger Than Fiction

Witch Weekly's Annual Benefit Auction

Ulick and Honora Palace of the Arts
September 27, 2003
7:47 p.m.

Hermione tugged uncomfortably at the silk of her backless navy gown, needlessly mistrusting her thoroughly
reliable anti-wrinkle charm and feeling, instead, wholly inadequate as she and Draco emerged through the Floo,
instantly greeted by the smiling face of Melibea Warbeck. Mel, one of the gala's honorees (for ingenuity in fashion,
of all things) was featured on the many banners lining the path through the foyer, and Hermione fought yet another
urge to turn around, favoring instead a far more preferable evening of quite literally anything else.

"Stop," Draco muttered, throwing an arm out and shaking his head as she glanced longingly back at the Floo. He,
she noticed, was doing a much better job concealing his agitation; she chalked it up to the fact that he was not
required to drape himself in gauzy fabrics, nor labor under any hair or makeup charms. Even in the crisp black and
white of his dress robes, Draco Malfoy looked much as he always did.

Which, she permitted sulkily, was not without some entirely vexing appeal.

"It would be one thing," Hermione reminded him tartly, "if there were some sort of relevant work involved in this
descent into madness, but as it is - "

"As it is," Draco cut in drily, "I, too, am having to rub elbows with a roomful of tasteless sycophants. None of whom
will be pleased to see me," he reminded her pointedly, to which she could not suppress a grimace of agreement.
"And yet I, unlike you," he sniffed, "am not teetering on the edge of retreat with every passing breath."

"Yes, well, I, unlike you," Hermione retorted, "am having to see my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend - who, by
the way, appears to be some sort of manifestation of human perfection, if the many excessive declarations of that are
to be believed," she grumbled, gesturing to the banners on the walls.

"Is this jealousy, Granger?" Draco drawled impassively, glancing at her. "I would have thought you too
intellectually gifted to submit yourself to such an ignoble flaw."

"It's not jealousy," she countered, glaring at him in irritation. "That's ridiculous. You know perfectly well that I have
no romantic feelings for Ron," she began, "nor do I - "

"Relax," Draco interrupted, rolling his eyes. "I'm aware. And anyway, it's not very enjoyable to spar with you at the
moment," he added, sniffing affectedly. "The sophistication of your arguments is incredibly lacking."

"Shut up," Hermione muttered, bristling, and he shrugged.

"See?" he prompted. She sighed.

"Where are Pansy and Daphne?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder. "I thought you said they were coming."

"They are," Draco confirmed, grimacing. "But I figured it'd be best if the three social pariahs didn't arrive together.
My presence," he muttered, his gaze flicking to the surrounding guests who had their heads bent, whispering, "is
probably difficult enough for the many righteous honorees of this distinguished event to stomach."

"Is it always like this?" Hermione asked him, frowning as she noted the hushed indication of gossip that surrounded
them. "I suppose it is a society event," she permitted, "so there're bound to be people who run their mouths, but - "

"It's always like this," Draco assured her, the muscle twitching around his jaw. "Hilarious, really, considering that
my parents used to attend this event every year. Which apparently no longer matters," he scoffed under his breath,
reaching for two champagne flutes from a nearby floating tray and passing her one before stiffly offering her his
arm. "And which I suppose I should be used to by now, but - "

"Oh, Miss Granger," someone interrupted, and Hermione turned, taking an outlandish gulp from Draco's proffered
glass before forcing a smile at Ifan Hawkworth, feigning something like ease as he wandered over with Rhys at his
side.

"Warlock Hawkworth," Hermione acknowledged, nodding to him. "Rhys," she added, and he met her eye, his gaze
traveling subtly up the curves of her gown before his lips quirked up in approval.

"Hermione," he murmured, passing her a furtive smile.

"And then, of course, there's me," Draco contributed obnoxiously, "but who cares, really?"

"Ah yes, Mr Malfoy," Hawkworth acknowledged, looking as though he barely managed to stomach the sight of him.
"I hadn't realized your acquaintanceship with Miss Granger was quite so - " he paused, the words trailing caustically
from his tongue as he glanced at Hermione's hand on Draco's arm. "Cemented."

"A staggeringly accurate way to put it," Draco permitted drily, toasting him before taking a long, indulgent sip from
his glass.

"Of course they're here together," Rhys admonished his father, turning back to Hermione with a smile. "My father
doesn't keep up with the Daily Prophet's more salacious updates," he clarified, and Hermione, who identified a touch
of flirtation in his tone, felt warmth rise to her cheeks.

"I see," she murmured, permitting her gaze to travel along the sharply tailored cut of his dress robes as she took a
dainty sip of champagne. Rhys caught the motion, smiling, and moistened his lips, arching his brow with a delicate
hint of suggestion.

Beside her, though, Hermione could feel Draco's posture tense, and she realized with displeasure that Hawkworth
had not yet abandoned his rather standoffish appraisal of her associate's presence.

"I must say, I am quite surprised to see you here," Hawkworth commented, continuing to regard Draco with
suspicion. "Considering your history, of course," he clarified, rather unnecessarily, in Hermione's view.

"Well, I'm honored, naturally," Draco replied, clearing his throat. "Though I am, as I previously mentioned,
considerably reformed."

"Funny," Hawkworth remarked. "I seem to recall your father saying something rather similar at his first trial, don't
you?"

At that, Draco's lips thinned warningly.

"Warlock Hawkworth," Hermione cut in gently, as Rhys, similarly, reached out to grip his father's arm. "Perhaps if
we just - "

"My father and I are rather different men, Warlock," Draco interrupted. "Aside from my being much more fun at
parties," he said, pointedly gesturing to his glass, "we also differ greatly in our loyalties."

"Do you mean to suggest you no longer associate yourself with members of the Nott family?" Hawkworth prompted
dubiously. "The Parkinsons, as well? Notable enthusiasts, you know, with regard to You-Know-Who's agenda," he
murmured knowingly, "who also recanted their involvement, claiming - what was it? Oh, yes," he said, tapping his
mouth. "Reform."

Hermione, sensing trouble, slipped her arm around Draco's waist.

"Sweets," she attempted, giving him a warning glance, "maybe this isn't the time or place to have this discussion - "
"Your wife is muggleborn, isn't she, Warlock?" Draco interrupted, drawing Hermione into him even as he resolutely
held the other man's gaze, which narrowed visibly at the reference. "I understand the reservations you may have
about me, given my part in the ill-treatment she has no doubt suffered."

"Yes," Hawkworth said, displeased. "Though I'd hardly consider you an expert in my wife's suffering."

"Oh, of course not. In fact, I consider myself an expert in only two things," Draco agreed. "Remorse, firstly, without
a doubt," he began, his tone carefully buoyant, "and secondly, the particularly inconvenient powerlessness that
comes from adoring a woman that I have wronged."

His grey eyes flicked askance, pointedly surveying Hermione; she, surprised, merely glanced questioningly back at
him, noting the bemusement from Hawkworth's expression in her periphery.

"I'm sorry," Hawkworth said, scoffing. "Do you mean to tell me that the two of you are - "

"In love?" Draco prompted. "Yes. Deeply," he drawled, pulling her closer. "Aren't we, sweetheart?"

She bit her tongue, making a concerted effort not to knee him in the groin.

"Oh yes," Hermione contributed, avoiding the shadowed look of conflict on Rhys' face. "Of course, darling,
profoundly in love - "

"Profoundly," Draco echoed, nodding. "Gravely, even."

"Distressingly," she contributed, and Hawkworth blanched.

"I have to say, I hadn't thought you two had a romantic entanglement," he said, exchanging a skeptical glance with
Rhys. "When we last saw each other, I thought you were rather - " he trailed off. "Oppositional."

"Ah, well, you're referring to our relentless banter, of course," Draco quipped. "Which is simply an effort to offset
the, um," he permitted, pausing. "The intensity of our affections - "

"The vigor, one might say," Hermione sighed. "The unparalleled ferocity, really."

" - which is, of course, alarming in its depths. In its heights, I mean," he amended, and glanced at her, roughly
patting her hand. "Right, princess?"

"Oh, absolutely, darling," Hermione returned, pinching the inside of his arm as he shifted to hide a scowl.
"Unrestrained, the opulence of our love can be quite a lot, I think."

"Unstomachable, really," Draco said. "Vomitous, in fact."

"I see," Hawkworth said slowly, less than convinced, and Rhys glanced at Hermione, arching a brow. "Of course,
centuries of adulation with regard to blood purity strike me as exceedingly difficult to set aside," he murmured, "but
-"

"Oh, Draco, Hermione, you're here," she heard over her shoulder, and turned to see Harry's oncoming form, flanked
by Daisy, the MACUSA Auror, and a man she recognized but couldn't quite place. "Sorry, Warlock Hawkworth, I
hope you don't mind - "

"Not at all," Hawkworth permitted, giving Harry a perfunctory nod. "I'm sure we can chat later. Miss Granger," he
offered, sparing a nod to her, "and - " he grimaced. "Mr Malfoy."

"A consummate thrill, as ever," Draco called after him, giving Rhys a tight smirk before turning to Harry, letting out
a breath. "Christ, Potter," he exhaled, "I never thought I'd say this, but thank fucking Salazar you're here - "

"You remember Auror Carnegie," Harry ventured hurriedly, gesturing to Daisy, and Hermione and Draco nodded.
"This is Head Auror Alexander Poliakoff," he explained, gesturing to the dark haired man at his side. "From the
Scandinavian Ministry. He was with the Durmstrang delegation during the Triwizard Tournament," he added, and
Hermione nodded with recognition, placing him in her memory.

"Aurors," Draco noted, his brow furrowing as he glanced between them. "Are you anticipating problems?"

"Oh, I was invited," Daisy supplied in response, tossing her retro-style blonde waves over her shoulders. "Typically
I'm expected to attend these sorts of things."

"And I am here as a guest of Auror Potter," Poliakoff contributed solemnly. "He tells me you are both friends of the
British Ministry?"

"Yes," Hermione said, nodding. "We're actually working on the - "

"Hermione," Harry interrupted, startling her. "Have you seen Ron?"

"I - not yet," she stammered, frowning, as Draco, too, curiously arched a brow. "Would you like us to go find him?"
she guessed, and Harry nodded vigorously.

"Here, let me help you," he announced, and beckoned for her to follow. "One moment," he offered to Daisy and
Poliakoff, and then he leaned close to Hermione, firmly shaking his head. "I need you both to really sell this
relationship cover. To everyone," he murmured, glancing anxiously back at Poliakoff, "but especially him. We got
the report back on the Scandinavian poisoning, and their Minister suspects someone on the inside might have been
involved, so - oh, Ron," he interrupted himself, reaching out to grip the back of a familiar redhead's shoulder. "Mel,
look who I found?"

Hermione waited expectantly, holding her breath as the other woman turned.

Melibea Warbeck was, as Hermione had already known, quite beautiful, and quite distinctly different from her, right
from first glance. While Hermione had chosen a simple, understated gown, Mel had opted for a fantastical creation
of glittering textured designs that skated atop black illusion netting, the neckline of which featured a series of
enchanted birds. The slit in the full skirt of her gown allowed for a glimpse of an upsettingly long and slender leg,
and Hermione, despite being in heels, nearly had to crane her head to look at the other woman, her arm slid naturally
around Ron's waist.

"Hi," Hermione said awkwardly, and Ron, who looked generally the same - albeit much better dressed, in a
flattering set of dress robes that Hermione was certain Mel must have chosen - flushed deeply pink at the sight of
her.

"I'm so glad you could come," Mel said warmly, as Hermione fought not to be distracted by the birds floating
around her cleavage. "I thought it was about time we met, didn't you?"

"Of course," Hermione agreed, forcing pleasantries. "And it's good to see you, of course, Ron," she added for Ron's
benefit, though by then he seemed distinctly more interested in sizing up Draco.

"Well," Ron said stiffly, "you came, then."

Alarmingly, Mel let out a dainty, melodic laugh.

"Sorry," she offered in explanation, toasting a journalist who stood off to her right. "Don't want to end up on the
front page of the Daily Prophet looking like someone" - she paused, pointedly jabbing Ron's waist and patting his
shoulder as he doubled over, coughing up an incomprehensible 'oof' - "is about to throw a tantrum, now do we?"

"You know, you're not so bad," Draco commented, taking an expressionless sip of his wine, and Mel smiled
brilliantly.

"He's ever so charming when he's not sulking," she assured them, brushing her lips against Ron's cheek, and then
glanced at Hermione. "But, of course, you already know that. Oh, so sorry, excuse me," she told them
apologetically, turning towards someone who waved across the room. "I have to - " she paused, glancing at Ron.
"Actually, why don't you come with me, babe?"

"Subtle," Ron remarked, shaking his head, and she tapped his nose with her finger.

"We'll be back," she assured Hermione, and then, in a rustle of glittering fabric, she strode confidently across the
room, embracing someone that Hermione was fairly certain was the singer of the latest absurdly catchy song that
assaulted her hourly on wizarding radio.

"Well," Hermione remarked, watching Mel go. "She seems nice."

"She took Weasley off your hands, Granger," Draco reminded her. "She ought to be fucking canonized for
sainthood."

"Yes, so, anyway," Harry continued, seemingly oblivious to the interruption of their exchange, "I have some
reservations about this event. Poliakoff showed up out of nowhere," he muttered, "and there are quite a lot of
important guests here, so - "

"There's no added security," Hermione noted, scanning the room. "What do you want us to do about it?"

Harry shrugged. "If you see any murder," he suggested, "maybe give us a shout?"

"Great," Draco muttered. "So, just like any of my mother's parties, then."

8:45 p.m.

"This," Pansy announced, pursing her lips as she looked around the room, "is not ideal."

Just behave, Draco had instructed gruffly, and keep an eye out for anything suspicious.

Here's something suspicious, Pansy retorted, annoyed. I suspect you're wasting my time.

"What's not ideal?" Daphne asked drily, gesturing ambiguously to the crowds of witches and wizards who had
unsubtly wandered elsewhere upon hers and Pansy's arrival from the auction hall. "I could take off my dress and run
screaming through the palace and I doubt anyone would think less of me than they do now."

"Not that," Pansy said, and gestured grimly to Percy Weasley's oncoming form. "This."

"Miss Parkinson," Percy called, his hand rising to wave, or something, in her direction. "Do you have a moment?"

"Quick, hide," Pansy hissed, but Daphne shoved her forward, rolling her eyes.

"Miss Parkinson - "

"Pansy," she corrected with a burdened sigh. "As we discussed."

"Right," Percy said, arriving with a vacant breathlessness. "Pansy," he murmured, and paused as he stood across
from her, giving her a muted, scrutinizing sweep of his solemn, bespectacled gaze. "Pretty dress," he commented.

She squirmed internally. He didn't look so bad himself.

In fact, for some reason, he seemed oddly himself in formalwear.

"You wanted something?" she prompted, as Daphne frowned in the opposite direction, seeming to have caught her
eye on something across the room. "Hopefully not drinks," Pansy said, waving her hand vaguely around the room.
"The trays aren't well charmed, I think. They only seem to come around every twenty minutes, rather than the every
five I would prefer."

"The silver here is notoriously hard to charm," Percy replied. "They say it's Ulick Gamp's personal collection, and as
I've heard it told, his heirlooms have a recalcitrant sense of humor. Though, in fairness, I'm not sure why that would
have anything to do with the - "

He paused, blinking, as Pansy stared at him.

"Oh," he said. "You're joking."

"Only a little," she offered weakly, "but I can refrain, if you'd prefer."

"Well, far be it from me to deprive you your entertainment," Percy offered soberly, inclining his head. "I'd hate for
you to be - " he trailed off, his gaze flicking over her face. "Restrained."

"Restrained?" she echoed.

"I mean, certainly we're both here to work," he commented, "but I don't see why there shouldn't be some pleasure
involved. I'm somewhat of a relentless taskmaster, I suppose, but I don't see any reason why the ride can't be
enjoyable."

"Ride?" Pansy asked, dazed.

"It will be lengthy, after all," he said. "Arduous at times. And," he added neutrally, "I suppose at one point or
another you'll end up screaming my name, if experience is anything to go by."

"Will I?" she murmured, swallowing.

His lips quirked up slightly. "It's no easy task, this role you've taken with me," he cautioned, shaking his head. "I
daresay most women would abhor it."

By that point she merely nodded, watching the shape of his mouth.

"Well, no need to limit the pool of devastation to women, of course," he amended, accommodating a second
thought. "I suppose the same could be said for any wizard in your shoes, but - "

"What?" Pansy interrupted, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a slim notebook and flipping to an earmarked
page.

"Oh yes, here it is," he muttered to himself, and then looked up. "In any case, I wanted to talk to you about the menu
choices."

"What?" she asked again, startled, and he leaned closer to her, gesturing to the page.

"So, I noted for you that the Ministry venue has a preferred caterer," he said, and she groaned, realizing that she'd
once again mistaken his maddening literality. "Unfortunately, I find this caterer to have sort of an indulgent palette,
and I worry that the afternoon panels will suffer inattention if lunch is, say, too rich, and so - "

"Champagne?" a server asked, offering Percy a glass, which he blindly accepted.

"Yes, thank you, and one for the lady," he said, still poring over his notes. Pansy glanced at the server, her attention
caught on something she couldn't yet identify; a scar on his mouth, and something familiar about his face. "So, as I
was saying, I just want to be sure that the lunch itself isn't too - "

"Hold on," Pansy interrupted, taking a step forward as the server quickly ducked his head, murmuring something
about fetching another glass and retreating. "Wait, that's - "

She paused, horrified, and yanked the glass out of Percy's hand before he could bring it to his lips, still absurdly
distracted by whatever nonsense he'd been blabbering on about for his stupid conference menu. "Don't drink that,"
she warned, swapping his glass with hers and then glancing around for Daphne, who was scrutinizing a dark-haired
man in the corner with a strangely curious look in her eye.
"Wait here," Pansy instructed Percy, who looked up, bewildered. "Don't move, and don't accept any drinks from
anyone, do you understand?"

Percy, affronted, merely stared at her. "But - "

"I said don't move," Pansy hissed, and then she reached out, grabbing Daphne's arm.

"Daph," she whispered, looping their arms together and trying to appear casual as she scanned the room for Draco.
"Our last mark, the one that Blaise turned down because of Draco's deal with Potter. What was his story?"

"A mercenary of sorts," Daphne said, thinking. "Takes odd jobs, I think. Wanted by Northern goblins for an
unsettled gambling debt. They'd attempted to collect themselves," she added, "but I believe he killed one of them in
the process of escaping, so they put a hit on him."

"Details?" Pansy pressed. "Distinguishing features?"

"You know I don't do that work," Daphne reminded her, shaking her head. "His name's something like Morrison -
and I think, possibly, he has some sort of notable scar? Across the mouth, if I remember correctly - "

"I saw his picture once," Pansy said. "In the file. It was a recent photo, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but - " Daphne trailed off, frowning. "What's this about?" she asked, her grip tightening on Pansy's arm. "Is
everything okay?"

"Just act normal," Pansy warned, and then gestured with her chin to the corner. "Him," she whispered, gesturing to
the man dressed as a valet. "Do you think that's him?"

"I certainly think it could be," Daphne said. "Why?"

Pansy groaned, loudly, and Daphne paused, glancing at her.

"What is it?" she pressed, and Pansy let out a hazy sigh.

"You know how I hate to say this, but I think Draco was right," she admitted grimly, glancing down at the glass in
her hand. "Someone at this party is trying to poison Percy Weasley."

9:15 p.m.

"One of our hired marks?" Draco asked, accepting the glass from Pansy. "Are you certain?"

"Fairly certain," Pansy confirmed, lifting a brow. "That's him, first of all, and there's no servers at this party. The
trays are enchanted," she explained, gesturing around to them, "but this glass was brought to Weasley specifically."

"What's going on?" Hermione asked, leaving Harry's side to join Draco, Pansy, and Daphne, glancing questioningly
at them. "You all look worryingly conspiratorial."

Draco withered internally, realizing she was right.

"Go," he told Pansy, who nodded. "Act normal."

"This isn't my first day, Draco," she sniffed. "Be careful," she added in warning, gesturing to Morrison in the room
with a flick of her gaze. "He's been prowling around the perimeter."

"Be careful?" Draco scoffed, making a face. "It's not my first day either, Parkinson."

"Fuck off," she whispered, and then she and Daphne blended back into the crowd, leisurely making their way to the
opposite end of the room.
"What was that?" Hermione pressed, frowning. "Be careful with what?"

"Someone might be trying to poison Weasley," Draco explained, glancing at where Percy had been joined by two
senior members of the Wizengamot. "Possibly not just him, but based on Potter's victimology, I'm going to assume
he's their target."

"How can you assume that?" Hermione asked, her eyes widening. "What if this is bigger than that? Are people in
danger?"

"Try not to panic just yet, Granger," Draco muttered under his breath, reaching into his pocket for his collection of
vials. "Hold this," he instructed, handing her the champagne flute. "Do not drink it. Be very careful with it."

"Is this - " she stammered. "What are you - "

"Here," he said, withdrawing a sprig of witch-hazel. "Put your arm around me," he added, gesturing. "Get closer."

"Why?" she asked, indignant, though she ultimately conceded with a sigh, slipping under his arm and then holding
the glass between them. "What are you doing?"

"This," he said, and dropped the hazel twig into the glass, watching it.

Within moments, the twig had been corrupted to a dark, smoldering black, dissolving to a pool of ash that sparked
dangerously at the top of the glass. The carbonation from the elf-made champagne seemed to momentarily crackle,
startling Hermione, and the glass dropped from her hand, landing on the palace's marble floor with a loud,
unmistakable bang.

"Fuck," Draco muttered, looking up to see that Morrison had noticed the explosion, his cheeks going pale. He
turned, making his way through the crowd, and Draco cast a silent Evanesco before taking hold of Hermione's
fingers, pulling her after him.

"See him?" Draco said in her ear, and she looked up, catching Morrison's movement in the crowd. "He definitely
just tried to poison Weasley."

"You think he's the one behind the other poisonings?" she asked, and stumbled, trying to sidestep a series of
unexpected obstacles as multiple gossiping witches crowded in front of them, seemingly oblivious to their attempted
motion. "This all seems rather - "

"Careless," Draco agreed, pulling her off to the side and then stopping, reasserting the man's presence in the room.
"Take a moment," he warned, looking down at her. "Don't want to scare him off. I don't think he's the brains," he
added. "If Pansy's right about who he is, he's just been hired for this. We need to question him to find out who he's
working for."

"Quickest way to him is through," Hermione noted, gesturing to the few scattered couples who were swaying
idyllically in the center of the room. "Can you dance?"

Draco permitted a moment to indulge his absolute indignation at the question.

"Can I dance?" he echoed in disbelief, pointedly yanking her into him and stepping briskly onto the dance floor.
"Granger, remind me to punish you later for daring to doubt my breeding."

She rolled her eyes, giving him a shove. "I'm just saying - "

He pulled her back in, ignoring her startled grunt of protest; his hand rose with practiced precision from the base of
her spine to the back of her neck as he dipped her backwards, using the motion's unobstructed view to ascertain
Morrison's placement in the room. "Shut up, Granger," he said, and yanked her back up, drawing her up against his
chest. "We're dancing."

The music picked up, quickening from what had been a rather sleepy waltz, and Draco spun Hermione away, using
the motion to loosen his wand from the inside of his robes.

"Take it," he whispered to her, as she collided against him with a gasp. "Disarm him so he can't apparate."

"Spin me again," she instructed, and he obliged, feeling her slip his wand out from his pocket, surreptitiously
concealing it within the sleeve of her dark blue gown.

He glanced up, watching Morrison slide back against the wall.

"Can't get a clear shot," Hermione said upon return, biting her lip. "Can you lift me?"

"Can I lift- Christ, Granger," he growled, and turned her, settling his hands on her hips. "When will you refrain from
your wild underestimations?"

"Shut up," she snapped, and he obligingly half-lifted, half-tossed her up, careful to keep one eye on her landing even
as he noticed Morrison's small, inaudible yelp, his wand rolling onto the floor from his hand.

"There," Draco pronounced, catching her against his chest and settling her back on the ground. "Was that so hard?"

"He's going to run, Malfoy," she warned, turning to face him as they traversed several steps across the floor, opting
for a sharp, diagonal path to make their way past the other couples. "Do you have some sort of plan?"

Draco looked down, catching sight of the stray wand as it rolled towards the dance floor. Morrison's quick footsteps,
now opposite the direction of travel, were visible from among the crowded fray. "There," he said, and just as
Hermione registered the reference, he dipped her again, hoping she'd manage to figure it out.

The wand slipped out from her sleeve and then, just before he raised her up to eye level, he caught the motion of the
leg-locker curse she'd cast, freezing Morrison in place just a few steps away as the song came to an end.

"Wait," Draco called, pulling her back as she made to go after Morrison. He offered her a perfunctory bow,
gesturing warningly around the room and lifting a brow until she sighed, permitting him a small, somewhat
inelegant curtsy. "There. Was that so hard?" he muttered, and she groaned aloud, grabbing his arm and pulling her
after him as she caught up to Morrison.

"Where can we take him?" she asked Draco, slipping his wand back to him as she shifted to hold hers against
Morrison's spine. "The kitchens?"

Draco nodded, glancing over his shoulder with his hand on the small of her back as she apparated them in,
disillusioning them quickly as the last of the hired elves wandered out to the auctions with the charmed plates of
hors d'oeuvres.

"Who do you work for?" Hermione demanded the moment they'd gone, throwing Morrison down on the ground.

"My goodness, such finesse," Draco commented, but she ignored him, watching as Morrison's mouth contorted in
fury.

"Not telling you," he snarled, and Hermione grimaced, shaking her head.

"Bad call," she warned, and then, without much change in expression, she lashed out with the blade of her hand,
hitting Morrison just behind the ear and pausing with grim expectation as he let out a howl, his head falling back.
"Let's try again," she offered coolly, smoothing a loose curl back from her face. "Who do you work for?"

Morrison struggled to sit up, taking a moment to manage a breath, and then he looked up, his expression marked
with defiance. He motioned slowly, raising a hand to mimic the turn of an invisible key against his lips with a nasty,
irreverent smirk, and Hermione promptly bent, smashing the heel of her hand into his nose and breaking it with a
motion that turned Draco's stomach, leaving him to grumble incoherently with disgust.

"You have a wand, you know," Draco reminded her, and she shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Do you have Veritaserum?" she asked him, as Morrison turned his head, spitting blood onto the kitchen's tiled
floor. "Might make things go faster. Though I don't particularly mind if he leaves here in pieces," she remarked
darkly, arching a brow at Morrison.

"If he leaves here at all," Draco prompted, bending to look at him. "Right?"

At that, Morrison offered a primal sort of smile, bearing his bloodied teeth.

"I know who you are," he rasped to Draco, his gaze flicking defiantly to Hermione and then back. "I know you're
going to kill me."

"Maybe I won't," Draco muttered, tutting with displeasure. "Frankly, I find I'm tired of being so unduly predicted."

"I know who you are," Morrison repeated, "and I know what you do, and I'm not saying a fucking word."

"We can make this painless," Draco offered, and Morrison's expression contorted.

"Can you?" he growled, dubious, and Hermione glanced at Draco, apprehensively bemused.

There was a noise behind them and she and Draco turned, catching sight of Daisy as she hurried in from the
ballroom with Harry following closely at her heels.

"Saw you two disapparate," she said, panting. "Wasn't sure where you were going, but - "

"WATCH OUT!" Harry warned, and behind them, there was a loud thud; Draco turned, startled, in time to see that
Morrison had knocked a knife from the counter above, catching the handle of it in his hand.

Draco shoved Hermione out of the way, launching them both backwards, but Morrison only laughed.

"Wait," Hermione gasped, knocking Draco aside and crawling towards him, but it was too late. Morrison had
plunged the knife into his chest without hesitation, puncturing one of his lungs before collapsing back with a gurgle,
twitching momentarily as his hand slid from the handle of the knife and onto the floor. "NO," Hermione shouted,
lunging forward and pressing her hand to the wound, lifting Morrison's head and shaking him. "No, he has to - you
have to tell us - "

"Granger," Draco said, coaxing her back, but she shoved him away. "Granger, stop - "

"No, this isn't - he can't - "

"Hermione," Harry said, reaching them. "He's not going to answer."

"Come on, Granger," Draco said, slipping an arm around her waist and helping her to her feet, swaying with her as
she stood. "It's a lost cause."

"He's dead," she stammered, blinking as she stared first at Morrison, and then at his blood staining her hands. "How
- how did that happen?"

Draco, lost for words, said nothing.

"Check him for the lemniscate," Daisy instructed, stepping forward, and Harry nodded, searching through
Morrison's pockets and withdrawing a parchment with a sketch of the infinity symbol on it.

"Here," he said, and turned over his shoulder, eyeing Draco. "Do you have the poison?"

"No," Draco realized, kicking himself. "It was destroyed when I tested it, and we vanished the glass." He looked
down, eyeing Hermione; she was only managing shallow breaths, leaning back against his chest. "We should get
back," he told Harry, tightening his arm around Hermione's waist. "You said you didn't want our cover blown, and
we'll need an alibi for this."
Harry nodded. "We'll take care of this," he said flatly, gesturing to Morrison's body as Daisy nodded her agreement.
"You two get back to the party. But you should - " he trailed off, grimacing, and waved a hand at the front of
Hermione's gown, gesturing to the blood that lingered on the fabric of her dress and the skin of her palms. "You
know."

Draco nodded, charming the blood away, and then slipped his arm around her waist before apparating them into the
foyer, turning to face her.

"Hey," he said, nudging her. "Granger."

She blinked, semi-catatonic, and he sighed.

"You broke his nose without blinking, you know," he reminded her. "You were going to torture him." He paused,
grimacing, as she made no reaction. "You can't let this bother you this much."

At that, she finally looked up, her brown eyes wide.

"I like fighting," she said. "I like to fight. But that - "

"He knew he wasn't making it out of there," he reminded her, and she swallowed heavily, shaking her head.

"He said he knew you," she said. "What did he mean?"

Draco paused, uncomfortably clearing his throat. "He, um - " he paused, hesitating. "He probably knew there was a
hit out on him. I mean, he killed a goblin," he explained hurriedly, "so he would have known they wanted him dead
in retribution, and - "

"You were hired to kill him, then," Hermione supplied darkly, and blanched. "And he preferred to stab himself
rather than let you do it," she added, staring at her feet before slowly looking up, something unrecognizable in her
gaze.

Draco waited, uneasy.

"How many people have you killed, exactly?" Hermione demanded, her mouth tightening.

He swallowed. He supposed it was better that she return to a state of discord rather than an episode of paralysis, but
still, he preferred not to consider it.

"Do you really want an answer to that question?" he prompted sharply, and she lifted her chin with a scowl.

"Malfoy - "

"We have to go in," he reminded her, gesturing to the ballroom. "We have to act normal. Can you do that?"

"What just happened isn't normal," she snapped. "It's - that's not - "

"Can you do it?" Draco asked again, impassively. "Yes or no. If it's a yes, we can dance," he told her. "We can let
them take a few more pictures, give them something to wag their imbecilic tongues about, and then we can leave
and you can resume your distaste for me and my work in whatever capacity you wish. If the answer is no, then we're
done here," he warned her. "It won't take much to connect us with what happened if it gets out, and then - "

She glared at him.

"I can do it," she cut in, turning towards the ballroom, and she strode in without pause, leaving him to sigh with
something that was equal parts disgruntlement and relief.

"I'm supposed to lead," he reminded her, spinning her to face him as they stepped onto the ballroom floor. "Or
would you prefer to dip me?" he drawled, to which she made a face, unwilling to indulge him.
"You look disheveled," she commented, pursing her lips. "Your hair's not nearly as snobbily coiffed as it normally
is," she added, seemingly intent on irritating him. "Makes no sense without your usual air of arseholery."

Draco, taking a moment to bite his tongue on a far more unpleasant quip, looked up, happening to catch Rhys' eyes
on them from across the room.

"Run your fingers through it, then," he suggested, and she balked, leaning back in his arms to glare at him. "What?"
he prompted innocently, shrugging as she met his eye with suspicion. "We're dating, aren't we?"

"I just don't want whatever stuffy pomade you use dirtying up my fingers, Malfoy," she grumbled, and he let out a
mirthless laugh.

"Your opposition is adorable, Granger, but you're desperately reaching," he informed her, and took one of her hands,
raising it to the side of his temple. "Go on," he muttered, smirking at her. "I dare you."

She scowled, narrowing her eyes, but relented. She slid her fingers through his hair, brushing the loose strands back,
and he nodded his approval, his fingers digging mockingly into the small of her back.

"Look at that," he remarked, provoking her. "Neither of us died."

"Yet," she snapped, and stomped hard on his foot, prompting him to double over in pain. "Sorry, darling," she sang
insincerely, and he, not to be outdone, spun her out without warning only to yank her back in, relishing the look of
startled apprehension on her face.

"Kiss me," he suggested neutrally, and her eyes widened.

"Absolutely not," she snapped, her feet abruptly falling still. "That's ridiculous. Now you're just taunting me."

"Oh, sure, it's ridiculous that we might kiss," he scoffed, giving her a less-than-gentle nudge to resume their dance.
"Nevermind that we've allegedly already done so on the cover of the Daily Prophet, of all places - "

"That," she retorted, grumbling as the music quickened, "was a private moment. If I kiss you now, that's just
pandering."

"I didn't realize you were so opposed," Draco said. "You know, Potter said you were mission-oriented," he added
casually, "but now I'm not so sure."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione demanded, her cheeks flaming. "In what world is kissing you a
requirement?"

"Don't, then," he said, turning her, and again he caught Rhys Hawkworth's glance, the other man's gaze following
Hermione as Draco spun her around the room. "I mean, if you're afraid, obviously - "

"Afraid?" she asked, outraged. "Of what?"

"Oh, I don't know," Draco mused, privately enjoying how flustered she was. "Maybe you're out of practice," he
suggested, fighting laughter as her eyes, already comically large, widened in furious disbelief. "Or, you know.
Maybe you're nervous," he said in her ear, feeling tension creep warningly up her spine, "because you think you
might actually like it - "

Abruptly, she leaned back, and he was certain she was going to hit him again; he was positive he'd pushed her too
far. He shut his eyes, wincing pre-emptively, but then, to his uninhibited surprise, she took his face roughly in her
hands, pulling his lips down to hers.

For a moment he went rigid, entirely caught off guard, and his teeth collided rather inelegantly with hers; but then,
after a moment of recognition - at the pressure of her fingers around the back of his neck, pointedly motioning for
him to get on with it - he tugged her in closer, letting one hand rest on her waist as the other rose, curling around her
cheek. She tasted, he noted, like the champagne that still fizzed on his tongue, but there was something else to it,
something sharper than sweet; as if curiosity had a flavor, a spice, and it had sparked between them both.

His thumb slid lower, finding her jaw, and he drew it along the side of her neck, permitting a breath's distance
between them with a hazy, careful motion as he listened to - felt - her clear her throat expectantly.

"Well," she managed, swallowing. "Are you out of practice, Malfoy?" she murmured, digging her fingers into the
base of his skull without pulling away. "I have to say, I expected more from you."

He rolled his eyes. Liar.

"Forgotten all about whatever you were angry with before, then?" he prompted. "You know," he said slyly,
shrugging, "that small, nearly insignificant excursion into murder that you were so foolishly atwitter about, or
whatever it was - "

"You're an arse," Hermione hissed against his lips.

"You're still kissing me," he reminded her, and she drew back, fuming.

"Are we done here?" she demanded, and he saw her gaze travel over his shoulder to where Rhys Hawkworth was
standing - no doubt with his oversized jaw hovering near the ground, Draco thought, permitting himself a strange,
intangible satisfaction.

"Yes," he confirmed, feeling inordinately pleased. "Yes, Granger, I think we are."

Ludovic Bagman was what you might call a betting man. He had fallen a long way, but that, in his mind, was only
the first roll of the die, and in his more than ample experience, there would always be another.

It wasn't the first time, after all, that he had been encountered with some sort of difficulty. He'd had a charmed
adolescence, but his career as a popular quidditch player - the star beater for the Wimbourne Wasps, adored for his
athletic prowess - had ended long before he was entirely ready to let it go. When he'd suffered his career-ending
injury, he'd thought it at first a minor lapse. He was strong after all, and fit, and he was certain he would recover
quickly.

He hadn't. It was the first bad hand he'd been dealt; but still, he hadn't let it rule him.

Once quidditch was no longer an option, he had been approached by Augustus Rookwood, who had hinted rather
heavily that he could get Ludo a job in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. That, of course, was the next
best career short of swatting violent flying balls at other people, and so Ludo had been eager to meet with
Rookwood whenever he asked, obliging his endless questions about Ludovic Sr's work in the Ministry and not
bothering to wonder why Rookwood insisted on keeping his wrist concealed.

Of course, Ludo's subsequent trial had been unexpected. Barty Crouch had had it in for him, Ludo was certain, but
luckily, his past had buoyed him up for an easy ride. Once he'd realized that Rookwood was on the losing side, Ludo
had swung with a beater's precision to land a hit for the other team, happily helping to put Rookwood in Azkaban
while his own jury congratulated him on his success.

A near fall. A near miss. But ultimately a win, and from there, he had risen.

Ludo's name was cleared and he was never accused again (despite Crouch's ongoing opposition) and he eventually
did land in the DMGS, even rising so far as to rule it as head of the department. He was a man who liked his
comforts, and it was a position easily made comfortable; he was, after all, presented with quite a lot of inside
information from people currying his favor. When he first began placing bets on the outcomes of the games, he told
himself they weren't even bets at all; they were, in fact, sure things, which was another matter entirely.

Eventually, though, even that lost its thrill. The pleasure was not in the winning, but in the certainty of winning;
over time, Ludo began intervening where he felt he could make things more interesting. After all, why assume the
Falmouth Falcons would beat Puddlemere United on the basis of superiority and instead make certain he would
achieve the outcome he desired, simply by disqualifying Puddlemere's best player?

As Ludo's power grew, so too did his fortune, and subsequently, so did his debts. He found he had a need for some
kind of risk; the competitive drive of his youthful athleticism hadn't faltered, and he found himself without sufficient
vice. It was a drive that could not be satiated, and once he grew more reckless, he found he couldn't stop. When
wizards no longer had the treasuries to match him, Ludo pivoted to placing bets with goblins, who loved treasure
above all things - or so he thought for a time.

He soon became wise to his mistake. Goblins loved treasure above all things, true, save for one; they loved
retribution just as fully.

Acknowledgement of his error was, unfortunately, not sufficient to put a stop to it; after a certain point, Ludo's debts
had grown so large that only an exceptional win would fill them. His salary, after all, was plentiful, but he could not
simply demand an advance from the Ministry itself, and so when he sensed another fall approaching, he took a leap.
A sure thing. A safe bet.

After all, what was a safer bet than Harry Potter, the boy who simply could not die?

He hadn't counted on Potter's stubbornness; his insufferable morality. Ludo was a man who craved winning, and
Potter, inexplicably, was a boy who seemed utterly oblivious to the concept. No matter how much assistance Ludo
offered, Potter never took it, and then he'd had the gall to go so frustratingly noble at the end as to allow a tie that
Ludo thought he might have strangled the boy at the sight of him, knowing that was it for him. That was the end.

Ludo managed to escape the goblins and go on the run, but even with his history of bad hands, he was certain he
would find a way to win. Sure, England wasn't safe for him now, but eventually it would be. Eventually he would
return, and he would find refuge - and vengeance, if need be - where he always had: with those who remembered
him for his greatness. For his talent. For his inescapable might.

Unfortunately, that certainty had begun nearly eight years prior, and resolution had been nowhere in sight; not until,
that is, Ludo acquired a valuable associate.

"Did it work?" he asked her, stumbling into the kitchen of their shitty Parisian flat. "There's nothing in the French
news, but - "

"Nothing," Dolores returned, scowling as she raised that morning's copy of the Daily Prophet. "The only thing in the
news is that stupid silent auction, not to mention some added lunacy about two idiot children in love - "

"In love?" he echoed, picking up the paper and scowling as Lucius Malfoy's son leaned in, his lips near the ear of a
girl Ludo highly doubted was worth any notable celebration. "I take it Morrison failed, then."

"It would appear so," Dolores snapped, her toad-like face even more pinched than usual. "Have you not heard from
Morrison, then? Or your friend?"

"No," Ludo sighed, shaking his head. "You'd think if something had happened, though, it would have showed up
somewhere," he grumbled, glaring again at the image of the Malfoy boy on the paper's cover. "I doubt they'd have
covered this rubbish otherwise."

"This is Potter's doing," Dolores declared, upending a cup of day-old tea and letting out a strangled shriek as it
shattered on the ground. "He's so damned quiet - "

"Potter? Quiet?" Ludo echoed, scoffing. "Compared to what, a vuvuzela?"

"He's sneaky, then," Dolores amended, pacing the floor of the aged kitchen. "That Dumbledore's Army he put
together - it was furtive, it was covert. That's his style - "

"I think you give the boy far too much credit," Ludo said drily, and she rounded on him, brandishing a stubby finger
in his face.
"He could have spies," she hissed, her eyes wide and manic. "He could have a whole network of spies, Ludo - "

"So we'll draw them out, then," Ludo said, shrugging. "There's no need to be so dramatic. All we have to do is try
again. The Club will have to take notice once we hit Britain," he reminded her. "We're using their symbol, after all. I
highly doubt they're not already keeping tabs as it is."

Dolores shook her head, unconvinced.

"This has always been a gamble, Ludo," Dolores warned, bristling. "The longer it takes to draw out the Club, the
more we chance getting caught, and then - "

"We're not getting caught," Ludo cut in flatly. "Even if something happened with Morrison, nobody can trace that
poison back to us. All we need to do is to garner the Club's attention, scare a few politicians while we're at it, and
then we'll be back in the Ministry's good graces in no time. The plan is solid," he reminded her firmly. "It's not a
gamble, Dolores, if you know you're going to win."

"You'd better be right," Dolores grumbled, glaring at him. "If I lose to Harry Potter again, Ludo, I swear - "

"We're not going to," Ludo assured her. "Never again."

And they wouldn't.

Because Ludo Bagman might have been what you call a betting man, and perhaps it was true that he'd fallen; but
he'd cast enough bets in his lifetime to know that this, the thrill of an unplayed hand, could only give way to
greatness.

a/n: dedicated to mama2hpbabies, Dreameuro, and superflare!

 9. Idiots Abroad

Chapter 9: Idiots Abroad

The Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement

September 28, 2003
12:30 a.m.

"Look," Harry sighed, falling back in his chair and loosening his tie around his neck. "I understand it's asking a lot
of you, Parkinson, but - "

"It's 'asking a lot,' seriously?" Pansy echoed dubiously, folding her arms over her chest with a loud, unencumbered
huff. "Potter, I think you know perfectly well that you're lucky I haven't already cursed you straight into next
Wednesday - "

"You saved his life, Pansy," Harry reminded her, cutting her off. "Which, to me, means two things: one, that his
life's clearly in danger," he enumerated, pointedly holding up a finger, "and two, that you're actually capable of
keeping an eye on him."

Pansy's mouth pursed in displeasure, which she masked with a saccharine bat of her eyes. "Potter, may I remind
you," she ventured sweetly, "that I am simply a humble party planner, and not equipped for such a high pressure
task?"

"First of all, it's event planner," Harry corrected, "and secondly, you and I both know that's not at all what you are."

Pansy scowled, abruptly abandoning her act. "Says who?"

Harry shrugged. "Call it my spectacular intuition," he suggested, resting his hands casually behind his head.
"Strangely, I'm rather good at my job. Or, at least," he amended, "considerably better than Malfoy thinks I am."

Pansy groaned, unconvinced.

"What you are is a spectacular little shit," she informed him, to which Harry remained coolly unfazed. "And
anyway," she pressed, "has Weasley even agreed to this?"

Harry paused a moment, hesitating.

"I don't know if you've noticed," he began, hedging almost immediately, "but Percy's not especially cognizant of
human nature. I wouldn't say it's necessary for him to be informed that anything's changed. I mean, you're already
working together," he reminded her, approximating innocence, "so - "

"Hold on," Pansy interrupted, and Harry sighed. "You're saying you want me to babysit Weasley under the guise of
planning his horrible Ministry conference?"

"If you recall, that isn't actually that distinct from what you're already doing," Harry reminded her, confirming her
suspicion with an obnoxious lack of shame. "I'd just like you to have a bit more contact, that's all," he went on,
consummately unburdened by the asking. "Keep an eye on things he receives, you know - any new communication
he might have, or unusual meetings he might be asked to take - "

"You want me to spy on Percy Weasley," Pansy concluded flatly, irritated. "That's insane."

"Well, it's for his protection," Harry said, shrugging. "I doubt he'll mind."

She growled her disagreement. "Of course he'll m- you know what, THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" she shouted,
glaring at him. "Whether he minds or not, Potter, this isn't what I signed up for!"

"In fairness, you signed up for nothing," Harry pointed out, which she felt was actually incredibly unfair, but he
pressed on without much deliberation. "This, if anything, is far more interesting a task, isn't it?"

True, she thought grimly, but unhelpful. "Why can't Draco and Granger do it?"

"They're going to be out of the country," Harry supplied, his face carefully schooled. "Taking a romantic trip to New
York for the week. And after that, who knows?" he added. "What's a relationship without a little jaunt to Paris, am I
right? Or, you know." He shrugged. "Stockholm, for example."

"Oh, fuck off, Potter," Pansy said, rolling her eyes. "The U.S., French, and Scandinavian Ministries?" She waited,
but Harry's face didn't change. "You might be able to trick all the middle-aged housewives, you know," Pansy
continued angrily, "but you and I both know that there's no way in hell those two are actually dating. You have them
working on something else, I take it?"

Harry paused, steepling his fingers at his lips.

"That," he pronounced carefully, "is well above your security clearance, Parkinson."

She glared at him, fuming.

"What if Weasley dies?" she demanded, feeling her mouth tighten. "Is that on my hands, then?"

Harry shrugged, pulling his tie from the collar of his dress robes and tossing it into a cavernous drawer at the bottom
of his desk.

"Don't let him die," he suggested, "and I suppose we won't have to find out."

Nott Manor
September 28, 2003
2:43 a.m.

Surprisingly, nobody was home, and Daphne fell back on the sofa, exhausted. Pansy had wanted to rant about her
new assignment - as though snooping on Percy Weasley was really so burdensome a task, Daphne had thought
delicately, but made a point not to say aloud - and now it was too late to go home without arousing suspicion from
her mother, so she figured she might as well stay at Theo's. Blaise, she noted, was absent; Draco, too, hadn't returned
after the event; and strangest of all, Theo's door was closed. It wasn't out of the question that he'd simply gone to
bed, she thought, but she'd always thought of him as somewhat of a sleepless creature.

A pity, really. She'd wanted to talk to someone about Cad (specifically, to venture cautiously about how suspicious
she was after seeing him at the Palace auction without being scolded for her requisite misbehaviors) but wasn't sure
who she could trust with the information. Pansy, had she not been bemoaning her own situation with Percy Weasley,
would have simply called Daphne a fool for indulging Cad to begin with; and to that point, Daphne supposed she'd
be right. But despite the obvious warning signs - the obvious red flags - Daphne had consistently found herself
skeptical of the possibility that Cad was actually dangerous.

Skeptical, that is, until she'd seen him just moments before an attempted assassination; but hadn't there been
thousands of other people there as well?

She resolved to push him from her mind, if only temporarily, and crept up to the third floor, heading towards the
door to one of the spare bedrooms. The house was empty and quiet, almost eerily so, but for a moment, she thought
she heard the Floo downstairs come to life.

Daphne paused briefly, waiting.

"Hello?" she called down the stairs, to no response.

She shrugged, figuring she'd imagined it, and slid into the bedroom, letting out a sigh as she made to remove her
heavy chandelier earrings. She had her hair halfway out of its complicated twist when the door opened behind her,
revealing a languid Cad in the doorway.

"Oh, leave it up, won't you?" he requested blithely, eyeing his fingernails as she gasped, backing against the desk in
the corner. "Your hair," he clarified, taking a step in the room. "I'd like to make a mess of it myself, if you don't
mind."

"Cad," she exhaled sharply, holding her hand to her racing pulse. "What the fuck - "

"Unless you have other plans," he prompted, taking another step. His hand floated towards her, reaching for her
cheek, but she swatted it away, hurrying to shut the door and then glaring at him across the room.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, careful to keep distance between them. "How did you even know where to
find me?"

At that, he sighed, leaning his elbow against the wall.

"Well, first of all, lovely to see you too, Daphne," he informed her airily. "I know I'm supposed to let three days pass
or something before I ask you out again," he permitted, shrugging, "but that just seems foolish. I mean honestly, who
has the time - "

"How," Daphne protested, smacking his shoulder as he shifted towards her, "did you find me?"

He shrugged again.

"Tracking spell," he said. "Obviously."

"What is that?" she demanded. "There's no such thing!"

"Well, you say that, and yet here I am," he remarked, glancing around the room. "Whose house is this, by the way?"

"Not yours," she snapped. "And not mine either, so how in the name of Salazar's garter did you possibly get in here?
This house is riddled with wards and blood enchantments, and - "

"Well," Cad interrupted, clearing his throat. "Blood wards sort of aren't a problem for me. Especially not Sacred
Twenty-Eight blood wards," he added, "so - "

"What does that mean?" Daphne demanded, wanting entirely to hex him in frustration despite the fact that (or,
perhaps, because) he looked so unfairly good, and so absurdly unbothered by her ire. "And what about that party?
There's no possible way you were invited," she added, not bothering to conceal her conceit. "I thought you said you
were nobody in particular - "

"Well, that's just rude," Cad sniffed. "I believe what I said was that I wasn't moneyed or well-born, but I'd hardly
diminish myself to nobody - "

"What were you doing there, then?" she prompted brusquely. "Did you try to kill Weasley?"

At that, he huffed in irritation, stepping away.

"I see you're in no mood to be reasonable," he pronounced, scowling. "Is the man dead?"

She blinked, startled by his shift in tone.

"No," she permitted, "but - "

"Exactly," Cad told her, cutting her off. "Were he actually dead, then perhaps I'd understand your suspicion - but as
it is, you're way over the line. It's one thing to accuse me of murder," he added, "but quite another thing altogether to
accuse me of incompetence with regard to a failed murder - "

"What on earth," Daphne exhaled sharply, "are you on about?"

Cad paused, scrutinizing her, and then abruptly took four long strides, backing her against the post of the bed.

"Daphne," he began, glancing down at her. "I promise you, I didn't try to kill anyone tonight."

She pursed her lips, hoping for sanity.

"You still followed me home," she reminded him disapprovingly, and he shrugged.

"If you'd prefer I not do that in the future, then I won't," he said, and for some highly inexplicable reason, she felt
oddly confident that he meant it. "I simply wanted to see you."

He shifted towards her and she, fool that she was, reached a hand out, resting it on the lapel of his dress robes.

"Are you only a thief?" she asked him, staring at the way his breath halted briefly beneath her touch. "Is that all?"

He cleared his throat. "Theft is on my CV, yes," he supplied, his hands settling themselves on her hips. "Among
other things."

"Like?" she prompted, closing her eyes as he leaned forward, his lips brushing the side of her neck.

"I've been known to indulge in some dastardly pursuits," he permitted, shrugging. "Some more knavish than others.
For example, I personally find it unforgivable that I, knowingly, and in full possession of my not-inconsiderable
faculties, declined to bend you over the Palace stairwell when I saw you earlier," he mused, running the backs of his
fingers down the path of her decolletage. "I should be struck down," he said in her ear, "and mercilessly flayed, I
think, for my heinous crimes of oversight."

Daphne implored herself to be firm.

"This," she protested, fighting a gasp, "is not going to work."

"She said, unconvincingly," Cad acknowledged with a chuckle, nudging her back on the bed. "By all means,
Daphne," he suggested, tilting her chin up to bring her lips to his, barely touching them and still reducing her to ruin.
"If you want me gone, then simply tell me to leave."

She struggled, running the scenarios, and ultimately sighed, resigned. He smiled.

"I don't appreciate this," she informed him as he gathered her up with one arm, half-tossing her backwards onto the
bed. "This - this seduction," she attempted, hoping still to talk herself out of it, "or whatever this is - "

"Well, if you can't tell what it is, I'm clearly doing it wrong," Cad informed her, shaking his head and yanking the
skirt up her legs. "See this?" he prompted, pausing to gesture to himself as he pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee.
"This is me engaging one of my other talents. One which I think you might have some familiarity with," he added,
brushing his lips against her thigh, "unless, of course, the events of last night managed to slip your attention - "

"It sounds familiar," she managed hazily, squirming as he made his way back up to her neck. "But if we're going to
keep doing this," she said, shoving his head away and glaring down at him, "you're going to have to start answering
my questions."

Cad stopped again, shifting to grab her by the waist and pulling her chest against his as he sat up in bed.

"Daphne Greengrass," he said, his lips brushing hers. "Are you suspicious of me?"

He was impossible.

He was impossible.

"Deeply," she said truthfully. "Unquestionably."

His mouth twitched, amused.

"Ask me, then," he invited, his fingers pressing distractingly into the slats of her ribs. "Ask me if I'm a villain,
Daphne."

She blinked, trying desperately to steady herself.

"Are you a villain?" she managed, and he smiled broadly, a laugh escaping into her mouth.

"Yes," he said, and she gasped, breathless, as he tore apart the bodice of her dress.

Harry Potter was a person who knew the value of a well-timed secret.

After all, he'd been the subject of one for most of his adolescence, hadn't he? Call it a prophecy if you want, but all it
really was was a secret, and everyone around him had kept it so brilliantly that maybe it wasn't all that surprising
that what he ultimately learned from it - from everything - was that knowing everything all at once is not always the
most important thing. Sometimes, in order to be most effective, it was best to keep some information to himself.

He hadn't been aware, though, that he would carry the same sort of attitude into his romantic relationships; that is,
until he found himself in one that he wasn't quite sure he could explain to anyone else.

The first time that Harry Potter kissed Theo Nott was the night he and Ginny had broken up.

Not a good start, obviously. Not promising at all.

Harry had been pissed out of his mind, lamenting less the loss of the relationship (she was rarely home, after all, and
in fact, it had only taken thirty minutes to break something that had been building for nearly five years) and more his
own staggering idiocy when Theo had appeared in the muggle pub, eyeing Harry skeptically from across the room.

"Potter," he said, offering the first word either of them had spoken to each other since leaving Hogwarts. It was also,
notably, the first exchange that had been about neither Potions class nor an ongoing disagreement as to whether one
or both of them were being a massive git (read: fucking dickstick).

"You look shit," Theo informed him, without ceremony or elaboration.

It had taken everything Harry possessed not to punch him in the face.

"Have a drink or get out of my face, Nott," he'd replied.

Despite Harry's efforts over the year or so prior to temper Draco's unfortunate social situation, the existence of Theo
Nott (notably one of Draco's associates) had scarcely even occurred to him. Harry found he didn't know enough
about Theo to care much whether or not he'd suffered from the aftermath of the war, but more importantly, in the
moment he didn't find himself much willing to do anything other than bury himself at the bottom of his glass of
scotch.

Theo, to his surprise, had opted to sit down beside him.

"What are we drinking to?" Theo asked.

Harry shrugged. "To misery," he began, lifting his glass, "and total disillusionment."

"Been reading my diary, then," Theo murmured, clinking his glass against Harry's and tossing it back without
flinching.

Meeting Theo Nott was like becoming acquaintances with a hurricane. Harry was drunk, certainly, and would likely
have gotten drunker on his own, but with Theo's influence, he was smashed. Conversation turned from muggles
("Why are you in this bar?" Harry asked, to which Theo replied, "Do you really think I can go to wizard bars? Check
your fucking privilege, Potter") to muggle things ("It's called a what, again?" Theo asked, to which Harry replied, "A
condom," and Theo promptly made a face) to their pasts ("Why were you such a fucking dick?" Harry asked, to
which Theo replied, "Trust me, nothing's changed") to, ultimately, the realm of inevitability upon which all drunk
conversations eventually arrive.

Sex.

"One woman, huh?" Theo had asked, shaking his head. "But you've got the Chosen Dick, don't you?"

"Been in a relationship since I was sixteen," Harry reminded him. "Haven't gotten a lot of opportunities to use it."

"That," Theo declared, "is fucked."

He stepped off the stool then, stumbling, and Harry caught him.

"Christ," he muttered, "you're drunk."

"You're hot," Theo retorted, and Harry blinked.

"What?"

"I didn't fucking stutter," Theo slurred, and swayed in place, launching himself back upright. "Did I?"

He had, but that wasn't the point.

"You think I'm hot?" Harry asked, bemused. "I thought you were straight."

"I am," Theo said, and let out a bark of laughter. "Most of the time," he amended, and shrugged, and Harry, who had
not previously lived in a world where considerations of straight or otherwise were subject to change, simply stared at
him.

Theo Nott, Harry realized, was actually sort of hot himself.

(If, that is, you were in the market for something lean and and tall and tightly muscular, with narrow hips and a filthy
mouth and dark hair that swept forward into his eyes and a jaw like a fucking Greek god's - which, Harry reminded
himself, he definitely wasn't interested in, because there wasn't a trace of femininity about Theo Nott. He was a man.
He was definitely a man, and he had a man's chest and hands and mouth, and -

Dear god, Harry wasn't in the market for Theo Nott, was he?)

"How," Harry began, and paused. "How do you know? You know," he added, swallowing, "if you like, um - "

He trailed off and Theo shrugged, his eyes half-closed.

"Kiss me and find out," he suggested.

Harry kissed him.

Harry tasted him.

And then Harry went home and couldn't fucking sleep.

It took several months before he ran into Theo Nott again, but Harry was distinctly relieved he was sober that time.
He'd gone out with a few girls in the meantime, including a few of Mel's friends, but found he wasn't exactly ready
to commit. It was December twenty-fourth, and Harry was in Diagon Alley, and Theo Nott was walking briskly
down the street.

"Hey," Harry offered stupidly, spotting him, and Theo careened to a halt.

"Hey," Theo returned.

Then Harry, much to his surprise, breathed an unexpected sigh of relief, noticing in a glance that he wasn't the only
one who hadn't forgotten their encounter. Theo's eyes brusquely traced the shape of Harry's mouth and Harry knew
Theo remembered every detail just the way he had: the dim light of the muggle street outside; the gleam from the
wet pavement; the way Theo's lips had tasted sweeter than the scotch, and more than twice as troubling.

"I can only do one drink," Harry warned him once they'd stepped into the Leaky. "Going to the Burrow this evening
to stay a few days for Christmas. The Weasley family home," he clarified, and Theo shrugged.

"One drink, then," he permitted, seemingly disinterested.

One drink turned into two.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" Harry asked, and Theo shrugged again.

"Nothing," he said. "No family. Probably just pretend it doesn't exist," he said, and Harry felt himself frown.

"Want to come with me?" he asked, going momentarily insane.

Theo paused.

"Another drink," he said, "and I'll think about it."

Two drinks became four, and then Harry asked again.

"Ron won't mind," Harry assured him, though he was fairly confident that was a lie. "You should come."

"Alternate offer," Theo said, and glanced up, meeting Harry's eye. "Stay with me instead."

Harry blinked.

"Wh-"

"Stay with me," Theo said. "I'll kiss you," he added, smirking. "I'll kiss you as much as you fucking want." He
shrugged again, unfailingly dispassionate. "I'll fucking make you pancakes in the morning."

At that, Harry frowned again, startled.

"Morning?" he echoed, and Theo's mouth quirked.

"Where do you think the kissing's going to go, Potter?" he asked neutrally.

Harry told himself he would spend one night with Theo Nott. One night to assuage his curiosity, and then he would
go to the Burrow in the morning. One night of Theo Nott tearing his clothes off and kissing the scars on his ribs and
delivering him to bliss and paralysis and confusion, and then he would go back to his normal life. To his normal
friends. To his search for a nice girl to settle down with, not the narrow-hipped, foul-mouthed arsehole who tasted
like a thousand impossible things and who blew him like he'd been waiting his whole life for just one touch.

"Morning," Theo had said when it was over, levitating in a plate of burnt pancakes as he wandered back to his
bedroom in a towel. "Should've told you I can't actually cook."

"Did you shower?" Harry asked, gesturing, and Theo glanced down.

"No," he said. "But you left my underwear by the fountains outside, so - "

"Do you only own one pair?" Harry prompted, arching a brow.

"Are we about to have our first fight," Theo sniffed obnoxiously, letting the towel fall to the floor, "or do you want
to fuck in the shower?"
It was only going to be one night, Harry reminded himself, preparing himself to refuse. If you don't leave soon, he
added sternly, they'll start Christmas morning at the Burrow without you.

But instead of listening to himself, he simply said "sure," climbing out from under the duvet and following Theo to
the bathroom.

Harry supposed he should have known it would only get worse from there. He could have handled a friendship with
Theo Nott, and probably could have even managed casual sex with Theo Nott, too, being as adept as he was with
secrets, but the combination of both was difficult to classify.

"What's this film called?" Theo had asked once, and Harry glanced over, frowning at him.

"Aren't you paying attention?" he prompted. "It's Star Wars."

"Interesting," Theo said neutrally. "And the spaceflyer?"

"Skywalker," Harry corrected.

"What's his deal with his father?" Theo asked.

"Kind of a long story," Harry said.

"Fuck," Theo exhaled, shifting to bite down on Harry's shoulder. "Been there."

Was it a relationship? Not in the traditional sense. They didn't spend every night in each other's beds. They rarely
went out in public, and if they did, they went into muggle London, or took weekends to travel somewhere else
altogether. For Theo's birthday, Harry bought him a Star Wars poster that Theo immediately took down ("Luke
Spaceflyer is just staring at me, not doing anything," Theo had said, shuddering. "It's fucking eerie, Potter - ") and
then he'd licked buttercream frosting off Theo's stomach and called it a cake. For Harry's birthday, Theo had tossed a
broom at him, informed him it was now his ("you needed one," he said), and then given him a hundred-piece box of
McDonald's chicken nuggets ("these are shit, by the way," Theo said, after they'd eaten about seventy-five).

It wasn't conventional, but after a while it was comfortable, and that was more than Harry could have ever hoped to
expect.

"I have to go to a gala," Harry had said the night prior, getting dressed in Theo's room after wasting most of the
evening on lazy sex and a lengthy discourse about which quidditch team had the stupidest logo. "I can come over
after, if you'll be up."

"I'm always up," Theo reminded him, tossing him his shirt. "But I'm starting to think you're ashamed of me, Potter.
Where's my invitation?" he asked slyly.

Harry froze, panicked, and Theo laughed.

"Gotcha," he said, smacking Harry's arse and kissing the back of his neck. "Should see your face," he added,
chuckling as he walked into his bathroom.

The secrecy was by necessity, of course, though whose necessity was never quite clear. Harry, naturally, had the
Auror department to think of, and with regard to his career it was less an issue of his sexual orientation being
questioned and more a consideration of whether what he was doing was even serious enough to merit
announcement. Theo, for his part, hadn't mentioned anything to Draco or the others. Harry assumed the secrecy
meant a lack of pressure for both of them, and rightly so. It was doubtful anyone would understand.

"See you tonight, then," Harry had said, kissing the base of Theo's throat. Theo always liked it there; made a
humming sound of approval that roared appealingly through Harry's veins.

"See you tonight," Theo had agreed.

Whatever Theo and Harry were, it was easy the way it was. Hermione had been gone for years and Ron had
transitioned to spending most of his time with Mel, so however it happened, Theo shifted into the vacancy that both
of them had left behind. Theo, horror that he was, gave Harry an unparalleled sense of relief, and out of all the
secrets Harry Potter had ever had, Theo Nott was his favorite one.

Not that he'd ever say so aloud.

"So Pansy threw a fit, huh?" Theo asked the morning after the auction, resting his chin in Harry's spine. "Shocking."

"She's almost as difficult as you," Harry agreed, turning over to face him. "By the way, are you going to stop fucking
with Malfoy any time soon? It'd be nice to have an actual name for your company, you know."

"You didn't tell Pansy you already know about it, did you?" Theo asked. "I mean, you're going to cost me
considerable entertainment if she ever stops blaming Draco, so - "

"Name?" Harry interrupted, gripping the hair at the back of Theo's neck and jerking his head up to draw him back to
the point. "Not a pun, I hope?"

"Not a pun," Theo agreed, shrugging. "I've changed it to 'Idiots Abroad,' in honor of Draco and Granger's wild
American adventure."

"Come on," Harry groaned. "Idiots Abroad, really?"

"I already filed the paperwork," Theo informed him. "Sorry, Potter, but the law has spoken."

"I'm the law," Harry growled, and Theo laughed, leaning forward.

"Not the first time the law's fucked me," he muttered into Harry's mouth, pausing as they heard a sound from the
corridor. "What's that?"

"How should I know?" Harry demanded, giving him a shove. "It's your house."

"Hold on," Theo said, pulling on his trousers without underwear and ruffling the hair at the back of his head as he
headed to the door. "Maybe Daphne stayed here last night. I hear a man's voice, though," he said, frowning, and
listened to the other side of the door. "Do you hear that?"

"Don't be nosy, Nott," Harry admonished, searching for his underwear and finding it shoved into the bottom corner
of the bed. "Leave the poor girl alone."

"Well, hold on," Theo said, and retreated into the room, picking up his wand from his nightstand. "My father had all
these enchantments put on the house, so - "

"What, like security cameras?" Harry asked, glancing over Theo's shoulder as he conjured a holographic view from
outside one of the house's many bedrooms. "From the portraits?"

"Yep," Theo said, and pointed. "Look," he said, using the portrait across from the spare bedroom on the third floor.
"It appears Miss Daphne has a gentleman caller," he said, arching a brow suggestively as Harry, squinting,
recognized the man she was with.

"Oh my god," Harry said, gasping. "Where's that bedroom?" he demanded, yanking his trousers on and throwing the
door open. "Which floor?"

"Ooh, excellent, you've snapped," Theo said delightedly, hurrying after him. "They're headed for the Floo," he said,
pointing, and Harry abruptly switched directions, sprinting down the stairs to accost Daphne, wand out, just in front
of the fireplace.

"HEY," he shouted, and aimed his wand as the man turned. "Stupefy!" he shouted, and Daphne's hands flew to her
mouth as she let out a tiny shriek, catching the man just before he hit the ground.
"Have you lost your fucking mind, Potter?" she prompted, and then stopped, frowning. "Wait a minute, why are you
even here - "

"That," Harry said, panting as he pointed to the man in her arms, "is Tom Riddle."

It was unmistakable, he thought. The perfect head of dark hair, the smug expression on his face; he was a little older
than when Harry had seen him in Dumbledore's memories, but still - he was absolutely certain of who the man was.

"Who?" Daphne said, bewildered, in the same moment that Theo pronounced, "That's impossible."

"You've finally lost it, Potter," Theo added drily. "At long last, you've finally crossed the realms of reality into
something else altogeth- "

"I fucking know it's impossible," Harry snapped, cutting him off, "but that's god damn Voldemort." He nudged
Daphne aside, bending to look at the man on the floor. "I mean - he's young, and - and normal," he said, suddenly
feeling less and less certain as he looked for familiarity, "but still, I'd know that face anywhere, and - I don't know,
maybe he had another horcrux, or - "

"A what?" Daphne demanded, and then looked up at Theo. "Wait a minute," she said, frowning. "Are you not
wearing underwear?"

"You're fucking Voldemort," Theo retorted, rolling his eyes as she scowled. "I hardly think you have a leg to stand
on here, Greengrass."

"There's no way he's Voldemort," Daphne said impatiently, clearly more irritated than apprehensive. "We're wizards,
Theodore, not gods - he couldn't have just come back - "

But Harry, still frowning at the man's unconscious face, couldn't be sure.

"Get Veritaserum," he instructed Theo, who conjured it lazily with a flick of his wand, charming it up from the
potions stash that Harry consistently pretended not to know about. "I don't know if it's him, but we're going to
fucking find out."

He force-fed the man the potion, waiting for him to wake, but when the man's eyes snapped open, Harry found with
displeasure that he remained uncertain either way.

"Oh, marvelous," the man muttered, wiping his tongue on the back of his wrist. "Veritaserum, really?"

"Are you T-" Harry began, and paused, reconsidering. "Are you any version of Tom Riddle?" he clarified, and the
man looked up groggily.

"That's crazy," he slurred, though the potion compelled the word "no" to subsequently bubble up on his tongue. He
covered his mouth, hiccuping, and shook his head. "Of course I'm not Tom Riddle," he said, glaring unsteadily at
Harry.

"But you know him," Harry pressed, gripping his shoulders. "You know Tom Riddle?"

"Not well," the man said, fighting the potion's effects and losing. "We're related," he said, the words seeming to drip
from his lips. "He's my grandson."

"Your what?" Daphne asked, clapping a hand over her mouth. "That's - you can't be - "

"A few generations removed," the man continued, swiping at his tongue. "I really hate Veritaserum, gents," he
mumbled to Harry and Theo, scowling. "A gentler method of interrogation would have gone a long way, I assure
you - "

"What do you mean a few generations?" Harry pressed, and the man blanched.
"Oh, you know, some," he muttered. "Here and there."

"We have other methods we could try," Theo noted darkly, reminding Harry again how overly skilled he was with
interrogation techniques; Harry implored himself, not for the first time, never to discover the details of why. "Ask
him who he is."

"He told me his name was Cad," Daphne said, lip caught between her teeth, and the man looked up at her, shaking
his head.

"I told you the truth," he said, looking bothered by her doubt. "My friends call me Cad. Or they would," he coughed
up, "if - "

"If you had any, yes, fine," Harry supplied impatiently. "But who are you really?"

The man tilted his head, still fighting the effects of the potion. "Are you fucking that guy?" he asked Harry with
difficulty, gesturing to Theo. "Kind of looks like it," he muttered, "if you don't mind me saying - "

Theo, losing patience, stepped forward, holding his wand to the base of the man's jaw.

"Tell us who you are," he said. "Or potion or not, I'll fucking obliterate you."

The man's lips quirked up, entertained, and Theo dug his wand in deeper.

"Last chance," Theo warned, and Harry, who had always known the advantage of possessing an encumbering secret,
recognized the paralyzing loss of one when he saw it. He paused, waiting expectantly, and watched the last vestiges
of a hard-fought battle fall away.

"I," the man confessed bitterly, with a smile that bore his teeth, "am Cadmus Peverell."

Meanwhile …

John F. Kennedy Airport

Wizarding Customs Floor
September 28, 2003
12:00 p.m.

"This is ridiculous," Draco pronounced, passing through the approved apparition portals and glaring at the
Transportation Aurors. "I've never had to go through customs before. I feel like a fucking criminal," he added,
leaping back in alarm as one of the Aurors passed a wand over him to check for prohibited objects and
enchantments. "What do they think I'm going to do, bring some dragon eggs in my pockets? A niffler in my
briefcase?"

"Keep your voice down," Hermione hissed, shaking her head as an Auror flashed them a wary glance. "We're
supposed to be on holiday, remember?"

"Well, holiday or not, this is madness," Draco sniffed, disapproving. "Where's Carnegie?"

"Right over there," Hermione said, gesturing past the customs line and nudging Draco forward. "Just be patient,
Malfoy - "

"You be patient," he muttered, shuffling his way behind a group of wizarding tourists who stared without reprieve at
the floor-to-ceiling window on their right. "What are those?" he asked, pointing, and Hermione turned her head.

"Airplanes," she said. "That's how muggles get places."

"That's absurd," Draco proclaimed. "What flies them?"

"People. Engines."

"Sounds fake," he said, but by then they'd managed to finally reach Daisy, who was holding a sign that said
'Dramione' on it.

"Get it?" she asked, grinning. "You know, because Draco and Hermione - "

"Christ," Draco muttered. "Does the entire country lack the refinement to say our entire names," he prompted, "or is
that impulse confined to you?"

Daisy shrugged, unfazed. "We don't have all day," she said. "Barely manage time for tea as it is. Anyway, try to look
a bit happier, if you can manage it," she warned. "There's quite a lot of cameras outside."

"Cameras?" Hermione echoed, confused. "For what?"

Daisy blinked.

"For you," she said, as though that should have been obvious. "You realize you're basically the Princess Di of the
American wizarding world, right? Practically overnight, too," she added, reaching into her bag. "Here," she offered,
withdrawing the American version of Witch Weekly and handing it to Hermione. "Check out the first page spread."

Hermione glanced down, recognizing her own face as she and Draco danced across the page.

"Is that - " she frowned. "Is that my dress?" she asked, pointing to the 'Get the look!' graphic at the bottom of the
page. "Would people really buy my dress just because -"

"Just because you're a war hero who's dating a handsome aristocrat?" Daisy prompted, playfully backhanding
Draco's shoulder and ignoring his look of protest. "Yes, absolutely. Rumor is the dress sold out this morning," she
added. "However much attention you get in London, it will be considerably magnified here."

"Marvelous," Draco announced broodily. "I love being objectified."

"Oh, cheer up," Daisy assured him, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she turned, gesturing for them to follow. "They
might actually like you here, you know. But anyway, I figured you'd want to settle in," she told them, abruptly
changing the subject. "I can give you a tour of the Ministry in the morning, but for now I'll just make sure you get
checked into your hotel."

"Where are we staying?" Hermione asked, hurrying to follow her. They walked the few feet from the International
apparition portals to a line that resembled a taxi queue, leading into narrow phone booths that appeared to double as
Floo networks. "I came here with my parents when I was a girl," Hermione added, "but I wouldn't say I know the
city very well."

"Well, you might know our first stop," Daisy said, pausing beside an available booth and ushering them inside.
"Ever been to Times Square?"

"Is it quiet?" Draco asked, making a face as he glanced around. "This place is too fucking crowded."

Daisy's smile broadened. "Oh, Mr Malfoy," she sighed, winking at Hermione. "We are going to have so much fun."

Times Square
Entrance to Woolworth Market
12:30 p.m.

"Which circle of hell is this?" Draco asked gruffly, shoving past a man in a faded Spiderman costume and promptly
dodging a group of babbling muggle tourists. "And why are we walking so fast? Is this some kind of assassination
attempt?"
"Is he always like this?" Daisy muttered to Hermione, who shrugged.

"Actually, this isn't bad," Hermione replied. "He's been significantly worse."

"Well, I suppose he deserved that ass-kicking you gave him in school, then," Daisy remarked, pausing at a bright
blue door in between a Sbarro's and a gift shop whose display window was lined floor to ceiling with smaller
versions of the Statue of Liberty. "This is it, by the way," she added, flashing Draco a look of continued amusement
as he ducked after them under the awning, shuddering. "This is one of the entrances to Woolworth Market. Sort of a
cross between Diagon Alley and Chelsea Market," she explained to Hermione, who nodded.

"'One of' the entrances?" Draco echoed. "Was there, perhaps, a less horrifying, non-invasive one?"

"No," Daisy sang, obviously lying, and leaned into speak in Hermione's ear as she tapped her wand on the door,
waiting for a handle. "We could have apparated in," she whispered, "but, you know, I just get so few opportunities to
laugh while doing my job - "

"I get it," Hermione agreed, shaking her head. "Though, I should tell you, I didn't actually kick his - " she paused.
"Ass," she pronounced, which, much to her disapproval, sounded even more vulgar than she'd expected.

"Oh, you didn't?" Daisy lamented, as the handle on the door appeared. "Disappointing. In any case," she said,
throwing the door open, "welcome to Woolworth Market."

Behind the door was a grandiose building spanning at least the area of a full city block with a high, exposed ceiling
that sprawled out to accommodate lines of semi-permanent stalls for restaurants and shops. The light that had been
blocked from the street below by the Manhattan skyline now poured in through the glass slats of the ceiling, bathing
the industrial-looking space below in natural light and giving the market something of a dignified gleam, though the
bustling witches and wizards who shuffled by with coffee and little brightly-colored bags of pastries appeared to
take no notice.

"Well," Draco exhaled, looking suitably dwarfed. "Alright then."

Daisy smiled.

"The other side of the market is the entrance to Woolworth itself," she explained, gesturing for them to follow her.
Hermione glanced askance, noting that some of the passersby had stopped to take stock of her and Draco, nudging
each other as they walked. "Just north of the market is the MACUSA headquarters, which is where I work,
obviously, but that's basically impossible to miss - "

"They're staring," Hermione noted, nudging Draco. He paused, glancing around with a pensive frown.

"Well, it's not an aggressive stare," he told her. "Is it bothering you?"

"No, I just think we should - " she reached down, roughly twining her fingers with his. "Right?"

He glanced up as the speculative eyes around them widened, and people began to point.

"Well," he sighed. "It seems they're rather fans of Dramione, aren't they?"

Hermione made a face. "You're not actually going to call us that, are you?"

He shrugged. "When in Rome, Granger," he replied, though she noted a faint uptick at the corners of his mouth,
secretly pleased with the attention.

The Harkaway
Woolworth
2:30 p.m.
Daisy's brisk (exceedingly brisk, to the point where Hermione was left fairly breathless) tour of Woolworth Market
and its surrounding neighborhood led them to eventually arrive at their hotel, a surprisingly swanky building that
had evidently been an institution since the early 1920s. It was named, as Daisy chattered brightly, for flamboyant
MACUSA President Thornton Harkaway.

Hermione, who hadn't known what to expect, found Woolworth to be much like its muggle equivalent; the
enchantments around it protected a lush, artsy neighborhood that featured buildings of aged red brick, and every
street or so, she earned a glimpse of the magically preserved waterfront, affording them a beautiful view of the river.

"It's so hot," Draco complained. "Why is it so hot?"

"I'll have them turn the sun down for you," Daisy said, waving them in through the Harkaway's brass front doors. "I
have Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger," she announced to the front desk, prompting another swivel of eyes
from the witches and wizards who loitered in the lobby, glancing up from cups of coffee and what seemed a dozen
identical copies of the Sunday Wizarding Times. "Checking in, please."

The house elf at the desk nodded, snapping its fingers, and delivered them at once into the living room of a
needlessly luxuriant hotel suite. In the same moment, a portkey - shaped, appropriately, like a small brass key -
suddenly materialized in Hermione's palm.

"Ah, excellent," Daisy said, flopping down on the sofa and nodding her approval. "Penthouse."

"Good," Draco pronounced flatly, wandering over to a bowl of fruit and chocolates on the side table without further
comment. Hermione, for her part, frowned.

"Penthouse?" she echoed, uncomfortable. "Surely this isn't the Ministry's doing - "

"I treat my guests well," Daisy offered carelessly, "and as a reminder, that's what you are while you're here. My
guests," she emphasized, rising to her feet. "So, please, do conduct yourselves appropriately. Try not to, oh, hex each
other," she suggested facetiously, shrugging, "and if you have sex on the furniture, be sure to mend anything you
break."

"Ah," Hermione said, feeling her cheeks warm. "No chance of that."

Daisy lifted a brow. "Honey, you're on vacation," she murmured, her lips twisting upwards. "Far be it from me to
judge."

"No, Granger's right," Draco said, turning from inspecting a landscape in the corner and smoothly depositing
something in his pocket. "We're here to work, not to traumatize ourselves for the rest of time."

"Well, be sure to permit some public appearances," Daisy told them. "I've tipped off some of the gossip rags that
you're staying here, so be prepared to look enamored whenever you leave your room."

"Why?" Hermione asked, bewildered, and Daisy's smirk broadened.

"Well, good publicity for MACUSA, for one," she said. "Transatlantic cooperation and all that, considering how
beloved you are - and because Potter specifically said he wants this to look legitimate. I'll have everything for you at
my office tomorrow," she added, pivoting effortlessly to business. "We'll be meeting for lunch, and then I'll take you
on a tour of the building."

"You have a lab or something?" Draco asked, and Daisy held up a cautioning finger.

"That," she warned, "is the sort of thing you shouldn't be interested in, at least in public. But yes," she clarified.
"We'll slip away tomorrow and I'll show you everything I have for the case - and after that, I suppose, we should
find a way to get you to the crime scene - "

"You'll be doing all this with us?" Draco asked neutrally, and Hermione snuck a covert glance at him, feeling her
brow furrow at his tone.
Daisy, however, seemed not to notice. "Figured it's better that I do it," she explained, "though if duty calls, I can
have my deputy show you around. In any case, rest up," she said, heading for the door. "Have dinner, you know.
Wander and such. There's something in the mini-fridge to help adjust to the time zone change, and - " she paused,
frowning. "Anything else?"

"No," Hermione assured her, tearing her curious glance from Draco. "We're fine, I think."

"Well, excellent," Daisy said, flashing them another brilliant smile. "Tomorrow, then, around noon. Have one of the
elves get you a map if you get lost - "

"Unlikely," Draco scoffed, "seeing as Granger abhors the use of elves."

"I - " Hermione began, and paused, surprised by his impassive treatment of the statement. "What?"

"Not to worry, they're paid," Daisy assured her. "They have a union and everything," she added, rolling her eyes,
"and, be warned, they will expect a tip. In any case, have a nice night!"

And then, with a pop, she disappeared.

"Well," Hermione began, clearing her throat. "That's - "

"We'll have to get rid of her somehow," Draco cut in, not waiting for her to finish her sentence. "I didn't want to say
anything while she was here, but I found this delivered for us," he explained, reaching into his pocket and holding up
a note with Harry's handwriting. "Take a look."

Hermione frowned, accepting it from him.

D&H, stumbled on something. Will find a way to Floo call tomorrow.

And then, underlined several times:

DON'T TRUST ANYONE.

a/n: dedications for sunset oasis, in honor of your birthday (again, because why not?), and to paffrin and In
Dreams!
 10. Constant Vigilance

Chapter 10: Constant Vigilance

Nott Manor
September 28, 2003
12:13 p.m.

"Cadmus Peverell," Harry repeated, gaping at him. "Is that - how is that - "

"Fuuuuuuck," Theo exhaled, and beside him, Daphne nodded numbly, her lovely face going worryingly pale.

Cad, for his part, felt oddly invigorated; once the confession of his identity had left his lips, he felt slightly freer,
though he doubted that would last.

"Probably best we all sit down," he offered, waving a hand. "This one might take a while."

Cadmus Peverell had had many enemies in his life, not the least of which was himself. He found, however, that self-
loathing was an unaffordable luxury, considering he was bookended by two brothers who were so unquestionably
worse. Should Cadmus have had centuries for introspection (which you would think he would have, but you'd be
wrong) he might have taken the time to delve into his psyche, poking holes in his conscience and waiting to see
what bled out; but as it was, there was simply no time for such things. Not when there were Antioch and Ignotus to
keep track of.

Well, by this point, one might wonder: what are the requisite facts?

Facts are important to Cadmus, and in this case, they are these:

Fact one: Cadmus Peverell was presently twenty-eight years old. How long had he been twenty-eight? Well, that
depends how caught up in trivialities a person wishes to get. Besides, the more appropriate question would be how
many times Cadmus Peverell had been twenty-eight years old, and the answer would be at least thrice. Possibly
more, but he hadn't confirmed either way.

Fact two: Cadmus Peverell was the second brother of three. He was preceded by Antioch, a sharply cunning too-
handsome man possessing a volatile combination of ambition and aggression, and succeeded by Ignotus, a somber,
studious shadow of the other two who maintained his boyish looks well past their expiration. Where Antioch was
loud, charismatic, and magnetic, Ignotus was quiet, brilliant, and earnest, and Cadmus was somewhere in between;
as sharp as his brothers, and as troublesome as Antioch, but in more of a fox-like way. He was prone to trickery and
had spent much of his childhood pitting his brothers against each other, watching one try to outdo the other and then
quietly learning their tricks.

Fact three: When Cadmus Peverell was born in the early thirteenth century, the world was a considerably different
place. Morality is a facet of its time, as Cadmus often made a point to consider, and what seems immoral now was
simply a daring advancement then, or so he and his brothers had believed. At the time of Cadmus' birth, wizards
were rare and rarely organized. There was hardly a cohesive Ministry around to slap them on the wrist when they
got a bit carried away - and they did get carried away. They had been blessed (or cursed) with not one, not two, but
three clever minds, and here is something true in all worlds -

Fact four: clever minds bore easily, and boredom can give way to strange things indeed.

The Peverell brothers were attractive, intelligent, and influential, and they - and their boundless exploration of
wizardry - were, at first, widely admired for their ingenuity and skill. But when it seemed that the Peverells could do
and become and create things that other wizards could not (when it became less 'look at this lovely flying bauble'
and more 'this bauble, if worn, can blacken a man's heart from the inside out') their watchful neighbors transitioned
from admiration to skepticism, and leapt from there to suspicion. Once the other villagers in Godric's Hollow warily
began to question what the Peverell brothers were up to, it occurred to Antioch, the eldest, that perhaps they'd be
better off continuing their experimentation with the magical arts in quite another place altogether.

"Do you have something in mind?" Cadmus prompted dubiously.

"Yes," Antioch replied. "Death."

"Death," Ignotus repeated, his voice notably anxious. "Are you quite sure that's necessary?"

"Not actual death," Antioch scoffed, glaring at him. "But I'd get a lot fewer questions from the baker's daughter if
she thought I were dead."

"Funny," Cadmus remarked, propping his feet up on the table. "You don't seem to mind when the baker's son asks
questi-"

"If we're to continue our experiments," Antioch cut in loudly, clearing his throat, "we need the freedom to pursue
other magics without the speculation of our small-minded neighbors."

"Couldn't we simply leave?" Ignotus prompted, to which Antioch scoffed.

"You know perfectly well we're onto something," Antioch reminded him, holding up the knotted elder wand. "Many
things, even. If we succeed in our pursuits, we may never die - and wouldn't it be easier," he murmured, placing a
comforting hand on Ignotus' shoulder, "if we didn't have to explain that to anyone?"

"He means we're going to get up to some vile things," Cadmus informed Ignotus, who blanched.

"I thought you said no dark arts," Ignotus ventured, and Antioch glared at Cadmus, who shrugged, innocently eyeing
his boots. "You said what we were doing was purely academic, Antioch - "

"And it is," Antioch cut in irritably. "But what we consider academic, others might consider, you know - "

"An assault on decency," Cadmus supplied. "A loathsome, abhorrent, mutilati-"

"Faking our deaths would be simple enough," Antioch interrupted, gifting Cadmus a silencing glance. "If we work
together, I'm sure we could come up with a feasible plan. For example, I could 'die' in a duel," he suggested. "You
two would simply have to stun me and pronounce me dead, and nobody would be any the wiser."

"True," Ignotus agreed. "Everyone would believe that."

"And what of me, then?" Cadmus drawled, leaning back in his chair. "How am I to die?"

"Strangled by an unsatisfied lover," Antioch told him. Cadmus pursed his lips, displeased.

"Unsatisfied?" he repeated dubiously. "Good luck finding someone who would testify to that."

"Well," Ignotus ventured gently, "you've been a bit out of sorts since Isabel died."

Cadmus felt his own expression harden.

"Leave Ibb out of it," he growled, which seemed to only bolster Antioch's enthusiasm.

"Well, there we go, then," Antioch judged. "Cadmus, having long concealed his feelings for a woman he could never
have - "

"Ha," muttered Cadmus. "Hardly."

" - he hanged himself," Antioch finished, and then glanced at Ignotus. "Hung?"

"Hanged," Ignotus confirmed, shrugging. "Odd quirk of language."

"Excuse me," Cadmus announced, "but nobody's going to believe I killed myself over Ibb." He scoffed, irritated.
"That's ridiculous. I was with Eda last night," he reminded them, ignoring Antioch's unflattering eye roll, "and
everyone knows that if I'd ever wanted to be with Ibb Leofwine, I could have been - "

"Well, sure," Ignotus permitted, though he looked less than convinced. Antioch, meanwhile, seemed thoroughly
disinterested in Cadmus' version of reality.

"Watch out for Eda," Antioch warned tangentially. "She reeks of instability."

"Well, as do you," Cadmus reminded him. "As you're currently plotting our highly unlikely deaths, in case you'd
forgotten - "

"The fact that you've slept with every girl in Godric's Hollow doesn't disprove anything," Antioch countered, pursing
his lips. "You and Isabel have been inseparable since you were children, and whether you were actually lovers or
not, anyone would believe it at least a possibility."

"I agree," Ignotus ventured, nodding solemnly despite Cadmus' groan of disbelief. "If someone told me you killed
yourself for Isabel, I'd take it as true."

"Well, you're an idiot," Cadmus informed him, and Ignotus made a face.

"I'm not," Ignotus countered. "I'm quite literally the smartest person in this room. Which is also why I think of the
three of us, I'm also the least likely to die," he lamented. "Is there anything you think would be believable for me?"

"Personally, I think a slow death would be best for you," Cadmus told him neutrally, as Antioch paused, considering
it.

"Well, perhaps it would be overly suspicious if we all died," he decided. "Maybe you should stay behind, Ignotus.
That way we have a place to keep things, you know, and you can continue to work while we travel."

"While we do the dirty work, you mean," Cadmus corrected.

"Nobody asked you," Antioch retorted, rather snottily, but rather than take Cadmus' side, Ignotus was lost to
contemplation.

"Well, I would like to continue working on the cloak," Ignotus remarked, tapping his mouth. "I have some ideas for
a charm that might do just as well, and I'd like to perfect the holographic stone - "

"Of course you would," Cadmus sighed, but as usual, despite his opposition, his brothers had already made up their
minds.

And so it was determined that Ignotus would remain behind, and Cadmus and Antioch, having convincingly fooled
the other villagers, set off in search of other wizards who, like themselves, might have uncovered something of
interest.

They ran into Herpo the Foul (a rather inapt name for the mostly-normal inventor of the horcrux) in Greece, where
he still lived, having changed identities several times over the course of nearly a millenia. Over a series of too many
drinks and a bit of something suspicious between not-unattractive Herpo and irritatingly-handsome Antioch, the two
Peverells conceded that they would attempt his methods, if only for the purposes of knowing that such a thing could
be done.

The morality of this decision must be examined within a particular frame, of course, because the thing about it was
that murder was quite a different crime altogether in those times. In fact, it was difficult to get through the day
without murdering someone, as there was so little order in the world during the Dark Ages (and travel within it so
thoroughly perilous) that on any given day, someone was nearly guaranteed to die. The process of creating a horcrux
was gruesome, but seeing as it was only intended to be one gruesome experiment among many, the campaign for
expanded magical arts continued, halting every year or so for the elder Peverells to check in with Ignotus.
"Eda had your baby, Cadmus," Ignotus informed him, shaking his head in disapproval upon their first return. "Could
you not have used a spell?"

"Well, I'm dead now," Cadmus reminded him stiffly, "so I don't know what you want me to do about it. Is it a boy or
a girl?"

"Girl," Ignotus said. "Iseult Peverell."

"Oh," Cadmus said, considering it. "Well, it wouldn't be my choice, but I've heard worse."

"She took his name?" Antioch asked, frowning, and Ignotus shrugged.

"Well, according to Eda, after she and Cadmus wed in secret he was haunted by Isabel's ghost," Ignotus explained,
"thus driving him to madness and prompting him to take his own life."

"And you allowed her to tell people that?" Cadmus demanded, gaping at him.

Ignotus shrugged again. "Hardly seemed my place to say otherwise," he said innocently.

Down the line, Antioch and Cadmus learned how to stop aging from a handful of druids who had been taught by
Merlin himself. Eventually, having been left behind for long enough to reach a considerable (for the thirteenth
century, that is) age, Ignotus began to look far older than either of his elder brothers, which was quite an incredible
reversal.

"You realize you leave behind a string of bodies," Ignotus informed them, seeming to have grown irritated with his
domestic life. "Some tampered, too. It's getting very hard to clean up, frankly," he lamented, folding his arms over
his chest. "People are starting to think I'm up to something, and my wife won't leave me alone."

"We never told you to get married," Cadmus reminded him, making a face.

"Oh, sure, because growing old alone wouldn't have been suspicious at all," Ignotus retorted.

"Well, perhaps it's time to die then," Antioch suggested, and so Ignotus 'died,' gifting his eldest son the silly cloak
he'd been toying with for so long and joining the other two on their travels.

By that time, it was getting increasingly obvious that as wizards who had little concern for what kind of magic they
were using save for whether it worked or not, death was highly optional. The Peverells kept in touch with Herpo,
who in turn led them to other powerful wizards (and the occasional witch, though most witches had little interest in
their pursuits; likely because women of the age had their own problems, or were simply cleverer in the long run) and
brought them the discovery that should they choose to live forever, they very easily could.

"Maybe there's some organizing to be done here," Antioch suggested one day. "What if we started some sort of
society of like-minded wizards, led by us?"

Cadmus grimaced, unsurprised by the proposition.

"You would," he judged flatly.

By the time Antioch had brought it up, the brothers had reached a certain level of infamy. Around the time that
Ignotus had slipped away from Godric's Hollow, a man named Beedle the Bard had been traveling through the
village and, being inspired, they supposed, by the odd goings on of the town, had written a few silly tales, including
one in which three brothers defeated Death. Which they had, certainly, over time; but the wand, the stone, and the
cloak were hardly their greatest inventions. They were simply among the earliest.

Each of the Peverell brothers had their particular specialty. Cadmus had the best and most precise spellwork; it was
he who recognized that magic spoke a language, and it wasn't necessarily the bastardized Latin that was taught at
Hogwarts (which, at the time, had not had any regulated curriculum and was little more than a sanctuary for
persecuted wizards; Antioch and Cadmus spent a brief amount of time there, but found it largely useless to their
greater pursuits). Cadmus, developing an understanding that magic was an entity of its own, with a bidding of its
own, could do more with charms and enchantments. Antioch had an uncanny dominion over physicality, imbuing
objects with power or transfiguring things around him to bend to his specifications. Ignotus, meanwhile, would
disappear for days at a time to test an unintelligible theory and would return having unlocked the secret to wandless
flight.

Combined, they were a force to be reckoned with; at least, they were for those who drifted in more accomplished
circles. Beedle, the idiot, had made them immortal in his own ridiculous way, but the Peverell brothers were hardly
without legitimate cause for admiration - which was a fact that Antioch was particularly sensitive to. After a certain
point, it was no surprise to Cadmus that Antioch would believe himself deserving of a cult.

"Let me guess," Cadmus sighed. "This is Herpo's idea?"

"Nico's idea, too," Ignotus contributed, though he looked to Antioch for approval. "Says we should consider
stepping into another venue."

"What venue are we currently in?" Cadmus prompted. "And who gives a damn what Nicholas Flamel thinks, either?
Anyone can make a magic rock," he grunted, disapproving. "I hardly think he merits involvement in this."

But, of course, the other two hadn't listened. Soon, Antioch and Herpo were joining up to recruit followers,
infiltrating the fledgling Ministries and influencing policy on both wizarding and muggle political stages. As
European monarchies began to face problems around the world, Antioch was quick to pick up the pieces, stepping in
and leveraging threats as international Ministries began to push reform, pulling strings for alliances in exchange for
wealth and favors.

"You don't feel there's something corrupt about this?" Cadmus asked his eldest brother, observing Antioch as he
signed off on the magical assassination of a muggle lord responsible for local tithes.

"No," Antioch replied, not looking up from his stockpiles of gold.

The more that the League of Eternality - eventually nicknamed the Infinity Club, or simply the Club - expanded its
reach, the more Cadmus began to grow uneasy in the presence of his brothers, recognizing that Antioch and Ignotus
had very little need of him. Ignotus had always looked to their eldest brother for approval over Cadmus, and despite
the Club being democratic in nature, Antioch was the uncontested de facto head. Over time there were eager, newer
minds as brilliant as Cadmus' that were far less squeamish about how Antioch's rivals for influence were removed
from power, and it seemed to Cadmus that it was only a matter of time before he became burdensome to his
brother's agenda.

Cadmus, then, began to squirrel away pieces of his life, discreetly visiting his many heirs (his daughter Iseult, whom
he'd kept an eye on from afar, had married a man from the Gaunt family, bearing nearly a dozen sons and daughters
before her death) and his efforts were justified none too soon.

The first time Cadmus' brothers betrayed him was somewhere in the midst of the American Revolution. Cadmus,
who'd gotten in a heated argument with Antioch regarding the crude deposition of the British monarchy (not to
mention the utter waste of perfectly good tea) had made the mistake of drawing his wand, stupidly presenting
himself as a threat.

"You're a liability, brother," Antioch warned, knife in hand as Ignotus held Cadmus' arms. "If you still refuse to see
what we're attempting to do - "

"I see it," Cadmus spat furiously. "I'm not a fool. I simply question what gives you the right, Antioch. If you truly
wanted to help people, you'd simply conjure funds, not incite them to kill each other - "

"The laws of nature still apply," Antioch said stiffly. "Magic has a cost, Cadmus. You know this."

"Yes, and it's a cost you've never had to pay," Cadmus reminded him. "Do you not fear your sins will catch up with
you?"
Antioch's expression hardened as he glanced at their youngest brother. "Do we, Ignotus?" he asked, and Cadmus felt
his younger brother stiffen behind him, uncertain. "Do we fear our sins?"

"If we have power, we must use it," Ignotus replied slowly. "Nico says - "

"Oh, think for yourself, you vapid twit," Cadmus snapped, twisting to glare at him. "What's the point of being
brilliant if you lack the sovereignty of your own mind, Ignotus?"

"Sovereignty," Antioch scoffed, silencing Ignotus before he could answer. "Poor choice of words, don't you think,
Cadmus?"

"God, you're a brute," Cadmus snarled, and wrenched away, glaring at his younger brother. "You're going to have to
live a long time with my blood on your hands, Ignotus," he warned, watching Antioch's fingers tighten around the
handle of his dagger. "Can you manage it?"

Ignotus said nothing. Antioch slit Cadmus' throat.

Luckily, Cadmus had seen this coming. He'd left instructions with one of his heirs, the young but clever Owain
Gaunt, and was revived from one of his aeva (singular being aevum, or, essentially, a golem from which he could be
resurrected) shortly after. Antioch and Ignotus had begun using the lemniscate by then; Cadmus caught the symbol's
appearance in important political documents or embedded in international treaties. It was easy enough to follow,
though he forgot that they, knowing his tricks as they did, would eventually know he was following.

The second time his brothers betrayed him was in the throes of the French Revolution.

"What is your goal?" Cadmus demanded as Antioch and Ignotus cornered him again, trapping him inside Versailles.
"What good does it do you disposing of muggle kings?"

"Oh, think bigger, Cadmus," Antioch snapped. "To indulge the monarchy is to luxuriate in a system built on ego.
Not one of these kings earned their lands; they were simply born into their role. In order for the world to move into
the future, their governance must do the same, and the Club will have a hand in advancing society."

"The Club is hardly the beacon of enlightenment that you think it is," Cadmus retorted, furious. "You may live
forever, Antioch, but you'll no more be able to see the future than you can rid yourself of the past."

"Seeing what you've done to be able to return, Cadmus, I fail to see your moral high ground," Antioch replied,
unblinking. "Or do you think it's natural to resurrect yourself as you've done?"

Cadmus ignored him in favor of glancing at Ignotus, his last hope. "You," he muttered stiffly, as the youngest
Peverell brother carefully avoided his eye. "You approve of this? Of killing me again?"

"Your death haunts me," Ignotus said solemnly, shaking his head, "but if I'm to feel that taking part in it served a
purpose, you have to stay dead, brother."

"You're a dumb cunt," Cadmus informed him, right before Antioch slit his throat again.

The third time, following the Spring of Nations in 1848, Cadmus should have known he was following a false trail,
but once again, he didn't.

"You'll simply burn the world to the ground, won't you?" Cadmus demanded, struggling against his restraints. "Do
you even care anymore who lives and who dies?"

"We live," Antioch said flatly. "You die."

And then Ignotus, having destroyed all of Cadmus' means for survival, stabbed him in the heart, finally ridding the
world of the second Peverell brother.

Or so they'd thought.
"Who are you?" Cadmus asked groggily, sitting upright in the midst of a pile of rubble, the sun shining too brightly
against his reconstituted eyes. A man, or what might have been a man, stared down at him with red-slitted eyes.

"Are you Cadmus Peverell?" he asked, his voice a low and deeply disconcerting hiss. Cadmus frowned.

"Yes," he said. "Who are you?"

"A descendent of yours," the man-thing answered, and Cadmus slid backwards, yelping in alarm at the appearance
of a large snake from beside what appeared to be a fresh corpse, presumably employed for use during his
resurrection. "I uncovered the whereabouts of your horcrux from the inscriptions in Gaunt family heirlooms."

Cadmus blinked, tearing his eyes from the body and forcing himself to focus.

"You brought me back from a horcrux," he said slowly, thinking. "That means I'm dead?"

"Do you not remember?" the man-thing prompted impatiently. Cadmus shrugged.

"If you brought me back from the horcrux I made when I was twenty-one, then no, I wouldn't remember much," he
replied, trying to force his way back through his memories. "I remember coming to Greece with my brother - "

"It's your brother I want to talk to you about," the man-thing said, crouching at his feet. "Antioch Peverell. He came
to me once when I was younger," he explained. "Asked if I wanted to be part of some sort of Club. I declined."

"Probably a good call," Cadmus said tentatively, ignoring the snake as it slid around the man-thing's ankles. "But if
you need information about my brother, I'm not sure I can help. I could ask him, certainly, but - "

"Actually, you can't," the man-thing corrected, pursing his reptilian lips. "Your brothers have already killed you
three times."

"They kil- I was - three times?" Cadmus echoed, stammering. "That's a bit excessive, don't you think?"

"I sort of have problems of my own at the moment," the man-thing muttered irritably. "I was hoping you'd have
information about the Club, and whether they'd be of much help." He paused. "Do you know anything about how to
defeat hairy potter?"

"Which hairy potter?" Cadmus asked.

"Or the wand," the man-thing pressed. "Are you certain it's unbeatable?"

"What wand?" Cadmus asked, rubbing his temple. "Whose wand?"

"I know the Deathly Hallows are a myth," the man-thing continued. "Your brother told me so years ago, but still, the
wand - it can't be worthless, can it?"

"Hold for a moment," Cadmus said. "Who are you, again?"

The man-thing rose to his feet, shaking his head. "I suspect you're going to be useless," he said, "but you can call me
Lord Voldemort. By the way," he added, waving a hand at the rubble, "do you realize how hard it was to bring you
back from an 'off-colored rock'? Took me hours to find it."

"Well, that's the idea, isn't it?" Cadmus prompted, dragging himself unsteadily to his feet. "Why would you make a
horcrux easy for people to find?"

"I - " Lord Voldemort broke off, pausing. "I should think there would be benefits."

"Doubtful," Cadmus replied, wondering what he'd landed in.

Luckily, he was of almost no use to Lord Voldemort, and when the Dark Lord's war became consuming, Cadmus
had simply slipped away, aiming to retrieve his former possessions and searching them for information about what
had gone wrong. But given Cadmus Peverell's experience with enemies - and having the worst of them be blood, of
all things - he was certain that there was at least one fact remaining to be considered.

Fact: Antioch and Ignotus Peverell were almost certainly still alive, and it was Cadmus' turn to give them the deaths
they so richly deserved.

4:27 p.m.

"Well, hold on a minute," Harry cut in, jarring Cad back to the present. "You're saying Voldemort brought you
back? You've just been wandering around for seven years?"

"I don't appreciate the interruption," Cad informed him, "but yes, essentially. I really was no use at all to him. I
really don't care for politics. My brothers, though, they clearly do," he said. "The lemniscates found with the
Wizengamot poisonings scream Antioch, though I can't figure out why he's doing it."

"How did you learn about the rest?" Theo prompted. "You know," he said, waving a hand. "Your other lives?"

"I left several notes for myself," Cad replied, shrugging. "They've taken me quite a long time to track down, but I
think I have most of it."

Harry and Theo exchanged glances, consorting wordlessly about the information they'd just received, and Cad's gaze
slid to Daphne, catching her eye and waiting.

"What about me?" she asked quietly, as he'd figured she would. "Am I just some sort of pawn?"

Cad's mouth twisted, accommodating a remorseful smile.

"No," he told her. "You just remind me of Isabel."

The Harkaway
Woolworth, New York
9:30 p.m.

" - I'm just saying," Draco continued, releasing Hermione once she'd used the portkey into their hotel suite. "It seems
unnecessarily colonial to call the restaurant 'The Independence.' The food was fine," he added, "but really, why cling
to such a foolish revolution?"

"I had no idea you were such a patriot," Hermione remarked skeptically, shaking her head as she set the key down
on the coffee table. "Were you in the business of re-imperializing the world while we're abroad?"

"I mean, if the opportunity arises," he sniffed, following after her as she wandered into the bedroom. "So where are
you sleeping?" he asked casually, hiding a laugh as she pivoted to glare at him, tightly clenching a fist.

"Are you really that much of a dickhead that you'd suggest I sleep on the sofa?" she prompted, pointedly falling back
against the bed. "And here you were the one telling me not to underestimate your breeding."

"My breeding has nothing to do with it," he informed her, picking up a piece of chocolate that had been left on the
pillows. "Oh, look," he remarked, peeling off the wrapper. "Mint."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Really?" she asked, watching him pop it in his mouth. "We go to one of the nicest
restaurants in Woolworth and you deem the whole thing 'fine,' but pillow mints delight you?"

"What, because I'm rich I'm not capable of being delighted?" Draco prompted, scoffing. "My goodness, Granger, is
there no limit to your unrelenting misconceptions?"

She sighed.
"In any case," Hermione ventured tangentially, "you are mature enough to just sleep without making this" - she
waved a hand, gesturing between them - "a thing, right?"

"My maturity is laudable," he told her. "And on a less relevant note, I should think I can handle not being seduced
by your boundless insanity." He brought his hand to his top button, quickly slipping out of his shirt, and Hermione
sat up, staring at him.

"Why," she began, "are you taking your clothes off?"

"Well, as I told you when I put it on, it's handmade, Granger," he reminded her pointedly, yanking it back from his
shoulders and flicking his wand, charming the shirt onto a hanger. "I'm not just going to sleep in my clothes like
some sort of animal - "

"Oh, and your pants, too?" she mocked, watching him remove his belt. "What is this," she demanded brusquely,
"some sort of sexual plot device?"

"Are you really planning on sleeping in that?" he countered, gesturing to the dress she was still wearing from dinner.
"Your modesty is admirable, Granger, or whatever," he amended, rolling his eyes, "but I think I can stand to contain
myself, being very much inescapably opposed to you."

"You say this," she told him, turning red and averting her eyes as he inelegantly divested himself of his trousers,
"and yet you're the one apparently comfortable enough to strip in my presence - "

"What, does Dionisia have to be here for that to be okay?" he prompted drily, summoning the book he'd brought
with him and placing it on the nightstand. "If you can't handle sleeping in the same bed with me," he told her,
tossing the duvet aside and falling back against the sheets, "that's your problem."

"You're not trying to sleep with me again, are you?" she prompted, and he paused, shifting to glower at her.

"Again?" he echoed, scowling. "If I tried, believe me, I'd have succeeded."

"False," she told him, her voice clipped. "You did try. After - " she grimaced, and with a sharp clang of recollection,
he remembered what she was talking about. "You know. After my - " she faltered. "My wedding."

There was an awkward silence, which Draco (very graciously, in his mind) made an effort to cover with a loud,
obtrusive cough.

"I'd hardly call that particular moment of sympathy 'trying' anything," he informed her stiffly. "Trust me, you'll
know when I'm trying, Granger."

She arched a brow smugly. "Oh, will I?"

Draco, irritated, very much wanted to hex the little smirk of satisfaction off her face.

"Shut up," he snapped. "You know what I mean."

"Oh, I don't know, Malfoy," she mused, mocking him with a coquettish glance. "Do I?"

"So how was it, anyway?" he asked her, picking up his book and ignoring her taunts. "Seeing Weasley, I mean."

She shrugged, indifferent. "There's not really anything emotional left," she reminded him. "I mean, sure, it's
awkward, but it feels like ancient history. Unlike you and Katie," she added slyly, and Draco set the book in his lap,
glaring at her.

"Must we do this?" he prompted. "Is it necessary?"

"Consider it a teamwork exercise," Hermione suggested. "Like a trust fall."

"A what?"
"Nevermind," she amended, shaking her head. "But yes, I want to know. I had to cover for you," she reminded him.
"I had no idea you two even dated."

"Well, spoiler, we did," Draco said. "And, additional spoiler, we didn't exactly work out."

"You still have feelings for her," Hermione noted, and Draco threw his head back, groaning.

"I don't," he snapped. "It just didn't end well, and I don't fucking appreciate her continuous - "

"Kindness?" Hermione supplied obnoxiously. "Warmth?"

"Yes, actually," he retorted, shuddering. "It's terrible. It's giving me gallstones."

"Would you rather she be cruel to you?" Hermione prompted, and he sighed, exasperated.

"Yes, Granger, I would," he said flatly, summoning his reading glasses and putting them on so furiously he nearly
jabbed himself in the eye. "Everyone else is, and I find it much easier to dismiss that than people who continue to
foolishly care about me when they know perfectly well I'm not capable of - "

"Hold on," Hermione interrupted, staring at him. "You wear glasses?"

"No, Granger," he drawled, sliding them down the bridge of his nose and glaring at her. "I'm just holding them for a
friend."

She ignored him.

"You know, they make you look," she began, and paused. "Bizarre."

"Well, marvelous," Draco returned. "And to think, we were just having a highly unwelcome personal conversation -
"

"You can't just dislike people for being nice," she cut in, abruptly shifting topics. "I mean, presumably she cared
about you, and that doesn't just go away."

"Well, it should," he replied. "People break up. Relationships end. It's been years, and personally, I think it's high
time she recognize we're better off with an arrangement where we never speak again," he exhaled bitterly, "wherein
we mutually agree not to acknowledge each other's existence until one or both of us dies."

"Yikes," Hermione said. "That's bleak."

"That's life," he corrected, and then glanced at her, questioning. "And you're not actually sleeping in that, are you?"

"If you're hoping I sleep in my underwear, I don't, Malfoy," she told him, flipping open her suitcase and
withdrawing a pair of athletic shorts and a grey t-shirt. "Close your eyes," she added, pulling the shorts on under her
dress. Rather than obey, however, he simply made a face, folding his arms over his chest.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," he reminded her, and she sighed. "You fought Hawkworth while wearing
basically nothing, in case you forgot."

"Don't tell me your fragile sensibilities were offended," she muttered irritably, pulling the dress over her head. Draco
stubbornly forced himself not to avert his eyes as she reached over, carefully swapping the dress for the t-shirt and
then slipping her bra out from under it. "The Malfoy doth protest too much, methinks," she murmured; rather
unpleasantly, in his opinion.

"Tell me, how goes your courtship?" he prompted, opting for a jab of his own. "Has Hawkworth graduated from
longing glances yet?" he mused, watching her cheeks burn tellingly. "Or are you still not recovered from kissing
me?"

"I told you," Hermione said flatly, averting her gaze as she sat on the bed with her back to him, "my relationship
with Rhys is none of your business."

"Ah, so something did happen," Draco declared, tossing his book aside. "It's a 'relationship' now, is it?"

She turned, glaring at him. "Stop it," she warned. "You're doing the thing."

"What thing?" he asked innocently.

"You're baiting me," she judged, displeased. "I don't like it."

"Oh please," he told her. "If I really thought this thing with Hawkworth was serious - "

"It is," she interrupted, crossing her arms. "He's - I like him, okay?"

"Sure you do," Draco permitted facetiously. "After all, what's not to like?" he drawled. "He's muscular, he's the son
of a Warlock, he has muscles, his father's a Warlock - "

"Oh, you're one to talk about fathers," Hermione scoffed. "Or have you actually forgotten the addendum to the
Malfoy motto, 'my father will hear about this' - "

"Deflection," Draco noted sourly. "How utterly unsophisticated of you."

"Are we really going to do this?" she demanded. "Is this going to be a week entirely filled with arguing?"

"Of course not," Draco sniffed. "Presumably there will be sleep involved, or pause for food, at the very least - "

"You know what I mean!" she snapped. "Can't we just manage to coexist," she growled, "for one bloody minute?"

He paused, considering it.

He cleared his throat. She waited.

"What are you reading?" he asked eventually, gesturing to the book in her hand. Hermione exhaled slowly, briefly
closing her eyes before resigning herself to politeness.

"It's actually rather fascinating," she replied neutrally, raising the book for him to see the cover. "It's this very
poignant study on the complexities involved in the lives of the wizarding advisors who served under the Habsburg
Emp-"

"Read it last month," he informed her flatly. "You called it 'poignant'?" he prompted, making a face. "Please. I think
you mean 'banal,'" he suggested, "or possibly 'flavorless' - "

"GOD," she shouted, tossing the book at his chest and throwing herself down on the bed, promptly turning her back
on him. "I'm just going to go to sleep, Malfoy," she muttered, "before I spontaneously murder you - "

"Oh, well, at least then you'd be doing something useful with your time," he told her, leaning over her to drop the
book on her side of the bed. "Killing me would be far less cliched than this heinously self-pitying narrative - "

"GOOD NIGHT," she shouted, flicking her wand to put out the light.

He sighed, setting his glasses on the nightstand and laying back, closing his eyes.

"Good night," he replied crisply.

2:30 a.m.

Hermione's eyes fluttered open, suffering the inexplicable sensation of her body abruptly waking even as her mind
struggled to process consciousness. She blinked, gradually recalling where she was, and pondered her view; in his
sleep Draco had turned towards her, his expression placid and calm. His face was strangely appealing without his
usual disdainful smirk.

It would be so easy to kill him in his sleep, she lamented, sighing.

She shifted away for a moment, frowning as she glanced at the time, and wondered what had woken her. Then she
heard a sound; a crack from outside the bedroom, and she promptly bolted upright in bed, registering the presence of
someone outside the door.

"Malfoy," she hissed, jabbing him in the ribs. He stirred, scrubbing at his eyes.

"What is it?" he muttered, and then froze as it happened again; a cracking sound from outside the bedroom. "Wait
here," he said, throwing an arm out and scrambling to shift his legs from under the duvet. "Just - get your wand, and
-"

"I can take care of myself," she snapped at a whisper, rising to her feet and following him as he crept to the door. "Is
someone here?"

"I don't know, Granger, I can't see through walls," he gritted back, pressing his ear to the door.

"Do you hear anyth-"

"SHH - "

"Malfoy," they heard. "Hermione, are you there?"

They both exhaled, sharply relieved.

"Fucking Potter," Draco sighed, throwing the doors open and striding over to the fireplace in the suite's small living
room, glaring down at Harry's head in the flames as Hermione hurried after him. "Do you have any idea what time it
is, you tyrant?"

Harry tilted his head, considering it. "Early?" he guessed.

"Late," Draco corrected, scowling. "It's the middle of the fucking night."

"Well, I told you I'd Floo-call you," Harry replied, shrugging. "Hi, Hermione," he added, grinning up at her as she
settled herself before the fire. "Having a nice time?"

"This better be important, Harry," she said wearily, and he nodded.

"Oh, it is," he assured her, and glanced up. "Malfoy, are you not wearing pants?"

"Oh sure, by all means, let's make that the issue," Draco muttered, lowering himself to sit in front of the fire. "What
the fuck is it, Potter?"

"That note was really cryptic, Harry," Hermione contributed. "Telling us not to trust anyone is, you know." She
chewed her lip. "Worrisome."

"Yes, well, it's worse than I thought," Harry told her. "Remember when you said we might be looking for a group of
people?"

"Yes," she confirmed, exchanging furrowed glances with Draco. "Have you made some progress on that?"

"Sort of," Harry permitted. "Listen, this is going to sound crazy - "

"What, crazier than 'I should call them at 2:30 in the morning'?" Draco prompted irritably. "Doubtful."

" - but we have a lead on who it might be," Harry finished. "Have either of you ever heard of the Infinity Club?"
"No," Hermione said, frowning. "Should we have?"

"It's some sort of a secret society," Harry explained.

"Organized crime?" Draco suggested. "Some group operating outside the law?"

"That's quite a suspicious guess, Malfoy," Harry commented wryly, arching a brow, "but no. Worse, actually - a
group operating inside the law," he explained, "which is why I'm now wary of what's going to happen when you
both tour MACUSA."

"What happened?" Hermione asked, anxious. "Your note sounded like you uncovered something specific."

"I did," Harry confirmed. "I uncovered Cadmus Peverell, specifically."

"What?" Draco and Hermione exclaimed in unison, one slightly more dignified than the other.

"Like hell you did, Potter," Draco scoffed, looking supremely disgruntled as Hermione spared him a questioning
glance, wondering whether he recognized the reference. "The Peverells are a long dead Sacred Twenty-Eight line,"
he pressed, leaning forward. "Any Peverell would have to be, what, five hundred years old? More?"

"He is," Harry said, his expression unchanging. "I mean. Sort of."

There was a pause.

"Great," Draco replied flatly. "Thanks for clarifying."

"Harry," Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "Are you sure? That's - "

"Impossible," Draco confirmed, apparently still indignant. "You might as well tell us that - oh, I don't know," he
muttered, "the Deathly Hallows are real, or - "

"Well, they are," Harry informed him, shrugging in the fire, "but that's really not the issue at hand." Draco opened
his mouth to argue but Hermione reached out, nudging him silent, and Harry continued. "Anyway, Cadmus Peverell
is alive, and his brothers run some sort of group of people who've also been alive for centuries. Apparently," Harry
exhaled, grimacing, "the Infinity Club makes it their business to influence politicians. They infiltrate Ministries all
over the world and sway political decisions however it suits them."

Hermione and Draco glanced at each other, stunned.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "So, presumably you see my issue, then."

"Not that I'm saying I believe you," Draco ventured slowly, frowning, "but if that were true, then - "

"Then nobody at any Ministry could be trusted," Harry confirmed, nodding. "Exactly."

Draco, apparently overwhelmed, looked very much as though he wanted to lie down.

"You're saying this Infinity Club is responsible for the Wizengamot poisonings, then?" Hermione asked,
disbelieving, and Harry nodded.

"The leminscate is their symbol," he explained. "The mathematical symbol for infinity that's been left with all the
bodies. And it's not just the Peverells," he clarified. "Apparently this is a group that spans countries and history."

"But what sense would that make?" Hermione pressed. "Why chance revealing themselves now, just to go after low-
ranking Wizengamot Warlocks?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe they're trying for scare tactics," he guessed. "I don't know, and neither does Cadmus."

"Cadmus," Draco echoed, looking dazed. "Which one is he?"

"The second brother in the Deathly Hallows story," Harry supplied. "The one who killed himself. Only he didn't," he
added. "In case that was unclear."

"None of this is clear," Hermione said, frowning. "Who are we supposed to trust at MACUSA if anyone involved
could be tampering with evidence, or corrupting the investigation - "

"I guess you'll just have to keep an eye on anyone who inserts themselves unnecessarily," Harry said. "Not sure who
that would be, but that's your job."

"What about Carnegie?" Draco asked, his brow furrowed. "She's pretty fucking enthusiastic, isn't she?"

"I don't know," Harry said, shaking his head. "I really don't. I mean, I don't necessarily mistrust her," he qualified,
hedging, "but either way, you're at a disadvantage because she knows the truth about you, so - "

"We could still mislead her," Hermione said, glancing at Draco. "Right? It wouldn't be that difficult," she offered
hurriedly. "We could always pretend that we're distracted from the case by each other. Make excuses to slip away,"
she suggested, and Draco nodded slowly.

"Presuming you're able to contain your disdain for me," he remarked, and Hermione sighed heavily.

"Malfoy, for the last time - "

"This sounds like something I'm not necessary for," Harry interrupted loudly. "Just keep an eye on everyone at
MACUSA, would you? And try to get along," he added. "Have fun. Keep me updated. CONSTANT VIGILANCE,"
he barked, laughing sharply, and then his head disappeared, the emerald green sparks fading to ash in the fireplace
as he went, the illumination in the room going with him.

For a moment, Hermione and Draco sat in silence. Even in the dark, Hermione could tell Draco was looking at her;
she waited, biding her time, and eventually he gave in, speaking first.

"I don't mean to be difficult, you know," he ventured slowly, clearing his throat. "I legitimately don't know how to
be anything else."

"Don't be ridiculous," she muttered. "You know perfectly well you're being intentionally horrible."

He groaned.

"FINE," he pronounced, throwing his head back. "But you make it so easy."

Hermione sighed, rising to her feet. "Come on," she said, blindly swatting at his shoulder and gesturing for him to
follow. "Let's just go back to sleep and try not to kill each other tomorrow."

"In my experience, that's as much as you can hope for from any relationship," Draco mumbled, and Hermione came
to an abrupt stop, prompting him to stumble awkwardly into her as she turned to face him.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, and in the dim light from the streetlights outside, she watched his pale brow furrow in
confusion. "I'm sorry Katie broke your heart," she explained, holding up a hand as he opened his mouth to speak.
"I'm sorry the rest of the world is so quick to punish you, especially for things I'm sure you regret enough as it is - "

Draco sighed heavily. "For fuck's sake, Granger - "

"No, listen," she cut in, stepping closer. She watched him hold his breath, his chest expanding sharply before halting
in place. "You don't have to push me away," she told him. "Okay? I won't leave," she promised. "I'm not going to
leave you."

He stared down at her, silent, and she swallowed hard, forcing a smile.

"I meant," she clarified emphatically, shaking herself of the odd moment of intimacy, "I'm not going to leave you
because this is my job."

"I'm your job?" he echoed sarcastically, his voice somewhat hoarse, and she shook her head.

"No, this is my job, and you are my partner," she told him. "That means something. Right?" she prompted. "That
has to mean something to us. We can't trust anyone else," she reminded him, sighing, "so we have to at least trust
each other."

She waited for a reaction. For a moment - several moments - they both seemed startled; she by her own strange
admission, and he by her offering, it seemed. They each managed to catch their breaths in concert, synchronizing in
the communion of their space.

Then, slowly, Draco's hand shifted. He raised it, carefully, as though he might have set it on her shoulder, or her arm
- or dear god, her cheek -

But then he simply pointed behind her, gesturing into the bedroom.

"We should get some sleep," he suggested, and she shook herself of her temporary paralysis, nodding her agreement
as she turned. "Long day of trusting each other tomorrow," he added slyly.

She climbed into bed, sighing, and shifted to face him.

"You're the worst," she told him.

Draco reached out, patting her head.

"I know," he assured her.

a/n: dedicated to Estrunk, DameEsmeralda, arizonadaydreamer! Thank you to everyone for reading! For those who
read my other works: Nightmares and Nocturnes is now complete, and expect a Nobility update in the next 24
hours.

Edit: Forgot to add that DrSallySparrow and I have started a podcast! Check it out at tinyurl dot com slash ep1-
TPIS
 11. Opposites Retract

Chapter 11: Opposites Retract

The Harkaway
Woolworth, New York
September 29, 2003
6:30 a.m.

"Wfkbrbeorlwbrkjbgoing?" Draco mumbled, reaching blindly for Hermione's shoulder and giving her an unrefined
shove as she propped one foot on the edge of the bed, tugging at the laces of her trainers. "'S too early," he grumbled
incoherently, followed by what she suspected were the words "you fucking monster" directed firmly into his pillow.

"I'm going for a run," she informed him before rising to her feet, stretching upwards. "By all means," she added,
glancing down at him with a shake of her head, "continue sleeping."

Draco nodded wordlessly, sprawling out to fill the bed in her absence. She sighed, rolling her eyes, and then slipped
into the living room, reaching for the portkey.

"I have the key," she called to Draco, who responded with something that might have been a muffled "fuck off," and
then picked up the portkey, closing her fingers around it and finding herself just outside the Harkaway.

"Smile, Miss Granger," called a photographer, and Hermione blinked, startled, as the flash went off. "Sorry," he
added, shrugging, and gestured helplessly to the camera in his hand. "Where's Mr Malfoy this morning?"

"Sleeping," Hermione supplied with mild politeness, wishing she'd thought to look even remotely un-corpselike
before coming outside. "Have a good day, I suppose," she offered, turning to run south, but the photographer
stopped her.

"There's a path," he informed her, pointing. "Along the river, if you go north."

"Oh, great," Hermione said. "Thanks."

The photographer gave her a thumbs up, the camera flashing again as she ran past.

The running path wasn't difficult to find; a variety of other people were also awake and in the process of exercising,
much to Hermione's great surprise. She passed a group of people doing some impressively acrobatic yoga and
several flying cyclists before being startled by a sudden manifestation on her left.

"Morning," Daisy Carnegie said brightly, obligingly taking on Hermione's warm-up pace. "Someone told you about
the path, then, I take it?"

Hermione nodded; for a moment she felt slightly uneasy about the Auror's unexpected appearance but ultimately
determined it not worth dwelling on, noting that Daisy was clearly out for a run of her own. "It's lovely," Hermione
ventured, settling into the slightly taller woman's stride. "I didn't realize quite so many people would be out and
about this early."

"Woolworth's going through a bit of a jogging phase," Daisy supplied, wiping sweat from her brow with her
forearm. "I try to do five miles when I can fit it in, but it's so crowded after work, so - oh, here we go," she added,
cutting herself off and reaching over Hermione to tap a feather-shaped symbol along the pathway. "Want to try the
elevated path?"

"What's the - "

But before Hermione could finish the question, she felt an invisible ramp manifest beneath her feet. The charmed
levitation swept her up above the river jogging path until she and Daisy were at least forty feet off the ground, joined
in the air by a lush transfiguration of building rooftops that became enchanted, hovering flora.
"Oh," Hermione remarked, impressed, and Daisy grinned.

"Why run on the ground like a No-Maj?" she prompted, and increased her pace, glancing over at Hermione for
approval before nodding in satisfaction. "So," she prompted, shielding her eyes from the rising sun, "how was your
night?"

"Quite nice, actually," Hermione told her, settling into an acceptably medium-fast pace. "Dinner was lovely," she
added, "so thank you for the recommendation."

"Not a problem," Daisy assured her briskly. "There's lots of bars and clubs I'd recommend, too, only I know you've
got your whole - " she shrugged, laughing. "Your image to maintain, I suppose. But you should know that wizarding
Manhattan has some deeply attractive men," she remarked, with what Hermione deemed a lightly carnivorous
enthusiasm. "I mean, there's no British accent and they're generally terrible human beings - but hey, it's not like you
have to take them home with you, right?"

"I think I've got enough on my plate, actually," Hermione replied carefully, wondering again how to make the
woman who had witnessed her opposition to Draco now believe their relationship a possibility. "I suppose I've been
rather torn, actually," she attempted, "considering my present company."

At that, Daisy seemed to perk up, delighted.

"Ooh, excellent," she declared, flashing Hermione a devious grin. "Any chance of a hook-up while you're away,
then? I'd wondered, honestly," she added, shrugging. "I mean, sure, he's awful, but my god does he look like he'd be
fun for a night, right?"

"Right - well," Hermione permitted, hoping the flush in her cheeks would pass for exercise-related, "I suppose I'm
sort of, um - unsure, I guess, if I want to - "

"Is there someone else?" Daisy interrupted quizzically, glancing at her. "I suppose you have the benefit of being
surrounded by beautiful non-assholes. Did you see that one guy at the gala?" she asked. "The, you know," she
offered ambiguously, waving a hand. "Looked like a No-Maj rugby player - the son of that grumpy Warlock?"

"Rhys," Hermione realized with displeasure. "Rhys Hawkworth."

"That's the one," Daisy agreed, snapping her fingers in confirmation. "I mean - yum, right?"

Hermione hesitated; the idea of saying the same thing about Rhys that she might remark about a dollop of
buttercream frosting struck her as both intensely worrying and staggeringly apt.

"He's - " Hermione began, pausing. "Well, I mean, I - "

"Oh, shit," Daisy determined, laughing. "Is he the reason you're torn, then? You lucky bitch," she added, shaking her
head. "I mean, well-deserved and all that, but bravo, my friend. Excellent, truly, some ruthlessly inspiring work - "

"It's not - I wouldn't - it's nothing," Hermione stammered, suffering something that was either humiliation or a
debilitating stomach cramp. "It's just, well - when it rains it pours, I suppose - "

"Well, why not both, I say," Daisy suggested slyly, gesturing ahead as the levitated path curved towards the right.
"Has anything happened with either of them?"

Hermione glanced at her feet, idly staring at her stride.

"Um," she said.

Didn't think you were coming, Rhys had told her, taking her hand as she entered his flat through the Floo. She'd still
been in her gown from the Witch Weekly auction, and his fingers had slid lightly over the exposed skin of her back.
Thought you might have run off with a certain blond suitor, he added wryly, considering the way he was looking at
you.
That's not real, Hermione had reminded him, letting Rhys slide his arms around her waist. She had been slightly
dizzied even before his touch; a combination, she assumed, of excessive champagne, irritation with Draco, and the
upsetting knowledge that few men should be permitted to look as good as Rhys did in dress robes. You know it's not
real.

Well, as much as I might have preferred to be the first man who kissed you tonight, Rhys replied, pulling her closer,
I suppose I'll just have to take my chances with you whenever they come around, won't I?

I suppose you will, Hermione agreed, and the subsequent kiss was slow at first, then urgent, and then promptly
breathtaking and sensational, and it was no clumsy collision at all but rather passionate refinement; a luring,
tempting, pent-up release, her hands desperately finding their way to Rhys' chest as he slid his hands up to her ribs.

It hadn't been quite as forcefully alarming as the one she'd had earlier that night, she admitted internally; it hadn't
knocked the wind out of her. Then again, she reminded herself sourly, there was something to be said for not
confusing a kiss with a punch in the stomach - and to this point, there had been little difference when it came to
Draco Malfoy.

"That's a yes," Daisy determined triumphantly, her expression becoming increasingly giddy as her voice yanked
Hermione back to the present. "God, I hate you. Not really," she added quickly. "But, you know. You're terrible and
I wish you were dead, but in a very, very admiring way."

"It's - " Hermione began, faltering; she hadn't had any sort of female companionship in a desperately long time, and
she scarcely knew how to approach this one. "It's - you know, it's really not - "

"Sorry if I'm butting into your personal life," Daisy assured her, mildly apologetic. "I suppose we could talk about
the case, but - "

"No, no," Hermione said quickly, searching for a reason to keep Daisy distracted. "I mean, I'm not exactly a prude
when it comes to sex," she qualified. "I mean, I've had it. A bit of it," she added, coughing. "You know. Some."

Daisy laughed. "Yes, sure, I've had 'some' as well," she agreed, "so I'm afraid I'm rather inclined to encourage you.
Potentially unfortunate if you were hoping I would chide you to behave. Though, in fairness, I doubt you need me
to," she remarked. "I'm going to guess Potter told you to table either pursuit," she added disapprovingly, "which is
just like a man, honestly."

At that - the conspiratorial tone in Daisy's voice - Hermione felt she'd stumbled on surprisingly fertile ground.

"You'd have to keep it a secret," Hermione warned slowly. "Between us, I mean. Because men," she added
evasively. "And, you know, the patriarchy. Et cetera."

Daisy, whose cheeks had flushed with pleasure along with a distressingly lovely sheen of sweat, held out a hand.

"I solemnly pinky swear not to tell a soul," she said, "so long as you tell me precisely what he looks like naked."

"Which one?" Hermione asked, flashing her a questioning glance.

Daisy grinned. "Both," she said, and took off with a laugh, promptly gaining speed and tilting her head for Hermione
to follow.

Blaise Zabini was not a very superstitious man, nor one particularly taken with flighty whimsicality or wonder. He
was a very practical man, in fact, and one who believed in three foundational principles: that a bespoke suit, crafted
well enough, provided a man's only relevant credentials; that Chardonnay was intended for women over the age of
forty; and that most people who suffered in life did so because of an unhealthy attachment to delusions.

Namely, the delusions that luck or fate were any considerable aspects of a person's existence. A man is what he
makes himself, or so Blaise Zabini had always believed, and as a result, he had made himself a very rich man.
Perhaps a cynical one, too; but in his line of work, it was best not to get carried away by anything as flimsy as
optimism.

While Blaise had long known about his mother Esmeranda's business dealings and had certainly listened to her
many lessons when they'd been imparted ("this is how to stab someone with their own knife," she'd said on one
occasion, and on another, "this is how to remove a woman's bra with your teeth," both of which ultimately became
highly useful talents), there had been no expectation that he would join her. At least, there hadn't been, until it
became obvious that Blaise possessed a particular talent that no one save for Esmeranda Zabini herself had ever
been able to replicate: he could manipulate anyone, anywhere, anytime. While this was in part because he was as
alluring as his mother (if not more so), it was also because he was aided by a preternatural ability to splice his own
emotions with a devastating, near-surgical precision, making every situation one that could easily be mastered.

By the time his mother - known in orbiting circles simply as 'Songbird' - procured him to lure a client to her
services, it seemed as if his alter ego, 'Princeling,' had merely been waiting in the wings to be invited out for
company. With regard to business practices, while Songbird was regarded as sly and cunning - a she-wolf of sorts -
Princeling was considered an enigma. It was broadly understood that he did Songbird's bidding, but outside of his
group of spectacularly secretive associates, few people ever got close enough to determine his true nature.

Even Dionisia Trelawney, the bruised Lady Revel herself, could scarcely claim she knew him, despite having
witnessed the rare opportunity in which the Princeling had deigned to beg.

"Please," Blaise had offered, hiding the stiffness of his gritted teeth. "My mother relies heavily on your connections
and your counsel, my Lady, and would never forgive me if I failed to resolve your displeasure with my associates."

Dionisia sniffed her opposition, never one to cave easily. "You know I don't like strangers," she reminded him, and
at that, Blaise looked up, smirking.

"You love strangers," he corrected. "You're just disappointed Malfoy and Granger's secret was so mundane."

"The Ministry," Dionisia scoffed, scowling at the reminder. "You know I loathe it."

"Yes, but they're merely the niche operational arms of the larger, ineffectual machine," Blaise supplied smoothly.
"And besides, surely they weren't without some entertainment in spite of their employ. I happen to know, in fact," he
added delicately, "that they're right up your alley, my Lady."

For a moment, her brow arched in interest, a motion she quickly hid.

"I dislike spies," Dionisia sniffed.

"Yes," Blaise agreed, "but you covet love nearly as much as you abhor it."

Her smile quirked, skeptical. "They hate each other," she remarked, sipping from her cup of tea, and Blaise rolled
his eyes.

"Don't pretend at naivety, my Lady," he told her. "You're a practical woman; a businesswoman, in fact," he
emphasized, leaning towards her, "and you and I both know you've made your fortune on knowing the difference
between love and hate."

She was impressed, he could tell, but she hid it well.

"The difference being?" Dionisia prompted.

Blaise shrugged. "Love, hate, they're simply emotional reaches. Impractical, and driven by boorish passions we
cannot name. If I were to try," he mused, making a show of considering it, "I'd say love and hate are merely fanciful
extensions of something more primitive. Sex, for example," he ventured, "or vengeance."

"And what drives Malfoy and Granger, then?" Dionisia prompted, amused. "Sex, or vengeance?"
"Both," Blaise replied, and she laughed, setting her tea on the table and sitting back with a coy deliberation, eyeing
him closely.

"My god, I'd love to have you," she murmured, lightly tapping her mouth before resigning herself to a weighty sigh.
"But your mother would never allow it."

"You say that as though you'd keep me in a cage," Blaise commented.

"You'd need one," she agreed. "Many do."

"Settle for amusement, then," he suggested. "Will that suffice, to make amends?"

"What, the pleasure of your conversation?" Dionisia asked, dubious. "Try again, Princeling."

"A favor is implied," he informed her. "Simply say the word. Short of my incarceration, that is," he qualified
quickly, and her smile broadened.

The eventual agreement was something a bit more refined than simply sex, as Blaise had known it would be. For all
that Dionisia Trelawney trafficked in carnal unsubtleties, she wasn't unlike Esmeranda Zabini, or, for that matter,
Blaise himself; she knew better than to waste a precious opportunity to indulge in something so obviously short-
sighted.

No, what she wanted was much worse than sex.

A favor, unspecified, to be reclaimed at her bidding.

Which was why, when Draco's head appeared in Blaise's Floo shortly after having struck such an unpleasant and
undesirable bargain, Blaise was more than a little bit hesitant to leap onto his train of conspiratorial nonsense.

"I'm just saying," Draco continued, "if you can get a little more out of her on this so-called 'Club' Potter mentioned -
if that's even the same thing she mentioned before we left - "

"You mean before she kicked you out," Blaise reminded him stiffly, at which Draco shrugged, impassive. "Draco, I
had a difficult enough time resolving your initial mistakes," Blaise reminded him brusquely. "I don't think she's
going to say anything further - especially since I'm already in her debt," he warned, "and therefore have no
leverage."

"Knowing you, you could find some," Draco replied easily, which, despite the confidence in the statement, struck
Blaise as neither reassuring nor complimentary. "What's a bit more in the ledger?" Draco pressed, and then abruptly
turned, glancing over his shoulder at someone on his end. "Well, don't you look sweaty, Granger - "

"Draco, focus," Blaise said irritably, snapping his fingers. "Who's to say that this 'Infinity Club' is even a real thing?"

"Who are you talking to?" Hermione asked, suddenly appearing in the flames and shoving Draco's head aside. "Oh,"
she remarked, her expression souring. "Blaise."

"Greetings," Blaise replied, nodding in return. "Do try to contain your enthusiasm, Granger, or I'm afraid we'll all
simply combust."

"You drugged me," she reminded him stiffly, only to be shoved aside by Draco.

"Whether or not anyone was allegedly drugged is not presently at issue - "

"Allegedly, Malfoy, really?"

" - and we don't have a lot of time," Draco continued, turning back to Blaise. "I'd like to get an answer out of
Dionisia as soon as possible, if you can."

"Oh," Hermione remarked, turning to him in the fire. "You think she'll talk?"
"I think she'll talk to someone who isn't you," Draco retorted, and Blaise tried to speak, but Hermione was quicker.

"Well, you said Blaise had managed to smooth things over with her last week," she said, her voice its usual pitch of
clinical smugness. "He could probably glean something else from her, right?"

"Granger, what the fuck do you think I'm currently doing?" Draco demanded, jutting his chin out towards Blaise.
"We're not sitting around braiding each other's hair and telling ghost stories, if that's what you think - "

"Speaking of ghosts," Blaise interrupted, cutting Hermione off before she could open her mouth, "are you really so
sure this is even real?"

"NO, ZABINI, I'M CLEARLY NOT," Draco barked tartly. "Hence asking you to see what you can find."

"Yes, please," Hermione added, nodding. "We'd appreciate it very much."

"Oh, shush," Draco told her. "One minute you're drugged, the next you're appreciative - "

"Strangely, time passes," she snapped. "Circumstances change, Malfoy, literally every minute - "

"There's a party tonight," Blaise cut in, wishing he could knock their heads together in the fire, or else force them to
simply fuck and be done with it. "A revel, I mean. One of Lady Revel's masques that I could certainly attend, but
that I can't promise - I won't promise," he amended, "will result in anything of use. I can't further my debt to her," he
added, shuddering. "Any more power in Lady Revel's hands and I suspect I won't be able to sleep at night."

"Tight grip on your balls, then?" Draco guessed, and Blaise shrugged.

"Worse. I'd sooner gamble my testicles than my livelihood," he remarked, and Draco nodded, grimacing his
agreement.

"What sort of world do you two live in?" Hermione demanded, but by then, Blaise had needed to procure himself a
costume, and so he'd promptly ended the call without a word, releasing a sigh of relief and heading out to procure a
circlet of gold.

After all, he was Princeling, wasn't he?

After collecting a doublet, crown, and mask, all with a gilded filigree, Blaise took to Knockturn Alley with purpose.
He liked uncovering mysteries, after all, and feared little, particularly not men who claimed themselves immortal
and clung unrepentantly to clandestine groups. More likely the so-called 'Infinity Club' was little more than an
ongoing group of zealots or, Blaise suspected, similarly misguided criminals - and if that were the case, they were
encroaching on the empire his mother had built. Exposing them, he determined, would only mean one more win on
the board.

Lady Revel's masques were infamous within their transgressional circles, albeit reserved exclusively for only the
most useful deviants. Blaise, considered a worthy extension of his notorious mother, was already in possession of an
open invitation. He slipped the charmed scarlet ribbon that served as an invitation from his pocket, tying it to his belt
for entry as he entered the house.

He spotted Dionisia from afar; her gleaming silver wig for the evening was stark against her scarlet Venetian mask,
the details of which matched the garish tint of her gown. Her ladies, also masked, wore similar crimson gowns in
varying, more daring cuts, most of them wandering the perimeters of the room or seated languidly across the laps of
men dressed as pirates and rogues. The men tossed charmed gold coins in the air, letting the ladies dribble
champagne into their mouths, and Blaise shook his head, finding the whole thing a gaudy spectacle.

Precisely as he'd hoped.

"Want a turn, Your Highness?" asked one of the girls, sliding her hand along the golden threads of embroidery on
Blaise's chest. He took her hand in his, brushing his lips across her knuckles, and shook his head.
"I'm conducting a bit of business tonight," he informed her. "Is your Mistress available?"

"My Lady Revel is holding all business until the end of the night," the girl informed him placidly, batting her lashes
beneath the enchanted butterfly mask. "Perhaps His Highness might wish to have his fortune read while he waits?"

Blaise chuckled, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. "Lead the way," he beckoned, and gestured ahead.
"Waiting to rob people blind when they're drunk and sufficiently fucked, then, is she?"

"I've no idea what you mean," the butterfly courtesan assured him smoothly, sweeping him into a small, darkened
room. "But I'm sure you'll find yourself aptly rewarded. And now, if you don't mind - " she trailed off, her gaze
darting to another business venture at the door.

Blaise slipped a galleon into her palm, kissing her hand again. "Better fortunes elsewhere," he told her, and she
smirked.

"Pleasure doing business," she agreed, and slipped out, leaving Blaise to adjust to the light in the room. It took a
minute, but he gradually registered the silhouette of a woman sitting at a small table, the dark curtains billowing
softly behind her as the jewels of her headpiece glittered from the illumination of the charmed night sky above.

He frowned, blinking. "I know you," he realized, and the woman rose, nodding.

"You might," she agreed, and then he was quite certain she was one of the Patil twins from Hogwarts. Her hair was
presently a bright, crystalline white that cascaded over her shoulders, contrasting strikingly with her dark skin. Were
he a man to marvel, he might have managed it for her; as it was, though, he kept an eye to his pockets.

"I take it you wish to see your future?" she prompted.

Blaise let out a skeptic's laugh, taking a seat across from her as she lowered herself in concert with him, watching
him through unnervingly calculating eyes. "I'm biding my time until I can see Lady Revel," he supplied, and her
expression didn't change. "You're not wearing a mask," he noted, and her painted lips pursed, her eyes narrowing.

"That's because I'm not a whore," she told him flatly. "Now," she ventured, without change in tone, "are you ready?"

He leaned forward, noting the flickering expression of discontent on her face as he inched closer; she didn't appear
to enjoy his venture into her space.

"You have no cards," he noted, gesturing between them to the empty table. "No crystal ball, no tea leaves - "

"I'm a divinist," she told him. "Everything I need to see, I can see without gratuitous props."

"Not my face," he reminded her, gesturing to his mask, and her lips quirked up in a smirk.

"I don't need to see it," she told him. "Circlet of gold," she noted, gesturing to his head, "means you're a prince, not a
king, and no man would deign to lessen himself unless the significance meant something. You're a prince, or better
yet, a Princeling," she deduced, "and therefore, Blaise Zabini, your face would tell me little that I don't already
know."

He arched a brow, opting to reward her by removing his mask. "I'll opt for informality, then," he said. "You're
Parvati," he added, and though it was mostly a guess, she looked up at the sound of her name, her expression
showing something of approval for the first time. "How did you get here?"

"Trelawney thought I might enjoy working for her sister for an evening," she replied, a glint from the constellations
above flickering against the jeweled headpiece that slid back from her forehead to drape around the crown of her
head. "I enjoyed it so much I never left," she added drily, though Blaise could plainly see her sincerity was
questionable.

"I doubt you actually enjoy it," Blaise countered. "Doesn't it feel tedious? Superfluous? You're reduced to a
theatrical element of a garish aesthetic, trapped within a tawdry criminal enterprise," he remarked candidly, and in
response, Parvati said nothing. Blaise paused, drumming his fingers on the table. "Or worse, perhaps," he mused,
falling back against his chair. "Doesn't it feel fraudulent to do what you do? To claim," he emphasized, "what you
claim?"

Parvati glanced up at that, her tongue flicking deftly between her lips before her eyes narrowed again, the white
sheen of her hair flashing as she drew herself upright.

"You think your existence will be made easier if you limit your beliefs to the things you can see, Blaise Zabini, but
you will soon see things that your mind refuses to believe," she informed him without preamble. "You are so
devoted to your path that you've scarcely noticed the feel of it changing beneath your feet, and yet, despite your
ignorance, it has. There will be a stranger who means you harm," she warned, "and you must not trust them,
however tempting their offer is. It will feel real. It will feel more real to you than the alternative," she cautioned
darkly, "but you will eventually learn, whether by choice or by necessity, that your instincts as you have developed
them can no longer be trusted to help you survive."

Blaise scoffed. "Ominous," he noted mockingly, "and yet rather unspecific, don't you think?"

Parvati glanced up, her expression locked with a cold, dispassionate steadiness.

"You will fall in love," she said neutrally, locking eyes with him. "And you will lose everything for it."

Blaise froze, feeling his mouth line with disdain.

"Now you're just being ridiculous," he informed her, rising to his feet and digging into his pocket, seeking out spare
change. "What does this cost me?"

Her dark lashes fluttered against her cheek as she looked down, contemplating the tranquil stillness of her hands,
and then back up.

"I suppose you'll find out," she said, which in no way answered his question, and therefore frustrated him to the core
of his being.

"That," Blaise told her, "is bullshit."

For the first time since he'd walked in the door, Parvati Patil cracked a smile. The arch of it was both lovely and
haunting, as though stretched across a cavernous divide.

"Best of luck, Zabini," she said, her face illuminated by the stars. "You're going to fucking need it."

And Blaise, who believed in nothing save for the lessons he'd held in his hands, chose to ignore the shudder up his
spine, chalking it up to a sudden chill.

Greengrass Family Estate

Formal dining room
9:30 p.m.

"This is boring as shit, Greengrass," Marcus mumbled to Daphne, who rolled her eyes as she joined him from across
the room. "You said we could go."

"And we can," Daphne reminded him, gesturing to herself in the process of leaving, "though I don't see why I have
to come with you."

"Well, sweetheart, if we're going to be married, you should meet my boyfriend," Marcus informed her, grinning.
"I've met yours, after all."

She wanted to laugh, but couldn't quite manage it.

"Cad's not my boyfriend," she told him, wincing. "We're - that's - "

"Over already?" Marcus guessed, pouting. "Sad."

"Shut up," Daphne said, and nudged him to the Floo. "I already told my mother you're ill, so feign something
horrible."

"Why am I ill?" Marcus demanded. "Why can't you be ill?"

"Because I'm fine," Daphne said, "and you have a stomachache."

"I don't have a - fuck," he coughed up, bending over as Daphne promptly jabbed him in the stomach with her wand,
waving apologetically to her mother before nudging Marcus through the Floo. "You could have warned me," he
muttered, stumbling slightly into the room he rented in Diagon, and Daphne shrugged.

"Well?" she prompted, not bothering to inspect the bare walls or the unmade bed, and Marcus scowled, raising his
wand to apparate them into the Underground.

Daphne had been to the Arsonist before, but the Underground was another beast altogether. It had a musky, humid
feel to it, and though it was certainly fascinating when compared with her mother's unutterably horrific dinner party,
she instantly wished she hadn't agreed to come. The promise of a mutually beneficial false marriage wasn't the worst
thing, obviously, but it suddenly seemed far less appealing without the prospect of -

"Ah, there you are," she heard behind her, and turned, curling a fist in displeasure at the sound of Cad's voice. "It's
almost as if you're avoiding me, Miss Greengrass."

"I thought I told you not to track me," she snapped warningly, glaring at him, and Cad shrugged.

"I didn't," he said, gesturing to Marcus. "I tracked him."

"Wonderful," Marcus said insincerely, as a man Daphne faintly recognized from their years at Hogwarts came to
join them. "The Cad's here. Wood, Cad," he said, flapping a hand between them, "Cad, Wood. And, of course,
Daphne," he added, placing a hand on her shoulder, "my future wife."

Oliver Wood's mouth tightened, his gaze dropping to where Marcus' hand rested on Daphne's bare skin; Daphne, for
her part, merely blinked, uncertain what to say. Cad, however, theatrically raised a glass that he seemed to have
produced from nowhere.

"Oh yes, of course - mazel, mazel," Cad said, lazily unperturbed. "Though I wonder if I might borrow your bride,
Mars?"

"Mars?" Oliver Wood echoed, arching a dubious brow, but Daphne, rather than let the exchange carry on any longer,
grabbed Cad's arm, yanking him into the corner.

"I told you," she hissed, "I didn't want to see you."

"I remember," Cad agreed, as if the admission that he'd been listening were somehow sufficient. "But I find I rather
don't care for being away from you."

"Why?" Daphne prompted, irritable. "Because without me there's nobody to remind you of your dead girlfriend, is
it?"

Cad sighed, steadying himself, and then met her eye with unconcealed impatience.

"Were you even listening?" he pronounced, launching into a burdened tirade. "Ibb wasn't my girlfriend or my lover.
She was my best friend," he clarified. "She was clever and sharp and highly dangerous, and had she not died of
measles, which was very much a thing," he added, scowling, as though Daphne had dared to call him on his veracity,
"I'm sure she would have gone on to do supremely reckless, unspeakably devious things that would have put me and
my brothers to shame. You, on the other hand, are just as clever and unpredictable as she was, but you're not her.
You're beautiful, for one thing - "

"Ah, yes," Daphne muttered. "How rewarding for me."

" - and you're decidedly not someone from a twelfth century village," he continued stiffly, "which should be
distinction enough." He paused, considering her. "Do you really require me to list your very obvious attributes,
Daphne?"

"Yes, why don't you?" Daphne sniffed. "I'd say that's fair."

"I'd say it isn't," Cad countered. "We've slept together more times than days we've known each other," he reminded
her, arching a brow, "and yet I don't see you telling me what it is you like about me, do I?"

"You're handsome and disagreeable," Daphne supplied. "Unfortunately, that's precisely my type."

"Well, you're quicker with a wand than I am," Cad replied without hesitation, "which, in my mind, indicated
immediately that I either had to bed you or kill you."

Daphne gaped at him.

"Okay, poor choice of words," Cad conceded hastily. "But you see my point."

"I don't, actually," Daphne countered, irritated. "And frankly, I think you should leave."

She tried to turn away but he stopped her, reaching for her forearm and pausing her mid-stride.

"You'll be seeing more of me, you know," he cautioned, his voice softening. "Potter wants me close now that he
knows what he's looking for from the Club, and I've agreed to help him. And, for the record, I'd very much prefer to
be close," he added, taking a step towards her. "As close as possible, actually," he murmured, and she shivered,
feeling again the helplessness of being in his presence even as she slid her arm from his grasp.

"How do I know I can trust you?" she prompted, glaring up at him. He smiled.

"I never lied to you," Cad reminded her, reaching out to tuck a curl behind her ear. "Not once, Daphne, and I won't -
not ever."

"Bold claim," Daphne grumbled, as she caught a glimpse of Marcus approaching from her periphery. "Besides, just
because you won't lie to me," she added, louder, "do you really think that means you're worth my time?"

Cad opened his mouth to answer, but was promptly interrupted.

"Not troubling my fianceé, are you, Cad?" Marcus asked, artfully affecting a listless drawl. "If you're not careful,
you and I might have to face off in the ring to resolve this."

"Ah, how thoroughly predictable of you, O God of War," Cad muttered, rolling his eyes. "Must you disappoint me at
every possible turn?"

"Actually," Daphne cut in, placing a warning hand on Marcus' forearm as Cad glanced at her with skepticism, "I
think that's an idea I can get behind. I mean," she demurred slyly, "if you're serious about proving yourself, that is."

"I thought you found these fights barbaric," Cad reminded her, disapproving. "Now they're suddenly the basis of
your trust?"

"Not the basis," she corrected. "But certainly not irrelevant, given the situation - "

"And I'm certainly up for it," Marcus contributed, folding his arms over his chest.

Cad turned to him, measuring him with a sweeping glance, and then resignedly cleared his throat.
"Why not make it interesting, then," Cad suggested, sliding his attention back to Daphne. "If I win, I win your heart,
too," he offered, and she scoffed, but he held up a hand. "The opportunity to win it, I should say," he corrected
himself. "And if I lose - "

He trailed off, gesturing to Marcus.

"If you lose, you leave her alone," Marcus supplied gruffly. "No following her or me. You disappear and you stay
gone."

"Done," Cad agreed without hesitation, promptly bringing his fingers to his shirt and carelessly doing away with the
buttons. "You're certain?" he asked Daphne, slipping the material from his shoulders and handing it to her, smirking.

She swallowed, trying not to eye the contours of his chest. "I am," she confirmed, and he nodded with satisfaction,
accepting a roll of athletic tape from Marcus and making quick work of wrapping his knuckles.

"As the lady wishes," Cad said, taking his wand from his pocket and placing it in her hand. "Be sure you're clear on
the terms," he added. "If I win, you have me. If I lose, you're free of me - and I do not take these things lightly," he
informed her. "I'm a man of my word, if nothing else. If I leave, I'm gone forever," he warned emphatically. "Do you
understand?"

Daphne forced a smirk. "Good," she determined flatly, and Cad gave her subtle bow of his head, carefully
moistening his lips.

"Well, come on then, God of War," he said, beckoning over his shoulder to Marcus as he stepped into the ring.
"Rain your wrath upon me."

"With pleasure," Marcus grunted back, winking at Daphne, who gave him something she hoped was a smile in
return. He leapt in after Cad, gesturing Daphne to a safe distance behind the barriers. "Wood," he called, "if you
wouldn't mind?"

Oliver stepped into the ring, standing between the two men.

"Ready?" he asked, as Marcus nodded. Cad glanced at Daphne, his face placidly schooled.

"Yes," he said.

"Well, have at it, then," Oliver invited, stepping back, and then Marcus struck first.

Cad took the shot to the abdomen, not even bothering to block. He let out a coughed-up sound of displeasure,
grimacing, but didn't counter, instead glancing back up at Daphne.

"Again," he said to Marcus, not looking at him, and Marcus, who was more than a little bemused, simply shrugged,
striking Cad in the chest with two quick jabs. Cad didn't move; instead he swayed back from the blows, his eyes
closing briefly, but he steadied himself, broadening his stance.

"Come on, Mars," he murmured. "Your bride is on the line."

Marcus' eyes narrowed, displeased, and he struck hard with a blow to Cad's jaw, sending the other man's head flying
back so sharply Daphne could have sworn she heard his neck snap. She gasped, covering her eyes, but when she
peeked through her fingers she saw Cad stagger backwards only to straighten again, spitting blood off to the side.

"What are you doing?" Marcus hissed at him, and Cad shrugged.

"Losing," he said. "I thought that was obvious." He looked up, finding Daphne's gaze again. "It's what you wanted,
isn't it?" he called to her, as the many other heads swiveled to glower at her from across the ring.

She said nothing, and Marcus struck again, catching Cad beside the ear.
This time he stumbled, losing his balance. He fell to the side, shaking himself roughly, and staggered slowly up from
his elbows and knees, taking a deep breath before planting himself back in the center of the ring.

"Again," he said flatly, and Marcus, who seemed to be growing bored of using him as a punching bag, rammed a
shoulder into Cad's torso, flipping him onto his back and standing over him, unrelenting.

"If you think I'm honorable," Marcus began, and Daphne held her breath as Cad shook his head, blinking with
difficulty.

"Believe me, I don't," Cad ruled, struggling to roll onto his side and lift himself to his knees. "If I did," he added,
wincing from pain, "I'd have chosen another tactic."

At that, Marcus laughed, buoyantly, and then slammed his elbow onto the top of Cad's back, sending him to the
floor. Daphne, for her part, felt torn between tears and rage and a terrible, twisting sickness, an apprehensiveness
that ate at her stomach until she was sure she was going to vomit all over her shoes.

"Jesus, Flint," Oliver commented from the side, disapproving, but Marcus said nothing.

"Get up," Marcus commanded, briefly walking away, and Cad paused, the lids of his eyes fluttering unsteadily
before he dragged himself to his elbows. He collapsed momentarily, his chest grazing the bloodstained ground,
before he managed to gradually stagger upright, swaying in place.

Even from across the ring Daphne could see that Cad's mouth was already bruised, his jaw swollen, and his chest
and back raw and red; he still looked dazed from the blow to the side of his head. Daphne took a tiny, hopelessly
impulsive step forward; as if she would have taken his hand and run, to soothe him or touch him or else just fuck
him senseless, so long as she could remove him from the ring.

He caught the motion and stared at her, knowingly licking blood from his lips.

"Do you want me to win you or not, Daphne Greengrass?" he asked hoarsely, and she felt her breath quicken, felt
her mind spin out from the reaches of her sanity, felt her heart leap wildly in her chest.

"Please," she croaked, with as much restraint as she could muster, and Cad smiled broadly.

"Good," he said, curling his hands into a fist as Marcus rejoined him in the center of the ring. "Because I've been
waiting a long time to do this," he added, and aimed a fist directly into Marcus' face, promptly knocking him out.

MACUSA Headquarters
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Woolworth, New York
3:15 p.m.

The Woolworth building which housed the MACUSA headquarters was not wholly unlike the Ministry of Magic in
London. In general it bore similar markers of austerity, but with its hollowed-out center, it was somehow both more
and less labyrinthine.

Though, after a certain point, Draco suspected his sensation of disorientation might have had less to do with the
architecture and more to do with Daisy's mind-numbingly chatty tour.

" - and this is the legislative floor," Daisy continued, gesturing vaguely into one of the larger chambers. "Obviously
this is where the MACUSA congress meets, and across the hall there are the Wizengamot chambers - "

"We have to get out of here," Draco muttered in Hermione's ear, frowning as Daisy continued to babble on about the
building. "She hasn't taken a breath since we came back from lunch. Since before that, actually," he amended with a
grimace. "This woman doesn't breathe at all - "

" - and upstairs are the Auror headquarters, which is where you met me earlier," Daisy said without pause, tapping
her wand against a pillar that presented a set of curling, spiraling steps. "That's where we keep the Auror offices and
support staff, plus an extension to the investigatory services and our internal crime lab - "

At that, Hermione elbowed Draco, widening her eyes pointedly.

"Lab," she mouthed, reeking of optimism.

"Yes," Draco grumbled, nudging her away, "I, too, have ears - "

But their subsequent perusal of the Auror lab was, unfortunately, the one point of their tour where Daisy was less
than forthcoming.

"I already pulled the test results for you," she explained, gesturing to the glowing wall of magically expanding file
cabinets before handing Draco a disappointingly sparse manila envelope. "I mean, I can tell you right now what they
said," she specified glumly, gesturing to it, "which was essentially nothing of use."

"Well, nothing of use and nothing at all are distinctly different things," Draco commented, "at least in the right
hands. Any poison is going to have a signature," he added in explanation, glancing at Hermione, "so the more
specific we can be about the potion's elements, then - "

"I know," Daisy interrupted smoothly. "And trust me," she added, which was a phrase that Draco did not find
particularly comforting, "I wish I could break that down for you, but bureaucracy being what it is, it'll take me some
time to get the poison itself released for you to test. For now, though - "

"Auror Carnegie," Daisy's aide interrupted, striding briskly through the door. "I've been looking for you. There's
been a development in that NYPD computer hacking case," he explained, practically tremoring with excitement.
"Your hunch was right; the perps are fae," he informed her. "Operating out of a No-Maj safehold in Little Ukraine."

"Computer hacking?" Draco mouthed to Hermione, puzzled, and she shook her head.

"Long story," she returned, as beside them, Daisy let out a startling shout.

"I fucking knew it," Daisy declared triumphantly, sacrificing a moment to glow with satisfaction. "Excellent, perfect
- and do we know where to find them?"

"Deputy Aubrey's rounding up Aurors right now," the young-looking wizard continued. "They're looking to apparate
to the East Village in the next ten minutes, if you'd like to be there for the apprehension - "

"Hey, Granger," Draco murmured, nudging Hermione as Daisy and her aide continued running through logistics.
"I've been thinking about this, and the poisoner had to have started somewhere, right?" he prompted, trying to speak
as quickly and inconspicuously as possible so as not to attract Daisy's attention. "I certainly did," he added,
shuddering at the thought of the failed potions that had led to his signature cocktail. "Whoever did this, they might
have tried the poison on someone else first, so if we compare these" - he held up the folder, gesturing to the results
inside - "to any similar potions - "

"We might find a primitive base solution in an older case," Hermione supplied thoughtfully, nodding as she
considered it. "Interesting theory. What would you check, then?" she prompted, leaning in to speak in his ear.
"Hospital records?"

"Prior cases," Draco muttered back. "False alarms, even - failed poisonings," he clarified. "If we could get access to
previous records - "

"I'd guess she has them in her office," Hermione whispered, gesturing to Daisy just as the Auror seemed to recall
that they were in the room.

"Yes, yes, good," Daisy informed her aide, her brow furrowing slightly as she glanced back at Draco and Hermione.
"You two don't mind, do you? I should be back within an hour," she added, and Hermione nodded quickly - too
quickly, Draco thought, catching the slight show of apprehension by Daisy's aide. "Murph here can get you anything
you need," Daisy added, clapping her hand around her aide's shoulder. "Gideon Murphy, you know Draco Malfoy
and Hermione Granger, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," Murphy replied easily, though he barely managed to flash them a look of supreme irreverence; his
interests, Draco noted, were limited to those of his MACUSA superior. "Perhaps I could take you both for a coffee
in the atrium? I'd be happy to direct you if you'd like to get something to drink," Murphy added, regarding them both
with something that looked outrageously like suspicion.

"Actually," Hermione suggested smoothly, "perhaps we can just wait in your office, Daisy? Seeing as you'll be right
back," she qualified, and Daisy's lips slipped into something of a hesitant frown.

"Well, I'm not sure there's much to gain from being there," she said slowly, frowning. "I suppose Murph could
certainly keep an eye on you - "

"Yes," Murphy agreed stiffly, puffing his chest out slightly. "I certainly could."

" - but are you sure?" Daisy continued. "I'll be back soon enough, so - "

"Not a problem," Draco assured her. "We can wait."

Daisy nodded vacantly, clearly distracted.

"Get them anything they need, then," she instructed Murphy, aiming herself towards the door. "Tell Aubrey I want a
solid perimeter this time," she added. "The fae are literally known for trickery, and if there are any riddles involved,
he cannot let Holloway speak - "

"Already covered," Murphy assured her, and Daisy nodded, heading in the opposite direction as Draco, Hermione,
and Murphy stepped towards her office.

"Be back soon. Make sure to stay out of trouble," she advised, her voice a cheerful sing-song that lilted in the
distance between them before she disappeared around the corner, prompting Murphy to turn back to Draco and
Hermione with his arms folded across his chest.

"Well," Hermione ventured, "there's no need to keep you, Gideon. I think we know the way, if you have work to d-"

"You heard Auror Carnegie," Murphy cut in sharply. "I'm here to get you anything you need. Hungry?" he asked.
"Thirsty?"

"Smothered, actually," Draco muttered under his breath, as Hermione forced a smile at the MACUSA aide.

"Not to be excessively British, but some tea would be wonderful," she told him. "Sort of an afternoon staple, you
know - "

Draco rolled his eyes. "A glass of Ogden's would be pref-"

"Tea," Hermione said flatly, elbowing him in the stomach. "If you don't mind?" she prompted sweetly.

Murphy's eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

"I'll have it in Auror Carnegie's office in five minutes," he informed her curtly, offering her a brisk nod of his head
before trotting off in the opposite direction.

Hermione, meanwhile, grabbed Draco's wrist, hurrying past the open office doors into the one at the end of the hall
marked HEAD AUROR, the name Daisy Carnegie curled in script beneath the aged-looking plaque. She pulled him
inside, cracking the door slightly, and ushered him towards Daisy's many file cabinets before strategically placing
herself in view of the door.

"Christ," Draco exhaled, bending in front of the drawers marked Previous Cases. "Carnegie's thorough - this thing is
warded beyond belief, Granger - "

"Can you get in?" Hermione asked, still facing the door as she attempted to lean nonchalantly against the desk.
Draco, knowing there was no disarming the wards with spellwork, fumbled for his jacket pocket, contemplating the
vials inside and determining which ones could work for the tiniest, most containable explosion.

"I can temporarily disengage them," he determined after a moment of consideration, grimacing. "For maybe a
minute, possibly even less, but it would make a noise. A loud one," he specified, glancing over his shoulder and
gesturing to the open offices down the hall. "There's no way that people wouldn't notice."

"Well, maybe I can cover it somehow?" Hermione asked thoughtfully. "What sort of noise?"

"A bang," he supplied, still eyeing the source of Daisy's protective enchantments. "Similar to the witch-hazel
explosion at the gala," he clarified, and Hermione shook her head.

"I was afraid of that," she muttered, abruptly turning and joining him behind the desk. "Can you do it in the next - "
she glanced down, tapping her watch. "Two to three minutes?"

Draco withdrew a vial from his pocket, examining it in the light.

"Yes," he said. "I'll need to drop the vial, and then conjure the summoning charm - "

"All in sixty seconds?" she asked, chewing her lip.

"All in sixty seconds," he agreed, and she tapped her watch again, nodding.

"Okay," she exhaled, glancing at the door. "Well, I don't think you're going to like it, but - "

"Like what?" Draco prompted indignantly. "Granger, if you're attempting to be furtive, I have to say that I really
don't care f-"

"I can't do it," Hermione suddenly shouted, taking hold of Draco's shoulders, "I can't wait any longer, Malfoy!"

"What?" Draco demanded, frowning. "What are you - "

"SIXTY SECONDS," Hermione's watch squeaked. "YOU HAVE SIXTY SECONDS!"

"Drop the vial on my count," she hissed in his ear, glancing quickly over her shoulder. "I can't take it," she declared,
raising her voice. "I have to have you RIGHT NOW - "

"Oh, gross," Draco muttered, dropping the vial in the same moment that Hermione slammed him against the file
cabinet, coupling the motion with a loud, urgent moan as the drawers at his knees flew open. Draco stumbled
forward, knocked off-balance, and struggled to regain his footing, holding Hermione against the desk.

"OH GOD, MALFOY," she yelled, glaring at him. "Hurry up," she hissed, checking the doorway again, and then,
"YES, OH GOD, YES - "

"Accio poison records," Draco muttered, but it seemed that Daisy's internal protective enchantments had also
disengaged summoning charms. He dropped to his knees, hastily sorting through the file tabs.

"FORTY SECONDS," Hermione's watch wailed, and Hermione herself groaned softly with agitation.

"Hurry," she warned through gritted teeth, watching him sort through the files as she let out another ghastly moan.
"MALFOY, YES, THERE - "

"Okay, are you really going to continue calling me by my surname?" he prompted, glaring over his shoulder before
shoving aside a thick collection of files marked 'daggers' and 'machetes,' shuffling his way through to the 'P' files.
"We're supposed to be fucking, Granger, not commentating a quidditch match - "
"You just called me Granger," she reminded him under her breath. "And can you contribute something, please?"

He rolled his eyes. "First of all, 'Granger' is essentially a pet name," he told her stiffly, "and secondly - OH, YES,"
he trumpeted, "THIS IS THE STUFF, GRANGER - "

"Really, 'the stuff'?" she echoed, making a face. "What are you, a virgin?"

"TWENTY SECONDS - "

"Paint, pellets, pilsners, poisons," he muttered to himself, digging through the files. "Fuck, this is huge, let me just
get the ones from the last year - "

Hermione, in response, slammed her palm against the desk, throwing her head back with a strangled yell.

"YES, RIGHT THERE - "

"Got it," Draco said, transfiguring the files into a silk handkerchief and shoving into his breast pocket before
slamming the file cabinet shut. "It's going to make another loud noise in about, I don't know - "

"TEN SECONDS!"

"Miss Granger?" they heard from the corridor, along with a series of approaching footsteps. "Do you take your tea
with sugar, or - "

" - FIVE - FOUR - "

"Fuck," Draco muttered, and Hermione whipped around to face him, setting her jaw with an expression that was
equal parts dread and certainty.

" - THREE - TWO - "

"Sorry about this," she exhaled, grimacing, and slammed Draco back, obscuring the bang of Daisy's warded cabinet
resealing itself and pressing her lips to his just as Murphy pushed open the door.

If the first kiss had been a collision, this one was even more so; it was volatile and savage and a clang of captive
breaths as she hurried to mess them both up convincingly, tearing open the buttons of his shirt in a single, unrefined
motion. Draco, in turn, obligingly unsnapped her bra with one hand, concealing the other near her inner thigh just as
Murphy staggered to a halt within the doorway, staring at them.

"Apologies," Draco drawled coolly, managing his usual smirk. "It appears we need a minute."

Murphy hastily managed an incoherent apology, setting the tea down beside the door and scrambling to back out of
Carnegie's office, leaving them behind.

The moment he'd gone, Draco released Hermione, glancing down at his shirt.

"Well," he sniffed. "I'm missing a button now, you animal."

"You're one to talk," Hermione retorted, shoving him away. "My bra, Malfoy, really?" she demanded, struggling to
refasten it. "It's not like he could even see it - "

"Well, that's the difference between you and me, Granger," Draco informed her, tapping the handkerchief of files
that now draped against his chest. "I'm thorough."

"You're totally unconvincing," Hermione countered, rolling her eyes. "Or do you have more material than 'the stuff,'
such as - oh, I don't know, 'the things' - "

"Listen, if this were in any way actual sex, it would've been another matter altogether," Draco retorted impatiently,
glowering at her. "But seeing as it very distinctly isn't - "
"What's the difference?" she grumbled irritably. "All you had to do was - oh, I don't know," she guessed, throwing
her hands up, "just say what you'd say during sex, obviously."

Draco held his tongue at that, drumming his fingers carefully along the outside of his arm; and then, after a
moment's deliberation, he cleared his throat, watching her turn away.

"I've been waiting for this," he said, and Hermione glanced back at him, confused.

"Waiting for wh-"

"I've been waiting to hold you like this, taste you like this," he continued, his voice low and crisp and effortlessly
neutral. "You taste so fucking perfect, Hermione - so fucking perfect. Tell me how you want me," he added, taking a
step towards her and delighting in her hasty step backwards, tripping over her own feet. "Do you want it slow? Want
me to take my time? Like I've been waiting for it, and I have," he murmured, pressing her back against the desk.
"Been waiting for you, Hermione. Do you want it fast? Want it hard? Want me to show you how fucking bad I've
wanted you?" he suggested, turning to look at her. "Tell me," he prompted, smirking.

She swallowed hard. "Okay," she permitted. "So, that's - " she coughed. "Slightly better, but - "

"Do you want me to fuck you here?" he asked her, letting his gaze skate down her throat as he leaned her back
against the wood. "Right here, on this desk? I could lay you on your back, make you come with your legs around my
hips; could fuck you right here. Or," he amended, shifting to back her against the file cabinet this time, "right here,
Hermione," he said, and lifted her easily, pressing her back flat against the cabinet and giving her a shove for
emphasis. "Is this how you want me?" he murmured, and then, with mocking deliberation, he let his lips brush the
side of her neck before slowly leaning back, pausing to watch her face.

She stared at him, blinking, and fought to school her expression.

He felt her pulse thudding perilously against his chest, and he reveled in the unsteady rhythm of it as her eyes
widened, taking him in.

"The tea's getting cold," she managed eventually, her gaze sliding to the tray beside the still-cracked door and then
back to his face, lingering with devastating hesitation on his mouth.

At that, Draco smiled, consummately triumphant.

"Yes," he agreed, promptly dropping her on the floor. "Yes, I completely agree."

a/n: having terrible, awful, no good very bad computer problems (it's dead, I'm dead, everything is dead) so my
updates are a mess, I feel; but thank you as always for reading! Dedicated to riversgirl75, amr56, and radaghast.

Also, Little Chmura and I have just published the second installment of Alpha! The first volume is available for free
until September 4. See our website, enter (dash) alpha dot com for more details!
 12. Real AF

Chapter 12: Real AF

The Ministry of Magic

Department of Magical Law Enforcement
September 30, 2003
4:45 p.m.

There was a sharp, perfunctory knock against Harry's open door and he glanced up to see Kingsley standing there,
awkwardly half-inserted in the frame.

"Any updates?" Kingsley asked, looking mildly bothered.

"No," Harry replied, though he knew Kingsley already knew as much; he was fairly detailed in his confidential
Auror reports. "Hermione and Draco are still working with Auror Carnegie, I've assigned security to Percy Weasley,
and the rest of Deathstar is - "

"Deathstar?" Kingsley rumbled, his brow furrowing, and Harry sighed.

"Malfoy's company," he clarified. "It's called something else at the moment but to be honest, I really can't keep
track."

He could keep track, actually. As of that morning, Theo had sent him a name change form requesting the company
be called The Deathly Hallows Are Real as Fuck and So Am I, which Harry, a consummate professional, asserted
with confidence was not ideal to be offered aloud to the Minister of Magic.

Besides, the man already looked hopelessly distracted.

"It's quiet," Kingsley muttered, grumbling to himself. "I would have expected an escalation after the gala last
weekend." He leaned against the frame, folding his arms over his chest. "I don't care for this much, I have to say."

"I know the feeling," Harry agreed, leaning back in his chair. "Sometimes when things get too quiet I start thinking
Voldemort might just pop up in Romania somewhere."

Kingsley managed a chuckle. "Too soon," he lamented, and Harry smiled weakly. "But at least we have the comfort
of knowing Tom Riddle won't be coming back. The dead," Kingsley murmured, scraping a hand over his cheeks,
"have a comforting tendency to stay dead."

Harry grimaced. "So true," he lied, as he caught the sound of a familiar loping stride from down the corridor. Much
to Harry's apprehension, Kingsley gaze darted away before he smoothly stepped aside, permitting Theo's entrance in
the frame.

"Auror Potter," Theo drawled, inclining his head. "A word?"

"Of course," Harry said, struggling to obscure his surprise. "Minister Shacklebolt, have you met Theo Nott?" he
asked Kingsley, who shook his head, giving Theo a wary glance. "He's been serving as my go-between for the
company while Malfoy's away," Harry explained, fighting a grimace as Theo unhesitantly provided Kingsley an
irreverent salute.

"Something important, I hope?" Harry prompted, raising a brow at Theo. Please, he added imploringly, holding his
breath.

"Well, aside from news from Zabini, nothing much," Theo cheerfully replied. "Mostly just here to get on my knees
and bl-"

"Just a minute, then, Nott," Harry interrupted sharply, rising abruptly to his feet. "Apologies, Kingsley, did you have
anything else to - "

"No, no," Kingsley said, giving Theo another perturbed glance. "If you have something pressing to discuss, then by
all means, Auror Potter," he offered, shrugging. "I interrupted your work, after all."

"We do very much have something case-related to discuss," Harry confirmed, glaring warningly at Theo. "Or Nott
wouldn't be here, would he?"

"No, he would not," Theo agreed, and Kingsley nodded his tentative approval, giving Harry something of a
distracted wave before departing from the frame.

Theo, meanwhile, blew a kiss to the Minister's parting back and sauntered into Harry's office, shutting the door
behind him and pausing to glance at where Harry sighed, shaking his head.

"Could you potentially not?" he asked, and Theo shrugged.

"I have problems with authority," he replied, falling into the chair opposite Harry's desk. "Daddy issues. You know
how it is."

"Right," Harry agreed. "But if you could, you know. Not tell my boss you're in here blowing me," he clarified, "that
would be somewhat ideal."

"Potter, if you wanted to fuck a good person, you should have chosen one," Theo sniffed, and Harry rolled his eyes.
"In any case, I actually do have business to discuss with you. Blaise got Trelawney to confirm that she was talking
about the Infinity Club," he said. "It is, at least in some respect, a real thing and not a figment of Cad's imagination.
So I was thinking, since I am the person who generally does the relevant case research in our newly rebranded
company, The Deathly Hallows are Real as Fuck - "

"Research," Harry cut in skeptically. "What a remarkably upbeat term."

" - and So Am I," Theo pressed on, unfazed, "I thought I'd have a word with you about how best to move forward, as
it will almost certainly not be your cup of tea." He smirked. "Not remotely your style, unfortunately."

Harry sighed. "Well," he permitted. "You're about to suggest something incredibly suspect, then, I assume?"

"I'm just saying, Potter - look where you're getting your information so far," Theo pointed out, leaning forward. "A
brothel. A dead guy who steals paperwork. I think what you need," he ventured, a cleverly satisfied grin spreading
over his lips, "is a little taste of the villainous underbelly. A little swim, shall we say," he clarified, "in the depths of
criminality."

"Funny, I thought I was already doing that," Harry replied breezily, leaning into the more suggestive implications,
and Theo fixed him with a disapproving stare.

"Leave the innuendo out of it, Potter," Theo said. "We're here to work."

"Nott, for fuck's sake - "

"Anyway," Theo continued archly, "we already have Blaise working with Dionisia - "

"Working?" Harry pressed. "I thought this was a one time exchange of information."

"Not anymore, apparently," Theo said, shrugging. "I think the arrangement is part of the deal in exchange for
Dionisia's continued patronage with regard to his mother's - " he coughed. "Opera."

Harry lifted a brow. "Opera?"

"Some people like the arts, Potter," Theo drawled, and Harry sighed.

"Well, what do you suggest, then?" he pressed, folding his arms over his chest. "We could certainly keep a set of
eyes on places where criminals tend to gather, but obviously those circles are not exactly forthcoming with the
details. Or with anything," he amended, and Theo let out a derisive snort.

"Certainly not with you," Theo agreed. "But get them drunk, for a start, and get them to indulge some of their many,
many vices, and you'd be surprised how much people have an irresponsible tendency to reveal."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, considering it.

"Sex is covered," he said, referencing Lady Revel's establishment. "What else? As you seem to have something
specific in mind," he pointed out, and Theo's mouth quirked.

"Fighting," he confirmed, "which is why I'm here. Did you hear about Cad's performance at the Underground last
night?"

"The Underground?" Harry echoed. "You mean the ring below the Arsonist?"

"Oh, it's more than a ring," Theo corrected. "It's got the makings of an enterprise, whether Finnegan is aware of that
or not. And as I was saying, Cad knocked out Marcus Flint so hard that he made one of our usual informants over a
thousand galleons on a shockingly perceptive wager. One that I assume was driven by intoxication," he added under
his breath, "since by the sound of how that match started, he couldn't possibly have been thinking clearly when he
placed the bet - "

"I'd rather have Hermione there," Harry grumbled, lamenting the slight overlap in synchronicity. "I still don't fully
know how much I'm willing to put stock in Cad's story," he added, but Theo shrugged, indifferent.

"Listen, if there's one thing I trust, it's someone in possession of a compelling motive, and Cad's motives are fucking
unshakable. Vengeance," Theo emphasized, cocking a brow. "It's the classic motive. Whether he wants us to
succeed or not, he definitely wants to fuck up his brothers, so - " he shrugged. "Ends, means, whatever. Justified."

"Us," Harry repeated.

"I - " Theo began, bemused. "What?"

"You said whether he wants us to succeed," Harry said, tapping his fingers innocently against the desk. "I didn't
realize you considered this a collective effort."

"Oh, fuck off, Potter," Theo retorted. "Fine. Whether he wants you to succeed, then - "

"No, no," Harry said, rising to his feet and walking around his desk, leaning back against it as he looked down at
Theo with a grin. "Tell me again how we're an us, Nott."

He gloried in Theo's obvious stiffening.

"Not what I came for," Theo reminded him, glowering, and Harry laughed.

"Right," he agreed. "You came here to - what was it?" he prompted facetiously. "Get on your knees?"

"Fuck off, Potter, you know perfectly well that's a lie I told to embarrass you," Theo said flatly, stretching up to his
feet and wandering Harry's office, unapologetically making it his domain. "I'd never say something so uncouth if I
actually meant it," he pressed, "would I?"

Disappointing, thought Harry, though he tried not to show it.

"Oh," he remarked, watching as Theo fell back against his chair, likely disturbing all the enchantments on his
carefully selected orthopedic settings. "So this is all business, then?"

"Oh, fuck no, I didn't say that," Theo replied neutrally, slouching down in Harry's chair and deftly unzipping his
trousers. "Go on," he beckoned, winking at Harry and kicking back from the desk. "Give me a show, Auror Potter."
Harry paused, deliberating.

"That's my desk," he reminded Theo.

Theo raised his wand, flicking it lazily to lock Harry's office door.

"Not right now it isn't," he replied, unfazed, and Harry shook his head to conceal a smile.

Dionisia Trelawney was a woman who bore a number of faces, none of them any less interesting than the others.
She was also a woman who made a habit of knowing things she shouldn't, and therefore whatever version of herself
she happened to be at any given time, she could always hide behind the stolen secrets she possessed.

Dionisia and her elder sister Sibyll came from a family long admired for its gift of Sight, though only her sister
seemed to have inherited it. That being said, Dionisia could see clearly enough in what she felt were far more
important ways, and from an early age she had been an entrepreneur of sorts, trafficking on the trust she gained from
the many people who unwisely got close to her. She would dislike the allusion to a spider, but such a comparison
was fully unavoidable; Dionisia Trelawney's web was a dangerous thing to be caught in. The consequences were full
of venom, and the trick was always how difficult it was to see the complexity of her reach at first glance.

While Sibyll had always been somewhat of an awkward child, Dionisia was transcendent from the moment she
could move and think and speak. Her magic, too, was particularly extraordinary; even before she received her letter
from Hogwarts, she found her capability for enchantments was strengthened by things other than the wooden
stiffness of a wand. Namely, it was heightened by knowledge; more specifically, though, she was empowered by
secrets.

At first she only knew her sister's secrets (largely feelings of juvenile imposter syndrome, though Sibyll's occasional
glimpses at the future were powerful enough) and then she came to know her parents', and then she began collecting
secrets from strangers, and with each piece she took from the people she met - the shards of their histories, and the
slivers of their souls - she found it strengthened her own abilities, sharpening her edge.

Dionisia also learned early on that people were easily convinced to share things when they were intoxicated or
naked; she learned how to make the two nearly interchangeable, and determined she herself would never do the
same.

A professor named Albus Dumbledore once caught on to Dionisia's abilities, though he himself seemed thoroughly
resistant to her charms.

"This variety of magic," he told her, "it's quite dangerous, you know."

"I don't know what you mean," Dionisia returned innocently, batting her lashes. He sighed.

"Do you mean to tell me you do not collect the things you glean from others?" Dumbledore asked. "Would I not find
a collection of memories, of secrets, were I to search your room in the Slytherin dungeons?"

"Collecting is not a crime," Dionisia told him. "They're my memories."

"They're stolen," Dumbledore corrected sharply. "They are not yours."

"They were freely given," Dionisia returned. "What flaw in that is mine?"

Dumbledore hesitated, toying with something on his tongue.

"You play a dangerous game, Miss Trelawney," he remarked quietly, and she smiled, catching something telling in
the tormented lines of his face; as if he had said something similar before.

"Since you've been so kind, I'll let you keep that secret," she said, rising to her feet and glancing haughtily over her
shoulder. "I have a feeling you'll haunt yourself with it."
She opened her establishment in Knockturn Alley shortly after finishing at Hogwarts, finding that she had a business
acumen that neatly coincided with her ability to collect things from others. (It helped, of course, that the landlord
was racked with guilt over confessing his boring little sins to her; she never paid a month's rent, and it was all in an
hour's work.) Lady Revel's House of Fortune was at first a very small venture, simply a place where Dionisia threw
highly secretive, intensely exclusive parties on occasion, and grew to something much larger very quickly as the
number of witches and wizards indebted to her expanded exponentially, each of them contracted by secrets they'd
relinquished.

"Poor fools," Dionisia thought, tucking vial after vial into the vaults below the house's floorboards.

She kept to the shadows, but still, uncovery of her reputation was somewhat unavoidable, considering people's
tendency to talk. She was visited by one curiosity in particular, a young man with raven-black hair and a youthful
expression, one night in her twenty-fifth year; she had opened the door to her bedroom and found him sitting in her
favorite chair beside the fireplace.

"Dionisia Trelawney," he offered, rising to his feet. "Or is your true identity a secret?"

"I have no secrets," she replied warily. "In my line of work, to possess any would be insurmountably ill-advised."

"Hm," he said. "And if I gave you one to consider?"

She paused.

"Nothing is ever given," she said warily. "And if it is, it's worth little unless it is taken, or rightfully earned."

"Is that how it works?" he asked, considering it. "Your house has a strange feel to it. Not light magic," he murmured
to himself, "and not dark, either, but - "

"What do you want?" she interrupted, finding herself uncharacteristically bristled and impatient. "My ladies have
gone to bed for the evening, and if you're looking to attend a revel, you'll have to earn an invitation."

He looked at her, tilting his head. "You put great stock in the concept of earning," he noted. "Is everything based
solely on merit?"

"Isn't it?" she countered.

He smiled.

"I'm here to issue you an invitation, actually," he said. "Have you ever heard of the League of Eternality?"

"What, that Infinity Club I've heard whispered about?" Dionisia scoffed. "Child's play."

"Is it?" the man said. "Pity I wasted your time, then."

He turned, heading for the Floo, and she committed the grave error of taking an unconscious step forward. He
cocked his head, smiling.

"Who are you?" she demanded, and he turned, offering her a bow.

"I thought you'd never ask," he told her.

His name was Ignotus Peverell, and he was her first of two terrible mistakes.

"I have no interest in immortality," she told him for the third time, on his third visit to her chambers. "It's an idiotic
endeavor, a fool's errand, and I don't share your Club's vision in the slightest."

"How can you not?" Ignotus protested. "The vision changes, you know. The agendas update to suit the times."

"I don't share the vision that there should even be a vision, Ignotus," Dionisia sighed, shaking her head. "I told you, I
operate alone."

"You don't," he said. "You rely on others."

"No," she replied, "I rely on what I get from others."

"What you take from others, you mean."

"There's no difference."

"Isn't there?"

She sighed again, setting down her quill. "Why do you keep coming back here?" she asked him. "I've already
refused to join your brother's little venture."

"It's not my brother's," Ignotus said, looking a bit ruffled. "It's mine, too."

"Fine," Dionisia said. "I don't want to join your little venture, and that won't change. No matter how many times you
come here," she added, folding her arms over her chest. "You're wasting your time, Ignotus."

"Well, I thought we were starting to be friends," Ignotus countered, taking a seat on her bed. "Was I wrong?"

"I don't have friends," Dionisia reminded him. "Nor do you."

"Well, that's precisely my point," he said. "Can we not be each other's friends?"

She hesitated.

It was tempting, albeit misguided.

"What would friendship entail?" she asked, and he shrugged.

"A visit from time to time," he offered. "Aren't you lonely?"

"No," she lied.

"Oh," he said, leaning towards her. "Perhaps I was wrong, then."

But he came back, at least once a week, for at least a year. She made the mistake of growing fond of him, and
though she'd always thought herself immune to men - and to women, though countless had tried, and Dionisia had
certainly had her moments for the sake of experience - she found she wasn't entirely in possession of her faculties
when Ignotus Peverell was around. With other people, she saw the future clearly; she saw what she could make them
do, and the consequences of their interactions.

With Ignotus, though, she saw only his green eyes, and the mournful sorrow around his mouth.

"I have never truly loved anyone," he told her one night, sitting beside her as they watched the fire crackle and burn.
"I was fond enough of my wife, but she never knew the truth about me, and I don't think it could have ever been love
without truth."

"Did Nico tell you that?" Dionisia asked skeptically, glancing askance. "Love is love, I would think, whether secrets
are shared or not."

"Funny you would say that," Ignotus remarked, chuckling. "Have you ever shared a secret?"

"I have none of my own," she replied.

"Is that a secret?"

"No," she told him, shaking her head. "And stop fishing."

He turned to her, pausing in thought.

"Would you like to hear one of mine?" he asked, and her breath caught in her throat, setting her alight.

"I have many of yours," she reminded him, hoping to temper the flame. "Your name, your association, your guilt - "

"Guilt?" he asked.

"Over killing your brother," she explained.

"I never confessed to that."

"You didn't have to."

"Hm," he said thoughtfully. "What if I tell you I love you?"

She inhaled sharply, burning.

"That," she exhaled, "is not a secret either."

He smiled.

"No," he agreed. "I suspect you've known for some time." He glanced at her. "But do you not feel the same?"

She toyed with it for a moment; if she told him the truth, it could certainly cost her, but if she lied, she would
subsequently possess a secret - and that, she suspected, would destroy her.

"I do," she said carefully, and he slid a hand around her cheek, kissing her with a gentle, almost-not-a-touch across
her lips, drawing her closer in his arms.

"This is my secret, and I want you to have it," he rasped against her lips, sending a shudder up her spine.

And then he turned his head, whispering it in her ear.

All at once the fire roared, the torches danced, and the house buzzed with electricity, with vibrance, with magic, and
every sleeping eye in the house snapped open, filled at once with wonder and ammunition in the wake of Ignotus
Peverell's most precious possession; his most hard-fought fragment of soul.

"You poor fool," Dionisia whispered, and let him lay her back against the rug on the floor, deepening the kiss.

They made love every night for a week, holding each other close, until she contemplated leaving her life for the first
time. Power seemed suddenly unimportant, nor the secrets of those who meant nothing to her, and she nearly
promised herself to him until she found yet another strange man in her chambers the following night, the light of
Ignotus' presence suddenly sputtered and extinguished.

"He won't come back," said the too-handsome man, rising to his feet. "And if he does, you must tell him he is no
longer welcome here."

"Who are you?" Dionisia asked.

"You know who I am," Antioch Peverell replied. "And you know I can make my brother suffer in ways neither you
nor he can begin to imagine."

"You can't take him from me," Dionisia protested. "I won't let you."

He appeared to fight a laugh.

"You're a uniquely powerful witch, Lady Revel," Antioch said, "and I regret that we were not able to come to an
understanding. One day I may have great use for you," he added, "but today is not that day." He paused, heading for
the Floo, and looked back at her. "Often, we take the memories from those who refuse," he commented idly, "but I
will not take this from you."

She swallowed, fighting a humiliating rush of tears.

"Thank you," she offered hoarsely, and he laughed.

"Oh, this is no benediction," Antioch promised. "You'll suffer, Dionisia, and may it pain you as greatly as all that
I've done."

And then he was gone, and thus, her first error committed. She hoped fervently for Ignotus' return, but was numbly
unsurprised when he did not.

The second mistake was not for some time; or rather, it was an error committed over several measures of time. It
was long after business continued as normal, when Lady Revel had become little more than a puppeteer with a
powdered wig and overly rouged cheeks, always keeping to a mask of one kind or another. Her heart she locked
tight, never sparing a beat of it for another, but as she aged, she became less careful; began to leave the work of
collecting to her ladies, and lost interest in all but the most trivial of games.

Until the day her vault of secrets nearly collapsed, and thus, the house and her power along with it.

"This one's been tampered," she shouted, discarding her wig and storming up the stairs. "This is a false confession,"
she raged, brandishing the vial before her many ladies. "Who did this? Whose is this?"

"Mine," confessed one of the ladies, her face pale beneath its thick paint. "It was - I was forced. A Ministry official,"
she explained. "I - I had no choice, she threatened me, and I didn't think - "

"This house," Dionisia seethed, "is run on truth. Lies corrupt all things, magic notwithstanding," she snapped. "You
should know this."

The girl glanced down, ashamed.

"Who was it?" Dionisia demanded, and a tear slipped down the young girl's cheek.

"I don't know her name," the girl sniffed, "but she wore all pink, and looked like a - "

She paused, hesitating.

"A what?" Dionisia pressed.

"A toad," the girl whispered.

And so Dionisia Trelawney sought out the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, arriving in her office the
next day.

"Ah, so you've found me," Dolores Umbridge said, acknowledging Dionisia's appearance with a surprisingly girlish
giggle as the many cats on the walls stared intently at Dionisia's back. "It appears I was correct, then, wasn't I, about
the particularities of your system?"

"What do you want?" Dionisia demanded. "My establishment has the proper commercial permits."

"It does for your business," Dolores agreed, "but not for the illicit magic you employ, does it?" She paused,
indulging an obnoxious hem-hem sound, and Dionisia implored herself not to strangle the woman on the spot,
wishing instantly to divest her of her throat.

"Fear not, Lady Revel," Dolores continued, chuckling. "I only have a deal I'd like to make."
Dionisia said nothing.

Dolores smiled.

"In return for my silence," Dolores said, "you will make the Unbreakable Vow, undertaking an oath as my informant
and aide - "

"Like hell I will," Dionisia spat, furious. "Why would I ever do such a thing?"

"Aha, I'd hoped you'd ask," Dolores remarked. "Because, Lady Revel, you have secrets in that house that you'd die
to protect, don't you? And so do your ladies. So, imagine," she continued, convulsing again in an episode of
unnerving giggles. "Just imagine what it would do to you if the power of those secrets were to dilute at the hands of
Ministry possession."

Dionisia opened her mouth, ready to argue, but Dolores shook her head warningly.

"I don't wish to take your secrets from you, nor your business," she insisted primly. "In fact, I quite need your
business to flourish, Dionisia, as it connects me to circles I might not otherwise reach. You see, I only wish to use
you," she commented blithely, "as you are not without your value. In fact, you are worth less without that house, in
my view - and your vault of secrets is a generator of sorts, isn't it?" Dolores pressed. "You'd be destroyed without it,
wouldn't you?"

Dionisia's mouth tightened.

"Not to worry," Dolores assured her. "I won't cost you anything too personal. Just some information every now and
then," she said. "A business association, if you will."

"Do I have a choice?" Dionisia asked, and Dolores laughed.

"Nope!" she declared, sipping loudly from her cup of tea.

And so Dionisia Trelawney's second grave error was to submit herself to service to a Ministry hag; one in particular,
she lamented furiously, who had yet to disappear.

"What did you tell that Princeling?" Dolores asked, her face glowing from the flames of the Dionisia's bedroom
Floo. "Did you tell him about the Club?"

"Yes," Dionisia said, her lips pressed thin. "Potter and the Aurors will likely turn their attention there, and Princeling
himself has agreed to some low-risk smuggling. To make the information feel valuable," she clarified. "If you have
further information for me to plant, those mechanisms are now in place."

"Excellent," Dolores said. "Do you think he believed you about the Club's existence?"

Dionisia hesitated; by then, there were some secrets she reserved for herself.

The truth of what secrets she knew, for example.

"I don't see why not," Dionisia replied easily. "The Club has long been a rumored presence, and there's no reason for
him to doubt that I would know of their existence."

Dolores nodded, her expression shadowed with irritation. "They haven't come out of hiding yet," she muttered. "I
was hoping this process would take considerably less time."

"Are you so sure it's worth putting stock in something that might not exist?" Dionisia asked. "Seems as if it would be
wiser to simply start over."

"Oh, yes, and you're the master at that," Dolores snapped, glowering. "What about Granger and Malfoy?" she asked
tangentially, and Dionisia permitted an airy shrug.
"What about them?" she asked. "Their movements are covered by the paparazzi at nearly every moment. They're in
the States," she added, picking up a copy of Witch Weekly. "Gallivanting, as children do."

"Good, good," Dolores mumbled. "Well, I'll keep an eye on them then."

"Is that all?" Dionisia prompted.

"For now," Dolores snapped, disappearing from the flames, and Dionisia turned to Parvati with a sigh, rising to take
a seat at her vanity.

"Has it changed?" she asked, and Parvati shook her head.

"The man in your past," Parvati said, "he's as present as ever. He stands as unwavering as death, and my vision is the
same. Your happiness is as two sides of a coin," she said neutrally. "If you betray his secret, you will survive, but he
will be destroyed. If you hold it sacred, you will die, but he will be enriched."

Dionisia nodded, slowly removing her powdered wig.

"Very well," she muttered, waving her wand to rid her skin of its many layers of garish makeup. "And the
Princeling?"

"At a crossroads," Parvati supplied, shrugging. "As yet uncertain, but he and his associates are at the center of this,
somehow. That much I know."

Dionisia nodded again, glancing up to view Parvati in the mirror as she let her hair loose, permitting the faded silver
of it to fall down the expanse of her spine.

"And you?" she asked, watching the reflection of Parvati's expression as it shadowed with distaste. "Hate me less,
yet?"

"No," Parvati replied, dispassionate. "That, too, remains the same."

Dionisia smiled.

"Good," she said, and closed her eyes, satisfied even as she sat bereft of her favorite mask.

Whatever version of herself she was, Lady Revel knew she could always hide behind her secrets.

Percy Weasley's flat

Diagon Alley
7:35 p.m.

Percy looked up as the Floo roared from across the room, pausing to push his glasses up his nose.

"Yes?" he called, watching a sleek head of dark hair appear in the flames.

"It's Pansy," the witch said, her expression slightly pinched. "I had a question about one of these many enthralling
forms," she explained, her voice a somewhat disinterested drawl, and Percy nodded, waving his wand to alter the
Floo settings.

"Come in, then," he said, turning back to his scribbled notes as she stepped through the flames, revealing herself to
be wearing an emerald green blouse tucked into a pleated leather skirt and paired with narrow stiletto heels that were
entirely too high for the occasion.

They were intriguing, certainly.

Well selected for the benefit of her legs.

But not right for the occasion.

"Which forms?" he asked, not looking up, and she glanced down at the paperwork in her hand, eyeing his
handwriting.

"Um," she ventured. "E-6?"

"Ah, right," he said, glancing up at the sound of the catering contract. "Right, excellent." He rose to his feet, coming
around his desk to slip the parchment from her hands and scour the notes around it, refreshing himself of his
choices. "Oh, good, these have been done," he murmured, nodding with approval at the certificates of receipt that
were neatly pinned to the parchment, "and - "

"Is this your family?" she interrupted, her voice falsely bright as she picked up the frame on his desk, eyeing it.

He glanced up. "Yes," he said, and did not comment that she likely already knew as much, since Ron, whom she'd
gone to school with, was very much in the foreground of the image. "Anyway," he continued, "as I was saying about
this particular contr-"

"Do you date much?" Pansy asked, still lifting items from his desk. It occurred to him to tell her not to touch
anything (or at least to be less obvious about her snooping) but with the way she was leaning, he was firmly
distracted by the not-unpleasant view he'd been permitted of her legs. "Or, you know. See people often?"

"See people?" he echoed. "I see many people. Hazards of sight."

She turned, blinking.

"Is that a joke?" she asked.

"Is that an offer?" he countered.

She smirked.

"I'm just curious," she said, gesturing to the rapidly updating agenda that floated over his desk chair. "You seem
busy, but I rarely see you actually interacting with people."

"My job isn't to interact with people," he told her. "It's to do my work."

"And do you?" she asked, leaning back against his desk.

"Yes," he replied. "Always to satisfaction."

He watched her clear her throat, her lips parting slightly.

"Satisfaction?" she echoed.

He nodded. "I'd hate to see someone depart my services unsatisfied," he said. "I certainly tailor my performance so
that each party gets what they came for."

"Which is?" she asked.

He took a step towards her, watching her hold her breath.

She really did have quite lovely eyes, which traveled tentatively to his mouth.

"Fair and impartial judgment," he told her neutrally. "As per my Wizengamot oath of office."

Instantly, she deflated, a breath escaping sharply from her lips.

"Oh," she said, tearing her gaze away.

He smiled.

"What did you really come here for, Miss Parkinson?" he asked, taking another step. "I would imagine my intentions
have been quite clear."

"Have they?" she asked, lips pursed.

"The catering forms," he reminded her, holding them up. "Were my instructions confusing in some way?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"No," she said, the words slipping through gritted teeth. "But - "

"But?" he prompted, and as she tilted her chin up, he let his drop, toying with the distance between them.

Rather than go any further, though, the Floo came to life, flickering brightly behind him; at the sound, both of them
jumped in alarm.

"Were you expecting someone?" she exhaled sharply, and he frowned, thinking.

"Not that I rec-"

For reasons he could not determine in the slightest, she promptly shoved him aside, brandishing her wand and
emitting a remarkably well-aimed wordless hex. She waited, wand extended, until both of them caught the sound of
a loud 'OUCH' from the fireplace.

"Mr Weasley, it's just me," the young wizard from the Leaky Cauldron complained, half his body suspended
between his origin and the entry to Percy's flat. "I have the salad you ordered - "

Ah, right, he thought, blinking.

He'd forgotten, having gotten caught up in his work all evening.

"Yes, of course, my apologies," Percy called back to the Floo, glancing down at where Pansy was breathing hard,
her wand still held out defensively. "Miss Parkinson will take that from you."

She turned over her shoulder, glaring at him. "I'm not your butler," she snapped. "Get it yourself."

"You just hexed a young man for no reason," Percy reminded her, gesturing to where said young man cowered
slightly in the flames. "Personally, I worry about facing my back to you."

She grimaced. "Fine," she said, and lowered her wand, striding furiously over to the fireplace. "Here," she said,
tossing a handful of galleons into the man's extended right hand as she took the bag from his left. "For your
troubles," she barked before stomping back over to Percy, thrusting the container of food into his chest.

"Here," she said, luminous with irritation. "And just answer the question," she pressed, in what seemed to be the
pursuit she had actually come for; the contracts, Percy noted, were now forgotten in her hand. "Have you seen
anyone new? Talked to anyone outside of the ordinary? Has anyone approached you, made you feel uncomfortable,
offered you anything unusual?"

He set the salad on his desk behind him.

"Besides you, you mean?" he asked carefully, turning back to face her.

She set her jaw firmly, annoyed.

"I'll leave you to your dinner, then," she snapped. "Just - be more fucking cognizant of your surroundings, would
you?"
"Is this party planning advice?" he asked, lifting a brow.

"It's event planning, first of all," she retorted, "and secondly, yes, it is."

She turned, storming back to the Floo, and he stifled a laugh.

"Pansy," he called, and she turned, apprehensively expectant.

He considered advising her that her intriguing-but-inappropriate shoes would look better on his floor, but then he
thought better of it, thinking he'd quite prefer her to leave them on.

Though this was, of course, not remotely the time.

"Don't forget what I said about the menu," he said instead, and seated himself at his desk, immediately forgetting
about his salad.

Carnegie Mansion
Upper East Side, New York
6:30 p.m.

"I'm not sure about this," Hermione said, glancing over her shoulder as they departed the first floor ballroom to
quietly sneak up the house's main stairs. "Isn't this a little, I don't know - invasive? It just seems a bit rude to go
through her family's things like this."

So sorry to do this, but my parents were adamant, Daisy had sighed. They're quite important figures in American
wizarding society, so this party is always sort of a big fucking deal, you know? And seeing as you're both here as my
guests, they're insisting you both come -

Of course, Hermione had assured her, and in truth, she'd initially intended little more than to simply attend.

Draco, on the other hand, had clearly had other things in mind aside from dancing and small talk.

"It's 'rude'?" Draco echoed, scoffing. "Granger, we're fucking spies. I don't chat about the weather before I kill
someone - "

"Shh," Hermione warned, glaring at him. "I just don't feel good about it, that's all."

"Well, marvelous," Draco said, as music and laughter continuously carried from the ballroom downstairs. "But we
don't have much time, so save your crisis of confidence until after we're done, would you?"

"I just don't know if there's much logic in this," she pressed nervously. "Just because her family clearly has money
and influence doesn't inherently make them more likely to be involved, does it? I mean, your family's rich and old,
and - "

Draco spun on the stairs, whipping around to face her.

"Yes, they are," he agreed sharply, "and my father was the devoted follower of a villainous, amoral cult, and on a
good day, I'm just an assassin."

Hermione sighed.

"Point taken," she permitted weakly, and Draco allowed for a brief, arrogant smirk before gesturing back up the
stairs.

"Besides, think of it as beneficial profiling," he said. "Aren't you all about fairness and such? Certain people always
being presumed guilty? Take a family with absolutely no presumption of guilt whatsoever," he said, waving a hand
around the mansion, "and let's turn the stereotypes on their heads, shall we? Potter says the Club goes for people in
power, people of influence. This," he said emphatically, "is what influence looks like."

"We're not done going through the poison files," Hermione reminded him. "We still don't actually know for sure this
Club's even involved."

"No, we don't," Draco agreed, "but we won't get another chance to search the Carnegie Mansion again, so let's just
figure out if the woman can even be trusted, shall we?"

In response, Hermione offered another resigned sigh, hurrying after him as he poked around in the bedrooms,
glancing in and switching on the lights.

"What are we looking for?" she asked, and he shrugged.

"Well, nothing in particular," he said, throwing open the door to what appeared to be an airing cupboard, the sides of
it lined with neatly-pressed sheets and towels. "Weird," he muttered, frowning as he stepped inside. "Is there another
realm back here?"

"Oh god," Hermione said, yanking him back. 'Let's not do that. Look," she said, pointing to a room with Daisy's
initials on the door. "This looks like Daisy's bedroom."

"Well," Draco said, following her as she tested the door, "I doubt that'll have much. She doesn't live here anymore,
does she?" he asked, and Hermione shook her head, peeking inside of what was clearly a teenager's bedroom. "I
thought she has her own flat."

"She does," Hermione said, and sighed, setting down a teddy bear that had been charmed to smell like cupcakes
before turning back to Draco. "So what do you suggest?"

He grimaced. "An office?" he guessed, shrugging. "A study, possibly? That's where people keep important things."

"No, correction," Hermione said, "that's where men keep important things. But do you get the feeling her father is
the one in charge?" she prompted, and Draco's expression tightened.

A minute in the presence of Daisy's parents just before the guests arrived had clearly said otherwise.

Oh, you're early, Emilia Carnegie had sighed, kissing her daughter's cheek. Daisy, you know how I hate to pull back
the veil. Don't slouch, Emmett, she murmured to her husband, nudging him as she spared Draco and Hermione a
stiff, coldly alluring smile.

Yes, Daddy, Daisy agreed, giving him a hug. You know how Mom hates a show of weak posture.

Shows weak convictions, Emilia said firmly, and promptly let out a startling bell-like laugh. Anyway, what were we
saying?

"True," Draco said, shuddering. "Where do women keep things, then?"

"Jewelry box?" Hermione guessed. "Somewhere intimate, I suppose." They wandered into the hallway, both
catching sight of the grand double doors at the end of the hall. A series of gilded filigrees and the letter C were
engraved into the wood, the elaborate handles gleaming from afar.

"Master bedroom," they both said, exchanging a dubious glance, and quickly hastened towards the doors, pausing
before they entered.

"This is weird, right?" Hermione asked, hesitating.

"Yes," Draco confirmed. "Definitely."

"Oh good," Hermione sighed. "Just checking."

The inside of Daisy's parents' bedroom was surprisingly airy and cool, not unlike Emilia Carnegie herself, and it
featured little excess decoration in favor of open space. The floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked an enchanted
(and enchanting) view of Central Park were blanketed by a series of gauzy curtains charmed a pale, iridescent
lavender, the many facets of color changing by various degrees with the light of the setting sun outside.

"Wow," Hermione remarked, impressed.

"Well," Draco sniffed. "For the record, my mother had a far less whimsical palette and infinitely more taste."

"Please don't," Hermione muttered. "I need you to not get Oedipal on me right now, we're very busy - "

"First of all, how dare you," Draco snapped, "and second of all - "

There was a loud shout from downstairs, and they both froze, staring at each other.

"What was that?" Draco demanded, glaring at her.

"It wasn't me, Malfoy!" Hermione retorted, and they both rushed to the door, pressing their heads against it. From
downstairs, the sound of voices carried from below, growing louder and more hysterical, albeit muffled through the
wood.

"Can you hear anything?" Draco asked, and Hermione groaned.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it," she muttered, recalling that magic existed for moments like this and reaching into her
bag for her set of Extendable Ears, shoving him aside to crack the door open. "Move, would you?"

He replied with a few gratuitous expletives, but she ignored him, lowering the ear and listening intently. "It's not
coming from the ballroom," she commented, noting the lack of background noise. "In fact, maybe it was just - "

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN KIDNAPPED?" she heard, and jumped, leaping back as Emilia Carnegie shouted in
frustration. "The wards on this house are impenetrable, there's no possible way anyone who wasn't invited could
have gotten in!"

"I apologize, Mrs Carnegie," someone replied; an elf, by the sound of it. "Miss Daisy was only getting something
from the wine cellar. I heard a scream just before the sound of something breaking, but by the time I apparated in - "

"Are you telling me my daughter is gone?" Emilia raged.

"Emilia," Emmett attempted nervously, "really, we shouldn't make a scene, not with all the guests who'll want to
know what happened - "

"I'LL MAKE A SCENE IF I WANT TO," Emilia returned, letting out a growl of fury. "Where are the two Brits she
was with?" she pressed frantically, and Hermione leapt up, fumbling to return the ear to her purse and turning
anxiously to an indignantly waiting Draco.

"What did y-"

"Daisy's been kidnapped," Hermione said, feeling her face turn pale. "Her mother's looking for us." She grabbed his
hand, attempting to pull him from the room just as a mournful, Victorian era ghost wandered past the doors, its gaze
flicking skeptically over them before sweeping down the corridor with an unearthly howl of displeasure. "Shit,"
Hermione exhaled, dragging Draco after her. "What's our excuse?"

"Sex," Draco said instantly, and Hermione groaned.

"In her parents' bedroom? How gross are we?"

"Would you rather be gross or guilty?" Draco demanded, and Hermione took out her wand, apparating them just
outside a bathroom on the first floor.

"Oh," a startled woman exclaimed, opening the door and jumping back. "Were you waiting to - "
"No, no," Hermione said quickly. "We're, um - we're fine now - "

"Yes, we held it," Draco agreed, letting her yank him back towards the ballroom as they both hastily struggled to
appear normal, Emilia's gaze falling on them from down the corridor just before dragging her husband towards
them.

"My daughter's been taken," she said in a low voice, her blue eyes sparking with anger. "Were you with her?"

"No," Hermione said nervously. "We stepped out, to - "

"Definitely not have sex," Draco supplied. "Definitely something appropriate."

" - talk," Hermione finished, glaring at him. "We were, um. Getting some air, and - "

"I don't care," Emilia interrupted sharply, holding a hand up as Emmett, too, looked distinctly unsettled beside her.
"Can you look at the place she was taken?"

"Oh," Hermione said, blinking. "Well, I mean - I'm sure her Aurors would do a better job of that," she said, chewing
her lip. "It is a crime scene, and we're just her friends, so - "

"Yes, right, her friends - and where did you meet again?" Emilia posed, her expression stiff.

Hermione paused, glancing at Draco. "Well, um - "

"My daughter doesn't have friends," Emilia snapped knowingly, her voice edged with the kind of fierce maternal
intensity Hermione still associated with Molly Weasley. "My daughter is devoted solely to her work, and you may
cling to your appearances if you wish, but I'm certain your being here is something related to one of her cases. We
will alert the Auror department, but please," she ventured stiffly, the word seeming incredibly unfamiliar on her
tongue. "You're right here. Can you just look?"

Hermione hesitated. "Well, I - "

"Of course," Draco assured Emilia, slipping an arm around Hermione's waist. At the unexpected motion, Hermione
glanced around, realizing that several of the guests who were wandering the first floor had begun curiously watching
them. She felt relieved, oddly, for Draco's ever-surprisingly keen perception. "Of course we can fetch Daisy's things
for her," he said loudly, "right, sweetheart?"

"Yes, darling, thank you," she said, and Emilia rolled her eyes impatiently but snapped her fingers, calling the elf
forward.

"This is Morton," she said, gesturing, and the elf inclined his head. "He's been with our family for several
generations. He'll show you to the wine cellar." She stepped closer, giving Hermione a superficial hug and speaking
into her ear. "I hope that despite whatever you are pretending to be, you are something of use to Daisy," she
murmured, and Hermione nodded. "Good, then," she judged flatly, leaning back. "Morton - "

The elf nodded, snapping his fingers, and then Hermione and Draco were transported into the wine cellar, the door
propped open behind them. Hermione paused, surveying the scene, as Draco moved towards the broken wine glass
on the floor, bending to pick up Daisy's discarded wand.

"This is hers, isn't it?" he asked, glancing over the handle that was engraved with her initials. "Americans are so
needlessly gaudy," he sniffed, displeased with the scripted monogram.

"Check her last spell," Hermione advised, and Draco nodded, casting a Prior Incantato and waiting as a shadowed
figure appeared from the wand, casting a strange, translucent shadow over the puddle of plum-colored Merlot that
had bled onto the floor.

"Could that be a Revelio?" Hermione asked him, frowning, and Draco shook his head.
"Possibly, but if she was disarmed, she didn't even try to fight back," he murmured, still gauging the particular size
and shape of the silhouette. "Someone she knew, then."

"Her mother did say only those with invitations could get in," Hermione said, and turned, glancing at the elf. "You
heard a scream and then the glass breaking, correct?"

"Yes," the elf said, unblinking.

"Could it be a trap?" Hermione asked, turning to Draco.

He hesitated; in answer, he shifted closer to her, leaning to speak into her ear.

"Does this silhouette look familiar to you?" he asked, and she frowned, uncertain. "It looks," he pressed, dropping
his voice to a whisper, "a bit like the person is slouching."

Hermione's eyes widened, though she tried very carefully not to show her concern as she turned back to the elf at the
door.

"Morton, was it?" she began, hoping for politeness. "You've served this family for several generations, your mistress
said?"

The elf gave her an impassive look of confirmation.

"Who specifically do you serve?" Hermione pressed, but Draco shook his head, tightly gripping her arm.

"We have to get out of here," he hissed in her ear, moving to draw his wand, but at a small, throat-clearing cough
from the doorway, they both froze in place.

"So sorry about this," called a deeply insincere Emmett Carnegie, "but I'm afraid I have to be certain I haven't
sacrificed my daughter for nothing."

And then, before Hermione could speak, she caught the motion of the elf snapping his fingers, ridding her of
consciousness as the floor rose up to swallow them whole.

a/n: Dedicated to sofisamu, rebelsaurus29, and kyonomiko!

 13. Abduction is Love

Chapter 13: Abduction is Love

Department of Magical Law Enforcement, MACUSA

Woolworth, New York
September 30, 2003
9:30 p.m.

Draco opened his eyes blearily to find with an immediate burst of panic that his hands had been tied tightly behind
his back, his tailbone throbbing and sore from where he'd been deposited on the floor and leant up against something
solid. He processed his senses slowly, recognition swimming as things gradually came into being; a table or a desk,
he noted, and a series of books that rose to visibility just above his line of sight. He smelled ink and parchment; the
sort of staleness that comes with institutional buildings; a whiff of something familiar that tickled his nose to
consciousness; a faint hint of gardenias.

Hermione's perfume.

He shifted jarringly, realizing what (or, more accurately, who) he was anchored to, and caught the sound of a throat-
clearing cough from somewhere above.

"Careful," a man's voice warned, tutting quietly as papers shuffled somewhere overhead. "I'd hate for you to
overstrain."

Draco froze, feeling Hermione start to wake behind him, and the man chuckled.

"Don't worry," the man said, peering over what Draco realized was indeed a desk, and a familiar one, at that. "I
wouldn't keep her very far," he commented, and Draco frowned, recognizing neither the man nor the intent behind
his reference.

"What's going on?" he heard Hermione say, and craned his neck as far as it would go, suffering an invasion of her
unruly curls from his periphery. "Where's Daisy?"

"Over here," the man replied in answer, the top of his head disappearing from sight. "She's helping me look for
something. Care to tell them what it is, Miss Carnegie?"

There was the sound of something akin to a seam ripping and Draco heard a sputtered cough from the other side of
the desk, accompanied by a familiar voice.

"It's Head Auror Carnegie, you unbelievable piece of sh-"

"Ah-ah," the man warned. "Language, please."

"You're a motherfucking swine," Daisy snapped, and the man sighed.

"You realize this would all go much smoother if you would simply cooperate," the man informed her. "Your father
assured me - "

"My father," Daisy interrupted, "has nothing to do with this."

"Oh, very little, true," the man agreed, the top of his head coming into view again. "But certainly not nothing. He
brought these two," he added, gesturing to where Draco and Hermione struggled on the floor, "so I would get with
the program, Miss Carnegie, before I'm forced to do something I'll regret."

"Okay, listen up you little shitbag, I - mphhmhihm-"

There was a resounding, gravelly sigh as the man ducked out of sight and then reappeared with a pop on the other
side of the desk, his hand wrapped firmly around Daisy's arm as she scowled up at him. The man, Draco noted, was
wearing a dark grey suit - clearly bespoke, although with no particular indication of the maker - and his hair was
swept cleanly to one side, a patternless silk square tucked into his pocket. Daisy looked unharmed, albeit disheveled;
she was, however, magically gagged, and as much Draco had once hoped himself that she would stop talking, he
determined that a disconcerting form of wish-fulfillment.

The man cleared his throat again, adjusting his collar; from beneath the thin white material, Draco caught the outline
of a tattoo at the base of his throat, tucking the observation in the back of his mind for later.

"Since Miss Carnegie will not permit me the honor of expedience," the man mused, flicking his wand to grow a set
of shackles from the far wall, "I will explain myself in her stead. In short, I require Miss Carnegie's files," he said,
briskly tugging at his jacket after carelessly tossing Daisy into the clutches of his conjured restraints, "but some of
them are missing. I've gathered that you two have them."

He felt Hermione stiffen, indignant, but Draco spoke first.

"Cool story," he announced, as nonchalantly as he could manage. The man bristled.

"I would have preferred not to get either of you personally involved," he continued, "seeing as I don't care for large
messes, but the files aren't in your hotel room. I know this," he added lazily, "because I checked."

"Sounds like breaking and entering," Draco commented in reply. "Though, considering you already have kidnapping
checked off the list, I suppose that's nothing remarkable, is it?"

Despite the levity Draco felt he brought to the situation, the man seemed intent on disregarding his input.

"I have to assume, then, that the files are somewhere on your person," the stranger went on, taking a step towards
them and crouching beside Hermione, just out of Draco's view. "Care to tell me where, or will I have to do a bit
more 'breaking and entering' of sorts to find out?"

"What makes you think we have them?" Hermione demanded, and the man laughed, turning over his shoulder to
flick his wand at Daisy.

"Choose your words carefully, Miss Carnegie," he warned, and Daisy grimaced, pausing to flash him a furious,
incomprehensibly threatening glare.

"I have surveillance charms set up in my office," she said tightly, not quite looking at Hermione. "I know you and
Malfoy took my files, but I figured once you saw I wasn't covering anything up you'd simply return them. I thought
it would be better to let you think you had me fooled," she exhaled, sighing out the irony, "so you'd figure out on
your own that you could trust me."

"Oh yes, much better this way," Draco muttered under his breath, shifting uncomfortably against his restraints.

"I'd already done all the research," Daisy continued. "I looked at the same things you did, and I h-"

"That's enough," the man cut in, flicking his wand again. "She talks too much," he murmured to Hermione, and
Draco, again, felt a twinge of guilt at having once made the same assertion. "So," the man pressed. "The files?"

"What do you want them for?" Hermione snapped. "This is a lot of trouble for something unimportant, don't you
think? Unless you're the one who's been poisoning the Wizengamot members," she accused, and the man scoffed.

"As if I would find such a thing to my interests," he said, shifting to look at Draco. "Well?" he prompted, leaning
towards him. Draco tilted his head, considering his response as he felt Hermione's spine go rigid, the motion of her
breath suspended.

He let his gaze drop, wavering on the partially-concealed mark beneath the man's collar.

"You know," Draco ventured tangentially, "I have a tattoo myself."

The man's expression stiffened, but revealed nothing.

"I take it you wish to see mine?" he prompted, and Draco managed a somewhat half-hearted shrug.

"I find that mine is rather telling," he offered wryly. "So I suspect yours will provide something of an introduction
we've unfortunately lacked so far."

The man permitted a darkened smile, shifting to one knee. "Very well," he permitted, and reached up, unbuttoning
his collar. "Is this what you were looking for?" he asked, parting the collar to reveal the small symbol that had been
tattooed at the top of his clavicle.

"Yes, actually," Draco said, hearing Hermione let out a breath at the sight of the bold and clearly enchanted
lemniscate. "Though I suppose the tattoo itself doesn't tell me much about who you actually are."

"Unlike yours," the man countered, "which I expect would tell me everything I needed to know about you, wouldn't
it?" He flicked his wand, slicing open the cuff of Draco's left sleeve. "A Dark Mark," the man lamented, tilting his
head. "So pitifully small-minded."

"Well, that's me," Draco drawled. "And you are?"

The man's smile broadened. "You don't think I'll tell you, do you?" he mused, drawing a hand around his mouth.
"Interesting. I have nothing to hide, Draco Malfoy," he said, shrugging, as Draco once again suffered the displeasure
of having his identity ripped out from under him. "I'll tell you precisely who I am. I'm Nicholas Flamel, though I
prefer to go by N-"

"No you aren't," Hermione cut in sharply, and he glanced at her, irritated.

"Yes, I am," he sniffed, "but as I was saying, I much prefer to be called Ni-"

"No," Hermione insisted, and Draco frowned as he felt her shift behind him; she seemed to be reaching into his
pocket, or trying to, though their position did not permit much mobility. "You can't be Nicholas Flamel. He's - he's
old," she protested, "and the Philosopher's Stone was destroyed, so - "

"You don't have your wands," the alleged Nicholas Flamel interrupted impatiently, catching her unsubtle motion,
"because I'm not an idiot - and as I was saying, I prefer Nico. And now that we are on such excellent terms," he
announced, reaching out to snatch the transfigured files from Draco's pocket, "I'd like to imagine we might move a
little faster, wouldn't you?"

He rose, placing the bit of silk on the desk and transfiguring it back into files, and then paused to smirk over his
shoulder at Hermione, gesturing to the neatly annotated tabs.

"Thorough," he noted. "That saves me some time. You'd almost be useful if you weren't, you know," he waved a
hand. "Unhelpful."

"So the Club's not responsible, then," Draco postulated loudly, feeling Hermione start to struggle against her
restraints again. "Are you saying you've been framed?"

As he anticipated, Nico let out an affectatious scoff.

"That seems a bit of an overstatement, don't you think?" Nico remarked, flipping through the files. "I think being
framed properly requires being blamed, firstly, and clearly no Ministry has recognized the signature." He peered
over at Daisy. "Have they?" he asked, and she glowered at him, but slowly shook her head.

"Well, why would anyone want to blame a criminal enterprise that doesn't exist?" Draco protested, fighting a yelp as
Hermione's cold fingers slid under his jacket into the back of his trousers. "There's nothing there," he hissed aloud,
and Nico glanced at him, questioning. "I mean," Draco amended rapidly, "there's nothing there in history to show
any evidence of your Club, so - "
"You're quite right," Nico permitted abruptly, turning to face him. "So then how did you know to expect me, Draco
Malfoy?"

"I - " Draco bit back the name Cadmus Peverell, instead opting for something closer to home. "Lady Revel," he
supplied smoothly. "She's well-versed in rumors, and I assumed this so-called Infinity Club would be one."

Nico's expression stiffened.

"Lady Revel," he repeated, his tongue darting angrily between his lips as if to rid himself of the taste. "I'll have to
have a talk with Ignotus," he murmured to himself, and behind Draco, he felt Hermione stiffen.

"What is the Club, anyway?" Hermione ventured brusquely, having been frustrated by her fruitless effort at escape.
"Some kind of coalition of evil?"

Nico groaned. "It is just like a war hero to assume everything you don't understand is evil," he retorted. "I daresay
most of the advancements in public policy that have been made in your interest have been a direct result of the
Club's influence - and certainly the same is true for any advancement in magical statutes - "

"In what Ministry?" Hermione demanded.

"All of them," Nico said bluntly, turning back to the files. "Though I wouldn't bother trying to wrap your little head
around it," he added at a mutter, more to himself than to her. Hermione, for her part, opened her mouth to speak and
Draco elbowed her as sharply as possible, smacking the back of his head against hers for emphasis.

"Ouch-"

"So, Nico," Draco went on, hoping to distract him, or possibly befriend him, though the prospect was more than a
little unsavory. "Surely the Club has some idea who could be behind this, doesn't it?" he asked, aiming to flatter.
"Given its scope and influence - "

"The problem," Nico cut in, still skimming Hermione's notes, "is the lack of motive. Were it a Ministry responsible,
or even some guerilla political cause, these assassinations would have some end result; some tit-for-tat implied. A
swayed vote," he suggested, "a vacant election seat. Something."

"They're low-ranking Wizengamot members," Hermione cut in. "There's no conceivable proof that their deaths are
clearing the way for any sort of political gain."

"I know that," snapped Nico. "But there's also no blackmail implied in the killings. No demands, no warnings - no
real threat, even, aside from unnecessary loss of life - "

He paused as Daisy made a sound, the extent of which was muffled into the gag charmed around her mouth.

"Fine," Nico sighed, waving his wand. "You have ten seconds."

Daisy let out a gasp of relief, swallowing hard. "The attention," she croaked. "We theorized it was being done for
attention. The reason for low-ranking officials is obviously access - they're easier to get to, first of all, and they don't
have years of threats teaching them to watch their backs and safeguard their security, and - "

"Yes, yes," Nico said, flicking his wand again to silence her. "Attention, fine," he permitted, "but whose? That's no
less opaque."

"But why on earth would anyone blame an organization whose entire purpose is predicated on secrecy?" Hermione
pressed. "If these poisonings aren't being orchestrated by the Club, then who could be - "

There was a loud crack of apparation, interrupting her, and Nico turned lazily as Emmett Carnegie materialized in
the room.

"Are you nearly done?" Emmett demanded. "Emilia's going mad, I can't hold her off for much longer, and if she
calls in Daisy's Aurors - "

He broke off as Daisy made a loud sound of protest, kicking at her father's ankles from where she was held against
the wall.

"Daisy, sweetheart," Emmett gasped, hastily dropping at her feet and glaring over his shoulder at Nico. "You said
she wasn't going to be harmed!"

"She's fine," Nico returned, sifting through the last of the poison files. "And she was right, unfortunately," he added,
his gaze flicking irritably to Draco and Hermione. "There's nothing worth gleaning from these files."

Emmett, however, wasn't listening.

"Honey, I'm so sorry," he offered, removing his wand from his pocket and ridding her of the gag Nico had cast.
"You have to underst-"

"I DO NOT UNDERSTAND," Daisy shouted, giving her father another brusque kick. "What the fuck is this, Dad?"

"I had no idea," Emmett assured her. "You know I would never hurt you, darling - "

"YOU KIDNAPPED ME," Daisy retorted shrilly. "YOU LET HIM USE ME TO BREAK INTO MY OWN OFFICE
-"

"Sweetheart, it was for the Club," Emmett insisted, looking as though such an argument was somehow perfectly
sane. "And once this is over, we'll go right home and it'll be like it never even happened, Daisy, I promise - "

"Is Mom part of this?" Daisy demanded, and Nico chuckled, prompting the others in the room to turn to him.

"No, your mother would never have any part in this, I assure you, Miss Carnegie," Nico interrupted, rolling his eyes.
"Really," he added, shaking his head with what appeared to be wildly misplaced mirth, "what parent would?"

"Oh hell," Hermione murmured, watching Emmett's face drain of color.

"I - what?" Emmett asked, half-turning over his shoulder. "You - but Antioch - he said - "

He stopped, stammering, as Nico coolly raised his wand.

"Oh shit," Draco exhaled in agreement.

"Come now, Carnegie," Nico said, silently disarming him and catching the displaced wand in his free hand as
Emmett stumbled forward, crawling desperately after it. "Obviously I can't let you live. After this?" he asked,
waving a hand around the office to reference Draco, Hermione, and Daisy. "My goodness, I can't have this sort of
thing getting out. Two British wizarding subjects kidnapped on foreign soil and an American Auror, and all with the
aid of a prominent family whose reputation I need to remain intact?" he pressed, and then took a step, wand still
raised. "Not to mention all the murder - "

"What murder?" Emmett asked, and Draco groaned.

"Worst last words ever," he muttered as Daisy screamed, and behind him, Draco felt Hermione gasp, both of them
watching Emmett Carnegie fall stiffly to the floor in the span of a breath.

"Well," Nico said, imparting a fleeting grimace towards Daisy, "let that be a lesson, Miss Carnegie. How do you
suppose secret societies stay secret?"

"What happened to 'unnecessary loss of life'?" Hermione demanded, now beginning to struggle openly against her
restraints. "You could have just altered his memory, or - "

"Young lady, when you live as long as I have, you learn that memory charms take their toll," Nico said carelessly,
and Draco's chest swelled with discomfort, noting the telling shift in position the other man took to face her.
"Ironically, given my particular specialities, the only method that seems to work in my favor is death."

"You - " Hermione sputtered, furious. "You're - I can't - " She let out a groan. "I have a chocolate frog card of you,
you bastard!"

Nico tilted his head back, indulging a crowing, spirited laugh.

"That's not me," he told her, shaking his head, as Draco furiously struggled to think of a way to survive, watching
Daisy stare wordlessly at her father's body and knowing all three of them were next. "That's a man I paid to continue
to be me as I focused my attention on other pursuits. Alchemy," Nico scoffed, "was only the beginning."

"But that's crazy," Hermione protested. "What can possibly be worth living forev-"

"Hermione," Draco interrupted, clearing a rasp from his voice. "I have to tell you something. Before we die, I need
you to know something," he pressed urgently, and turned as far as he was able, catching the sharp turn of her head.
"I need you to know I'm - I'm so sorry," he exhaled. "Everything I said to you, everything I did, I need you to know
how sorry I am, and - "

He glanced up at Nico.

"Can I face her?" he asked, and Nico let out another barking laugh.

"No," he returned flatly, and Hermione craned her neck towards Draco.

"Don't apologize," she told him. "Don't talk like that Malf-" She broke off, taking a breath. "Draco, don't talk like
that. You don't have to be sorry, I underst-"

"No, you don't," he cut in, his voice clipped, and glanced back at Nico. "Please. Surely you've thought about your
own death before," he added, and it was a gamble, but not a baseless one; Draco was certain the compulsion to
imagine his final words must have occurred at least once to Nicholas Flamel, a man who'd outlived his friends and
family for centuries.

After all, even a man fixated on immortality must suffer mortal pitfalls.

"Surely you've thought about the things you would have done," Draco pressed. "Haven't you? The things you'd want
to say, and how you'd want to say them." He paused, parsing his words carefully. "You can't tell me it's never
crossed your mind."

Nico considered Draco's request, betraying only a grimace.

"You have my wand, and hers," Draco reminded him slowly, sensing that the scales might lean in his favor and
doing what he could to tip them further. "You have the files; you have me at your mercy. Just let me talk to her," he
asked, schooling his expression and waiting.

It took a moment.

Several moments.

"Draco," Hermione said quietly, leaning her head back against his. "It's okay, I understand - "

Nico let out a sigh, flicking his wand to rid them both of their restraints, and before he could set parameters Draco
shifted rapidly, ignoring the loud opposition of his stiffened joints as he took Hermione squarely in his arms. He
pressed his lips to her cheek and then, carefully, turned to speak in her ear.

"In the lining of my pocket," he whispered to her. "Any vial will - "

"If you have something to say," Nico cut in warningly, brandishing his wand at Draco again, "say it aloud, or I'll kill
you both right now."
Draco nodded hurriedly, gripping Hermione's waist as her fingers rose to place themselves against his chest,
smoothing out against the fabric of his shirt.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I hurt you, I insulted you, I misjudged you, and I'm fucking sorry for it. Before anything
happens to either of us, I need to know you forgive me for everything I've done."

"I do," Hermione returned quickly, slipping her hand under his jacket lapel. Nico cleared his throat irritably, arching
a brow in warning, and Draco hurried to press on, pulling her closer.

"This is about more than forgiveness," he told her. "I - "

He hesitated, uncertain how convincing he could be; he noted the impatient tapping of Nico's fingers against his
stiffly folded arms and determined that in this case, excess caution was unwise.

"I just need you to know that I love you, Hermione," Draco pronounced firmly, and yanked her in close, kissing her
as deeply and ferociously as he could manage.

His arms rose to block the motion of her hands as she slid a vial from his pocket, her fingers closing shakily around
it. He deepened the kiss, gripping the back of her head with one hand as he covertly grasped her fingers with the
other, and took the vial from her with careful, breathless precision.

And then - because nothing in life was ever certain, he reasoned, and if he were going to die, he'd prefer it be in the
aftermath of something enjoyable - he kissed her a few moments longer. He slid his tongue along the bottom swell
of her lip and she shivered, drawing him closer. Her hands dropped to his hips, her fingers digging into the lip of his
trousers, and -

"Ehem," Nico said, making a face. "I think you've said it."

Draco pulled away, dazed, and nodded.

He met Hermione's eye, held it, and hoped she was intuitive enough to know when to duck.

"Well," Nico said, aiming his wand at Daisy, "I suppose we should all carry on with our respective business,
shouldn't we?"

Draco blinked, realizing he hadn't accounted for Daisy's presence. "But - "

"Kill me first," Hermione said quickly, ripping her gaze away from Draco's as she turned to Nico. "If you don't
mind," she added, sparing their would-be killer a tight grimace. "I'd rather not live to see Draco die, if that's alright
with you."

Nico shrugged, turning to face her. "Fine by me," he agreed, and she stepped forward, concealing the motion of
Draco's hand as he checked the vial she'd chosen; he lamented, glumly, that it wasn't nearly as gruesome as the other
man so rightfully deserved. "Goodbye, Hermione Grang-"

"GET DOWN," Draco shouted, and Hermione dropped to the floor as he threw the vial in Nico's face, the glass
shattering as the potion thickened and stretched across his cheekbones, plastering itself into a venomous mask.

"What is that?" Hermione gasped, struggling to her feet, and Draco helped her up, snatching the wands that fell from
Nico's hand as the other man staggered to the floor, clawing mercilessly at his face.

"It's a skin toxin," Draco said. "It's painful but not incapacitating - move, Granger - "

He tossed her Nico's wand and used Emmett Carnegie's to slash at the restraints on the wall, freeing Daisy as she
stumbled forward to take her father's hand. Nico, meanwhile, let out a smothered yell of rage, yanking at his collar
and touching a finger to the glowing tattoo at his neck.

"We have to go," Draco shouted, grabbing Hermione's arm, and she barely managed to get a finger on Daisy's
shoulder as Draco apparated them out, landing them in the middle of the Carnegie family ballroom.

There was a loud series of gasps, a shattering of glass, and then Draco looked up slowly, realizing that the many
eyes of the party's guest had fallen on them; specifically, on the dead man clutched by his traumatized daughter, and
then on Hermione and Draco, who clung to each other, breathing hard.

"What is this?" Emilia Carnegie shrieked, falling to her knees beside Daisy and staring, horrified, at her husband's
body. "What have you done?"

"Oh no," Hermione whispered to Draco, rightfully beginning to panic as a series of camera flashes went off,
capturing their ill-conceived timing.

"Well," Draco attempted, clearing his throat and tightening his arm around Hermione's waist, giving the room a
small, perfunctory bow. "As you can see," he exhaled, attempting a brilliant smile, "it appears we've successfully
found your daughter."

Rhys Hawkworth had never really been good at detailing his own qualities; in fact, he scarcely even knew what they
were, apart from being a son and a brother. Those things, simple as they were, had always been the only means he'd
possessed by which to define himself.

Rhys was the youngest of seven boys, all perfectly categorized - or so he'd once thought - with tidy lives that had fit
neatly into a set of ascribed traits: Cadell and Llew, the Gryffindors; Dai and Gareth, the Ravenclaws; Mad and
Bren, the Hufflepuffs. Most of his brothers were well into their respective Ministry careers by the time Rhys (the
'accidental' lastborn, or so his brothers teased) received his Hogwarts letter, and there had been endless excitement
about how they'd finally be able to break the stalemate between houses.

"I say he'll be a Gryffindor. Got spirit," Cadell said, reaching out to ruffle Rhys' hair as he sat his wife Gwen on his
knee. "He's got that streak of rebellion."

"No way," Mad disagreed, being the closest to Rhys' age and thus the most informed (or so he believed) of their
youngest brother's qualities. "Hufflepuff for sure, just in time to for me to be his Prefect. Right, Bren?"

"You're all wrong, but that's no surprise," Dai sniffed. "I think Ravenclaw. Or who knows," he mused, glancing at
Rhys, "maybe even Slytherin, and then we'll have the full collection, plus someone to break every tie."

"Rhys? Slytherin?" Ifan, their father, had never taken kindly to this proposition, and he had reached over, taking
Rhys' face in his hand. "Nah," he said, winking at his son. "Not a trace of darkness in him. What do you think, boy?"

Rhys had swallowed, uncertain what to make of this. Was he brave, or was he smart? Was he clever, or was he
cunning? Was he loyal, was he just, was he ambitious, was he unafraid of toil - they were all only words and he
couldn't wait - couldn't wait - to find out for himself precisely where he fit among the others.

Privately, he hoped for Gryffindor - like Cadell, who'd been quidditch captain, and Llew, who'd been their first Head
Boy, and like Ifan himself, whom each Hawkworth son regarded with an adoration that was heavily tinged with
reverence.

But the day to discover would never arrive.

"What do you mean he can't go to Hogwarts?" Rhiannon, his mother, whispered loudly to Ifan as Rhys ducked out
of the doorway just before entering the kitchen. "Ifan, he's been looking forward to this for months - years, even -
and at this point, it's not like we can petition to send him to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang - "

"I've heard things," Ifan replied evasively. "Things don't sound good at the school. Dumbledore is acting strangely, I
hear, and they've brought Quirrell in from Romania to teach Defense - " He paused, and Rhys, out of sight, could
practically hear his father's grimace. "None of it makes any sense, and on top of that, I happen to know that
Dumbledore's moving something to the castle that can only mean trouble, so - "
"How can you possibly know that?" Rhiannon pressed. "What is it that you know, oh mysteriously omniscient
husband of mine?"

Rhys heard his father sigh.

"I'm sorry, love," Ifan replied evasively, kissing the top of her head. "I don't suppose you could teach him yourself,
could you?"

"I suppose I could," Rhiannon permitted, "but Ifan - "

"He won't be safe at Hogwarts if he goes," Ifan warned, and she hesitated, stammering to a halt. "And this is only the
beginning of trouble, Rhiannon."

That had been the nail in the coffin, and Rhys had known it from the start. Rhiannon would never sacrifice her
youngest child - not even to the mere shadow of a threat - and so while Mad and Gareth were permitted to finish
their sixth and seventh years respectively, Rhys would never get to know whether he was brave of heart, or if he had
a ready mind.

Instead, he rarely ventured much outside the small wizarding village of Camlann's Strife for most of his
adolescence; not until the threat his mother and father had long feared (the so-called He Who Must Not Be Named)
eventually rose to prominence. Rhys' aging mother took to hiding indoors, fearing retribution for her muggle birth,
and his Warlock father, growing more and more fearful of what the Dark Lord's reign would have him do, stopped
paying much attention at all to what Rhys was up to.

And so, on his sixteenth birthday - having nothing better to do - Rhys ventured into the nearby muggle city of
Swansea, immediately finding himself in quite a lot of trouble.

"Lookin' for somethin'?" commented a boy that couldn't be much older than he was, cocking his head to regard Rhys
with a mix of suspicion and anticipation as he'd stumbled, lost, into something he shouldn't have; namely, an
exchange of something small for something that even Rhys, who hadn't spent much time amongst muggles, could
see was a large amount of money.

"Oh shit," said Rhys.

The boy smiled. "'Oh shit' is right," he agreed, he and his gang advancing a step.

Rhys couldn't go home looking the way he did after that, left for dead in the street; he couldn't have apparated even
if he wanted to, still being underage. Instead, he managed to drag himself to his brother Cadell's flat, collapsing in
the doorframe, and woke up to his sister-in-law Gwen quietly healing his wounds, shaking her head as he let out a
groan of pain.

"I'll tell your mother you're staying with us tonight," Gwen sighed, "but you'll have to tell your brother what
happened."

So he did. It was simple, Rhys explained, wincing as the effects of Gwen's Skele-Gro settled in his ribs. He'd simply
been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he hadn't been able to use any magic.

"Well," Cadell concluded, "I suppose you'll just have to learn how to do without, then."

"Are you going to teach me to fight?" Rhys asked, disbelieving, and Cadell laughed.

"Nope," he said, rising to kiss his wife's forehead. "But if you ask nicely, she might."

Gwen, as it turned out, was part fae - specifically, part Welsh water-spirit that Gwen insisted was not a deity, though
she agreed that legend often made that confusing - and had been an accomplished boxer in her youth. In fact, she
won a series of tournaments, eventually catching the attention of a young Ministry Unspeakable who had arrived to
issue a citation to the unlicensed club owner.
"Totally trumped-up charges, by the way," Gwen insisted, and Cadell laughed, squeezing her tighter.

"You're lucky I didn't arrest you," he reminded her, and she shrugged, unfazed.

"Wait a minute," Rhys interrupted, gaping at them. "You told Mum you met at a Ministry lecture about broom
safety."

"Well," Cadell offered, "if Gwen'll teach you to fight, then I'll teach you to lie to Mum."

And that was precisely what happened.

Rhys, having aced his N.E.W.T.s a year early (and none too soon, either, considering the dark turn the world had
taken) began spending more time with his brother and sister-in-law in Swansea, eventually moving into their spare
room once they bought a house in the wizarding quarter of the city. His nights were spent working at a pub near
their home, biding his time as war rippled around them, but his days were largely spent training with Gwen when
she was able, and otherwise devoting himself to the process of physical transformation.

"You know, you could lay off the bicep curls," Gwen commented, leaning against the doorframe as he finished up a
set. "After a certain point, some muscle is just superficial."

"Isn't what people can see half the battle, though?" Rhys asked, grinning. "If I'd looked like this back then, that gang
might not have come after me."

Gwen had tried to force a laugh, but hadn't quite managed it.

"Unfortunately, some people will always come after you, Rhys," she lamented, giving him half a smile. "The world
loves a target."

He paused, frowning at the odd timbre in her voice.

"Everything okay?" he asked her, and she shrugged.

"Just a tough day at work," she said, but only later did he find out what she meant.

"The Ministry is tightening restrictions on creatures," Cadell told Rhys, looking considerably displeased. "I'd blame
it on the war, but it's been a long time coming. Pretty sure Gwen's been slated for the registry since she was a girl."

"But she's - " Rhys frowned. "Gwen's not a creature."

"In the eyes of the law she is," Cadell reminded him. "She's got enough fae in her blood to make this government
nervous, and Dad says there's nothing he can do about it."

"Dad knows?" Rhys asked, surprised.

Cadell shook his head. "I didn't say I was asking about Gwen specifically," he clarified, "but I did ask about the
creature registration. Dad's more concerned with Mum's risk from the muggle-born registry," he added, with a hint
of bitterness. "Understandably, his wife trumps mine."

Rhys, not wanting to offend his mother even from afar, said nothing.

But the Snatchers came soon after.

"Gwen le Fay?" the lead Snatcher called, and though Cadell had tried to block her appearance from the frame, Gwen
stormed furiously up to him, glaring at all three of the men who stood expectantly at their door.

"My name is Gwen Hawkworth," she snapped, "and you have no business here."

The man - or wolf, or whatever he was - let out a dark, off-color sort of laugh, the force of it vibrating ominously
through Rhys' bones.
"Take her away," the Snatcher said gruffly, and then Cadell's wand was out, and though Gwen was protesting loudly
that he should just let them take her, it was no use. Cadell cast the first spell and Rhys didn't stop to look at what it
was; he slammed a fist into the face of the closest Snatcher to him, fumbling for his own wand. Neither Rhys nor his
brother were looking, either, when the lead Snatcher sank his nails - his claws - into Gwen's neck, and she dropped
to the ground without a quiet, melodic sigh, as if she were drifting off to sleep and not collapsing at their feet.

Cadell, seeing her fall, let out an anguished cry of pain, sinking to his knees; the lead Snatcher licked Gwen's blood
from his sharpened claws, giving him a slow, curling smile.

In the moment, time had slowed; and then, his pulse resounding in his ears, Rhys had registered the body of the
Snatcher who lay dead on the floor, realizing what his brother had done.

"Go," Rhys blurted frantically, panicked. "GO, CADELL, GO!" he roared, holding up his wand, and with a
wretched, terrible cry of misery his brother tore himself from his wife's side, disapparating with a loud crack. The
remaining Snatchers had taken Rhys into custody as leverage, throwing him into a holding cell until his father came
the following day.

"Where's Cadell?" Ifan demanded, and Rhys shook his head.

"I thought he'd go to you," he confessed quietly, and Ifan's expression molted from anger to fear to nothing at all,
something hardening in his demeanor as he dragged himself back to business.

"They tell me you're free to go," Ifan pressed on. "I pulled some strings and they're letting you off with a citation for
assault. But there's a Snatcher dead," he exhaled, "so Cadell, on the other hand - "

"Dad," Rhys croaked, pleading. "They killed Gwen."

Ifan paused, glancing over his shoulder at the Snatcher who was standing guard, and sighed.

"I know," he said wearily. "But she's gone, and your brother can never come back, and - "

He faltered, the words drifting into a sober, resigned silence; and the moment that Ifan Hawkworth, the most
prominent Warlock of his age, had withered to nothing, Rhys had curled his own hands tightly into fists, suddenly
wishing to pummel something with them.

He started in Swansea.

"Hey," he called to the gang of muggles. "Remember me?"

They remembered very little when he was done with them.

He made sure of that.

At first Rhys only fought in muggle boxing rings, keeping his origin and his hobbies separate; for a time, he rarely
even carried his wand. There was a sense of freedom in it, in doing something that kept pieces of Gwen alive, and in
knowing that his spirit could not be taken from him by any Snatcher or Unspeakable, nor by the pressing ambitions
of his father, who repeatedly pushed for Rhys to do as his brothers had done. The war had ended, Ifan insisted, and
the Ministry had reformed - and what are you even doing, Rhys? He was wasting his life, he was throwing away his
future - and doesn't anything matter to you anymore?

Rhys refused any part in it - in any of it - and though his father shouted and his mother cried, eventually he stopped
coming home much at all.

After a while, Rhys noticed a certain fragility to fighting those whose bones would not grow back overnight, and he
grew tired of boxing in muggle circles; they were always fighting for their lives. Rhys merely wanted to feel
something, to cyclically destroy the pieces of himself that cruelly replenished each time he woke again, and so he
left Wales altogether. He went to Edinburgh, to Glasgow, to Dublin, to the many fighting rings that remained below
ground and out of his father's sight; but eventually he was called back to his family's side, and by the very last thing
he expected.

"I want to come home," Cadell told him, waiting in the shadows upon Rhys' return and nearly prompting him to
jump out of his skin.

"Where have you been?" Rhys demanded. "I've been worried sick, and - "

"I can't go very far," Cadell croaked. "I just - " He closed his eyes. "I want to come home, Rhys, please - "

"Dad says you can't," Rhys reminded him. "You'll have to serve time for murder, Cadell, and if you just stay gone - "

"Dad can do something about my sentence," Cadell protested, and as he stepped into the light Rhys caught the
sunken caverns of his cheeks, the discoloration below his eyes that read so plainly of crippling pain and exhaustion.
"You know he can."

"I can't," Ifan snapped when Rhys returned to intercede on his brother's behalf, imploring his father for help. "I'm
only a Warlock, Rhys, I don't have some sort of all-encompassing pardoning power - "

"But you could recuse yourself from his case, couldn't you?" Rhys suggested. "Testify on his behalf at his trial?
People would listen to you, and you know it."

Ifan grimaced.

"Perhaps," he suggested gruffly, "if the other son of mine who was present during those events could elevate his
perception, then Cadell might have a chance. But as it is - "

"You want to do this again?" Rhys snapped, growing tired of the same argument. "Are you still so insistent on my
doing your bidding, then?"

"Yes," Ifan returned flatly. "I want you to make something of yourself, Rhys. The world is a different place now," he
added, with an attempt at comfort. "Things are different, and there's no need to run anymore, my son."

Privately, Rhys disagreed; Ifan had never really understood what he was running from, and therefore could not make
any such assertion.

Still, Rhys couldn't forget the look on his brother's face, and his own aimless freedom for a chance at Cadell's was
such a small thing to trade in the end.

"If I do this," Rhys conceded, gritting it out. "If I fall in line, will you do something to ease the case against Cadell?"

"I will," Ifan said. "I swear it."

Time passed, and he tried.

But, of course, Rhys could not stay out of trouble for long.

He had found the Underground by luck after moving into Diagon Alley, unable to stay away from fighting, and he'd
found Hermione Granger by the luckiest stroke of all; and though his father continuously dragged his feet with
regard to Cadell's case, Rhys found that the things Ifan considered 'falling in line' - namely, the pursuit of someone
like Hermione - were at least not entirely unpleasant.

"Wait, hold on," Hermione had gasped breathlessly, half out of her gown by the time she pulled away after the
Witch Weekly auction. "We should - this is - " she swallowed, forcing a smile. "We should slow down."

Rhys, already inconveniently hard, forced a nod.

"Sure," he managed, and she smiled, reaching out to stroke his cheek.

"I like you," she told him quietly. "I don't want to rush this."
He sighed, kissing the inside of her wrist. "I know," he said, wincing. "And yet - "

She took his face in her hands, kissing him again.

"I'll make it up to you," she whispered, and he kissed her back, helplessly at her mercy.

In truth, he was never certain what she liked about him, and he certainly wasn't willing to chance it in favor of
something as fleeting as sex.

But then, of course, she'd flitted off to Manhattan, leaving Rhys behind with a series of pictures of her being
romanced by Draco Malfoy (the former Death Eater whose life's ambition seemed to be to make Rhys supremely
uncomfortable) and an ever-evolving crowd at the Underground.

"Hey," Rhys said, nudging Marcus Flint. "Who's that?" he asked, gesturing to the dark-haired man who stood in the
corner of the room, talking to a stunningly beautiful witch and a lean, sharply-dressed man Rhys had never seen
before.

"Ah," Marcus said, scowling. "That's my cousin, uh." He paused. "Hades."

"Hades?" Rhys echoed skeptically, and Marcus shrugged.

"That's Theo Nott next to him," he said, gesturing, "and my fianceé, Daphne Greengra-"

Marcus paused, frowning, as the man he'd referred to as Hades bent to thoroughly kiss the woman, something the
two of them had clearly done many times (and by the looks of it, very intimately) before.

"You can just call him a cad," Marcus commented irritably, and Rhys chuckled.

"You know, in Welsh that means 'battle,'" he remarked, thinking again of his brother Cadell, and Marcus rolled his
eyes.

"Thanks for that," he muttered, tightening the tape around his hands. "I'll be sure to tell him the next time he
ironically calls me Mars."

"Is it ironic?" Rhys asked.

Marcus scowled. "No," he said flatly, clapping Rhys on the back and striding over to Oliver Wood.

The cad, or Cad, as he seemed to be called by what appeared to be his friends, was no easy opponent; he seemed to
be putting in less than full effort to handily beat one of the goblins' heavy favorites. Rhys won his own match that
night, but still; he felt an odd stirring of unease at the thought of one day being matched against Cad, who struck him
as severely out of place.

He put it out of his mind, opting to worry about it another time as yet another Daily Prophet article floated under his
nose with a picture of Hermione, once again with Draco Malfoy's arm wrapped around her waist.

"Could be worse," Oliver Wood commented, glancing at the picture before turning back to watch Marcus and
Daphne. "Presumably Granger won't have to fake it all the way to marriage."

Rhys grimaced. "Fingers crossed," he agreed.

Overall, though, things were going well. Not remotely how Rhys had expected, but certainly surprisingly well. He
had a girl (sort of, if being with someone who was facetiously dating another man was considered a relationship)
and a job (sort of, if being groomed by his father was considered employment), and at night, when he returned from
the hobby he was by all accounts vastly improving at, he dug into case law on Cadell's behalf.

It had become somewhat of a routine, and one he was growing satisfied with; but, of course, precisely as such a
thought occurred to him his father arrived in his Floo, poking his head in through the flames.
"Rhys," Ifan began urgently, "I need you to do something for me."

"Dad," Rhys said, surprised. "I thought we were meeting this afternoon. Is this about Cadell?" he asked, frowning.
"Because - "

"The girl," Ifan interrupted. "Hermione Granger. Do you still see her?"

"She's out of town right now," Rhys said slowly, "but yes, I do occasionally - "

"Emmett Carnegie is dead," Ifan muttered, looking down at a piece of parchment in his hands. "I never thought - an
initiate, certainly, but still, I would have expected some degree of - of respect, given his position - I don't - "

"Dad," Rhys cut in. "What are you talking about? Who is Emmett Carnegie?"

"Nothing, nothing," Ifan said, shuddering. "But - "

He trailed off, and Rhys, thoroughly bemused, waited.

"What if," Ifan ventured slowly, "I might have more power than I previously implied?"

Rhys blinked, bewildered.

"What's this about?" he pressed. "What does any of this have to do with Hermione?"

"Do you think you could gain her trust?" Ifan asked, leaning forward. "Does she consider you a friend?"

Rhys frowned, taken aback.

"I am her friend," he said. "And I certainly think she trusts me, but - "

"Good, good," Ifan murmured, fidgeting. "Well, if she comes back from America - "

"Hold on a minute," Rhys interrupted. "What do you mean 'if' she comes back?"

There was a loaded pause, and then, after a second or two of internal conflict, Ifan sighed.

"Rhys," he exhaled. "How badly do you want to save your brother?"

And Rhys, who'd never been more than a brother and a son, found he scarcely possessed the voice to answer.

The Harkaway
October 1, 2003
2:37 a.m.

The room was thoroughly ransacked, every piece of furniture misplaced or toppled over. All of their belongings had
been strewn around the room, with every bit of enchantment disturbed or altered.

"Messy," Draco sniffed disapprovingly, and Hermione sighed her agreement. "You'd think a set of omnipotent
immortals might manage a less invasive search."

"Evidently not," Hermione said, bending to pick up his reading glasses from the floor and handing them to him. He
slid them on, gesturing to the shattered glass of one lens, and she let out an unwilling chuckle, raising Nicholas
Flamel's wand. "Reparo," she said quietly, and Draco flinched as the glass repaired itself, becoming again a smooth,
uninterrupted facade.

"Thank you," he said, moving to turn away.

She reached out, catching his arm.

"Malfoy," she began, and exhaled, uncertain how to proceed. "What you said back there, in Daisy's office - "

"It was a distraction," Draco supplied curtly. "Nothing to acknowledge. Shockingly," he drawled, kicking at the
upturned corner of the rug, "I'm not actually in love with you."

"No, I meant about - " she faltered. "You said you were sorry."

He opened his mouth, about to retort, and then seemed to reconsider.

"Of course I'm sorry," he said. "You know that."

"No, but - " she grimaced. "You hadn't said it like that."

He frowned. "Like what?"

"Nothing. Nevermind." She sighed. "I just - "

"No," he insisted. "Tell me."

"I wasn't - "

"Granger, for the love of god - "

"Like you meant it," she blurted out, clapping a hand over her mouth and then devolving to helpless laughter,
shaking her head. "I just - I never really knew you meant it, until - "

The laughter bubbled from her lips, slowly fading away, and she felt her cheeks flush, finding his gaze steadily on
hers.

"Until what?" he asked, stepping towards her. "Until it was almost too late? Until we were both about to die?" He
paused again, staring at her. "Until I was holding you in my arms?"

She let out a breath, suddenly finding the air in the room gone with it.

"Yes," she admitted, and he looked as though he might step closer, but then abruptly decided against it.

"It's late," he said. "We should - we should sleep."

She took the step he didn't.

He waited.

She reached out, brushing a strand of silvery-blond hair from his eyes, and swallowed hard.

"Draco," she said. "I - "

Behind them, the Floo suddenly burst into flames, Harry's head appearing in the fireplace.

"Potter," Draco growled, pivoting sharply. "Do I have to buy you a fucking clock, or -"

"Let me through," Harry cut in, and Hermione froze, catching something in his tone she hadn't heard since they were
teenagers; she hurried to wave her wand, letting Harry into the room.

As he emerged from the fireplace, kissing Hermione's cheek and gripping Draco's shoulder in somber greeting,
Hermione placed it; the thing she'd heard.

It was the particular pitch of Harry Potter's voice when he was trying to save someone.
a/n: dedicated to Torrilin, dcrassle, and jassmarie19!
 14. Hands-On Approach

Chapter 14: Hands-On Approach

Office of the President, MACUSA

Woolworth, New York
October 1, 2003
3:04 a.m.

"You can't be serious," Daisy croaked, her face pale and her ponytail draped listlessly over her shoulder. "President
MacArthur, please, you have to believe me - "

"I'm sorry, Miss Carnegie, but my hands are tied," the MACUSA president replied, shaking his head wearily and
leaning back in his chair. "A very important friend to this congress has been murdered tonight, and someone must be
held accountable - "

"But that man is my father," Daisy reminded him bitterly. "And seeing as I've already told you who's responsible - "

"Miss Carnegie," President MacArthur sighed, "as relieved as I would be for any explanation absolving my own
Head Auror from guilt, the story that someone kidnapped you from your home, restrained you in your own office,
and then murdered a famously well-respected man for conceivably no reason is not one that anyone's going to
believe. Particularly not if the party responsible was, as you claim - " he paused, grimacing, to pick up her report
file. "Nicholas Flamel, the alchemist who was born in the fourteenth century," the president muttered, and Hermione
winced at the obvious skepticism in his tone as he shook his head, displeased. "Surely even you know this is not a
promising alibi, Miss Carnegie."

"Check my surveillance charms," Daisy insisted. "My office has enchantments, and - "

President MacArthur silenced her with a look, waving his wand, and a holographic image fluttered into being in the
space between them, transforming the room into a perfect recreation of Daisy's office.

Hermione watched, horrified, as an opalescent version of Daisy stood alone in the room with her father, facing him
combatively. The two holographic forms carried out a muted argument, silently discussing something between them,
and then Emmett Carnegie picked up the files of prior poisonings, brandishing them in his daughter's face. She
raised her wand, furious, and despite Emmett holding his hands fearfully in the air, the scene clearly showed Daisy
casting the Avada, leaving Emmett to fall to the ground, stiff.

"That's - " Daisy gasped. "That's not - I didn't - I would never - "

"Wait a minute," Hermione interrupted, but Harry, who had been standing with his hand curled warily his mouth,
promptly yanked her back.

"President MacArthur," he attempted, stepping forward, "surely you've considered that these enchantments might
have been tampered with. Having worked with Auror Carnegie extensively, I assure you that I can vouch for her
character, and - "

"I'm sure you could, Auror Potter, but this wouldn't be the first time you found yourself deluded about someone's
character, would it?" President MacArthur interrupted. "Or did you not also once believe that your former Defense
Against the Dark Arts professor was a trustworthy Auror, rather than a convicted Death Eater in disguise?"

"That's totally unfair," Hermione protested, leaping to Harry's defense. "And as for Daisy - "

"Do you think I want to do this?" President MacArthur cut in, waving away the effects of the surveillance charm.
"Surely you must see how much worse this is than purely a murder charge. Miss Carnegie," he pressed urgently,
rising to his feet, "if this evidence is indeed substantiated, you are facing prosecution for not only the death of your
father, but the deaths of several Warlocks around the world as well. Unless I'm very much mistaken, a jury would
almost certainly find this damning evidence of you killing your father in order to conceal your involvement in the
Wizengamot poisonings."

"That's impossible!" Daisy argued, her face draining of blood. "Check the files, there's nothing of consequence in
them - "

The MACUSA president sighed wearily, and behind Hermione, Draco cleared his throat.

"Let me guess," Draco ventured, his tone effortlessly dry. "The files are missing."

"Yes," President MacArthur confirmed curtly, not looking at him, "and presently, no evidence exists to corroborate
your story, Miss Carnegie. The only witness available to testify to your kidnapping is your mother, whom any
sentencing body would assume capable of concealing a crime for you - "

"That's not true," Hermione cut in, but Harry reached down to furtively grip her wrist, shaking his head in warning.

"President MacArthur, Minister Shacklebolt sent me here so that I might intervene on behalf of an Auror who has
always been a friend to our department," he said. "Surely you wouldn't discard the vetted word of an allied Ministry
-"

"Auror Potter, you may have rid the world of Voldemort, but that feat alone doesn't elevate your word beyond
suspicion," President MacArthur cut in, his voice clipped. "Nor does it help that you've brought two apparently
irrelevant celebrities for what is clearly confidential Ministry business," he added, flashing Hermione and Draco a
dubious glare. "Despite your testimony to Auror Carnegie's character, I still have no choice but to suspend her from
her position without pay, pending investigation."

"You can't do that!" Hermione gasped, but once again, President MacArthur fixed her with an impatient stare.

"I still don't know why you're here, Miss Granger, but believe me, this brings me no pleasure," he said flatly. "Miss
Carnegie should count herself lucky she isn't being arrested, and that is only the case because Auror Potter has
arrived - completely uninvited," he added drily, "to state her defense and to offer amnesty. Unfortunately, the British
Ministry has no authority over an American citizen, and I have no choice but to protect this congress to the fullest
extent I am able. I myself have lost a close friend tonight," he lamented. "A man with a sterling reputation, and one
whose family has been invaluable to this office - "

"But that's her family, too," Hermione protested, and Daisy nodded vigorously, leaning forward in supplication.

"President MacArthur, please, you have to believe me," Daisy pleaded. "I would never murder my own father, and
surely my Aurors can attest that I couldn't possibly have had any involvement in Warlock Fallon's poisoning, much
less any of the others - "

"Unfortunately," President MacArthur cut in uneasily, "Aubrey's already submitted an addendum to his initial
reports, saying - "

He trailed off, and Daisy clenched a fist.

"Saying what?" she demanded, and the president grimaced.

"Expressing doubt," he offered, clearing his throat. "In your - "

He stopped again, and Daisy's mouth tightened, furious.

"In my leadership?" she prompted angrily, and the president shook his head.

"In your innocence," he admitted, flinching apprehensively, and Daisy's eyes widened, opening and closing her
mouth on a disbelieving lack of defense until Harry stepped forward to place his hand on her shoulder, his
expression grim.

"Surely the word of a deputy who has only to gain from Auror Carnegie's suspension cannot be taken seriously,"
Harry said firmly. "If Auror Aubrey had ever actually been so uncertain, he had a fiduciary duty to say something a
long time ago."

"I agree," President MacArthur permitted, "but as I said, my hands are tied, and from every possible angle. I have no
choice but to take the evidence before me into consideration and pass control of the investigation onto an internal
task force - "

"You mean hand this case over to be dealt with within your own Ministry?" Hermione demanded. "Clearly someone
with access to this building tampered with Auror Carnegie's surveillance! You're permitting a political coup,
President MacArthur, and - "

"And again, Auror Potter," President MacArthur interrupted tightly, turning to Harry, "I don't see why either Miss
Granger or Mr Malfoy are present for this highly sensitive matter of utmost political fragility - "

"But we were th-"

"Hermione, Draco," Harry cut in, abruptly turning to them, "I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid I was mistaken in bringing
you. I had hoped your support would be useful to Auror Carnegie, but unfortunately, I misjudged the severity of the
situation, and I take full responsibility for my error. President MacArthur," he ventured, ignoring Hermione's look of
protest and turning back to the president, "may I petition your congress to continue Auror Carnegie's services as a
consultant? Your investigation may continue as planned," he said neutrally, delivering both Hermione and Daisy to
stunned silence, "but I find her expertise irreplaceable, and I know I have Minister Shacklebolt's support in this."

"Harry," Hermione snapped. "You can't possibly just - "

"Granger," Draco hissed, taking her arm and yanking her back. "Potter's right. We have no place here."

"But - "

"Thank you, Draco," Harry said, not looking at Hermione. "I appreciate your compliance. In the meantime, in light
of these events I suggest you cut your visit short and return to London."

"But Harry, you can't let them do this!" Hermione blurted desperately, gesturing to Daisy. "She's worked so hard for
her position and however this turns out, this will be irrefutably damaging to her career - you can't let them do this - "

"Draco," Harry interrupted brusquely, "may I rely on your discretion?"

"Yes, of course," Draco confirmed, and Hermione felt her eyes widen enormously, her blood boiling with fury as
Harry nodded, turning away.

"You can't just - "

"Granger, let's go," Draco muttered in her ear, muscling her out the door as she continued sputtering her opposition,
glaring angrily at Harry's back even after the door had shut behind them. "Fucking Christ, Granger," he hissed,
releasing her with a grunt of displeasure as she rounded on him, incensed. "Can't you read a fucking room?"

"Are you serious?" she demanded. "We were there, Malfoy! We can easily be witnesses for her defense. We can
testify for her, and they can - I don't know, use Veritaserum on us, or - "

"Granger, use your head," Draco growled, glancing around before taking her wrist and pulling her into the
Wizengamot chamber across the hall. "Granger," he snapped again, taking a step forward as she wrenched herself
free, "you need to think. We couldn't admit we were there without being relegated to suspicion ourselves, and then
Potter would have had no choice but to claim us as Ministry consultants - worse, as Ministry spies," he reminded her
emphatically, "and we'd have lost any chance we had to solve this case. We are far more useful to Daisy in the long
run if we keep our heads down and prove what happened - "

"But can you in all good conscience do nothing right now?" Hermione pressed, staring at him in disbelief. "She was
waiting for us to defend her, Malfoy - to stand up for her! And for us to just leave - "
"Look at the evidence against her," Draco interrupted flatly. "It's substantial, and our word wasn't going to move
anything along. Potter's right, we need to go back to London; we need to continue trying to figure out who's behind
this - and," he pressed, raising a brow, "we also need to find out why we were cut from the surveillance charm."

"Why we were - " She stopped, blinking, as she realized she'd forgotten altogether that their presence had been
inexplicably erased. "Oh, my god - "

"Yes, missed that, didn't you?" Draco drawled, shaking his head. "The Club had a chance to bring us down with
Carnegie, Granger, and they fucking didn't. And I don't know about you, but that worries me."

"Not to mention that if Nico didn't alter the enchantments himself, then somebody at MACUSA could be in the
Club," she agreed, beginning to pace the floor. "Oh hell, anybody could be in the Club! Anybody from - " she
paused, blinking, and let out a wail. "Anybody from all of time! What if nobody's dead?" she pressed frantically,
tearing back and forth across the marble of the chamber floor. "What if literally nobody has ever died, ever, and
anyone we know, including my - my granny," she sputtered, "is out there trying to murder us?!"

"Well, that would be pretty fucking rude of your granny," Draco sniffed. "Mine, for the record, is a saint. Well, one
of them is," he amended hastily. "The other is - well, I don't know. Let's just hope she's dead. Or," he suggested
brightly, "at least so impossible to work with that no club would want her."

"You're joking!" Hermione shouted, giving him a shove, and he sighed, letting himself be pushed back. "How can
you joke?" she demanded, and then let out another harsh cry of frustration, resting her forehead brusquely against his
shoulder this time and beginning to wonder if either crying or vomiting would help. "I just - " she stammered.
"Everything is - it's just so - "

"Overwhelming?" he supplied, and she exhaled sharply in confirmation, closing her eyes as he awkwardly patted her
hair. "Yeah, I know. I know." She felt him swallow against the top of her head, gradually shifting his arms around
her shoulders and letting out a low, discouraged sigh. "But you can't hold this one against Potter, though. I think for
once he's actually thinking clearly."

"Still," Hermione sniffed furiously, turning to rest her cheek against his chest. "I hated standing there and saying
nothing, it was - I just felt so powerless, and - "

"You can't fix everything that's broken, Granger," Draco told her, shaking his head. "Don't you know that by now?"

For a second she paused, frowning.

Then she leaned back, squinting up at him, as she remembered the apology he'd offered her earlier that evening.

"Do you mean you?" she asked suspiciously, and he groaned.

"Does everything have to be a metaphor?" he demanded. "No, Granger, I'm just saying you can't fix everything.
Some things just can't be fixed."

"But you mean you," she said. "Right?"

"No," he growled. "I'm fine, Granger - "

"No, actually, you're not," she retorted, scowling at him. "You're doing terribly. You're a mess."

"Excuse me," he protested, pulling away from her. "You're shouting about your granny and now I'm a mess?"

"You're the messiest person I think I've ever met!" Hermione informed him. "I mean, Harry died once and he's still a
better functioning human than you, so - "

"Well, first of all, add him to the list of people who should stay dead," Draco barked, flailing wildly, "and secondly,
how dare you - "
"When are you going to admit that you actually care?" Hermione pressed, feeling on the brink of madness and
resigning herself to tipping over the edge. "When are you just going to say that the war screwed you up and you're
doing everything you can to fix your mistakes, but nobody will let you? When will you admit that you're afraid that
the world can't forgive you, and so you can't forgive yourself? You're an idiot, Draco Malfoy," she wailed, and
discovered, much to her dismay, that she was moments from crying; probably from exhaustion, although possibly
from frustration, or from some other emotion she hadn't been able to convey since his confession to her earlier that
evening. "Why can't you just say that you're angry and you're hurt and you want to be liked, you want to be wanted,
that you're - "

"Broken?" Draco supplied, and she couldn't tell if he was angry, or sad, or possibly just rigid with dismay. "Is that
it?"

She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes.

"Some broken things," she told him, "can be fixed. Or at least appreciated," she amended, her eyes fluttering open to
admonish him again, "or, you know, liked, or even - "

"Or even what?" he asked, striding furiously up to her and nearly knocking her back against the low railing of the
audience chamber. "What, Granger? What are you trying to say?"

She held her breath, blinking rapidly.

"I - nothing," she said, shaking her head. "I don't know. I'm tired."

"I'm tired too, but I still possess my faculties," he snapped. "What's your point, Granger? So the war fucked me up,"
he said, grimacing. "So what? How's that different from you? You think that just because you punch your problems
in the face you're handling them any better?"

"This isn't about you or me," she stammered. "I'm just - I told you, I'm tired, and I'm upset about Daisy, and - "

"No. No," he said forcefully, staring down at her. "I told you I was sorry. I meant that. I'm sorry. I'm fucking sorry
about everything that I was, to you and to the rest of the world. I'm fucking sorry, Granger," he repeated, his voice
mechanical and stiff, "but what good does that do me?"

"Malfoy," she sighed, "let's not do this, okay? I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, you shouldn't have," he agreed, "but you did, so we're doing it. We're doing this right now," he half-shouted,
"because you started it!"

"I didn't start anything!" she snapped. "If you would just acknowledge your own feelings instead of trying to fight
with me every bloody time I try to sympathize with you, then maybe we wouldn't be doing this!"

"Doing what?" he retorted. "Fighting? This is all we do, Granger!"

"That's not true!" she shouted. "We actually work together, Malfoy, and if you could ever manage to take a brief
reprieve from being such a massive prat all the time, you might see that - "

"Whereas you, Granger, could use a moment away from being such an intolerable saint, always trying to run around
saving people who don't need to be saved - "

"Is this about you again? Because I swear - "

"No, this isn't about me! STOP MAKING EVERYTHING ABOUT ME!"

"DON'T YELL AT ME!"

"STOP TRYING TO FIX ME!" he roared, taking another step towards her. "You can't fix me, Granger, and you're
certainly not the first person to try. It didn't work then, it won't work now, and I don't need you to keep looking at
me like I need your help, because I fucking don't. I'm fine," he spat, fuming. "Do you understand me? I'm fine. I'm
sorry," he ranted. "I'm sorry, and I'm shitty, and I'm not okay, but I'm not - I'm just - " he paused, tripping over his
words, and stared at her. "I'm fucking fine, Granger."

She stared back at him, swallowing, and decided she wanted to hit him.

Needed to, really. For his sake.

It seemed like the right moment to hit him; he seemed in desperate need of an impact.

A wake-up call, essentially.

Something to prove he was wrong, was actively deluded, was -

Was -

She didn't hit him.

She kissed him, yanking him towards her and falling back against the railing as he half-choked on something
breathless, stumbling against her and biting down on her lip as he let out a gasp of surprise. He caught himself,
holding his breath, and pulled away, dazed.

"Are you serious right now?" he croaked, and she winced.

"You're right," she sighed. "Sorry, I just - "

"God, you're the worst," he growled, and kissed her again, less clumsily this time, sweeping her hair from her
shoulders to cup his hand around the back of her neck, drawing her closer. She tilted her head up, deepening the
kiss, and he pressed her back, his hips against hers, taking advantage of her breath of pause to shift his lips to her
neck, stroking a line down her throat with his thumb.

She squirmed under his touch, her fingers tightening in his belt loops, and then, before she could process what she
was doing, she lifted her hands to the lip of his trousers, undoing the button and pausing as he inhaled, freezing in
place.

She swallowed, uncertain whether to continue.

She felt his heart pounding, felt certain he could hear hers pulsing in the space between them: mistake, mistake,
mistake.

But she'd already come this far.

So she yanked the zipper down.

For a second he gasped, startled, but he recovered quickly; she let out a yelp as he dropped to gather the fabric of her
gown in his hands, hastily drawing the heavy material up past her thighs and maneuvering her carefully against the
railing, hitching her legs up around his hips. It was a definite fumble - a chaotic, undeniable lack of finesse - but the
moment he slid her knickers aside she closed her eyes, digging her fingers into his shoulders.

It was -

She felt -

Everything just -

He was -

"Oh god," she whispered, shivering, and he groaned in her ear, kissing her lips, her jaw, her neck as she let her head
fall back, a quiet, tentative moan slipping from her lips and dissipating to an echo, dancing through the chamber on a
breeze.

The League of Eternality

Unplottable Location
11:17 a.m.

"Antioch, what was so goddamned important that I had to leave in the middle of breakfast at the Vatican?" Herpo
demanded, bursting through the scarlet double doors. "I'd ask you to replicate it, but as you know, I hate British
cappuccinos. Just on principle," he sniffed, scarcely bothering to glance at where Ignotus leaned listlessly against the
wall. "Authenticity is king."

"You know, they should really call you Herpo the Oblivious," Antioch mused smoothly in reply, lowering himself in
the chair at the head of the table. "If you weren't so incorrigibly self-obsessed, you might have noticed the problem
right when you walked in."

"What does that - "

Herpo broke off, startled, as his gaze finally landed on where Nico sat in his usual seat, the man's formerly
handsome face now mangled beyond recognition.

"What the fuck - "

"Yes," Antioch agreed, tapping his nose. "Precisely."

"What happened?" Herpo asked, gaping at Nico, and Antioch shrugged.

"Well, to be clear, evidence shows that this," he said, gesturing to Nico's face, "is largely Flamel's own fault."

"Antioch," Ignotus inserted, shaking his head. "Not helpful."

"Of course it's not helpful," Antioch snapped. "The truth isn't helpful, and Nico being fool enough to be taken
advantage of after centuries of near not-idiocy doesn't necessitate a crisis for the Club as a whole."

"So … why am I here, then?" Herpo prompted, and Antioch shrugged again.

"Because it doesn't necessarily diminish the possibility of a crisis, either," he replied, as Herpo and Ignotus
exchanged an impatient glance. "I had sent Nico to look into the American poisoning," Antioch clarified, "after he
failed to find anything in Stockholm."

"Still nothing?" Herpo asked. "That's - "

"Surprising," Ignotus muttered.

"Annoying," Antioch corrected. "I hadn't thought it important, though, until Nico mentioned that the two who
managed this particular exercise in disfigurement" - he paused, gesturing to Nico again - "already knew what the
lemniscate was, and - "

"No," Nico interrupted, looking pained by the process of speaking. "Not just that. They were expecting the
lemniscate," he muttered, holding a hand carefully to what remained of the charred, elastic skin of his face.

Herpo, despite the impact of the statement, found himself unable to focus beyond his revulsion.

"Can't we do something about that?" he asked Antioch, making a face as he gestured to Nico. "It's - you know.
Distracting."

Nico scowled. "Fuck off."

"Unfortunately, we can't fix it," Antioch pronounced grimly. "Not yet." He glanced at his brother. "We're working
on it though, aren't we?"

"Yes," Ignotus said. "It's a complex potion, though, and paired with a fairly ruthless incantation. It may take a
while."

"Well, lucky time is not remotely a problem," Antioch reminded him, drumming his fingers on the table. "In the
meantime, Herpo, just - " he waved a hand. "Close your eyes. Or no, Nico," he flicked his wand lazily, turning the
other man's chair away from the table. "There we go. In any case - "

"The American Auror has been dealt with," Ignotus supplied, shifting to stand beside Nico's chair. "Emmett
Carnegie has been eliminated and his daughter's been blamed and discredited. Doubtful that she'll work in magical
law enforcement ever again."

"Okay," Herpo said slowly. "Sounds like it's been taken care of. Is there more?"

"There is," Antioch confirmed. "Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger."

Herpo paused, struggling to place the names.

"The Death Eater and the war hero?" he asked, frowning. "What about them?"

"They're involved somehow. They don't seem to have any connection to any of the poisonings," Antioch conceded,
"but they've popped up recently in places where they shouldn't."

"They were present for the botched assassination of the British Warlock," Ignotus said. "Our spies in the Ministry
confirmed that reports for a failed attempt at poisoning were filed for Minister Shacklebolt's eyes only and then
destroyed."

Nico said something, but nobody understood him.

"What?" Antioch asked, and Ignotus turned his chair back around, prompting Herpo to let out yet another groan of
disgust.

"They had the files I was looking for," Nico said, flashing Herpo a glare. "They're involved in the case somehow,
but we don't know who they work for. They definitely know about the Club," he added, "but not enough to know
who I was, or to expect me specifically."

"Malfoy is a contract killer now, isn't he?" Ignotus asked. "I heard the name in connection with the bombing at the
Turkish Ministry."

"Yes, he is," Antioch confirmed. "Spotted several times by Club members, most recently in Greece."

"Couldn't he be responsible for the Warlock poisonings?" Herpo asked, and Antioch shook his head.

"Motive doesn't fit," he said. "Also, the potion itself has a different signature. Evidence points to someone else."

"Maybe Malfoy's trying to prevent someone from encroaching on his territory," Herpo suggested. "He's gotten quite
a bit of notoriety, hasn't he?"

"Yes, definitely. But a matter of days ago it was published in the Daily Prophet that he's now an event planner for
the Ministry," Antioch said wryly. "Evidently he and Granger are consultants."

Herpo scoffed. "A cover, surely," he asserted. "But for what?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Ignotus asked. "Though I don't see why we don't just get rid of them."

At that, Antioch cocked his head towards his brother.

"Really, Ignotus?" he asked dubiously, the air between them turning glacially cold. "So now, suddenly, you don't see
why we don't just get rid of everyone who presents a problem, do you?"

Ignotus said nothing, his mouth tightening.

"Well, hold on," Herpo ventured, clearing his throat. "Listen, I hate to bring this up, but - "

He trailed off, hesitating as Antioch and Ignotus shifted to glare at him.

"What?" Antioch prodded impatiently, and Herpo sighed.

"Have you not considered that this could be Cadmus?" he asked, and Antioch and Ignotus both groaned, exchanging
glances and returning, thankfully, to relative normality.

"He's dead," Ignotus said tightly. "You know this."

"Yes, but you've said that before," Herpo reminded them.

"Well, this time we mean it," Antioch retorted. "Or is that not enough for you?"

"It kind of isn't," Herpo admitted. "I don't know if you recall the French Revolution - "

"It rings a bell," Antioch snapped.

"I'm just saying - "

"He's dead," Ignotus confirmed. "I took care of it myself."

"For once," Antioch muttered under his breath, but Herpo, not wanting to get into it yet again with the Peverell
brothers, quickly shook his head.

"Fine, so it's not Cadmus," he permitted. "But do we have any idea?"

"I have exactly one idea," Antioch said, rising to his feet, "and if you don't mind, I'd like to take care of it now. In
the meantime, though," he continued, adjusting his cuffs and indulging lofty irritation, "this may be more
problematic than we thought, so it'd be best if you stayed close, Herpo."

"Fine," Herpo muttered, though he wasn't happy about it. "I suppose I can swap the cappuccinos for a couple days of
Earl Grey, if you're so very needy."

"That's the spirit," Antioch agreed, striding over to clap a hand on his shoulder. "Good to have you back, as ever - "

"Is that it, then?" Ignotus cut in sharply, and Herpo and Nico turned to look at him, startled by the outburst. "No
explanation, Antioch?" Ignotus pressed, folding his arms over his chest. "You'll just 'take care of it' yourself, and
we're done here?"

Antioch paused, rigid, and slowly craned his neck to look at his brother.

For a moment, he stared without comment or expression, and beside him, Herpo held his breath.

"We are. For now," Antioch pronounced curtly, and Ignotus scowled.

"Well, then as I presume I'm not needed - "

"Not at the moment," Antioch agreed. "Though your presence is always a comfort, brother."

Ignotus, rather than respond, shook his head once, glowering moodily at Antioch and heading for the doors, bursting
through them without waiting for anyone to respond.

"Well," Herpo remarked, letting out a breath once he'd gone. "I see things haven't improved between you."
"No, they haven't, and to that end, there's one more thing I wanted to discuss," Antioch said, sparing Nico a
conspiratorial glance before turning back to Herpo. "It seems that after all these years, Lady Revel has tired of her
oath of secrecy."

"Remind me," Herpo said, frowning. "Is that someone you killed?"

"No," Nico rasped, and Herpo once again avoided eye contact. "This is the one that Ignotus - "

"Ah, yes," Herpo recalled, laughing. "The one you left alive for some unknown reason. Didn't you keep her hidden?"

"I did," Antioch confirmed. "I reversed that tracking spell Cadmus always used and added a modified Fidelius
charm, too. She would be physically impossible for Ignotus to find," he clarified, dispassionate, "even if he were to
go back to where she once was."

"That's all well and good, but what I never understood is why you kept her alive at all," Herpo reminded him, half
amused. "I always found that rather out of character for you, Antioch."

"On the contrary," Antioch sniffed. "I thought I might need her for leverage one day - you know moody Ignotus can
be. Sometimes he needs a push. But seeing as she's begun to talk," he lamented, exchanging another glance with
Nico, "she's officially more of a liability than an asset. Which leads me to the inevitable," he finished, trailing off
pointedly, and Herpo sighed.

"Can't you kill her yourself?" Herpo asked. "In case you've forgotten, I'm severely decaffeinated."

"You're rather a talented wizard," Antioch returned coolly. "Somehow I think you can pull through."

Herpo grimaced, finding the whole thing tiresome before he even began.

"He'll hate you," he reminded Antioch sharply, catching the motion of Nico's chin dropping out of the corner of his
eye as he said it. "If Ignotus finds out - "

Antioch scoffed, turning to walk out of the room.

"He already hates me," he said, hurling the words over his shoulder and pausing as he rested a hand on the door.
"Surprisingly, though," he mused, his mouth quirking with amusement, "I suspect I shall manage to live."

Dolores Jane Umbridge had not been a pretty girl, and though she had known it from the start, she had never let her
vacancies concern her. Let other girls be pretty, she thought, watching them get their lives ruined and their feelings
hurt, their lovely eyes constantly filled with tears from the perpetual torment of their too-soft hearts. Pretty girls
were easy to find, Dolores had always thought, and therefore easier still to ruin.

Not Dolores.

Dolores could not be broken.

This is because while Dolores was not a pretty girl, she was a clever girl, a ruthless girl, and though her mother
lamented her only daughter's failures - preferring instead her handsome but powerless son, the squib who was born
with her own amber eyes and porcelain skin - Dolores decided her mother was just another pretty girl to be easily
bypassed in the end. Ellen Cracknell was only a muggle, after all, and hardly anything was beautiful beneath the
surface. Dolores, blessed with magic in her veins, ultimately found that it was her mother who was quite displeasing
to her, and not the other way around.

After all, what girl would crave the love of her vain, ill-tempered mother over the power to turn water into wine, and
from there into gold? Ellen's mythologies were Dolores' realities, and from the moment Dolores realized she could
turn her mother into a dainty, delicate teacup that she could so easily hold in one hand, she determined that she
would never spare a moment for self-doubt again.
Better to be lethal than lovely, she thought, watching her pretty mother shatter in crystalline shards across the
kitchen floor, the pieces glinting in the midday sun.

Better still to be deadly than dead.

Admittedly, such qualities did not make Dolores popular, but this, too, she didn't mind. She was quick to remove her
low-ranking father from the public eye, carefully rebranding herself to suit the tides of political approval, and
climbed rapidly through the Ministry, taking whatever steps were necessary to work her way to the top.
Conveniently, her rise through the Ministry coincided with the ascension of Lord Voldemort, a man whose very
existence in the political sphere normalized Dolores' most advantageous tactics: blackmail, fear-mongering, and the
particular usefulness of mob mentality that suited her own style of leadership so brilliantly.

It was funny, really, that she and the Dark Lord never met. She always suspected they'd be quite good friends, or at
least kindred spirits; but then, as they say, one should never meet one's idols. Hers, for example, disappointed her by
ending up dead.

(Besides, Lord Voldemort had never had to imitate femininity to succeed, so really, Dolores had always had it much
harder. A handsome man gaining power? The history books were full. But a girl whose mother had so often likened
her to a toad, rising to Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic himself? Unheard of.)

A pity she hadn't seen Harry Potter coming.

Who could have predicted, though that the greatest wizard of his time would lose to a boy, and one whose little
curly-headed menace of a friend regularly did all of his homework? Had Dolores gauged the odds better, she might
have made vastly different choices, but she supposed the wizarding world had always been one that favored
impossibilities. Dolores was ousted as soon as the Dark Lord fell, opting to flee rather than face time in Azkaban,
and shortly afterwards she'd encountered Ludo Bagman down a sketchy alley in Bohemia, recognizing him on the
spot as he stumbled drunkenly down the narrow stone street.

Dolores preferred to work alone, of course, but there was no disregarding the tool she'd been given. She was
generally considered unlikable, but Ludo, former quidditch hero that he was, had no such concerns. He may have
been a fool, and an arrogant one at that, but he would have his uses. She'd always been good at recognizing when
people were useful.

Though, of course, people who were useful were not always helpful.

"What exactly is your plan here?" Dionisia Trelawney asked through the Floo, not for the first time. "It's been
several months since your first attempt to get the Club's attention, has it not?"

"Your point?" Dolores snapped. "I hardly need you to weigh in on my progress."

"Don't you?" Dionisia countered, sounding bored, but Dolores knew better than to be lured by her apparent
disinterest. Lady Revel was a woman famous for collecting secrets, and in Dolores' mind, that was just another
clever girl's way of determining weakness. "Clearly your patience is running thin. These near-daily calls don't
exactly scream 'confidence,' you know - "

"If you wish to no longer be at my disposal, then you'd do well to put yourself to good use," Dolores retorted. "The
sooner my reputation is restored, the sooner I will vacate your life - but if you think I would ever confide in you as
to my state of mind, Lady Revel, I'm afraid you are sorely mistaken."

At that, Dionisia made a face. "Amazing that you're willing to trust an idiotic man with a gambling addiction," she
murmured, "rather than - "

"Rather than the woman I've blackmailed into servitude?" Dolores prompted, tutting impatiently. "Strangely, I find
I'm inclined to question your motives."

"I wish to be free of you," Dionisia said flatly. "If that means accomplishing your ends, then fine. What becomes of
you is of no importance to me, but I'd rather not be your puppet into perpetuity."
Dolores shrugged. "Better that than banishment into perpetuity. The Club is taking quite a long time to respond," she
added, grimacing. "I was certain our efforts would impress them."

"Very little impresses them," Dionisia muttered, a little too quickly, and Dolores paused, listening intently. "An
enterprise of that magnitude can take care of its problems quite easily without ever having to discover the source. I
assume, that is," she amended hastily, and Dolores gave a tight, unpleasant smile.

"You know, there are moments," Dolores remarked, "when it's clear you know far more about this Club than you
pretend to."

"I know nothing but rumors," Dionisia corrected, with a liar's ease. "But I've seen enough organized crime in my
lifetime to know they will always opt to clean up the little messes until it becomes too large to ignore. I would not
expect them to seek you out at this stage, as I've said before - or at any stage, really," she murmured, "unless you
manage to hit them where it hurts."

At that, Dolores leaned forward, her interest piqued.

"And where does it hurt?" she asked. "Serving your knowledge of rumors, of course."

Dionisia shrugged. "Where does anyone hurt?" she prompted. "Close to home."

"Close to - "

Dolores had trailed off, frowning in thought, and from there (as she'd known would eventually happen) a useful idea
had formed.

"It's time to switch tactics," Dolores pronounced flatly, dropping a copy of the Wizarding Times into the bowl of
muesli that Ludo had been eating. "We can't wait for the Club."

"And why not?" Ludo demanded, shoving the newspaper away. "You're too impatient."

"If the Club was going to respond, they would have done so by now," Dolores corrected irritably. "And the rest of
the world clearly cares more about Dramione," she added, gagging at the utterly ridiculous diminutive on the
newspaper's cover, "than about what's been happening in international politics."

"Doubtful," Ludo disagreed. "The Ministries are no doubt still investigating, and - "

"Yes, they are," Dolores agreed, "so it's time to change directions. The Club is clearly not interested, so let's take it
to the last remaining institutions that care: the Ministries."

Ludo frowned, always slow to pick up a point. He had his uses, certainly (it had been Ludo who'd heard rumors of
the Club to begin with from his time in the depths of the wizarding underground) but still, he was close to
exhausting when it came to cognitive leaps.

"What are you saying?" he pronounced slowly, and Dolores sighed.

"What these Ministries need is a consultant," she said. "Someone knowledgeable in potions who can guide the
investigation." She waited, watching Ludo frown. "Like, say, you," she prodded emphatically, frustrated with the
continuing vacancy in his expression. "Particularly after we've struck the most important Ministry of all."

"You want to try again in England?" he asked, alarmed, and she nodded.

"But this time, whether we succeed or fail, it must be public," she said. "It must be undeniable that the British
Ministry is under siege."

"But - "

"If the Club will not act, we will make them act," she said, feeling a rush of determination. "And in the meantime,
it's time we put you in the spotlight again. Present you as an alternative," she mused, "and therefore ascertain that the
investigation never progresses to us."

Ludo leaned back, his breakfast forgotten.

"It would be nice to be back in my element," he said slowly. "Though where would we place the blame?"

"Who cares?" Dolores countered, waving a hand. "It's a win-win. Either the Ministry believes you have helped them
catch an international assassin and grants us clemency, or the Club feels threatened enough by our proximity to
finally present us with its resources. Either way, we take matters into our own hands."

Ludo looked down, thoughtful.

"I do like that," he admitted, and Dolores noted the greed in his expression at returning to favor, suffering a brush of
warning up her spine.

"How do you know he won't betray you?" Dionisia asked, once Dolores had slipped away to contact her. "You'll
willingly pave the way for his return to power, but then consent to rely on his highly suspect integrity for your
own?"

"He has no choice but to honor our deal," Dolores replied. "I could easily turn him in, or ruin him from afar."

"Ah, yes, blackmail again," Dionisia said dully. "Your favorite."

"Well, if it works," Dolores said, shrugging, and Dionisia let out a dispassionate huff of laughter.

"You'll kill him when you've finished, I presume," she guessed.

"Oh, indubitably," Dolores said, clearing her throat. "Leave him to hold leverage over me? I know better."

"You certainly do," Dionisia agreed, and turned over her shoulder, frowning into the darkened room behind her.
"Did you hear that?"

"No," Dolores sniffed. "And anyway, didn't you say I had to change my strategy?"

"I didn't realize you listened to me," Dionisia commented, still glancing behind her, and Dolores shrugged.

"I'm not opposed to sound council, particularly when it's to my benefit," Dolores returned, scowling with impatience
at the other woman's continued lack of attention. "Am I keeping you from something, Lady Revel?"

Dionisia paused, opening her mouth and closing it warily.

"There's someone here," she eventually managed, visibly uneasy, but Dolores only shrugged.

"Go, then," she muttered, and ended the call, retreating from the fire and sitting back with an odd feeling of
dissatisfaction.

She was irritated, she realized, and wondered why that would be, considering she had already perfectly plotted her
next move. She supposed she had expected Dionisia to be more thoroughly impressed, or at least somewhat
intrigued, but it seemed the other woman's head was elsewhere.

No matter. Dolores would have her life back shortly, she was certain of that, and she would exploit Ludo Bagman's
usefulness for as long as it remained - and not a single moment longer.

For Dolores had never been a pretty girl, nor a very lucky one, but she was certainly a resilient one, and there had
never been any doubt that she was a hard one to break. She had not been born ordinary, and she trusted that her
future held a return to freedom, to power, to greatness, and - at long last - to the long-deserved humbling of Harry
Potter.
And by the time she returned, she mused, idly turning the thought over in her mind, perhaps a certain Lady Revel
would be waiting.

The Harkaway
Woolworth, New York
4:30 a.m.

"Um," Hermione croaked, clearing her throat as she paused outside the hotel. "The, er. Portkey."

Draco blinked, furiously avoiding contact.

"Yes," he said flatly. "You have it."

"Yes, I know, but - " She grimaced. "We have to, um." She fidgeted, swallowing. "You know."

Internally, he sighed.

They had to -

Touch.

"Right," he managed. "Yes. I know that."

"So, um, hands?" she prompted, awkwardly holding hers out. "Or, I don't know. Would it be easier if you just put
your hand on my shoulder?"

He glanced down at her, instantly regretting it as the memory of her face (the way her eyes had fluttered shut, the
way her lips had parted, the way she sounded the way she felt the way she tasted, everything everything everything
and the constant echoes of oh god and yes there and holy fucking shit you feel so—) flooded through him in a rush
without restraint, his entire body going rigid.

"Up to you," he managed roughly, noting that she looked utterly terrified at the thought, sharply retracting her hand.

To say that the aftermath of what had happened between them had been awkward would be tragically unfunny; a
laughable understatement. The moment he'd released her there'd been a numbing clang of recognition, crashing over
their heads as the air between them turned murky and inescapably clouded, filled all at once with doubt and
reservation.

What now? she'd seemed to ask him, eyes wide, but he didn't know.

He didn't know, and his silence had not improved things. She'd pulled away, adjusting her dress as he fumbled with
his trousers, and they'd walked out of the room without speaking, both of them delivered to the silent trauma of their
respective consciences. Naturally, the longer they'd avoided speech, the worse it had been to attempt it, and now, of
course, there was this.

Touch.

What had previously been the most innocuous of touches, too, and now it was suddenly charged with an excess of
significance, and he would be damned if he'd be the one to do the wrong thing.

"Well, I guess we can just both grab either side of it," she babbled nervously, holding it up.

He grimaced.

She obviously didn't want to touch him.

If he had been waiting for a sign, that was clearly it.

"What happened back there," he said, forcing a swallow. "We should just - "

She stared at him, waiting.

"Forget it," he finished. "It was just - adrenaline. Exhaustion." He managed a shrug. "It's fine."

"Right," she exhaled slowly, her brow stitching together. "Right."

"We're adults," he continued. "We both wanted to, so - "

"Of course," she agreed. "But, you know. Moving forward - "

"Never again," he confirmed, and she exhaled a breath she seemed to have been holding, nodding hastily.

"Right," she said. "And since it'll never happen again, there's no need to discuss it, obviously."

"Exactly," Draco replied. "Not a word. Not that I would ever tell anyone," he added, half-laughing, and she set her
jaw, displeased.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he assured her. "I mean, you wouldn't tell anyone either, would you? It's us," he said, shaking his head.
"It's ludicrous."

"It's unprofessional," she muttered. "Not to mention stupid."

"Totally stupid," he agreed. "A mistake, really."

She blinked.

"Yes," she snapped. "A thoughtless mistake."

"We should have known better," he said. "After all, we barely get along."

"I wouldn't have done it if I weren't so tired," she told him briskly, giving him a hard, sweeping glance. "You - " she
sputtered. "You're - "

"Yes," he drawled. "And I am thoroughly opposed to you as well."

"Good!" she half-shouted. "I'm glad we're on the same page. This was a mistake, I regret it completely, let's just both
put it behind us and - "

"Oh, you regret it, Granger?" he echoed, bristling. "Do you think I've just been mooning about, longing for this to
happen?"

She opened her mouth, furious, and then snapped it shut.

"God, you're such an arse," she growled, the words slipping through her teeth. "I can't believe I ever let you near
me."

"Oh, is this you putting it behind you?" he prompted sarcastically. "Thank goodness, and here I was so worried
you'd overthink it and be a nuisance - "

"Oh, so I'm a nuisance now?" she retorted. "You're the one that's completely - "

"Ah, excellent, it's Dramione! Smile, lovebirds," called a photographer, prompting both Hermione and Draco to
groan.

"Give me that," Draco snapped, taking hold of the portkey in her hands and transporting them to their hotel room.
"And now that we're - "

He broke off, startled, and tried to hold his hand to his curiously inactive throat; he found, however, that not only
could he not speak, he also couldn't move, and by the looks of it, Hermione couldn't either.

"Apologies," said a deep male voice, rising from beside the fireplace. "I rather thought given the events that
transpired with my associate this evening, I wouldn't take any chances."

Draco, had he not already been frozen, would certainly have gone rigid as a slightly older, too-handsome man
carefully began to circle them.

"Don't worry," the man offered. "I'm not going to kill you. Though, for the record, it would almost certainly bring
me vast amounts of pleasure," he informed them neutrally. "You've disfigured Nico, you know. It's unpleasant. I
find I'm rather not thrilled, though the majority of that's on him. Still," he sighed. "Don't you feel you should make
up for what you've done?"

He paused, facetiously holding his hand to his ear and waiting, and then laughed.

"A pity you can't answer," he lamented insincerely. "But unfortunately you've both proven capable of squirreling out
of danger before, and the silence will suit me just fine. I don't plan to hurt either of you," he assured them, tutting
softly. "Not yet. But my benevolence does depend greatly on the two of you doing something for me."

He paused, glancing between them.

"You both look awfully flushed," he commented, smirking, and then discarded the thought, shrugging. "In any case,
you may have noticed that I opted to have you removed from Daisy Carnegie's surveillance enchantments. I've
decided it's in my best interest to make sure you both continue what you've started. Nico tells me that you've been
investigating the poisons, and though he didn't know why, I think I have an idea. You're working for Harry Potter,
aren't you?" he asked, glancing between them, and then nodded, answering his own question. "Yes, I'm quite certain
you are. Fine with me; I'm happy to keep that little tidbit to myself, provided you follow through with the task
you've been assigned. I expect you to discover who's behind this, and when you do, I expect you to inform me.
Consider yourselves promoted, really. Same job," he clarified smoothly, "just for a far more powerful employer."

The man paused, folding his arms over his chest.

"You'd better figure this out, Mr Malfoy, Miss Granger," he said, glancing between them, "or you'll owe me quite a
debt, and should you disappoint me in any way, I will not hesitate to collect in full. Not with your lives," he added,
and paused. "Well, maybe with your lives. I won't rule it out. But certainly with everything and everyone that
matters to you. Is that clear?"

He reached out, taking hold of their chins roughly, and forced both Draco and Hermione to nod, chuckling as their
heads bobbed forcefully up and down.

"Thought so," he said smugly, releasing them with a smirk. "Well, that's all for now. I'll be in touch. Best of luck,"
he offered, and then promptly disapparated, leaving Draco to inhale with a loud, forceful gasp, turning sharply to
Hermione.

"Are you alright?" he asked, reaching for her, and she nodded, stumbling forward and gripping his arm.

"Who was that?" she managed hoarsely.

Draco shook his head, bewildered.

"Whoever he was," he exhaled, suffering a chill, "it appears that we work for him now."

a/n: I will not be updating any of my fics next week (week of Sept 25) because I have to travel extensively for the
start of Mr Blake's race season, so apologies in advance for the lack of chapter next Thursday! Thank you so much
for reading, it means the world to me.

Dedicated to relent1ess, redtae, and hesitantsoup!

 15. Secrets Don't Make Friends

Chapter 15: Secrets Don't Make Friends

Parvati Patil was a twin; that much was indisputable. She could be defined by a number of qualities, but the crux of
everything was not so much that she had a twin, but that she was a twin. She was half of a magically significant
whole, and to know this about her was to understand something much, much larger in the grand scheme of what she
was.

This is because, unlike most twins, the Patil twins had the Gift.

Not two sets of the Gift.

Just the one Gift, divvied up between them.

Parvati had the visions, which had begun nearly from birth. Her earliest memories were of things darting before her
eyes, swimming in front of them like fireworks; sometimes visions of people she knew, sometimes manifestations of
shadows, sometimes hazy, unplaceable images of people she'd never seen before in her life. They were only
glimpses, though, and it wasn't until Parvati was much older that she felt the desire to make any use of them; to sit
quietly and observe them, and to watch them like strange, twisted pictures painted for her amusement.

Padma, on the other hand, heard the voices, the sounds. Often she heard them while asleep, and when the girls were
little, Parvati used to crawl from her bed to slip under her sister's covers, holding her steady while she shook
throughout the night. Padma would wake with a gasp, whispering to Parvati about what she'd heard, and together
they would piece things together like a puzzle.

On one occasion when they were children, Padma had heard their mother's voice screaming; Parvati, meanwhile,
had seen the image of a fall from a great height.

"Be careful with ladders, Mummy," they warned Lakshmi, who unwisely didn't listen. Only a week passed from the
time of their ominous warning before Lakshmi Patil toppled over, trying to reach a small houseplant that sat above a
particularly high bookshelf.

"Told you," they admonished gravely, shortly after Lakshmi had gritted her teeth through an overnight session of
Skele-Gro.

It was alarming to them, naturally, that the Sorting Hat chose to place them in separate houses. After all, who would
comfort Padma when she cried out in the middle of the night, and who would Parvati tell when she saw contortions
of people she loved, when she witnessed death, when she saw the strangers who would come to haunt her dreams?
She was fearful of the distance, and though she had begged Dumbledore for some other way, he had gently told her
that perhaps being apart from her sister would do her some good.

"What is it you're so worried about?" he asked Parvati kindly. "You know, most children will be happy to make
friends, and I'm certain you won't be lonely. Have you met Miss Granger?" he asked, gesturing to the curly-haired
girl who'd nagged Parvati on the train about a toad. "Or perhaps Miss Brown?"

"It's not loneliness I'm worried about," Parvati said bluntly, though privately she doubted she'd ever be the Granger
girl's friend. "Sir, I just don't know what I'll do about the pictures if Padma's not there."

Albus' face contorted slightly.

"What pictures?" he asked, and when Parvati had told him about the things she'd seen, he'd blinked very rapidly, as
though he were trying quite hard to stay calm.

"Well," Dumbledore said, clearing his throat. "Why don't you just try not to worry about that for now, hm?
Divination is in year three, and until then, perhaps it's best just to focus on your studies."
"Alright," Parvati said gloomily, and for a time she tried to push her abilities aside, blinking them away; across the
Great Hall, though, she watched her sister wince, Padma's hand coming up to her temples as unknown futures
clanged stridently in her ears.

"Do you think we should tell someone?" Parvati asked, but Padma shook her head.

"People don't really believe in it in my house," she said, and though Parvati hadn't asked anyone in Gryffindor, she
assumed it was a similar situation. "I have a feeling we should keep it to ourselves."

"Have you heard anything recently?" Parvati asked curiously, and Padma tilted her head, thinking.

"A lot of danger," she pronounced, shrugging. "Warnings."

"From whom?"

"Don't know," she said. "Adults. I don't recognize the voices. Something about a prophecy, something about a
chamber, or secrets, or possibly both. I'm not sure. Something about death," she added. "There's been a lot of death
shouting around in my head recently."

Parvati shuddered, and Padma glanced warily at her.

"Why?" Padma pressed, lifting a brow. "Have you seen something?"

Yes, Parvati had seen things, as always; but like usual, it was nothing she could put into words.

"Oh, there was one thing, though," Parvati amended thoughtfully. "There's a masked man with a circlet of gold. He
stands in a dark room with stars shining overhead, and I feel - " she broke off, feeling her cheeks burn. "I feel sort of
strange when I look at him."

Padma, seemingly uninterested in this information, merely shrugged.

"Who's that?" Padma asked, gesturing to someone behind them. "I think I've heard her voice before."

Parvati turned. "That's Lavender Brown."

"I think you should befriend her," Padma suggested, her brow furrowing with thought.

And so Parvati had befriended Lavender, a vivacious and talkative girl who gave Parvati the feeling of having
dozens of friends rather than simply the single, ebullient one. From the start, Lavender was a strangely exotic
influence, exposing Parvati to the wonders of makeup and hair potion and rolling her skirt up as high as possible
and, not unrelatedly, the art of making boys look at her a little too long.

For a time, then, the flickering images in Parvati's mind became less frequent (or, potentially, just more easily
pushed aside) and she worried less about what her sister was up to, finding instead the novel delight of being friends
with someone who wasn't consummately a reflection of herself. By the time she and Lavender found they both
shared a love of Divination, Parvati felt she could finally open up enough to confess what she'd so long been hiding
from the others.

"What do you mean you can see the future?" Lavender whispered, hiding the conversation behind feigned motion
from their teacups. "You mean in the leaves?"

"No," Parvati replied, rolling her eyes. "It's more like - " she paused, considering it. "It's like I see flashes of things,"
she murmured. "Pieces of what's to come. Sometimes I recognize what I'm seeing, and sometimes I don't."

"What have you seen?" Lavender asked, entranced, and Parvati shrugged.

"I saw the basilisk," she admitted. "I didn't know what it was, though. I saw a mirror once, and this - this cup, or
something. Sort of like a large, cup-shaped trophy, and I also saw a big black dog - "
"What's this?" Trelawney interrupted, lurching between them and prompting Lavender to spill the still-hot tea down
the front of her blouse, waving her wand to do away with the liquid. "You saw this in your leaves? The Grim?" she
pressed, and Parvati hesitated.

"Yes," she lied weakly, and Trelawney pressed a hand to her mouth.

"Oh, my dear," she muttered, beginning to walk towards the front of the classroom. "My dear, such a shame - such a
brief, troubled life ahead of you - "

Padma, on the other hand, had not found an outlet like the one Parvati had found in Lavender. Instead, she'd thrown
herself into her studies, barely surfacing for much else once she was named Ravenclaw Prefect.

"Ever since Potter," Padma muttered, rubbing at her forehead, "I haven't even considered telling anyone. Remember
what people said when there was that rumor he was hearing voices, collapsing everywhere? Said he was cursed, or
evil or something - "

"Are you collapsing?" Parvati asked, aghast, and tellingly, Padma didn't answer. "It doesn't matter. You don't hear
voices, Padma," she pressed forcefully, affronted on her sister's behalf. "It's hardly the same thing."

"It won't be to them," Padma muttered, and so Parvati, aiming to ease her sister's burden, ultimately decided to
encourage her to spend time with Lavender, whom she trusted by then to indulge nothing more than a healthy
curiosity. Parvati found she was rewarded for her decision when Lavender's breezy friendship seemed to ease the
tension in Padma's cluttered mind, making for a comfortable camaraderie between the three girls.

(Parvati would find out later that adding a third person to their dynamic was … problematic, to say the least. But
even with the Gift, she still couldn't have predicted just how problematic it would ultimately be.)

Parvati's visions remained fleeting and easily pushed aside, though perhaps she'd simply been distracted. After all,
Dumbledore had asked her to aid in protecting Trelawney's position from Umbridge's scrutiny, going so far as to
imply that Parvati should fill in the gaps where Trelawney herself seemed to come up short. Dumbledore hadn't
quite understood the severing of Parvati and Padma's Gift from sister to sister, nor the utter uselessness that
possessing only one facet of it meant for either of them individually; but when Parvati had told him she'd seen the
inside of a long, cold chamber with high ceilings and towering shelves of glass orbs lit with blue-flame candles, the
headmaster had clearly become agitated by something.

It was funny, Parvati thought, that her possession of the future would be so wholly useless when it lacked the
context of others' truths. Dumbledore had not told her the significance of what she'd seen, despite quite obviously
recognizing it; in return, Parvati did not tell him when she watched him fall to his death.

Neither of them could prevent it, she was certain. Why trouble him before it arrived?

Meanwhile, something very strange was happening with her sister, and with Lavender, though it took Parvati far
longer than it should have to connect that these things were related. When Lavender had her brief, exceedingly
embarrassing stint with Ron Weasley, Padma had been surly, irritable, visibly bothered and violently short-
tempered, dark circles beginning to appear under her eyes.

"She's chasing after him like some kind of dog begging for scraps," Padma muttered irritably. "It's shameful."

"I don't know," Parvati replied, careful not to choose sides. "She's - she likes him, I suppose - "

"She doesn't like him," Padma snapped. "She's infatuated, that's all - but it'll pass, and then what will all of this have
been for? She has no idea what she wants, but - "

"But you do?" Parvati asked, startled, and then remembered what Padma had said about Lavender from the start; I've
heard her voice before. "Do you know something about Lavender, Padma?"

Padma scowled. "I certainly know more about her than Ron Weasley does," she pronounced, forcing her eyes shut.
Their final year was the hardest one; no surprise there. Parvati's visions grew more prevalent and more distressing
(the castle reduced to rubble, engulfed in flames that burst like sunspots behind her eyes) and Padma seemed to hear
so many voices crying out that it made her teeth chatter spontaneously, her jaw constantly gritted shut. More than
once, Parvati caught her sister muttering things to herself, half-slipping into trances; things like "neither can live
while the other survives," which was distressing enough on its own without the knowledge that it seemed to be
flooding Padma's very consciousness.

More distressing for Parvati, though, was what had happened to Padma and Lavender following the latter's breakup.
It had taken some time for the two of them to repair whatever strange injury Padma had suffered as a result of
Lavender's devotion to Ron, but once the three of them had escaped into the sanctity of the Room of Requirement, it
became more and more impossible for Parvati to find one of them without the other. Suddenly, though the Patil
twins were together again, it wasn't Parvati crawling into Padma's bed to comfort her; it was Lavender. And the two
would be gone for long periods of time, disappearing together behind temporary privacy screens that the room
would provide.

It was difficult for Parvati to understand why her best friend no longer confided in her, or why her sister no longer
came to her for comfort despite noticeably getting worse. It wasn't until the day Parvati woke with a gasp - having
seen her sister's lips on Lavender's bare skin in what she knew was not precisely a dream - that she really
understood, though comprehension of the situation did little to ease what she hated to admit was a strange and lonely
betrayal. Parvati became stifled and withdrawn, reduced to silence when she was near the other two, and for months
she struggled with loneliness, beginning to take shelter in her visions.

She saw Lord Voldemort's death; had seen it long ago, hence her willingness for rebellion. She began taking notes of
other things, though - of the masked man with the circlet of gold who came to her a few times a year; an infinity
symbol pinned to a dead man's chest; and once, distressingly, her sister lying in a crumpled heap with Lavender
bending next to the body, looking over it.

"I saw something," Parvati tried to tell Padma alone, but it seemed Padma only possessed any lucidity when
Lavender was around; she pulled from Parvati's grasp, pressing her fingers to her temple.

"Neither can live while the other survives," she mumbled. "Harry Potter is dead, he's dead, Harry Potter is dead by
the Dark Lord's hand, and no man alive can threaten him now - "

"Padma," Parvati whispered urgently. "Padma, are you listening? I think - " She glanced over her shoulder, anxious.
"I think Lavender might hurt you, Padma. I don't know when, or how, but it might be soon - "

"Now, we must go to the castle," Padma babbled. "Who shall drag the body?"

Parvati suffered a chill so violent it tremored through her hands, and she released her sister, taking a few steps away.

"Padma," she croaked, voice breaking, and her sister looked her in the eye.

"You carry him," she said, giggling. "Put on his glasses, he must be recognizable - "

"Oh, Padma, no," Parvati choked out, but by then Lavender had reappeared, frowning at the scene between the two
sisters and glancing suspiciously at Parvati before sliding her arms around a shaking Padma.

"What's going on?" Lavender asked, her lips brushing possessively against Padma's hair.

Parvati was reduced to silence, gaping in Lavender's wake as she gently nudged Padma to her bed.

The day of the Battle of Hogwarts was -

Well.

Everything - everything - changed.

"Come on," Parvati urged, catching the motion of Padma stumbling to a halt as they ran through the castle, ducking
curses and darting into the crevice of a castle corridor. "Padma, keep going - "

"I have to go to him," she said, blinking, suddenly staring into space. "The Dark Lord. I must go to him."

"What?" Parvati asked, staring at her. "Padma, if you're hearing something - "

"You see?" she asked. "Harry Potter will die. Haven't you seen it, sister, as I have heard it?" she asked, laughing, and
Parvati's stomach lurched with fear. "Harry Potter is dead. Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing,
ever, but a boy, and if we stay here, we will be lost to his fate, we will die - "

"Padma, don't," Parvati begged, taking hold of her sister's wrist and yanking her. "Not right now, Padma, we just
have to get out, and then - "

It happened so quickly; impossibly fast.

Padma twisted sharply, wrenching herself free, but the ground was broken and unsteady beneath her; she stumbled
and fell, arms flailing, and Parvati let out a scream as Padma's head seemed to bounce up from the floor at the
impact, her neck craned at an impossible angle once the motion of her chest had halted, her dark eyes glassy and
wide.

"What have you done?" Parvati heard behind her, and saw Lavender standing there, her mouth agape with horror
and disbelief. "You - you killed her!"

"What? No," Parvati protested, still horrified by the sight of her sister's body. "No, I didn't - "

Lavender rushed forward, bending over Padma, and let out a terrible, primal scream, turning to Parvati with rage.

"You were - you were jealous!" she spat, raising her wand. "I knew you were - I knew you were behaving oddly, I
knew something was wrong, but - "

"She fell," Parvati protested robotically, charged with anguish that only left her feeling numb. "This wasn't about
you, Lavender, she was - the voices, they were - "

"You pushed her," Lavender choked out, shaking her head. "I saw you, Parvati, and I won't let you get away with
this. Did you think it would be safe?" she pressed harshly, rising to her feet. "Killing her in the middle of a battle,
did you think nobody would notice one more dead body? I won't let you get away with it," she spat. "I won't let you
-"

"Lavender, I - GET DOWN," Parvati shouted, pulling her to the ground as a series of curses from oncoming Death
Eaters rained overhead, returning them to the primacy of the battle. It was a blur of curses, of duels that left her
dizzied and exhausted and void of anything but a desperate need to survive, but all the while Lavender's words rang
in her head, twisting in her chest like the edge of a knife.

It wasn't until much later, though - once an unconscious Lavender had already been bitten by Fenrir Greyback and
Parvati had struggled towards her, crawling through the rubble on her knees - that Parvati determined something had
to be done.

"Lavender," Parvati whispered, cradling her best friend's head in her hands once the others had gone, following the
sounds of Voldemort's morbid proclamation. "Lavender, please, you have to understand - "

"I loved her," Lavender managed with a groan. She was losing blood quickly, but Parvati was prophetically certain
that magic would still save many lives that day, Lavender's included. "I loved her," Lavender said, a tear slipping
from her fluttering lids, "and you - you took her from me - "

Parvati's head spun, her mind whirring with visions and sounds; this time of pasts, of newspaper headlines, of Sirius
Black Posthumously Proclaimed Innocent After Twelve Years Served in Azkaban, of Death Eater mistrials, of court
proceedings that had always gone wrong.
If Lavender lived - if she survived to point the finger at Parvati -

There were no guarantees that Parvati's word would matter for much of anything, and magic could not prove her
innocence, either.

"Avada Kedavra," Parvati whispered, and when Lavender fell still, her blood staining Parvati's hands, she processed
with a paralyzing lurch of fear that everything that had once been true about her life had changed.

"I need help," she told Trelawney, her voice unrecognizable even to her.

"I have a sister who can help you," Trelawney whispered back.

It was clear from the start that Dionisia Trelawney was not much like her sister Sibyll, despite similar elements of
ridiculousness that manifested into garish makeup. Lady Revel's gaze was sharper, eagle-eyed, and she saw through
Parvati with incalculable ease.

"Now that is a secret," Dionisia murmured, practically licking it from her lips. "I daresay yours would more than
power the lights in the house for the rest of time, love."

Parvati said nothing.

"You can stay here," Dionisia announced flippantly, waving a hand. "You can take the Versailles room on the
second floor. You'll be expected to work, of course - "

"I'm not a whore," Parvati said, forcing the words out.

Dionisia's mouth twitched, something half-smirk, half-smile.

"Yes, true, you're a virgin," she noted. "But you'll learn. Or, at least, you'll have to," she amended, "because you are
of no use to me unless you plan to work. And you cannot leave," she added grimly, "because I can ruin you, Miss
Patil. I can, and I will, should you give me any reason to. Do you know how this works?" she asked, gesturing
around the house. "Secrets are a magic of their own - a force, a texture of sorts, and like a loose thread, were I to pull
one, the fabric of things would become tainted. You will find, unfortunately, that you cannot leave my service even
if you wished to."

Parvati shut her eyes.

"So I'm imprisoned anyway," she murmured. "This is just a gaudy Azkaban."

Dionisia gave a small, bell-like tinkle of a laugh.

"If you prefer to think of it that way," she permitted, shrugging. "In any case, there are gowns in the closet that I will
have sized for you, and I am having a revel tomorrow night, so - oh dear," she said, sighing. "Are you alright?"

Inexplicably, Parvati's head spun, something bubbling to the surface from a place she couldn't name.

"There is a man," Parvati said suddenly, her eyes snapping open.

This time, the Gift was different. Parvati saw the vision of him - the man - and saw what he was to a younger, far
more beautiful version of the woman before her; she heard their voices. There was something that sounded like her
own voice, too, as if she were narrating the future from afar.

"There is a man from your past," she continued uncertainly, "who longs for you in his present. For you, too, he is as
constant as death. Perhaps more so."

Dionisia leaned forward, greedily conspiratorial. "Go on."

Parvati hesitated; having the aid of her sister's abilities made the vision far more palpable, far more easily
deciphered, but still -
She had been a twin.

She had been a twin, and this was her sister's Gift, and now -

"Go on," Dionisia instructed sharply, and Parvati's lips parted of their own accord, as if tugged by a string.

"Your happiness is as two sides of a coin," she said. "Your loyalty will be tested, and it will be upon your conscience
that he will either succeed or fail. If you betray the secrets of his heart, you will survive, but he will be destroyed. If
you hold them sacred, you will die, but he will be enriched."

Once the words had spilled out, Parvati took a breath, shaken. Dionisia's face, by contrast, seemed illuminated;
steadier, too, and less absurd.

"You can stay," she said simply. "You will play the role of fortune teller during the revels."

"I don't want to use this Gift," Parvati persisted. "It's not mine."

Dionisia let out a harsh, blunt edge of laughter.

"It is now," she pronounced darkly.

Needless to say, Parvati did not care for her keeper; hated her, in fact. The control Dionisia possessed over Parvati
could not possibly have been natural, and while it wasn't as encompassing as an Imperius curse, Parvati was forced
to indulge her visions despite desperately wishing for them to stop. The magic that Lady Revel employed over her
girls - her little pets - was distressing and oddly tainted, but none were quite as rigidly kept as Parvati. She was like a
lapdog, chained to her mistress's side, and she supposed it was her own fault for having poured so much of herself
into her secret.

For having buried her heart in what she knew she could never tell a soul.

It was a mystifying strangeness, too, watching her own visions come to being; they were more frequent now, more
easily interpreted, and though Parvati had no real way of putting them to use from within her gilded cage at Lady
Revel's House of Fortune, she recognized with bitterness things that she had seen that came to pass.

"Circlet of gold," she said to the masked man, who possessed a voice she now knew belonged to Blaise Zabini. He
was skeptical, of course, but that was hardly an issue; since her sister's death, Parvati could see the future with
sufficient clarity to be certain enough for the both of them.

She'd been certain of her keeper's death, too. Had watched it happen, in fact, though it did not take the Gift to know
it was coming. Parvati had seen in Dionisia's eyes the moment she'd made her first prediction that the old woman -
however many faults she possessed - had truly loved the man in Parvati's vision, and had resigned herself to die for
him long, long ago.

"Dionisia?" Parvati asked, wandering into her too-quiet bedroom and tripping over the body on the floor. "Ah," she
said, lifting the silk train of her ridiculous costume and stepping over Lady Revel to reach the fireplace, tossing
some emerald powder over the dying fire.

"Blaise Zabini," she spoke into the ashes, and then waited, the Princeling's face manifesting as the flames burst to
life, licking the frame of the fireplace.

"Patil," he said, frowning. "What's going on?"

"Dionisia's dead," she said. "You might want to get over here."

She paused as his face processed a number of reactions; shock, firstly, and then bewilderment.

"Me?" he pressed. "Why?"

"The magic she used was like a fabric," Parvati explained. "If you tug a loose thread, the whole thing comes apart."

He frowned. "So?"

"So, a central thread has been pulled," Parvati supplied bluntly. "This house is moments from irretrievable
destruction. The secrets within it cannot be physically destroyed, so they will be corrupted, and when a secret
corrupts - "

"It corrupts the owner," Blaise hummed to himself. "You're in danger, I take it?"

"Me, you, everyone who's ever been in this house," Parvati told him. "We're all in danger. It would be wise to
retrieve whatever secrets she possessed from you before the house destroys them, and you by extension."

He paused, hesitating, and she fought an impatient sigh.

Skeptical people always took quite a long time to process.

"You're awfully calm," Blaise noted, his voice as slippery as ever. "Saw this coming, did you?"

"Yes," Parvati replied.

"And you're helping me because … ?"

"Perhaps I'll need a favor," Parvati replied. "Will you owe me one in return?"

"Ah," he permitted, as that, she knew, he would understand. Cosmic significance, visions, fate, the truth - I will help
you because I have dreamt of you since I was a child, and some things a person just knows - would mean nothing to
him; leverage and motive, on the other hand, were his fluency. "I'll be right there, then."

She took a step back, waiting, and he stepped through the Floo, straightening to look down at her.

"Nice dress," Blaise remarked wryly. "Needlessly opulent. Just her style."

"There was a revel planned for tonight that will regrettably have to be canceled," Parvati returned, dispassionate. "In
the meantime, we have approximately ten minutes. After that, the house goes up in flames."

He smirked. "Did Lady Revel plan that?" he asked. "Everything powered by her magic would be destroyed by her
death, sure - but flames seems overly theatrical, doesn't it?"

Parvati's mouth twitched, disfiguring a haunted laugh.

She had been a twin, once.

Now she was just a desperate woman who could inconveniently see the future.

"No," Parvati replied steadily. "You're going to set it on fire."

The Underground
Diagon Alley
October 1, 2003
10:15 p.m.

"So," Theo drawled. "Remind me again why you're hiding from Granger?"

"Oh, for the ever-living sake of fuck," Draco growled. "I'm not hiding."

He was most certainly hiding.

In fact, he'd been hiding for the entire day since parting from Hermione at the Ministry apparation point that
morning. They'd separated with little more than a few words, which even he knew was to be expected. Her mind was
occupied with the visit from the man from the Club, and his was occupied with -

Well. It was hardly worth the scrutiny.

"Oh sure, sure," Theo agreed. "You just decided to coincidentally come to the one place in London that she's quite
literally banned from."

"I'm here to see Cad," Draco replied gruffly. "As I believe I mentioned repeatedly when you accused me the first
dozen times that I was somehow furtively avoiding Granger."

"Well, at least I'm always in character," Theo informed him. "And as I've mentioned, you could have spoken to Cad
at any time. He practically lives at my house. Actually, come to think of it, he might actually live at my house,"
Theo realized, frowning. "Hm. Well, I suppose I've been rather a terrible host, then."

"Also in character," Draco reminded him. "And anyway, if he's keeping an eye on things here, I don't see why I
shouldn't come here also." He looked up as Cad knocked out his opponent, hitting them with a jab to the same place
that Hermione had once explained would render a man unconscious and then shaking himself of the memory,
tightening his grip on the now-empty vial in his palm and wishing he'd chosen one much, much stronger. "I'm just
doing my job, Theo."

"Right," Theo said. "Without your partner. And she's doing … ?"

Draco winced.

"No idea," he said, which was in part a lie.

Who's that from? he'd asked her, one of their few exchanges that morning as they finished packing, the owl arriving
at the window of their hotel.

Oh, um - no one, she'd said, though he'd already glimpsed the scrawled handwriting and known full well it was Rhys
Hawkworth.

Who, come to think of it, was conspicuously absent from the ring that evening.

Not that Draco minded.

Or cared.

Obviously.

Well, okay, fine. He didn't care, per se - it wasn't personal - but still, there were elements of decency involved, and -

"Hey," Theo said, snapping his fingers. "You wanted to talk to Cad?"

Draco blinked, realizing that Cadmus Peverell was standing in front of him, waiting patiently with a look of sly
amusement.

"Oh," Draco said. "You're Cad?"

"That's what my friends call me," Cad replied. "You're Draco?"

"Yes," Draco said. "Which is also what my friends call me, coincidentally."

Cad cocked his head, gesturing to a quieter corner of the room. "Shall we have a chat?"

"Sure," Draco said, sparing Theo a wary glance before following Cad. "What's Potter told you?"
Cad chuckled, turning to face him. "Enough," he said simply. "I recognize you don't trust me, Draco," he added,
"and believe me, I understand the reflex of doubt. But seeing as it's unlikely I can win you over in the next ten
minutes, you might as well give me a try."

"Right," Draco muttered uneasily. "Well - "

He told Cad about Daisy's kidnap, about their encounter with Nicholas Flamel in her office, and about the visitor in
their hotel room, describing him with as much detail as he'd been able to observe while frozen in place.

"Does that sound like anyone you knew?"

"Oh yeah," Cad confirmed, nodding vigorously. "That was Antioch, for sure. Pity you had to cross paths with Nico,"
he added. "Never liked him, though he has a way with my younger brother, Ignotus."

"A way with?"

"He's in love with him, I'm fairly sure," Cad delivered without hesitation. "Nico, I mean. Infatuated, at least, but I
wouldn't be surprised if it's love. Ignotus, on the other hand, doesn't have the capacity for such things," he muttered.
"He's more devoted to his studies, his intellect - to the nature of question and answer and experimentation. It's all
very boring and highly unbearable in large doses, but Nico hangs on Ignotus' every word. More so than Antioch's,
even."

"What about Nico's tattoo?" Draco asked. "Do the others have one? Do you?"

Cad scoffed. "No," he said flatly. "But to be honest, I wasn't in the Club for very long before my brothers turned on
me. I never liked it much. It's possible the others have similarly enchanted tattoos," he permitted, shrugging, "but not
Antioch, I'm sure. He wouldn't like associating much with the others."

Draco nodded, thinking.

"You were at the Auction," he ventured tangentially, recalling what Theo had said, and Cad shrugged again.

"I thought my brothers were the ones facilitating the poisonings," he reminded Draco. "When I met Daphne, I was
going through event permits trying to predict the next one."

Smart, Draco thought, and nodded. "Did you recognize Morrison at the party?"

"No," Cad said, shaking his head. "Though even if it were Club business, I likely wouldn't have recognized anyone
either. They use polyjuice often, or else simply take on initiates who are willing to do the dirty work."

"Is that what happened to Emmett Carnegie?"

"Most likely," Cad confirmed slowly. "I don't know what Antioch says to entice people, but I doubt that most
members of the Club are actually immortal in the same way he and Ignotus are. Or Nico, or Herpo - "

"What if we were to tell someone, then?" Draco asked. "Expose them, somehow, to either the Ministries or the
media - "

"I doubt you'd be able to," Cad said. "There's no telling how many people in any given field are employed or
influenced in some way by the Club. Certainly there are numerous in the Ministry, and I doubt it would do you
much good at all to discuss what you've seen."

Draco grimaced. "So how big is this operation, then?" he asked, and Cad shrugged.

"Probably quite large. But even so, I would guess very few of them do their own bidding. Antioch will have his
circle of people he trusts; Herpo, certainly," he began, frowning. "Herpo and Antioch are the leaders. Ignotus is - "
he hesitated. "More of a minion. Second tier, if you can call it that. Same with Nico. Emmett Carnegie might have
been an initiate, or someone they lured in to use his influence with the intent of eliminating him later."
"Eliminating him?" Draco echoed, aghast, and Cad nodded. "But why would anyone join, then?" he pronounced
with disgust.

Cad, unnervingly, merely lifted a brow.

"Why indeed, Death Eater?" he asked, more clinically than unkindly, and Draco felt himself grimace, closing his
mouth on a gaping, humiliating wordlessness just as he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

"Hey," Theo interrupted, beckoning for him. "Someone to see you."

Draco turned to see Harry approaching, not bothering to stifle a groan. "What are you doing here?"

"He's here for the name change forms, naturally," Theo joked. "I've decided to call us The Indisputable Moral High
Ground, since you seemed to find my other names so thoroughly displeasing for completely unknowable reasons - "

"Oh sure," Draco said. "That's wonderful. Not irritating at all."

"Listen," Harry interrupted, sparing Theo a glare. "I know you just got back, but I need you to do something. You
said it was Dionisia Trelawney who first hinted at the existence of the Club, right?"

"Yes," Draco said, noting that Cad didn't register any recognition of the name. "Why? Looking to snag a courtesan
for the evening, Potter?"

"Of course not. I have Nott here to blow me," Harry replied coolly, barely sparing Theo a fleeting glance, and Draco
chuckled.

"Good to see you've birthed a sense of humor, but still - "

"Lady Revel is dead," Harry supplied flatly. "The house is destroyed. Burnt to a crisp."

Draco balked, startled. "What?"

"I need you and Hermione to head over there," Harry added. "I'll give you a twenty minute head start before I get the
investigating Aurors out on it. Do you understand?" he pressed. "Twenty minutes, Malfoy. That's all I can give you
without appearing negligent."

Draco felt his stomach lurch, remembering that this meant coming out of hiding.

"Fine," he grumbled, ignoring Theo's gleeful smirk and stomping off to find Hermione.

10:45 p.m.

Theo waited until Draco had gone before turning to Harry.

"I'm going to blow you, am I?" he asked skeptically. "Don't know about that. Have you earned it, Potter?"

Cad shook his head with a muted laugh, quietly slipping away and heading towards Marcus and Oliver in the corner.

"Hey," Harry murmured to Theo, staring after him, "don't leave Cad alone with Malfoy, would you? I'm still not
sure I trust him."

Theo gave one of his irritatingly knowing laughs, revelling in Harry's hesitation. "So you want me to babysit?" he
drawled. "Draco's a grown man, Potter. A paranoid criminal, too, so I doubt he'd say anything too incriminating to
anyone, much less the Dark Lord's reanimated ancestor."

"Still. I trust you more than I trust Cad," Harry said gruffly. "For now, anyway." He shrugged. "Could turn around at
any time, though, I'm sure."
"My goodness, Potter," Theo replied, mocking him with a glance. "Like me less, would you?"

"Shut up," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "By the way," he added, "I got MacArthur to allow Carnegie to serve as a
consultant, but she can't get around an expository investigation. Might be a few days, but then I'm hoping to bring
her here to help with the case. Keep her out of the American media, you know, and then - "

"Should I be jealous?" Theo prompted drily.

" - and then," Harry continued, ignoring him, "I'd like her to work with you and Parkinson on this. Daisy can stay
with me at Grimmauld if you need the room, but I want her involved with Deathst-"

"Ah-ah-ah, The Indisputable Moral High Ground, you mean," Theo corrected, wagging a finger. "And room is not
the issue, Potter, as well you know. I can always make space for your shenanigans and adopted pets, provided I'm
amply rewarded."

"Amply, hm?" Harry asked, stepping closer, and then paused, frowning at a familiar hooded silhouette over Theo's
shoulder. "Is that Hagrid?" he asked, frowning, and Theo snapped his fingers, drawing his attention back.

"Probably. But you were going to reward me," Theo reminded him, and Harry laughed.

"I do have - " He looked down, eyeing his watch. "Fifteen minutes or so."

"Unacceptable," Theo pronounced, stepping away. "I insist upon romance."

"Nott," Harry growled, gripping his arm before he slipped out of reach. "Are you going to be difficult?"

Theo licked his lips, biting down on a smile.

"Always," he replied. "Are you?"

Harry's mouth twitched.

"Unforgivably," he promised, and Theo winked.

"See you later," he returned, and walked away, joining Cad and leaving Harry to shake his head fondly,
disapparating back to Knockturn.

Rhys Hawkworth's flat

Diagon Alley
9:30 p.m.

"Hi," Hermione exhaled, stepping through the Floo. "Listen, I'm so sorry, I know you're supposed to be at the
Underground - "

"No, no, it's fine," Rhys assured her, beckoning her inside. "Come in. Do you want something to drink? I have - " he
paused, glancing at the laughable expanse of his kitchen. "I have water. Oh, but I'm a wizard," he assured her. "So,
can definitely do something with that."

She, however, seemed a bit too distressed to process his response.

"No, I'm fine," she muttered, falling onto his sofa. "I'm sorry, I've just had such a stressful day. International travel,
plus finding out my landlord rented my room to someone else while I was gone - and I don't know where else to go
at the moment," she babbled, groaning. "Everyone at the Underground is already gone, and I don't know if Harry's
back yet - and anyway, I'm certainly not going to stay with Ron and his girlfriend, so - "

"You can stay here," Rhys assured her, and then hastily held up a hand, catching the beginnings of protest on her
lips. "Really, it's no trouble. Just until you find some other place. It's not meant to, you know, trap you or anything,
either," he added, horrifying himself into laughter. "I mean, I'll sleep on the sofa, or - actually, I can stay at my dad's
office, or maybe - "

"Rhys," Hermione exhaled, shaking her head as she rose to her feet and wandered over to him. "Can you stop it,
please?"

He winced. "Sorry, I - "

"Stop apologizing," she admonished him with a laugh. "You're sweet, Rhys."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he countered, feigning offense. "I punched a girl square in the face once," he
pronounced, and tried very hard to pretend not to notice when she delicately rested her palms on his chest. "I'm cold
and ruthless," he informed her, clearing his throat, and she made a face.

"That was a one-time event," she warned. "It won't happen again."

"I didn't mean you," he quipped. "You're a demon, not a girl."

She laughed, leaning towards him. "Who knows - maybe you'd beat me again, actually," she said, tapping her
fingers along his collarbone. "It's been almost a week since I've done much of anything. Too many stupid parties and
galas and Ministry functions - "

"Well, might have something for that, if you're interested," he suggested, taking a step back. "There's a bit of a gym
downstairs, if you want. Not that you need to," he said instantly. "I just, um. I spend some time there. Not too much
time, you know, I do other things too, but - "

"Show me," she said, smiling as she took his hand, and he felt another twinge of guilt, recalling his conversation
with his father.

Something's going on with that Granger girl, Ifan had said. She's almost certainly not an event planner or anything
else so innocuous, whatever the Daily Prophet claims, and she was at the party before Emmett Carnegie was killed.
If you can get close to her, figure out what she's up to, that would go a long way with the Club. Might even convince
them to do away with your brother's charges altogether.

You want me to spy on her? Rhys asked, rigid with disbelief. That's - I can't -

Ifan, however, seemed unfazed by Rhys' opposition.

Just get close to her, Ifan urged. And when she starts to talk, just tell me what she's up to. It's simple, Rhys, and if it
will help Cadell -

Rhys closed his eyes, shuddering, and tried not to see his brother's haunted face.

"Everything okay?" Hermione asked, her grip tightening on his fingers, and Rhys forced a smile, nodding.

"Yeah, of course," he said. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," she returned, and he was torn between the desperate need to believe her - to hope she felt the
same - and the fervent wish that she would simply turn him away right now, break his heart and bleed it dry if only
to relieve him of any pending betrayal.

"Well," he said, pushing open the door to the building's small gym, "this is it. Bag over there," he said, gesturing to
it. "And, you know. Open space. I guess it's not all that great, but - "

"Come on," Hermione said, pulling him inside. "Let's run some blocks. Did I tell you I learned most of my practice
drills from Turkish daemons? They had me practice on oreks," she said, shuddering. "They're like zombies."

"Oi," Rhys said, stepping opposite her and making a face. "Gross."
"Yes, exactly," Hermione confirmed, and aimed a slow-motion jab towards his torso. "Jab, cross, jab, cross, hook,
hook," she pronounced rhythmically, running through the drill slowly until he followed the pattern she set, blocking
each one. "Good," she said, and sped up, hitting a little harder and shaking her limbs out. "How'd you learn?"

He blinked, nearly missing her first hook.

"Um," he said. "My sister-in-law, Gwen. She was part fae."

"Oh, they're the best," Hermione noted appreciatively. "They're so quick, you know? Inhumanly quick. Well, I guess
that's technically true," she amended with a laugh, going in for another round, "being that they're fae, but - "

"Gwen was human," Rhys blurted before he could stop himself, and Hermione paused, frowning.

"I know," she assured him carefully. "I only meant - "

"Yeah. I know what you meant," he exhaled. "I just - sore subject, I guess."

Hermione swallowed hard, clearly unsure what to say, and Rhys shook his head, raising his hands again.

"Keep going," he said, and though she looked like she might argue, she eventually raised her fists, returning to the
drill.

They went on for a few more minutes, running through the drill in silence except for a few panting breaths and the
sounds of their trainers squeaking against the floor, and then Rhys let out a sigh, the words spilling out before he
could stop them.

"Gwen died," he confessed, and while some rational, cleverer part of him told himself that Hermione would be more
likely to share secrets with him if he shared his with her, he knew that wasn't why he was telling her this now. "She
was killed."

Hermione paused, freezing in place.

"Snatchers killed her," he went on, forcing it out. "I was there, but I couldn't stop them, and - "

"Rhys," she began, chewing her lip and sparing him a sorrowful look, but he shook his head.

"I don't need you to feel sorry for me or anything," he assured her. "I just wanted you to know, you know what I
mean? I do this because it reminds me of her; it makes me feel like part of her is still around. And I guess I just
wanted you to know that," he exhaled, "because I want you to - I don't know. To know me, I guess. Yeah." He
cleared his throat. "I want you to know me."

Hermione blinked, the motion of her chest quickening.

She stared at him for a moment, contemplating something, and then she stepped forward, her hands resting on his
hips before she slowly leant her chin up, rising on her toes to brush her lips against his.

He could feel his heart pounding in his mouth as he deepened the kiss, wrapping his arms around her and letting the
feel of her against his chest drift from bright and sharp and inviting to a steadily entrancing thrum of something
promising - something immersing and resonating and profoundly enticing - and she was warm, and steady, and she
fit perfectly into all the crevices of him until the gasping moment that she pulled away, catching her breath.

"Rhys," she said, her voice hushed and rasping. "I have to tell you - when I was in New York, I wasn't - " she
swallowed. "I, um - "

"Is this about Malfoy?" Rhys guessed, and her cheeks flushed.

"Yes," she admitted, "but - "

"I don't care," Rhys said without hesitation, and wildly, he didn't. "Whatever happened, I don't need to know. We
never said - " He broke off, clearing his throat. "Look, you're free to do whatever you want. I just - "

She grabbed his face again, pulling him in and capturing his rambled response on her tongue, and he staggered
backwards, pressing her back against the wall.

"Surely not here, right?" he managed as she kissed his neck, hating himself for hesitating but noting the dinginess of
the room and finding it highly inadequate. "I mean, you should - for you there should be flowers, you know?
Fireworks, even. A parade, or - like, a ceremonial knighthood or something - "

She laughed, holding his face in her hands and sighing.

"Come on, then," she beckoned with an irresistible smile, taking his hand and pulling him back to his flat, stumbling
with him through the door and coming to an abrupt, rigid pause as the door shut behind them.

"What?" Rhys asked, his hand on her hip. "What are you - "

"Hello," Draco Malfoy began drily, turning towards them in the living room. "Ever so sorry to interrupt. Well, not
really," he amended. "Sorry to be here, certainly, but the interruption is of course a happy accident, and one which
has the benefit of being awkward for you while being greatly amusing to me, so - "

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Hermione hissed, shoving her mussed hair back from her face, and Draco
shrugged, giving Rhys a highly obnoxious glance of haughty disapproval before returning his attention to her.

"Potter has asked us to look into something quite time-sensitive," Draco delivered flatly. "Believe me, it's not the top
of my list either, but here we are. Lucky you're so timely," he added, his gaze flicking back to Rhys. "Good to know,
Hawkworth. Nobody likes a man who comes early."

"Malfoy," Hermione growled, clenching a fist, and Rhys wondered abruptly whether he should've actually asked
what had happened between them, catching the tension that erupted up her spine. "Couldn't this wait? And how - "
she groaned. "How did you even get in here?"

"There is, of course, no time whatsoever to explain that Hawkworth's security measures are woefully lax," Draco
drawled, "nor that I knew I would find you here when he didn't show up to the Underground - "

Hermione glared at him, frustrated. "Why were you at the Undergr-"

" - but suffice it to say," Draco continued loudly, appearing to delight in her fury, "we only have twenty minutes.
Well - " he glanced down, eyeing his watch. "Seventeen, now, and of course counting, so - "

"Oh hell," Hermione snapped, flinching before turning to Rhys, softening long enough to sigh. "I'm so sorry, Rhys,
but it's for work. Really," she assured him, with an indisputable certainty, "I wouldn't if it were anything else, but - "

"I get it," he assured her. "Work." He cleared his throat, skirting Draco's uncomfortable scrutiny and wondering just
what, exactly, Hermione did that made the mere existence of the phrase 'something quite time-sensitive' merit such
an urgent response. "Go ahead," Rhys offered slowly, "and just, you know. Just let me know when you're - "

He trailed off, and Draco smirked.

"Free?" he prompted knowingly.

Rhys forced a smile.

"Yes," he said. "Let me know when you're free, Hermione."

He bent down, kissing her cheek before releasing her, and watched her cross the room to place her hand on Draco's
arm, struggling not to look as disappointed as he felt as she went. She disapparated from his living room with a soft
look of apology and an audible, echoing crack, and he paused a moment, wondering how to possibly reorient
himself now that she was gone.
"Well?" Ifan asked later, once Rhys had settled himself at the Floo.

"Well," Rhys sighed. "You were right about one thing, Dad." He grimaced, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Whatever Hermione Granger's up to, I'm pretty sure she's not an event planner."

a/n: Hi, I'm back! Hopefully no more interruptions on this story for a long time. This chapter had quite a lot of angst
because I had to split it in two, but next chapter will have an abundance of absurdity/madness. Dedicated to
muddier waters, cldragonglass, and sherleyoh!
 16. The Masochism Tango

Chapter 16: The Masochism Tango

Lady Revel's House of Fortune

Knockturn Alley
October 1, 2003
10:55 p.m.

It seemed that the shadows of Knockturn Alley's twisted pathways were less obscured than usual, lit by the dying
flames that continued to smolder around the rotted, corpse-like structure where Dionisia Trelawney's so-called
House of Fortune had once stood. It was a strange feeling, Hermione thought, seeing it this way; the house had been
gaudy and horribly mismatched - little more than a playground of poor taste and vanity, really - but still, there was
something unpleasant about seeing it in ashes. Hermione paused, bending to glance at the scorched placard that had
fallen to the ground, and Draco caught her arm, pulling her back.

"Don't touch that," he warned, and she rolled her eyes.

"I'm not a child," she told him. "Shockingly, I don't need to be informed when my fingers might get burnt."

"Suit yourself," he sniffed, brushing past her to glance around at the house's gutted interior. "Looks like it was
emptied in time, at least."

"I wonder what's happened to her house elf," Hermione commented apprehensively, casting a cooling charm as far
as it would extend and waiting for the last of the flames to sizzle out before stepping inside what had once been the
front door. "Exactly how tied to the house is he?"

"Please, don't get all S.P.E.W. on me, Granger, we haven't the time," Draco muttered over his shoulder, and
Hermione felt a stab of irritation, sighing aloud as she surveyed one of the front rooms.

"First of all, it's not Spew, it's S.P.-" she paused, frowning. "Wait," she amended, rotating slowly to face him through
what used to be a wall. "You called it by its proper name, didn't you?"

"Astounding, aren't I?" he called back drily. "And here you thought you just kept me around for my looks. I'm more
than a set of testicles and a killer smile, Granger," he added without expression, not looking up from scanning a few
scorched paintings. "How aptly pedestrian of you to forget."

"No, I mean - " she broke off, frowning. "Nobody ever called it by its name."

"You mean Weasley didn't," Draco corrected her, glancing up to pointedly roll his eyes, "and honestly, why would
he get that right when he barely managed to bungle his way through school? Not that you should interpret my ability
to adequately recall information as any sort of approval. The whole thing was a terrible idea, just so we're clear," he
informed her obnoxiously. "Not very thoroughly measured, you know - which is precisely the thing with you,
Granger. You feel everything. You feel house elves are mistreated," he mumbled, muttering to himself as he walked,
"and therefore you feel it is your duty to burst in with your terrible knitting, throwing around your impractical ideas
of how you think the world should be and impressing them upon all parties indiscriminately - "

"Yes, well, apologies, Lord Malfoy - forgive me if my version of the world doesn't involve any sort of enslavement,"
Hermione snapped, climbing through the wreckage of the parlor to glance up the stairway that now led only to open,
muggy sky. "And what are we even looking for?" she asked, catching up to him as he progressed through a formal
ballroom.

"Evidence, I suppose," he replied, not looking at her. "A lemniscate, more specifically," he added tepidly, and she
frowned.

"Well, there's no reason to rush to conclusions," she countered. "It might not have been the Club. I mean, Harry
himself said that Dionisia was under investigation for years, wasn't she? I'm sure she had a lot of enemies. I know I
personally wasn't a fan," she added under her breath, expecting him to agree - or to at least comment, which he quite
noticeably didn't.

She glanced back at where Draco remained rooted in place, unmoving.

"What's going on?" she asked, turning towards him apprehensively, and he shook his head.

"I did this," he delivered without expression.

"What, started the fire?" Hermione attempted skeptically. "I'd like to think you have a bit more subtlety than that,
but - "

"No," Draco said, slowly shaking his head. "This," he said, gesturing around the house, "was the Club, and it was
my fault. I pointed the finger at her," he managed with difficulty, giving Hermione a strangely unsteady look, as
though pleading for clemency. "Nico asked us how we knew about them, and I blamed her. I should have known I
was sealing her fate right then."

Hermione blinked, unsure what to say.

"I - " she hesitated. "Malfoy, that's not - "

"I know you think it's quite easy for me," he continued, his gaze sliding to hers. "I've seen the way you look at me,
you know - after Morrison, after Nico, after Daisy. You really think this is easy for me, don't you?" he asked, giving
into an unnerving, ironic peal of mirthless laughter and delivering Hermione to a lurching sense of unease, and
possibly (though she hated to acknowledge it) a bit of unsettling guilt. "You think I don't suffer any sort of remorse,
or that I don't know the damage I cause, but I do, Granger. I feel too, you know. I just don't have the luxury of
indulging my feelings."

"Malfoy," Hermione attempted, chewing her lip. "I never said you didn't - "

"No, but you don't have to," he replied curtly, taking a breath that seemed to awaken him from his moment of
introspection. "If only we were all equally blessed with your insufferable righteousness, Granger," he declared
mockingly, lifting his chin before striding past her. "What an ideal world that would be."

"Malfoy," Hermione protested, following him. She ducked through another archway - into a room whose use was
impossible to determine - and reached out to grab his arm, but then she paused, eyeing a tightly woven series of iron
bars that lay beneath a pile of rubble below her feet. It must have once been obscured by a rug, she thought, or
possibly hidden by an enchantment that had been disturbed by the fire. "Malfoy," she called again, and this time he
looked over, expectant. "Look at this," she said, gesturing down, and he reluctantly joined her, frowning at it.

"There was a rumor she had a vault of some kind," he remarked, bending to look at it. "This could be it."

"A vault?" Hermione echoed. "You think there's money in here?"

"Possibly. I know she used some form of magic as a currency of sorts," Draco explained, waving a wand over the
iron bars and vanishing them just as they heard footsteps rustling behind them, Harry's oncoming form revealing
itself from afar as he made his way through the house.

"Hey," he said, nodding in greeting. "Nearly done?"

"Nearly," Draco agreed, and stood to remove his coat, handing it to Hermione. "Hold this," he instructed gruffly.
"I'm going down there, and obviously this is silk - "

"Oh no you aren't," she snapped, shoving his brandished coat away. "I'm going."

"Granger," he growled, "you don't know what's down there - "

"Nor do you, Malfoy," she retorted impatiently, "and between the two of us, I think it's fairly reasonable to presume
that I should handle the more dangerous situations, considering you know - " She paused, raising a brow. "Our
disparity in skillsets - "

He drew back, indignant. "First of all, how dare you," Draco pronounced loudly, "and secondly, what exactly is that
supposed to mean?"

"Malfoy," Hermione sighed, glaring at him, "don't do this. I'm just saying that I can handle myself, and - "

"Granger, I don't care what you can or can't handle, that doesn't change the fact that - "

"ENOUGH," Harry groaned, rubbing his temple. "Hermione, get down there. If it's clear, call down and Malfoy will
follow. You have five minutes," he added, "total. I can't wait much longer before I get Aurors to inspect the scene."

"Potter, what in the name of Salazar's sweet bollocks are y-"

"Got it, Harry," Hermione confirmed smugly, catching sight of an enchanted iron-wrought ladder that appeared as
she stepped closer to the vault's entrance. "Revelio," she called, waiting, but nothing returned from the spell. "See
that, Malfoy?" she asked mockingly, batting her lashes at him as she turned to begin descending the ladder. "No
monsters under the bed."

"No monsters but one," Draco muttered in return.

"Heard that," she yelled, illuminating the tip of her wand. "Oh wow," she exhaled, glancing around the surprisingly
large cavernous space and rotating in a small circle just as she heard rustling above her. "It smells terrible in here - "

"Budge over, Granger," Draco said, dropping to his feet near the bottom and giving her a shove. "Give a man space
to breathe, would you?"

"It's empty, I think," she replied, ignoring him and gesturing at eye level to the vacant shelves. "But it looks like this
is big enough to have contained something fairly significant, if I were to guess."

"COULD IT BE A ROBBERY?" Harry called down, his head appearing above them. "WE COULD FOCUS ON
THAT IN THE AUROR REPORT."

"You might have to," Draco called back, cupping his hands around his mouth as he answered. "It's about as big as
my family's Gringotts vault down here, and there's no trace of anything. Oh, wait - " He knelt down, catching sight
of a glass vial that appeared to have been left behind, rising to offer it to Hermione. "Could that be a memory?" he
asked as she eyed it. "Maybe something we could put in a pensieve?"

"Could be a potion," she said thoughtfully. "Looks more like a vapor than a liquid, though, don't you think?" she
asked, holding it up for his inspection, and Draco stepped closer, scrutinizing it over her shoulder.

"Mm. Could be," he agreed, his lips suddenly too close to her ear.

She froze for a moment, tensing slightly.

"OI, DID YOU FIND ANYTHING?" Harry called, and Hermione jumped, the vial knocking loose from her hands
and then bouncing from Draco's hastily outstretched palm to crash against the floor, shattering before them.

"Well, that's just fucking lov-"

"Shhh," Hermione snapped, cutting him off, and they both leapt back as two translucent figures rose up from the
broken vial, manifesting into semi-being and playing out a scene that looked like it had been shot on an old black-
and-white camera. Two women in somewhat antiquated garb were speaking, neither of which Hermione recognized,
but who appeared close enough in resemblance to be sisters; after a few moments, one woman left the frame and a
man appeared, taking the remaining woman in his arms. There was a blur of motion, a loss of clarity, and then
another scene; this time, the woman who had exited the frame laughed with the man's hand on her arm while the
second woman watched longingly, covertly sneaking glances at the other two from afar.
"What is it?" Draco asked. "A memory?"

Hermione bit her lip, watching the man give the second woman a slow, teasing glance.

"I think it's more than that," she said, frowning. "I think it's some kind of - " she hesitated. "Nevermind," she
amended hastily, shaking her head. "You'll think it's stupid."

"Don't tell me what I think is stupid," Draco retorted. "I'm hardly that predictable, and frankly, I'm insulted that you
would even - "

"Fine," she groaned, rolling her eyes as the figures before them slowly drifted away, dissolving in mid-air. "It looks
like - like a secret, okay?"

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a sound above them; they looked up as a torch on the wall
sparked above Harry's head, a few spirited glimmers of light convulsing from within it before it went out,
extinguished once the vision before them had disappeared.

"Is it some kind of power source?" Hermione asked, glancing at Draco. "Have you ever heard of anything like that?"

"I haven't heard of it, no, but that doesn't mean much," Draco answered, shrugging. "There are a lot of different
kinds of magic that Hogwarts doesn't teach. My father always said the school's curriculum was a political matter," he
added. "The school governors and warlocks like Hawkworth's father typically rule on what can or can't be taught in
school."

"Accio vials," Hermione attempted, the light flickering from her wand as she cast another spell, and frowned. "It
appears that's the only one," she said, stepping further into the vault, "but I don't know, maybe there's - "

"Shit, stop," Draco called suddenly, flicking a Lumos from his wand, and she froze.

"Malfoy, what the - "

But he shook his head, pulling her back and lowering his wand to the floor, revealing the crumpled form belonging
unmistakably to Dionisia Trelawney.

"I CAN'T WAIT ANY LONGER," Harry yelled down to them, as Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth in
revulsion, sickened by the sight of the woman's corpse. "YOU TWO NEED TO - "

Draco grabbed Hermione's hand, apparating them up beside Harry as he continued shouting down into the vault.

" - GET OUT OF HERE AS SOON AS - "

"Potter," Draco sighed irritably, interrupting, "how did you know Dionisia Trelawney was dead?"

Harry glanced back at them, nearly startling himself into falling forward, and blinked.

"Anonymous tip," he said. "Why?"

"Because it's possible this wasn't the Club," Draco posited slowly. "The timing is pretty fucking coincidental," he
conceded, glancing at Hermione, who nodded her agreement with a grimace, "but she's down there, Potter. She
could have easily been killed for whatever was in this vault."

"Well," Harry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "That's troubling, isn't it? Unless the Club is framing
someone," he added hopefully, and Draco shrugged.

"Could be," he permitted, though Hermione didn't think he sounded convinced.

"An odd choice, though," she countered. "Stage a robbery, burn down a house? That's a lot of mess. I can't imagine a
group of immortals who've been around for centuries would be this reckless, nor is there any sort of conceivable
political benefit."
"What about whoever's responsible for the Wizengamot poisonings, then?" Harry prompted. "If the Club has
enemies, which they very well might, then perhaps they're the ones being framed."

"There's no lemniscate, no obvious signs of poison," Draco countered, ticking his doubts off on his fingers, "and
Dionisia's not a Warlock. If this is a drastic change in modus operandi, that might mean an escalation. Otherwise, it
means it's got to be someone else."

"So we have nothing, then," Hermione said. "Is that it?"

The three of them glanced at each other, each bearing matching frowns.

"Well, we do still have one lead," Draco reminded her. "Finding out who's responsible for the poisonings is all we
have to go on, and who knows, maybe from there - "

He trailed off, helplessly holding his empty hands aloft, and Harry sighed.

"Well," Harry determined, shrugging. "I suppose it's time you two took a romantic trip to Paris, then."

Melibea Warbeck had never really had a home. She was from London, of course, born and mostly bred, so she
technically had an origin - but that, as she had come to understand it, was quite a different thing altogether from
what most people considered normal. She had traveled extensively with her celebrity mother throughout most of her
childhood, never staying in one place for long, and while other people her age she'd known (usually the children of
her mother's musicians and assistants) had had local places they liked, things they preferred to do there, and
allegiances they clung to - even small, enviable things, like their deep-seeded quidditch loyalties - Mel was never in
any place long enough to really know it.

The friends Mel had made (and struggled to keep) in London had gone to Hogwarts, moving onto other things and
slowly forgetting about her, and by the time she'd been sent to Beauxbatons there had already been trouble brewing
in Britain, so Celestina often opted to visit Mel rather than bringing her home for the holidays. Once Mel finally
returned to London, her friends at Beauxbatons had remained in France, rapidly filling the vacancy she'd left in their
social circle, and things didn't get much easier from there. She'd found success as a designer, yes, but even success
was a tricky thing when it came to relationships. The more famous she became, the more difficult it was to gauge the
sincerity of the people around her.

Similarly, Mel's romantic relationships were almost always short-lived, either because she was restless or because
her partners were unduly attracted to her restlessness, thereby leading to the inevitable fizzling out after dramatic
periods of shouting and sexual warfare. She'd had many lovers, true, but very few companions, and even fewer true
loves. The circumstances of Mel's life had caused her to become deeply cultured, mature beyond her years, and
highly given to independence, but she also lived her life largely in a state of flux, trying to cobble together a sense of
stability that never lasted long.

For a long time, London remained strangely foreign, and Mel Warbeck, try as she might, had never found herself
comfortable enough to call a place home.

That is, not until she found one in Ron Weasley.

Ron was, putting it simply, everything Mel wasn't. He'd spent his entire childhood in England surrounded by what
seemed like a hundred brothers and sisters, for one thing, and then he, like them, had gone off to Hogwarts, where
he'd had the same best friend all seven years and eventually proposed to his childhood sweetheart after taking a
steady job working for the Ministry.

Sure, Ron had fought a war somewhere in there, but most of his adolescence had been aggressively normal, and Mel
found right away that she reveled in his groundedness, the easy way with which he loved. He was so real, so very
rooted (unlike her) and it drew her in, even with their differences.

There was one notable similarity: Ron Weasley was also famous, and in his own right, which helped considerably.
She might not have met him otherwise. But he wore fame much differently than Mel did, burying herself in her
work, or than his best friend Harry Potter did, developing a carefully constructed armor of showmanship. Ron,
instead, wore fame supremely awkwardly, which was something Mel had seen from the start. Despite this - or,
possibly, as a result of this - it was Ron that had caught Mel's eye, watching him tell a joke and tug restlessly at his
collar.

At first, he was nothing but the usual challenge. She thought he'd be interesting, sure, and something to entertain her
for an evening, but she hadn't thought of him as anything with longevity until he pulled away from kissing her, his
hand pausing on the bare skin of her upper thigh.

"I'm not sure about this," he blurted uncomfortably, not looking at her, and Mel, who'd never been turned down in
her life, stared at him in confusion.

"Explain," she prompted, and he sighed.

"I've only been in one serious relationship," he told her, in what was quite obviously a burdened confession. "We
were supposed to be married last year, but she - I mean, not that that's. You know. That's obviously not relevant, I
just - I don't know if I can, um - give you what you want," he stammered, his cheeks turning scarlet. "I'm just a bit,
er, unsteady, still. I think. Bloody hell," he swore under his breath, releasing her and taking a step back. "I just mean
that I, um - "

"Do you mean emotionally," Mel interrupted slowly, "or sexually?"

Ron winced.

"Both," he admitted, and for a moment she had to bite back a laugh, eyeing his sheepish expression with something
she realized was surprising warmth of sympathy.

"Come here," she beckoned, and he stepped forward in somewhat of a trance, his brow furrowing with uncertainty.
She settled herself against the marble counter of the sink, taking his hand in hers, and then she slipped it under her
dress, guiding his fingers up. His blue eyes widened, his entire body going rigid, but she persisted, using his fingers
to slide her knickers away.

"This is the easy part," she promised him, his eyes briefly floating shut and opening again in halted bemusement, his
breath suspended in his chest. "It's different with everyone, you know? If you're worried I won't like it, don't be," she
offered, shivering slightly and keening a little as he slid his fingers into her, fascinated. "Touch is a powerful thing,
and - " she swallowed, clearing her throat. "Silly things like nerves and past relationships shouldn't prevent, ah - "
she paused, her breath quickening. "Oh hell, you get it, don't you?"

His gaze darkened promisingly, dropping to her lips.

"I think I'm about to," he replied in awe, and she tugged him closer, murmuring her approval into his mouth.

She'd thought it would be a single occurrence; had planned on it, in fact, knowing as she did that any man she dated,
serious or not, would be subjected to constant scrutiny for his appearance (which Ron decidedly did not care about -
his dress robes when she'd met him were objectively hideous). But when she was dreading another evening alone
amidst the beautiful, vacant idiots she normally came across at society events, she couldn't quite forget the
earnestness in his voice, or the indiscreet look of rapture in his eye. It had been a long time since she'd met someone
who still possessed the capacity to be flustered - to be honest - and she found she craved it almost as soon as he had
gone.

"I need a date," she'd explained when she arrived at his house the next day. "Very fancy party. Very expensive
booze. I'll blow you," she added, because she'd gotten the impression from the night prior that he was in need of one
or two French tricks. "Provided you keep me entertained."

"Bloody hell," he'd replied, and she'd smiled, suspecting she'd finally found someone worth her time.

Mel loved art, and what she loved most about Ron - the art she found in him, as she often considered it - was his
perspective. He saw her world with fresh eyes; saw the mundanity of her life, and the loneliness of it, rather than
seeing her as an object of glamor like so many other past flings had done. She found herself comfortable with him
from the start, and since comfort was a thing that had not come easily to her, she invested quite thoroughly in it,
pursuing him much in the same way that she might have lured a skittish horse. She kept things between them light -
nonchalant - which was easy enough, being as accustomed to independence as she was. She took sex slowly and
took courtship even slower, never pushing things any further than he was able.

The first few times they had sex, for example, she made a point of not staying the night.

"Where are you going?" he asked after the fourth time, propping his head up on the heel of his hand as she slid out
of his bed and back into her dress.

She turned, glancing at him. "I figure if you want me to stay, you'll ask me to," she said carefully, and he stared at
her, as if she'd grown another set of eyebrows.

"Is this a trap?" he mumbled, frowning. "This feels like a trap."

"No trap," Mel promised with a laugh, shifting to perch beside him. "When you want me to stay, just ask, and I'll
stay," she murmured, brushing her lips lightly against his temple. "But until then - "

"Are you seeing other people?" he blurted awkwardly, and she leaned back, frowning.

"No," she said. "Are you? It's fine if you are," she added. "We hadn't discussed it."

"What? Of course I'm not," he protested, appalled, and blinked. "I just - it's you, you know? I figured you must have
- I don't know. There must be plenty of - "

He trailed off, flustered into silence, and she felt a rush of affection, touching her thumb to his cheek.

"I only want you," she assured him. "But like I said, we can do this however you're comfortable. There's no rules."
She rose to her feet, bending to pick up her shoes. "If you decide that you want me to - "

"Please stay," he cut in awkwardly. He'd held himself back from anything drastic, his fingers tightening in the
sheets, but she paused knowingly at the change in his voice, turning over her shoulder to watch his freckled cheeks
turn crimson. "I mean, I'd prefer it if you stayed," he clarified somberly, and she gave him a brisk nod, fighting a
delighted smile in favor of sparing him any undue embarrassment.

"Then I'll stay," she offered coolly, stepping back out of her dress and climbing into bed with him again, letting him
pull her closer with a thrilling sensation of satisfaction.

For once, she actually felt she was in a place where she belonged.

Once Ron settled into a pattern of pseudo-domesticity, Mel turned her attention to the other conquerable facets of his
life. She won over his friends first, forging a pleasant bond with Harry, and then his family, zeroing in on the
overbearing mother of the Weasley clan and seducing Molly with autographed memorabilia from Celestina, along
with a very keen sense of when to submit to the matriarch's authority.

"You're lucky, you know," Mel made a point of telling Ron one Christmas, sweetly admonishing him after a
particularly churlish remark. "Not everyone is fortunate enough to have a mother who cares so much."

Molly, not unpredictably, had practically melted with pleasure.

"Yes, Ronald, listen to your girlfriend," she'd said with relish, happily piling more food onto Mel's plate and
humming one of Celestina's songs under her breath. "More wine, anyone?" Molly chirped, her own cheeks flush
with spirits.

"Could you please pass the potatoes, Hermione?" Ron's brother Percy had asked vacantly from beside her, not
looking up from scribbling something down on what looked to be about three feet of tightly scripted parchment.
Around the table, the rest of the family held their breath, staring at Mel with gaping alarm. Ron in particular looked
as though he'd been smacked in the face with a bludger, immediately choking on a forkful of shepherd's pie, and
Harry, who'd still been dating Ginny at the time, struggled to muffle his laughter into a napkin from across the table.

Mel paused for a moment, considering how best to reply, and opted to force a smile.

"Of course, Percy," she said, charming some onto his plate.

"Cheers, wonderful, thank you," Percy replied, blindly aiming his fork twice at the table before Charlie finally took
hold of his arm, brusquely directing his hand to his plate and giving Mel a look of flabbergasted apology.

Everyone had felt awful about the slip-up (all except for Percy, that is, though to his credit he did eventually sort out
that she was someone else) but Mel, who had known about Hermione Granger early on, tried not to let it bother her.
She'd known quite a bit about Ron's backstory before she'd met him - and Harry Potter, too, and therefore obviously
the enigmatic third Musketeer who'd run off somewhere after abandoning her wedding, her fiancé, and her
promising Ministry career - and Ron had made no secret of his relationship, so it wasn't like the other woman was
entirely a mystery. The relationship was strained, Mel knew, but while Hermione was absent, her mere existence
didn't register any notable concern.

So long as she was absent.

"Hermione's back," Harry had told Mel after sneaking into Grimmauld late one night, sharing a pot of tea with her in
the kitchen. "Try to go easy on Ron, would you? And don't take it personally; Hermione always messes him up a bit.
He gets sort of - " he hesitated. "Needlessly possessive. I think it's an old reflex."

"How so?" Mel asked, hiding the extent of her curiosity with a careful sip of Earl Grey, and Harry shrugged.

"Do you have anyone who gets under your skin a bit?" Harry asked her. "You know, where everything they say
always stings a bit more, or they've just got this knack for hitting all your sensitive spots?"

Mel paused, considering it.

"No," she admitted, because she'd never had the luxury of knowing anyone so well, and Harry shrugged again.

"Well, that's them. Maybe it's because we've all known each other so long," Harry said thoughtfully, "or because
they're both so, um - "

"High-spirited?" Mel guessed.

"Volatile," Harry corrected bluntly. "But anyway, don't take it personally," he added. "Ron loves you, and believe
me, you're perfect for him. Far better for him than Hermione ever was, much as I love her. But there's something
about their relationship - "

He trailed off, grimacing, and Mel nodded reassuringly.

"Go easy on him," she echoed. "I get it."

"Good," Harry exhaled, shaking his head as he rose to his feet. "Anyway, I'd better get to bed. This whole thing with
Malfoy is almost certainly going to be a mess."

And it was a mess, though Mel had not realized just how messy it would eventually get for her specifically. Yes,
she'd been warned to expect madness from Ron, but still - Hermione's reappearance was bad enough, but once Draco
Malfoy became involved, Ron had become an unhinged version of himself that Mel could never have foreseen.

"I don't understand," Ron yelped, throwing down the latest copy of the Daily Prophet and startling Kreacher into
dropping a pile of laundry. "Why is this suddenly something that is considered bloody news in this stupid country?
And what is this, this 'Dramione' bollocks?" he demanded, picking it back up and brandishing the headline for Mel
to glance vacantly at. "Why should anyone care what the bloody hell they're doing, and for the record, why wasn't -
why wasn't Ron-mione a thing?" he pressed, pausing for a moment. "Romione?" he echoed, making a face. "That
doesn't sound right. Ro-mione? Hermy-Ron?"

"Hermald," Mel suggested blandly, and Ron groaned, flinching.

"I'm sorry," he offered helplessly, throwing himself down beside her and resting his head on her shoulder. "I'm
happier with you than I ever was with her, I promise, but I just wasn't expecting to have to - " he grimaced. "To have
to see her everywhere, and with Malfoy, of all people - "

"I really don't think he's that bad," Mel remarked, though she knew even as she said it that it was almost certainly a
mistake.

"Not that bad?" Ron trumpeted in disbelief, launching to his feet and resuming his manic pacing across the kitchen,
nearly tripping over Kreacher this time. "You don't know him, Mel - he's an arsehole and a bully, and a prejudiced,
raging, sniveling little - "

"Listen," Mel sighed, fondly accepting a shaking cup of tea from Kreacher and setting it on the table before rising to
her feet, "I understand this is hard for you, Ron, but people change. Hermione's a smart girl," she reminded him. "I
highly doubt she'd be dating Draco Malfoy if he hadn't shaped up at least a little, don't you think?"

Ron glowered tartly, grimacing.

"Fine. Maybe," he permitted, the word slipping resentfully through gritted teeth, "but still - you don't know what he
was like, Mel - "

"No, I don't," she agreed, taking his hands in hers. "You're right, babe, I have no idea. But you don't know what he's
like now, Ron, so faults of ignorance apply all around. And anyway, I was thinking," she pressed, squeezing his
fingers lightly to distract him, "why don't you come with me tomorrow? Take a few days away," she suggested.
"Maybe you just need to get away from the papers for a bit, hm? I've got a lovely hotel room," she coaxed him,
stepping into his arms and brushing her lips against his neck. "I was going to make it a quick trip, but if you came
with me, we could extend it. We could sightsee, get our minds off things. Or just stay in bed," she whispered
temptingly, smiling against his skin as she felt him shiver.

"Where is it you're off to this time?" he asked, as elsewhere, they heard Harry arrive through the living room Floo. "I
can never keep track of where you're going - "

"It's that new opening in France," she reminded him, brushing her lips against his ear. "Won't that be nice?" she
added, with a pointed motion of her hand as she slid it down the front of his trousers. "Paris, just the two of us?"

"I could do Paris," Ron agreed, hungrily pulling her closer. "A lovely hotel room, you said?"

"Quite lovely," she promised, letting him shift her back against the kitchen table. "So lovely, in fact, that once I've
made the necessary appearances, we might not even have to leave - "

"Oi," Harry called behind them, frowning at them as he handed Kreacher his traveling garb; the elf accepted it with
grave ceremony and promptly disappeared beneath the fabric, the robes appearing to drag themselves over to the
hall cupboard. "Did I just hear you say you were going to Paris?"

"Yeah, we are," Ron confirmed, grinning at Mel before glancing over at Harry. "Why?"

Harry groaned quietly, opening his mouth and then promptly snapping it shut, sparing them a weary shake of his
head.

"You know what? Nevermind," he said flatly, turning to the stairs. "Have fun," he called over his shoulder,
disappearing onto the house's upper landing, and Ron turned back to Mel, frowning with confusion.

"He's been so weird lately," he commented, but she pressed a finger to his lips, dragging it slowly over the swell of
them before leaning forward to distract him with a thoroughly breathtaking kiss.
She'd never had a home, Mel thought again, letting Ron lay her back against the table as Kreacher cleverly scuttled
out of the room, but she'd found one; more accurately, she'd made one, building herself a life with Ron to make up
for what she felt she'd lacked. And it was better this way, to carry home around with her, because no matter where
she went the warmth of it persisted, and it was rewarding to finally feel as if there was somewhere she belonged,
Hermione Granger or no Hermione Granger.

"Let's not talk right now," Mel suggested, and Ron kissed her again firmly, delivering her to satisfaction as the Daily
Prophet page with Dramione on the cover floated down to the floor, easily forgotten.

Nott Manor
Spare bedroom on the third floor
October 2, 2003
12:15 a.m.

"What's that?" Cad muttered, opening his eyes as the sound of voices resounded from elsewhere in the excessively
large manor house. Beside him, Daphne stirred, letting out an adorably impatient moan as she rolled into her side.

"Probably just Draco and Theo getting stoned downstairs," she mumbled into her pillow, and Cad turned towards
her, arching a brow.

"Getting stoned?" he echoed, vaguely concerned, and her eyes fluttered open.

"You know," she yawned, waving a hand, "potions. Vials. Whatever."

"Ah," he confirmed, shaking his head. "You do realize that where I'm from, 'getting stoned' is not an activity that one
can deliver with this degree of flippancy," he informed her, and she chuckled sleepily, burrowing into the sheets.

"Well, if you're so worried that the townspeople have turned on them," she murmured, cracking one eye, "go ahead
and check downstairs, would you? Mind the pitchforks," she added, and he laughed.

"You stay here," Cad suggested grandly, sliding out from beneath the duvet and rising to his feet. "I'll courageously
handle any insurrections myself."

"Sounds good," she returned, half-waving in disinterest, and Cad slipped out the door, following the sounds of
voices.

"This is unequivocally insane," he heard Theo say bluntly. "You can't expect me to keep these here, for one thing,
and for another thing, you shouldn't keep them at all - "

"Look, I told you, you're not seeing this clearly," someone replied, and Cad recognized the voice of Blaise Zabini, a
member of Draco's company that he'd had little interaction with so far. "You don't understand how valuable these
are. I couldn't just leave them - "

Cad padded quietly down the stairs and into the corridor, pausing as he saw them quarrelling in the doorframe.

"Things that are valuable are also fucking dangerous," Theo snapped. "Do you even know how this works? How do
you know someone else isn't looking for them?"

"Well, someone very well might be, but why would they look here?" Blaise hissed in return. "Listen, I can move
them, but this house has more protections on it than my flat and I'm not ready to get my mother involved, so - "

"You mean that your mother would never approve this," Theo corrected sourly. "And why would she? This is
objectively stupid, Zabini, and now isn't exactly a good time - "

"Why not? Because we're busy being Potter's lapdogs?" Blaise demanded. "I have a career of my own - a life of my
own - to manage, Nott, and maybe you've forgotten, but no degree of political success that Draco manages to get is
going to return us to public favor. Maybe you'll get by on your name, but I won't," he concluded furiously. "And I'm
not going to depend on Draco, or Potter, or any other sort of deus ex machina bullshit to determine my own
success."

Theo paused, his mouth twitching with impatience.

"Someone died for this," he reminded Blaise bluntly. "You could easily be next."

"Well, I'm not going to die for this," Blaise returned, his voice taking on its usual slick, sarcastic tone. "I've already
been informed how I'm going to die, and apparently it's not anytime soon, so I wouldn't worry about it."

"Oh, and did you get that little tidbit from your courtesan who can conveniently see the future?" Theo growled.
"This isn't like you, Blaise. It's fucking reckless - "

"Yes, which is very much like you, so I'm having trouble sorting out the problem," Blaise snapped. "The fortune
telling is bullshit, obviously, but she's right about this. This network is valuable, Nott, and whoever controls it is
worth making deals with, so - "

"I see the appeal," Theo interrupted flatly. "Obviously. I get it, Blaise, I do, but - "

He trailed off, and Cad, who'd heard enough to recognize the strain between them, determined that he needed to
chance getting closer to see what, exactly, they were discussing.

"Well, if you get it, then there's nothing to say, is there?"

"Yes, but - "

"Gentlemen," Cad interrupted, clearing his throat before loudly entering the corridor. "What seems to be the
problem?"

Blaise and Theo hastily shut the door behind them; not fast enough to prevent Cad catching sight of a series of glass
vials, but certainly quickly enough that whatever was contained within them could have been anything.

"Nothing," Blaise said, nodding curtly. "We'll talk tomorrow, Nott?" he asked, turning to Theo, who nodded grimly.

"Yes, fine," Theo replied, equally brusque, and then with another nod in Cad's direction, Blaise strode past them to
the stairs, descending the steps without looking back.

"Sorry to disturb you," Cad said, stepping closer to Theo. "You sounded distressed."

Theo glanced up sharply, glaring at him.

"I forgot you lived here," he returned irritably, and Cad shrugged.

"Well, nothing to worry about with me," he assured Theo. "I'm keeping at least one of your secrets, aren't I?"

At the word secrets, Theo visibly flinched.

"Is that a threat?" he prompted, and Cad scoffed.

"You know, you're very fighty," he commented. "For someone who pretends to care so little, you're awfully tightly-
wound."

"Oh wonderful, yes, please analyze me," Theo drawled, leaning sulkily against the wall. "Ideal. My favorite."

"What's going on with him?" Cad asked tangentially, gesturing to where Blaise had been. "Clearly you have
diverging opinions on something."

"Not that that's any of your business," Theo reminded him, and then, after considering something, he unfolded his
arms, adjusting his stance to face Cad. "You know," he added mutinously, "Potter doesn't trust you."
"No, he doesn't," Cad agreed, "but you do."

Theo blinked, and then scoffed. "Painfully presumptuous of you."

"Not really," Cad replied smoothly. "I make sense to you, don't I? You actually make a lot of sense to me," he
added. "You're loyal, but you would never go on blind faith. Been betrayed before?" he guessed casually, and when
Theo didn't answer, he shrugged. "There's a reason you chose Potter," he continued. "There's a reason you keep it
secret, too, and it's not for any of the reasons that he thinks. You like him because you believe he won't turn on you.
You think you can believe in him, and maybe you can. But the truth is that you only really trust the motives you can
see," Cad determined conclusively. "And you trust mine because they feel familiar to you, don't they?"

Theo didn't reply.

"You know, Antioch would love you," Cad offered tangentially. "You're exactly the kind of person he would recruit
for the Club because you're talented, you're clever and you're skilled and your allegiances can't be bought, but
mostly because you're capable of doing what's necessary. And your morals may be suspect, but you have a code,
don't you?"

"What is this?" Theo cut in brusquely, clearing irritation from his throat. "What do you care what your brother
would think of me?"

"Oh believe me, I don't," Cad replied easily. "But someday, when whatever is in there" - he gestured to the sealed
door - "presents a problem for you - when Potter wants you to side with a Ministry that long ago turned its back on
you, and Zabini wants you to do something thoroughly stupid - I just want you to know you can come to me."

Theo's eyes narrowed.

"Why would I ever come to you?" he asked bluntly. "You don't care about my interests."

"No, I don't," Cad agreed. "I only care about bringing down my brothers, and you know that. I know you know that.
But I suspect one day our interests will align," he offered slowly, "and should that day arise, I simply wanted to be
certain we'd had this talk."

Theo stared at him, frowning, and drew a hand up to drag it over the stubble on his cheeks, buying time.

"You're not a very good guy, are you?" he asked eventually, and Cad laughed.

"Of course not. I think history will show unambiguously that I'm rather a villain," Cad assured him. "But you
already have a hero," he added, shrugging, "so why not have one of each?"

"And what am I, then?" Theo prompted with a glare. "A pawn?"

"Well," Cad exhaled, sparing a wry chuckle. "I should think that's for you to decide, don't you?"

Ministry of Magic
International Apparition Point
October 2, 2003
11:02 a.m.

"This is ridiculous," Draco muttered, and Hermione sighed, glancing impatiently at him.

"Listen, I understand that you hate travel - "

"It's not travel," he corrected firmly. "It's lines. And crowds. And all these idiots with cameras," he added, gesturing
to the people who were staring at them from around the room, "and the entire putrefying aura of inefficient
bureaucracy. Not to mention the horrifying surplus of other people - "
"Whereas I, on the other hand, love these magical times we have together," Hermione snapped. "I just live for the
sound of you complaining like the stupid, blond, overindulged little prince that you are - "

"Actually," he corrected, "I think the problem is my present state of under-indulgence. If anything, the lack of
indulging what are in fact my highly sensible needs is precisely the issue at hand - "

" - nevermind that maybe I don't want to travel," Hermione continued without pause, "or that maybe I'm tired of
explaining to you that of course we had to leave straightaway, Malfoy, because with all the press we've been getting
it's going to start looking quite unreasonably coincidental that - "

"Yes, yes, I know," Draco erupted, "that Daisy is suspended right when we leave New York and Dionisia explodes
just as we arrive back in London, I fucking know - "

" - and you know what? Not to unnecessarily burden your lack of empathy, but maybe you might inquire as to my
well-being," Hermione suggested angrily, "because in case you hadn't noticed, I'm quite tired. I had to stay up for
hours begging Tom to give me my old room for one night, thanks to your infuriatingly timed interruption - "

"Well, that's your fault," Draco sniffed. "You could have just asked to stay at my house, or Theo's house, or - "

"Oh sure," Hermione retorted with a scoff, "and get drugged against my will again?"

"For the last time," Draco hissed, "nobody was drugged, Granger - "

"Are you really going to do this again?" she pressed, giving his arm a shove. "I wasn't about to come to you for
favors, Malfoy, and - just give me your apparition ticket, would you?" she prompted, holding her hand out
impatiently. "It'll make this go faster - "

"I'm not a child, I can hold my own damn ticket," he snapped, slapping her hand away. "And why is it so
inconceivable that I might offer you someplace to stay? I'm not some sort of inhospitable demon, Granger, and in
case you haven't noticed, I have the benefit of quite a lot of fucking rooms - "

"Just give it, it'll be easier to hand them both at once," she urged, snatching at his ticket as he pulled it from her
reach, "and are you really this upset I didn't ask you for help? That's bloody wild coming from you, Malfoy - "

"You don't have a fucking place to live, Granger," he growled, holding her at arm's length as she reached again for
the slip of parchment in his hand. "I hardly think that's anything comparable to your mismanaged attempts to soothe
my blistered conscience, or my tortured sense of self-worth or whatever the fuck you think is wrong with me - "

"I never said anything about your blistered conscience," she groaned, jumping once to reach for the ticket he
dangled tauntingly over her head before remembering to collect some semblance of her dignity. "I don't even know
what that means," she muttered, smacking him hard in the gut, "and I don't know why I bother, honestly - "

"Oh really, you don't know something, Granger? What a fucking apocalyptic rarity," he muttered sarcastically,
nudging her away. "Maybe now that the world's clearly ended and hell's obviously frozen over you'll have the decent
sense to - oh, I don't know, show some actual gratitude and accept my extremely generous offer to come live with
me, like a non-violent human person who isn't totally unbalanced - "

"What, live with you?" she squawked, finally managing to snatch the ticket away long enough for it to float from
both their outstretched fingers onto the marble floor, leaving Draco to bend down with a groan. "That's quite a wild
escalation, Malfoy - "

"You want escalation, Granger?" he demanded, grabbing the ticket and glancing up at her from the floor. "Fine, then
let's fucking escalate, shall we? How about this? Have my stupid blond wizard children!" he half-shouted, rearing
up on one knee as he felt his own voice get progressively louder. "In fact, why don't we do something even more
stupid? Why don't you just marry me, and - "

He froze, his breath catching as Hermione's eyes widened to an impossible degree, the room abruptly falling silent.
"Oh my god," one of the customs Unspeakables whispered loudly. "Did Draco Malfoy just propose to Hermione
Granger?"

Instantly, the cameras began flashing around the room; a circle rapidly cleared around the floor where Draco knelt
before Hermione, all the surrounding onlookers halting in place, staring, as they waited for her answer.

All the onlookers, that is, except for two people just ahead of them in the customs line, both of whom seemed
equally frozen as the others stepped aside.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Ron demanded, gaping in disbelief, and immediately, Hermione's cheeks turned
pale, her hand flying up to her mouth.

Draco, whose knee was already beginning to ache, let out a stifled, exhausted sigh.

"Well, Granger," he muttered to her under his breath, "now look what you've done."

a/n: Dedicated to dramionespromise, viv-heart, and ispyamanda!

 17. I Uh You, Too

Chapter 17: I "Uh" You, Too

Ministry of Magic
International Apparition Point
October 2, 2003
11:15 a.m.

Well. This was a disaster.

No, Hermione amended internally, scratch that.

There were disasters, there were catastrophes, there were fiascos, and then there was this, Draco Malfoy down on
one knee while her ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend watched her try her hardest not to strangle him.

It wasn't the first time Hermione had been proposed to; the first time had been courtesy of Ron, of course, who stood
gaping on her right. She tried to shove away the knowledge that he was living this in real time, in what was an
unfortunate tangle of misconceptions. For Ron, his ex-fiancée being moments away from getting engaged to a man
he'd always hated was his not-so-digestible reality, and she imagined it must have stung.

Hermione's reality, on the other hand, was that this proposal, despite not being the first one she'd received, was
undoubtedly the worst one imaginable. She stared down at Draco with an unrelenting sense of apprehension,
wondering how, precisely, they had once again managed to find themselves in such an outrageous predicament.

"Uh," she managed weakly, after what seemed like a thousand years.

Draco's grey eyes widened, imploring her not to make a fool of him (as if that would be even remotely her doing,
honestly) while beside her, unhelpfully, Ron's gaze sharpened from mystification to bitter disbelief, an incoherent
grunt of dismay slipping challengingly from his lips.

"Yes, yes - I 'uh' you, too," Draco muttered to her under his breath, and Hermione, realizing how much time was
slipping out from under her, managed to force a smile. She averted her eyes from Ron and Mel and instead fixed her
attention on Draco, lamenting once again their terrible, laughable, persistently ongoing con.

This was a disaster. She assumed it would only get worse from here.

"Yes," she pronounced weakly, trying her best not to look as exasperated as she felt. "Yes, Draco, of course I'll
marry you."

The crowd around them burst into applause, and Draco, noting the flashing cameras and sparing a furtive shake of
his head, rose to his feet to take Hermione in his arms, wrapping them around her waist and turning his head, his lips
next to her ear.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he warned, which she figured should have been the obvious next step, but for some
reason she found she was exceedingly relieved by the advanced notice. "Try not to panic."

She shivered, much to her annoyance.

"If you must," she replied simply, and she felt his smirk against her cheek before he took her face in both hands,
sliding a thumb along the line of her jaw and tipping her chin up to brush his lips against hers. It was more than
perfunctory, less than practiced; it was the middle ground of kisses, of ease mixed with spark, and she closed her
eyes as he deepened the pressure of his lips against hers, pulling her close and putting on a show.

It was funny, she thought as his tongue darted along hers, that if they were actually getting engaged, this entire
situation would be totally insane. They'd only been back in each other's lives a matter of weeks - days, really - and
she barely knew anything about him. She certainly didn't know the things she'd known about Ron long before they'd
even discussed marriage; she didn't know who Draco's first kiss was, or who he lost his virginity to, or how many
women he'd dated before this ridiculous stint with her.

Sure, she thought, maybe after a week with Draco in New York she knew how he liked his eggs and precisely how
snippily he preferred to have a cocktail; and yes, okay, she knew he was an exceptionally good dancer and that he
had a bit of an addictive personality - and he avoided his feelings, he was an avoider - but that hardly seemed
enough to claim she knew enough about him to chase down the possibility of forever.

Okay, fine, so she knew his preferred degree of animosity when his hips met hers and true, she could predict with
perfect accuracy the sound he made when she dug her fingers into his ribs (a little grunt of satisfaction that she knew
instinctively translated to finally, Granger, you're catching on and was therefore both blatantly annoying and
thoroughly intriguing) and okay, if pressed, she would admit that she knew that if she tilted her head up just slightly
he'd scrape his teeth against her bottom lip and suck it lightly, like she was a flavor he couldn't quite resist. She
knew he wore glasses and liked to decompress before bed; she knew he read quite voraciously but rarely strayed
from his established tastes; she knew that when he slept he gravitated towards her, reaching out for warmth. She
knew that his hands felt far more tender on her skin than his attitude let on.

She knew that he was selfish. She knew he was defensive, crudely blunt, and hardly ever honest. She knew what the
shape of his mouth looked like when he was lying, and she knew the reticent furrow between his brows when he told
the truth.

She knew he'd been lying when he'd said what happened between them had been a mistake; but still, he'd said it, and
she knew he'd probably rather throw himself in a river than tell her any degree of what might have been the truth.

So she knew that door was closed, and firmly, no matter how frustratingly good he smelled, or how sharply enticing
he tasted -

"OKAY," Ron erupted, prompting Hermione's eyes to snap open as she regained her hold on place and time.
"HOLD ON, this has to be some kind of - "

"Hermione, Draco, we're so happy for you," Mel interrupted, yanking Ron aside as she drew Hermione into a
startling embrace. "Just going to angle you slightly this way," she murmured in her ear, leading Hermione in an
exceptionally silly in-place dance, and added, "Sorry, but you understand, don't you? Hazards of the profession, you
know - better that we look as though all is well, just to avoid a whole scandal - "

"Right," Hermione agreed, dazed, as Mel pulled away, beckoning a bewildered Draco into her arms in the same
moment that she incongruously snapped her head towards Ron, hissing to him under her breath.

"Smile," Mel warned sharply, "or I swear to god, Ron, I'll Imperius you - "

Ron, for his part, scowled so furiously he appeared little more than a shiny crimson expanse of rage with scattered
glimpses of freckles.

"Just - bloody - thrilled," he managed through his teeth, giving Draco a stiff nod over Mel's shoulder, and Hermione
flashed Draco an apprehensive look of pleading, imploring him not to make matters worse.

Luckily, Draco seemed mortified enough with his most recent terrible decision and did not press the issue, reticently
clearing his throat as he released Mel. "Well, yes, wonderful," he muttered, his gaze slipping helplessly to
Hermione's. "Admittedly, this was all rather unplanned - "

"Unplanned?" Ron echoed through his teeth, and Hermione reluctantly met his eye, feeling her cheeks flush under
the intensity of his scrutiny. "Me you weren't sure about," he said bluntly, his voice low and unusually ruthless, "but
this is the man you're going to marry?"

At that, Draco's brow promptly furrowed to displeasure, a scowl forming on his lips as he caught the look on her
face. Hermione opened her mouth, about to implore him not to speak, but he tossed a nod to the onlooking
Unspeakables, pointedly holding up his ticket and gesturing forward.
"Shall we?" he prompted, with the particular drawl she'd come to expect meant trouble. "Spur of the moment
decision, you know," he added, loud enough for the onlookers to hear, "but still, romantic jaunts persist. Will be
requiring the rest of the afternoon for long walks, adoring gazes, et cetera. You know - staring longingly into each
other's eyes, exploring the bounty of our tireless love, celebrating our togetherness, contemplating the fruits of our
union - what do you think, sweetheart?" he asked in a saccharine tone, wrapping an arm around Hermione's waist as
she fought not to roll her eyes. "Children, yes? Should we scrap lunch and start now?"

Ron let out an alarming, wordless squawk of something sharply antagonistic and Mel hurried to take his arm,
dragging him towards the apparition point with her crimson nails dug firmly into his arm.

"So happy for you both," she sang over her shoulder, sparing them a wave so polished it nearly masked the look of
hysteria in her eyes. Hermione glanced at Draco as Ron and Mel disappeared into the apparition booths, shaking her
head.

"Was that necessary?" she prompted.

"Yes," he replied, unsurprisingly. "He was being intolerably rude."

"Well, can you blame him?" she asked, sighing. "His proposal was - " she hesitated. "Let's just say he put a bit more
effort into it."

When Ron had proposed there had been flowers, champagne, and an elaborate surprise, including the appearances of
their friends and families; it had been a far cry from spontaneous shouting in a public place. All things considered, it
had been quite a lovely day, and a rare highlight in their relationship. By the look on Draco's face, though, he
couldn't quite conjure up the energy to sympathize, opting instead to launch into a tirade of tyrannical proportions.

" - and really, Weasley would be here, honestly. What fucking reprehensible timing, yet again. It's as if he simply
wanders around, mindless, devotedly plotting ways to inconvenience me - "

"Yes, because this is clearly Ron's fault," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Certainly not yours in the slightest," she
reminded him, and he glared at her, loftily unperturbed.

"Will you desist with the unpalatable finger-pointing, Granger? I think we can both agree Weasley's presence is
nearly always unsavory," Draco remarked snottily. "And besides, it's not like this even matters. What's the
difference between a fake relationship and a fake engagement?"

Oh, only my state of mind, and the opinions of the thousands of people who'll soon read about it, she thought with a
grimace, wondering with a pang just how Rhys would take the news and then, with a groan, recalling that Harry,
too, would likely give her his recently acquired look of disapproval.

"That," she finally exhaled, shaking her head, "is not as good a point as you think it is."

He glanced askance, lifting a brow. "You're not going to make this a thing, are you?"

Hermione bit back a furious retort about his obvious contributing faults. "Just give me your ticket," she instructed in
lieu of shouting, holding out her hand, and he slapped it into her palm with an exasperated sigh, grumbling about her
demands under his breath.

"Fine," he muttered. "But for the record, if we fucking run into them again - "

"We won't," Hermione assured him, knowing the chances of colliding with them again were so slim as to be nearly
inconsequential and hoping she could rely on statistics for relief. "Who knows where they're even going?" she
reminded him, aiming for optimism. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

Draco glanced aside, warily eyeing a camera as another flash went off, and tightened his grip pointedly around her
waist; he gave the photographer a false, forcefully enthusiastic wave and similarly, Hermione conjured a broad
smile.
"Everything's going to be fine," she said again, mostly for herself, and Draco scoffed his disagreement.

"Famous last words," he told her grimly, sparing a heavy sigh of displeasure.

Les Catacombes de Paris

Cour des étoiles
2:43 p.m.

"Hello, welcome," Head Auror Bastien Janvier offered upon their arrival, nodding politely to each of them as they
approached. "I'm so glad you were able to adjust our meeting time; I'm afraid I have some business to attend to this
evening. How have you found your travels so far?"

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance, both hesitating to answer.

The French Ministre de la Magie, located underground in the Paris Catacombs, had been their first stop upon
arriving in Paris, as per Auror Janvier's specifications. Neither Hermione nor Draco had been there previously, and
they were both immensely surprised - and moderately alarmed - to find that the French Ministry of Magic existed in
the midst of constant darkness. The Court of Stars, as the municipal quarter of the city's wizarding population was
called, was located entirely underground, a market of sorts bustling without pause beneath a ceiling enchanted with
an ever-changing night sky.

"This is," Hermione began, and paused, obviously struggling to find the words. "It's, um - "

"Not at all claustrophobic," Draco supplied, pursing his lips in distaste. "I don't feel even remotely like I've been
buried alive."

"It does require some adjustment," Janvier offered knowingly. "The catacombs do have a certain - "

"Shroud of death," Draco confirmed grimly, as Hermione dug her elbow into his ribs.

"It's lovely," she pronounced, camouflaging the sound of his disgruntled 'oof' with a delicate cough. "Are you
originally from Paris, Auror Janvier?"

"Yes," he replied, though Draco noted he had little trace of an accent. "I spent quite a lot of time abroad, though, as I
played quidditch professionally for many years before I took my Auror exams."

"Oh, I didn't know that," Hermione said brightly, which Janvier did not appear to take very well at all, lofting his
nose into the air with displeasure.

"I was starting Keeper for the French National Team several times over," he informed her stiffly. "But I suppose you
will not have kept an eye to mainland Europe, being as invested as you are in the English team."

"Oh, sure, yes," she replied. "Fully invested, obviously - "

"Anyway," Draco interrupted, knowing she knew absolutely nothing about the sport, "I know you must be pressed
for time, Auror Janvier, but we're very grateful you were able to meet with us."

"Well, any friend of my colleague Auror Potter is a friend of mine," he assured them, persisting in his vaguely
ceremonial tone. "May I ask what the purpose of your visit is?"

Hermione glanced at Draco, hesitating, and he pointedly reached for her hand.

"We just got engaged, actually," he told Janvier. "For us, this trip is for pleasure - isn't it, sugarplum?" he prompted,
giving Hermione a squeeze and ignoring the look of repulsion that flitted over her face. "But Auror Potter asked if
we might spare some time for an official visit on his behalf while we're abroad. He's very grateful for your
cooperation," he added smoothly, aware of his own oozing gratuity and persisting regardless. "We thought perhaps
we could convey his appreciation by proxy."
Schmooze him, had been Harry's exact words, but definitely don't trust him.

"Auror Potter has invited me as a guest of the British Ministry in the past," Janvier permitted, proving himself to be
highly tit-for-tat, as Draco had anticipated. "I suppose I can do the same. Are you both attending tomorrow evening's
reception to celebrate Enchanteur Desroches' appointment to the Wizengamot? I would be honored to have you as
my guests, on behalf of our respective Ministries."

"Desroches," Hermione echoed. "Is that the Enchanteur who is replacing Lefebvre? The Warlock who was
poisoned?"

Instantly, Janvier's face blanched with displeasure at the reminder.

"We try not to speak of such delicate matters," he told her stiffly, "but yes, it may be quite a somber affair due to the
circumstances. Still, if you have no other plans - "

"No other plans," Draco assured him. "We would be honored to attend."

"Excellent," Janvier determined, nodding with finality. "You know, I did read about your engagement," he added,
rummaging inside what looked to be an enchanted coat pocket and pulling out a copy of the French Daily Prophet, a
photo snapped on the cover of Hermione and Draco smiling indulgently at Mel and, thankfully, the back of Ron's
head. "Will tomorrow evening's celebration conflict with your attendance of Melibea Warbeck's new unveiling?" he
asked, brightening considerably. "It's all any of the Ministre witches have been talking about for weeks; I have to
say, not that I blame them - "

"I'm sorry," Draco interrupted, suddenly wishing to burrow himself in a crypt. "Did you just say Melibea Warbeck is
here? In Paris?"

"Oh, but I thought you knew," Janvier supplied, gesturing to the newspaper again. "Aren't you friends?"

"Oh, sure," Draco declared sarcastically, turning to glance at Hermione. "Strange," he muttered insincerely. "It's
almost as if I might have guessed we'd run into her again - "

Hermione silenced him with another sharp jab, forcing a smile at the Auror.

"We're very good friends with Miss Warbeck," she lied outrageously, not bothering to acknowledge Draco's muted
scoff, "and I'm sure she'll understand. We have to give ambassadorship priority."

Janvier nodded gravely.

"Ah, well, in any case, do be sure to alert me if the arrangements I procured on your behalf are not to your liking,"
he informed them, returning the newspaper to his coat pocket. "Though I'm certain you'll love your
accommodations. Le Château Perdu is not only the best but the only wizarding hotel in Paris, in my view. Once
you've stayed there, everything else is second rate."

"It's a fascinating hotel," Hermione agreed, her entire face lighting up at the reference. Draco fought an eye roll;
she'd chattered endlessly about it on the trip over. "I just love the idea of a 'lost hotel,' and hidden in the Jardin des
Tuileries? Absolutely brilliant. We're honored that you arranged it, Auror Janvier," she said breathlessly. "You really
outdid yourself."

"Well, it was no small feat," he replied, preening unnecessarily. "I always reserve the west-facing suite for Ministry
guests - but I had to pull quite a few strings this time," he explained, "as Melibea Warbeck's people wanted it for her
use. But, of course, the Ministry does still take precedence, even in her case - "

"Oh," Hermione remarked, her voice carefully reserved as Draco fought yet another groan, contemplating the
benefits of being buried alive. "So she's staying there too, then?"

"Oh yes, but of course," Janvier confirmed. "As I said, only the finest for guests of the Ministre, and Melibea
Warbeck would be a fool not to stay there as well," he remarked dotingly. "In fact, I'm told it's a favorite of hers."
"A fan of hers, are you?" Draco asked drily, and Janvier gave him a devoted nod.

"Mademoiselle Warbeck makes the finest of dress socks," he pronounced with fervor, pulling up his trouser leg and
brandishing his ankle in Draco's direction. "No perspiration, flawless fit. Truly, the wicking enchantment is la
perfection - "

"Yes, yes, wonderful," Draco muttered. "We'll be sure to relay that to her."

"Would you?" Janvier asked hopefully, and then caught himself, shaking off his admiration. "That is, if you happen
to see her; which you undoubtedly will, of course, staying in such close proximity - "

"Oh of course," Draco remarked falsely, glancing pointedly at Hermione. "What hapless fool might have possibly
managed to suspect otherwise?"

"- in which case I would greatly appreciate you passing on my appreciation of her talents. In the meantime, though,"
Janvier went on, glancing at his watch, "I'm afraid I do have quite a bit of work to do. Security for tomorrow
evening, you understand."

At that, Hermione frowned. "Are you anticipating problems?"

"Mademoiselle Granger, it is my job to anticipate problems," Janvier informed her, curtly inclining his head. "There
is no evidence of anything amiss, of course, but still, we must always remain vigilant - "

"Constant vigilance," she and Draco muttered reflexively in unison.

" - in order to best serve the public," Janvier finished, giving them a hazy glance of bemusement. "As I'm sure you
no doubt understand, knowing Auror Potter as you do."

"Of course," Hermione confirmed. "Thank you for your time, Auror Janvier, and for your efforts in making our
arrangements. They're much appreciated - "

"Highly problematic," Draco corrected under his breath, "but sure, appreciated, too - "

" - and we look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening," she concluded loudly, sparing Draco one of her most
ball-shriveling glares before inclining her head towards Janvier. "Until then, Auror Janvier?"

"Yes, indeed, Mademoiselle Granger, Monsieur Malfoy," he offered, nodding to each of them before pausing, his
brow furrowing slightly. "Forgive me my curiosity," he added, turning to Draco, "but are you by chance of relation
to the Burgundy Malfoys?"

"Cousins," Draco supplied crisply. "Somewhat distantly. We don't interact often, but yes, we're related."

"Ah, I see," Janvier determined, nodding again. "Well, a pleasure," he said, sweeping them something of a bow, and
then he disappeared with a pop, apparating back within the confines of the French Ministry.

"I didn't know you had family in France," Hermione commented, turning to face him. "And to think, we're going to
be married and I haven't the slightest idea who your cousins are."

"Is this a thing now?" Draco asked grumpily. "The continuous references to our sham of a marriage?"

"Yes, obviously," she confirmed, without a trace of shame. "If you think you can make a stupid decision and not be
perpetually reminded of it at every given instance," she informed him wryly, "I'm afraid you've made the terrible
error of misjudging me."

"Oh, I've made terrible errors, alright," he grumbled. "Especially considering we're now staying at a nightmare
hotel."

"No, it's a lovely hotel," Hermione corrected. "It just happens to be a nightmare scenario. Did you know that the
Tuileries garden was created by Catherine de' Medici in 1564?" she prompted brightly, digging in her bag for the
book she'd purchased for the trip. "She was a truly fascinating woman in history - "

"A fascinating witch, you mean," Draco informed her. "A master of poisons, too, that Cathy. And a personal hero of
mine, for obvious reasons - "

"A witch, really?" Hermione interrupted, frowning. "I suppose that's why she was famously surrounded by
'questionable characters,' according to this account of her life," she said, gesturing to the book. "Was Nostradamus a
wizard, too?"

"Hardly," Draco scoffed. "He claimed to see the future, Granger. Preposterous," he declared. "Even magic has
limits."

Hermione spared him a skeptical shake of her head. "There are prophecies throughout history that the Ministry
acknowledges," she reminded him. "Are you saying you don't believe in them?"

"I'm simply saying I don't concern myself with them," he corrected her. "I have enough on my plate without
worrying about my problems in advance. Like my socks, for example," he suggested. "Unlike Janvier, I clearly have
subpar dress socks," he lamented, but she was no longer paying attention.

"You know, it's lucky Janvier invited us to Desroches' ceremony," Hermione commented tangentially. "I was
worried we weren't going to be able to get inside the Ministry."

Draco nodded. "We'll have to watch out for surveillance charms this time, though," he warned. "Not to mention that
there's no telling who in the French Ministry can be trusted, Janvier included - "

"And there's no precluding the possibility that we could be visited by Antioch Peverell while we're here," Hermione
added with a shudder. "Speaking of unwanted visitors - can we get out of this place now?" she asked, glancing
around. "It's unnerving. I keep worrying that the bodies in the catacombs are going to rise up and wander around."

"What?" Draco barked, glaring at her in horror. "Can they do that?"

Hermione gave him a pitying look.

"We went to school in a castle full of ghosts," she reminded him matter-of-factly. "We know for a fact that zombies,
whatever they're called from culture to culture, are real to some extent. So how could we ever presume that the dead
in the crypts stay dead?"

Much to his dismay, Draco gave a full-bodied shiver, sickened at the thought.

"Well," he pronounced firmly, reaching down to grip her hand before gesturing wildly for her to apparate them out,
"if you're so nervous, then we should probably get the fuck out of here, shouldn't we?"

She glanced up at him, smirking.

"Sure, Malfoy," she remarked. "Since I'm so nervous, we will."

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Wizengamot Chambers
6:57 p.m.

Pansy knocked on the door of Percy's office, sighing internally.

Consider it investigative victimology, Harry had advised. The more you get to know him and his cases, the more we
can understand whether he might be targeted, and why.

Have you considered, she'd countered bluntly, that perhaps people want him dead because he's an intolerable swot?
It's a definite possibility, Harry permitted, unfazed, but still, you'll have to narrow it down.

"Come in," Percy called, and Pansy entered his office, at once startled by the small, tightly conical hurricane of
paperwork that assaulted her the moment she stepped inside.

"Um," she attempted, swatting at a page that flew directly into her face. "Could you possibly - "

"Oh, apologies," he muttered absently, flicking his wand from his desk and freezing the paperwork in place. She
nudged the papers aside, forming something of an archway for her to duck under, and made her way over to his
desk, taking a seat in the chair opposite him.

"Did you need something, Miss Parkinson?" he asked, still scribbling, and she barely suppressed a sigh.

"It's Pansy," she corrected him for the hundredth time, and he looked up, his mouth quirking at the corners.

"Right," he agreed, moistening his lips. "Of course. Pansy," he murmured, leaning back in his chair and giving her a
long, sweeping glance.

She cursed the twisting in her stomach at the sound of her name, trying not to shudder as his blue eyes gradually fell
on the exposed line of her neck.

"Your hair looks nice," he commented. "You normally wear it down, don't you?"

She tried not to squirm at his attention.

"Paying attention, are you?" she asked, pointedly crossing right leg over left.

"Well, you do seem quite curious about me," he reminded her, with a smile that felt knowingly clever. "It only
seems fair to return the favor. It looks nice up," he added. "Quite elegant, I think."

She felt her cheeks flush and thoroughly hated herself for it.

"I know," she snapped, and his smile broadened.

"What can I do for you, Pansy?" he prompted. "Are you having difficulties with the color palette again? As I said, a
textured mauve would be preferred, if you're finding that the neutrals I selected are too constricting for your tastes. I
myself prefer a more classic shade, perhaps a taupe, but - "

"I was thinking fuchsia," she lied, poking for a reaction, and Percy blinked, half-frozen.

"Well," he began uncertainly, rigid with disapproval, "that's certainly a color. I'm unsure what it would say about the
tone of the event, but you are of course the expert, and far be it from me to - "

"I'm joking," she told him, and he instantly relaxed.

"Oh, good," he exhaled. "I half considered firing you. Between that and the font choice my assistant went with for
the presentation, I daresay the catastrophic destruction of taste involved in the planning of this event might have
utterly set flame to my career - "

"Why do you do this?" Pansy cut in, blurting it out.

His brow stitched together, bemused.

"Well, it's just that fuchsia is such a very liberal color," he began, and she shook her head.

"No, I mean - this," she clarified, gesturing around his office. "Why are you even on the Wizengamot? You care so
much," she added. "Every little detail matters. Why?"

He set down his quill, staring at her.

"I consider myself a man of intention," he replied, without a trace of irony. "If I were to disregard the details, what
would it say about what matters to me? About the consideration I have for my position, or the pride I take in my
work?"

"It is only work, though, isn't it?" Pansy prompted. "You seem to do so little else."

His tongue slid carefully between his lips as he tilted his head, considering her question.

"I work hard," he said eventually, "so that the rewards of my labor may be fruitful. I find that the more attention I
devote to my work, the more pleasure I derive from it. In other words, I take my time," he clarified slowly, raising a
hand to trace his thumb over his bottom lip, "so as to draw the most satisfaction from my efforts."

"Satisfaction," Pansy echoed hazily, watching the motion of his mouth, and he gave her a coy half-smile.

"The world is so keen on instant gratification," he told her, his gaze seeming to line her cheek. "I find I prefer to
savor the work. To luxuriate in the process of exploring its offerings."

Pansy swallowed. "Offerings?"

"Why rush it?" Percy replied bluntly, nodding. "How good can anything possibly be when one's bungled one's way
through to the finish? No - for me the pleasure is in the process, not in the arrival. I take pride in the knowing that
everyone involved has had ample time and attention; in ensuring that the end result is, quite frankly, transcendent."
His gaze drifted, his eyes falling on her neck this time, and lower, until they drifted back up to her lips. "Sublime,
even," he offered softly, his voice notably intimate, as if he might have whispered it to her in bed.

"Oh, fuck," she whispered under her breath, and his smile broadened.

"You seem quite curious about my work ethic," he commented. "May I ask why?"

She blinked, dizzied.

"You're strange," she managed to confess to him. "I can't make sense of you."

"Oh, Pansy," he said with a laugh, "I'm not so difficult to understand. I like things done right; I like things done well.
More to the point, though, I do things right," he clarified, leaning towards her across the desk, "and believe me, I
always do them well."

She stared at him, her gaze caught on the shape of his mouth.

"Remind me what we're talking about?" she prompted hazily, clearing her throat.

His gaze slid down the line of her neck, settling against her throat with a weight she swore she could feel down to
the outline of her collarbone, skating across it as if he'd run his fingers over her skin.

"You," he said, and she blinked.

"What?"

"You came in about something," he reminded her. "Problems with the Ministry address? I believe we opened with a
discussion about color palettes."

She blinked again, the moment crashing around her.

"Taupe," she conjured with difficulty. "Taupe is fine."

"Taupe is underrated," Percy agreed, nodding briskly. "Is that all?"

She considered the question.

Considered him, much to her displeasure.

It was well past working hours at the Ministry and yet, aptly, Percy Weasley hadn't removed his tie; only loosened it
from around his neck. She calculated the distance between them and gathered that if she leaned forward - if she took
hold of it and used it for leverage - she could have his lips against hers in less than a count of three. His crisp white
shirt gaped ever so slightly around his throat, and he'd neatly cuffed the sleeves, revealing a slim, muscular forearm.
She could have that forearm under her skirt in approximately the time it would take to say 'taupe is barely even a
color, you moron' - and furthermore, she could be straddling the sharp angles of his perfect cheekbones after perhaps
an additional minute. If he was even close to as good as she imagined, she'd come in a matter of breaths, a brief
frenzy of friction. She could ride Percy Weasley's face right here, right now - fuck him on his desk and be home and
done and satiated - in twenty minutes, tops.

But that, of course, was insanity.

A waste of a calculation, and she shook herself of the thought.

"Yes," she lied instead, rising to her feet. "That's all."

In response, his teeth left a pale imprint against his lips for half a second, and then he flashed her a neutral smile.

"Have a nice evening, Miss Parkinson," Percy offered blithely, returning his attention to his work without hesitation,
and she walked out of his office in a daze.

Once she shut the door, though, she realized she'd gained nothing from the exchange; short of a desperate,
bewildering need to slide her hand into her knickers and rid herself of the ongoing ache that was Percy Weasley, she
hadn't gotten anything she'd come for.

"Guess I'll have to come back tomorrow," she lamented to herself, heading for the Floo.

Theo Nott was an addict.

He'd been one for as long as he could remember, too. It wasn't the same as Draco's reliance on potions, nor was it
Pansy's compulsion for sex or Daphne's need for affection, or even Blaise's constant pursuit of success. For a long
time, it hadn't even been any one thing.

He'd gone through periods of addiction at various points, using various vices. There were days Theo would go
without sleep, for example, and would refuse to put down his books before exams. There'd been weeks he'd go
without certain foods, toying with his own discipline and exercising control for the sake of control itself. He was
helplessly obsessive; very often manic. It was a quality that did not improve with time.

Sometimes it was a more conventional addiction, and Theo filled his vacancies with whatever he could find -
whatever he could drink, consume, inhale, inject - and other times it would be something far stranger: a close
inspection of the particles in his blood that kept him awake for days, the vials taken from his own arms, or relentless
research on ancient runes, all of which accidentally cursed him more often than not. Once, a devotion to medieval
methods of blacksmithing had been so consuming there'd been almost nothing in his house that wasn't subsequently
melted down, transformed into precariously too-sharp blades that he intentionally left out like stalagmites all over
the floors.

If Theo were to guess, it all started with his father.

Theodore Nott Senior was not a kind man, nor a warm one. He was a looming one, a commanding one, and for as
long as Theo could remember he had half feared his father and half worshipped him, as if he were a particularly
vengeful god. Punishments when Theo misbehaved were harsh and swift, like biblical floods, that left him scarred in
the wake of them; praise, on the other hand, was so rare as to be rendered fundamentally impossible, and affection
bordered on myth. In fact, there was no element of softness in the Nott household; Theo's mother had died when he
was an infant, and Nott Sr had never taken another wife. Theo himself, a perfect replica of Aria Fawley's eyes and
hair and coloring, was already more than his father could bear.
When it came to Theo's father, Nott Sr also had an addiction of his own; unhelpfully for Theo, it was servitude to a
certain Dark Lord.

"You are to run the house in my absence," Theodore the elder had said, unflinching, as he'd been sentenced to
Azkaban after the break-in at the Department of Mysteries. "I won't be in here for very long, Theodore, and the Dark
Lord will reward me for my service."

"May I just point out," Theo ventured, chancing a hex for his insolence under the implausible circumstances, "that
this is entirely madness, and that perhaps no lord is worth serving if it means repeated stints in Azkaban? Or, you
know," he suggested hesitantly, "death?"

"Better to die than to fail one's convictions," Nott Sr replied.

"Yes, too true," Theo permitted, "but in this case, can't one's convictions be separated from one's homicidal
overlord?"

His father had only glared at him; given a single shake of his head.

"Someday you'll understand," Nott Sr returned gruffly.

But Theo had not understood.

He hadn't understood, either, why he'd been facing his father with his wand outstretched shortly after Nott Sr's long-
postponed criminal trial, alone in a darkened study with nothing but panic in his lungs.

"Don't do this," he pleaded with his father, uncertain whether to step closer or run, and torn by the shame of his
indecision. "What happened to your convictions?"

"I won't go back to Azkaban," Nott Sr said steadily. "I won't do it. The Dark Lord has fallen, the world has changed,
and I will not go back. There is no other option."

"But what about me?" Theo begged. "Dad, what about me?"

But Nott Sr's gaze had slid through him, already half a ghost.

"Take care of the house, Theodore," he'd said before aiming his own wand at his forehead, casting the Avada
without a word.

After Theodore the elder died and his name cast deep into social obscurity, work became Theo's preferred addiction.
Theo had always had an obsessive nature and tracking, investigating - stalking, to put it in unflattering terms - fit
right into his particular set of skills. He was quiet, focused, resourceful, observant. He could go days without
sleeping or eating much, intent on hunting his prey. He was an addict, and it made him skilled. It made him
invaluable.

It made him thoroughly sick.

Theo always grew disappointed, too, once he'd gained everything there was to know about a mark and turned it all
over to Draco. There was something consummately unsatisfying about knowing they'd be dead soon; wiped from
existence, like his father had been, despite everything he'd learned about them. For Theo, people came and went so
easily, and nothing ever stayed.

But then he'd run into Harry Potter one day in a bar, and all of his addictions had shifted.

A first kiss wasn't supposed to be so impactful. Theo had always thought of sex as an expulsion of energy or
frustration; more a detonation of things to drive out rather than something from which to take pleasure. The moment
he'd tasted Harry's lips, though, his feelings on the matter changed.

He had to have more.

He had to have more.

He was surprised that he wasn't alone in this; he'd assumed Harry would think of him as an experiment, a one-off,
something to slide into a file folder of experiences and chalk up to miserable youth. After all, Theo had never met
anyone who was so fully a reflection of himself before, only with a far better sense of how to move forward. Sure,
Draco was broken and they'd all been touched by the war, but Harry Potter was shattered, the product of abuse not
dissimilar from Theo's, and he somehow always manifested in goodness, in victory and triumph. Surely he'd only
been looking for a mistake to make before he carried on doing everything right.

But Harry hadn't finished surprising him.

"Wait," he'd said gruffly, pulling Theo back into his chest after the Christmas they'd spent together, his arm locked
tight around Theo's ribs. "Are we doing this again?"

Theo stared at him, stunned.

After all, Theo was an addict; all he was capable of was wanting more, even at risk to himself. Especially at risk to
himself.

But for the first time, he suspected he was no longer the only addict in the room.

"Yes," he said without hesitation, and kissed Harry again (and again, and again, and again) and they didn't leave his
bed again until close to New Year's.

By then, everything had changed.

"So how are we going to do this?" Harry asked him, because they both knew perfectly well they were going to, and
Theo shrugged.

"If recent experience is anything to go by, then with an impressive amount of skill," he answered, "and a tolerable
level of violence."

"Not that. I mean this," Harry corrected, gesturing between them. "Us."

"Us?" Theo echoed, scoffing. "Christ, Potter. You're so fucking soft."

"Well, indulge me anyway, Nott," Harry returned drily. "How are we going to do this?"

In lieu of an answer, Theo merely groaned, shoving him back against the wall.

"Aren't you tired of planning everything out?" he demanded, his bare chest pressed ruthlessly against Harry's.
"Aren't you fucking sick of trying to control things, to know things, to predict things?"

Harry swallowed, his throat shifting to accommodate the weight of whatever he wanted to say but couldn't.

"I have lost my taste for prophecies over the years," he admitted.

Theo kissed him hard.

Harry kissed back.

"I don't care how we do it," Theo said, "as long as we do it."

"Is that supposed to be dirty, Nott," Harry asked drily, "or profound?"

In answer, Theo yanked at Harry's belt, throwing it to the floor.

"I just put that on," Harry commented, staring after it.
"Well, I took it off," Theo recapped.

"You're going to fuck me up," Harry remarked. "Aren't you?"

Theo nodded. "Almost certainly."

"Good," Harry exhaled, biting down on Theo's shoulder.

But strangely, neither of them was all that fucked up. In fact, Theo was some healthier version of himself than he'd
ever been before; minus the occasional inclusion of muggle fast food to his already subpar diet, Harry Potter had
brought some stability to his life.

It wasn't a difficult relationship, either. Even the individual facets of difficulty - like the secrecy, for example - were
handled without strain, written off with ease. They wanted sex; they had it. They wanted companionship; they gave
it. If this was love, Theo thought, then love was really quite easy.

He always thought that seemed too good to be true.

"Listen, these secrets," Blaise had said urgently, cornering him in a moment Theo knew would eventually mean
trouble. "They're a network of leverage. If we control the secrets ourselves, then we can control everyone who was
indebted to Dionisia - and let me tell you, it was a lot of fucking people - "

"You included," Theo reminded him. "And as I recall, you didn't care much for that, did you?"

"She just had me smuggle something," Blaise said, waving a hand. "It's fine. It's been taken care of."

"What was it?" Theo asked, and Blaise shrugged.

"Some potion substance. Magically enhanced adrenaline or something; strands of it in vials. Had it smuggled in for
someone at the French Ministry," he explained, waving a hand as if brushing it away, "but that's not the point. It was
fine, it was barely even illegal, and now we can control our own destiny."

"And others'," Theo reminded him warily. "Does that really not concern you?"

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised by the answer.

"What concerns me is me," Blaise replied, wholly unruffled. "I'm not saying we use it the same way Dionisia did,
but I'm thinking it's worth having around, don't you?"

A past Theo might have agreed without hesitation; present Theo, though, paused to take stock of his impending lies.

"The fire," he ventured uncertainly. "That was you?"

"Nobody was hurt," Blaise assured him coolly. "We've done worse."

Debatable, Theo thought.

"Our kills were never this messy," he muttered, and Blaise shrugged.

"This wasn't a kill," Blaise reminded him. "It's a theft at best, and honestly, it's barely that. She was dead, Theo - and
there's nothing left of her but this - "

But Theo was left uncertain, and being approached by Cadmus Peverell had not been much help.

"Been betrayed before?" Cad had guessed, and Theo had never thought of it that way, but he understood now that it
was true.

His father had left him, and he'd had so little else to take stock of; he'd kept his life devoid of most things he couldn't
stand to lose.
But now, with Harry -

"You alright?" Harry asked, turning towards him. "You seem off."

They'd been lying in Theo's bed; comfortably not talking, which he had never minded.

Silence with Harry was one of Theo's favorite things, though the moment called for an answer.

"Oh, I'm shattered," Theo replied easily. "How could Draco get engaged and not tell me?" he lamented, letting out a
loud, uninhibited sigh. "What am I, a table runner? A decorative shrubbery?"

Harry chuckled, leaning over to press his lips to the base of Theo's throat.

"I'm serious," he said quietly.

Theo swallowed, feeling the strain of it against Harry's mouth.

I think sometimes that I'll wake up and this will be over, he thought. I think that if we keep it a secret, maybe I can
protect it; maybe I can keep it safe. I think maybe I'm going to disappoint you, too. I think possibly I've tricked you
into thinking there is more good in me than there is.

I think it will ruin me to lose you, Theo wanted desperately to say, and therefore I know that I can't.

"I'm an addict," is what he offered instead, and Harry nodded slowly.

"I know," he said. "How's that going for you?"

"Moderately well," Theo replied, turning to look at him. "And you?"

"I'm pleased with it," Harry said, lifting his chin to meet Theo's eyes. "Still good?" he asked, drawing his thumb
across Theo's jaw.

"Still good," Theo agreed, nipping at it.

Harry said nothing for a moment, battling his tongue.

"Will you tell me," he asked hesitantly, "if things are ever … not good?"

Theo paused, considering it.

"Probably not," he said, "if I'm being honest. But I'll try," he clarified. "I'm trying."

Another pause; another comfortable silence.

"I know you are," Harry agreed, and Theo hoped he would remember that he said that, if someday in the future
something went terribly wrong. "I know you are."

But in the meantime, Theo could not stand to let things lie; he waited until Harry fell asleep before creeping down
the stairs, pacing the living room until Blaise walked in through the Floo.

"You needed something?" Blaise prompted, and Theo nodded.

"I have an idea," he suggested, careful to keep his voice quiet; lately the house had been full of people who heard
more than they should. "Cad said something to me last night that I think might solve both our problems."

"Oh?" Blaise asked, arching a brow.

"Yes," Theo confirmed, ignoring the other man's obvious skepticism in favor of recklessly forging ahead. "How do
you feel about me being the bait this time? For a bigger prize," he clarified. "One that gives us the benefit of
Dionisia's secrets, but successfully negates the risk of possessing them."

Blaise tilted his head, considering it.

"I'm listening," he said carefully.

Cour des étoiles

Outside L'étoile pointue
7:56 p.m.

Ludo approached the man in the hood, rolling his eyes internally at Janvier's ongoing tendency towards drama.

"Bastien," he offered, and Janvier turned with a fierce look of displeasure, glaring at him as he closed the few steps
between them.

"Ludo," he said flatly. "What is it this time?"

"Oh, now that's no way to behave," Ludo tutted, shaking his head. "Or have you forgotten, Bastien, just how much
I've done for you? How much you owe me," he added slyly, "for saving your quidditch career?"

"I no longer play quidditch," Janvier returned stiffly, "and I'm beginning to wonder when this whole thing will end,
Ludo."

"True, you no longer play," Ludo acknowledged, "but I think we both know that your career would be over if your
Ministry ever discovered your history with performance-enhancing potions. After all," he ventured knowingly, "your
legacy as a player is what got you the job, isn't it?"

Janvier's posture stiffened.

"What do you want?" he demanded, and Ludo offered him a genial shrug.

"Just one more thing," he said. "A simple one, at that. I need you to introduce me to the Lefebvre case as a potions
expert. Won't be hard," he repeated, as Janvier's eyes widened. "I believe you will have just received evidence of the
materials used in the poisoning?"

"Yes," Janvier confirmed, frowning. "How did you know that?"

"Nevermind how I know," Ludo said smoothly. "As the former British DMGS head and prior World Cup
administrator, I possess a vast amount of knowledge about these particular materials, and there is such a fine line
between potions and poisons. After all, they are common additives in performance enhancements," he added
pointedly, "aren't they?"

Janvier frowned. "How can I possibly use you as a reliable source, Ludo?" he posited roughly. "You know perfectly
well that the Ministre will not approve - "

"Ah, but they will if they have no choice," Ludo reminded him. "The entire world is at a loss right now as to the
nature of these poisonings, aren't they? I imagine you'd be a hero if you could simply bring in someone to crack it,"
he commented, feigning neutrality. "Wouldn't you?"

It took a moment, but ultimately, Janvier sighed, shaking his head in defeat.

"What is it that you want, then?" he asked, though he didn't meet Ludo's eye, and therefore missed Ludo's signature
brilliant, unrelenting smile.

"An invitation to tomorrow night's reception would be a delightful start," Ludo replied crisply, basking in the
promise of his return.
Le Château Perdu
Jardin des Tuileries
8:34 p.m.

"I'm not leaving this room," Draco muttered, pacing the floor. "Chance another run-in like the one in the lobby? No.
Absolutely not."

Hermione sighed. "It wasn't that bad," she said, thinking of the way Mel had quickly ushered Ron out of sight,
disappearing around the corridor along with at least a dozen cameras. "You need to relax."

"I will literally never do that," Draco shot back, looking positively luminous with impatience. "How can you
possibly relax, Granger? I'm going to die here," he determined, falling back against the small sofa in their suite's
sitting room. "I can feel it. All signs point to death."

A knock at the door signified their dinner's arrival and Hermione rose to her feet with a sigh, shaking her head at
where Draco sat slumped against the cushions.

"You're being dramatic," she informed him over her shoulder. "So Ron and Mel are here - so what? It's not like
anything's going to happen," she determined, pulling the door open. "They're busy, we're busy, and - "

She paused, falling silent as she realized that the figure in the doorframe was not (as she'd so foolishly hoped) a
representative of their dinner.

In fact, she wondered if Draco had not been right about their trip being fully apocalyptic.

"Hello, Miss Granger," Lucius Malfoy pronounced grimly, scanning her with displeasure. "Is my errant son at
home?"

a/n: Dedicated to brigittar, and happy birthday to kyonomiko and bottledhurricanes!

 18. This Isn't What It Looks Like

Chapter 18: This Isn't What It Looks Like

Le Château Perdu
Jardin des Tuileries
October 2, 2003
8:34 p.m.

At the sound of his father's voice, Draco glanced up with a lurch of surprise, catching the widening of Hermione's
eyes as she gaped wordlessly in the doorway.

"I," she began, and immediately faltered, her mouth opening and closing around bubbles of speech that failed to take
shape. "You - "

"As ever, Miss Granger, your wit becomes you," Lucius muttered in reply, nudging his way into the suite and
leaving her to stand vacantly in the doorway as he came to a halt in the sitting room, casting a deep sigh at the sight
of Draco on the sofa.

"Draco," he offered, with a cool, crisp cordiality.

"Hello, Father," Draco replied, deliberately shifting slowly to his feet. "You're looking well. I see your hairline's
barely receded," he added warmly.

Reflexively, Lucius' hand rose to the widow's peak on his forehead, his mouth corrupting itself in a scowl as he
dragged it back down, glaring at his son.

"Care to explain what you've been up to?" Lucius asked, and behind him, Hermione finally regained the presence of
mind to shut the door to their hotel room. She snuck over to the side table in the sitting room with her widened gaze
fixed on Lucius' back, ultimately making the inane decision to perch awkwardly on top of it and practicing her
ability to look very small.

Draco, meanwhile, resolutely shoved aside the feeling of being an oft-reprimanded child, opting to take a few steps
forward to meet his father's glare of displeasure.

"I don't particularly feel there's anything to explain," Draco replied. "Why - do you?" he posed casually, delighting
in watching his father's grey eyes dim with displeasure.

There was a particularly tortured silence before Hermione delicately cleared her throat, feigning a cough into her
hand.

"So," she ventured, with a heinously false brightness. "How are things?"

Draco, had he not been deep in the throes of a staring competition with his father, might have had to stifle a derisive
laugh at her expense, hearing the obvious, clanging angst that was so poorly hidden beneath facets of earnest
desperation. As it was, though, he waited for his father's response, stubbornly resolving to say nothing.

"Well," Lucius pronounced stiffly, his gaze sliding impatiently to Hermione, "as you might be aware, Miss Granger,
I'm rather unwelcome in British wizarding society these days. I've been seeking refuge with my cousin Thibaut in
Burgundy and very much staying out of my son's way," he added pointedly, turning back to Draco, "but seeing as
he's now opted to recklessly betroth himself to you without bothering to consult me - "

"Strangely," Draco interrupted loudly, "I don't consider you to have any particular bearing on my romantic life,
Father. I wasn't aware I was supposed to ask for your hand in addition to Gr-" he sighed. "Hermione's," he amended.
"And in any case, I don't see what you're so upset about," he lied, pointedly ignoring the immediate throbbing of the
stress-vein at Lucius' temple. "We're adults, Father, and if you recall, she's a bit of a war hero - "
"You know full well that there's a process to this," Lucius snapped in reply, as behind him, Hermione skeptically
mouthed 'bit of a war hero?' over his shoulder. "There's a process of courtship, Draco, as you know - a formal series
of negotiations, rituals, customs when it comes to marriage. Not to mention that it must be approved by the family -
"

"Ah yes, because the old pureblood ways have worked so well for us in the past," Draco retorted sourly, catching the
thunderstruck look of alarm on Hermione's face at the mention of courtship. "Certainly only minimally responsible
for casting us entirely out of favor, definitely not at all the source of unending consternation - "

"I think what Malf- what Draco is trying to say," Hermione inserted tepidly, "is that it was a bit of a spur of the
moment decision. But he's right," she added, a bit more firmly, in an expression so rare it struck Draco momentarily
wordless with surprise. "We're adults, and if we want to get married, it's really not your place to interfere. Which I
say respectfully, of course," she added hastily, with perhaps the least respect Draco had seen her show.

"Well," Lucius exhaled sharply. "First of all, Miss Granger, I do not wish to interfere - "

"Well isn't that just typical," Draco erupted, glaring at him. "Imagine that, my father bursting in, UNANNOUNCED,
to inflict his abominable will upon m-" he broke off, frowning. "Wait, did you say you didn't wish to interfere?"

"Yes," Lucius confirmed curtly, grimacing. "Or rather, I wish to, of course," he amended. "Frankly, I would like
very much to lock you both in this room until you inevitably come to your senses. This is obviously some ill-advised
plan to drive me into an early grave," he commented, glaring at Draco, "but the situation being what it is - "

"You mean the fact that it's such a publicized engagement," Hermione interrupted, finally unveiling her usual
antagonistic self and folding her arms over her chest. "You can't oppose it, can you? Not without subjecting yourself
to scrutiny and disapproval by the wizarding world," she warned, and pursed her lips. "Again."

"Yes, Miss Granger, bravo," Lucius muttered, rolling his eyes. "Once again, your cleverness positively astounds. I
cannot publicly oppose this union," he confirmed, turning to Draco, "but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you
disregard the Malfoy customs that have been in place for centuries. If this - " he made a face, his grey gaze flicking
back to Hermione. "If this girl is to be a Malfoy, then I expect you both to behave accordingly."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Draco demanded, cutting Hermione off before she could speak. "We're already
engaged, Father. I hardly think this is the time for some sort of stuffy betrothal oath," he scoffed, "and anyway, I'm
not some sort of peacock you're putting out for breeding - "

"On the contrary," Lucius pronounced tartly. "This is precisely the time for such things, Draco - and candidly, the
peacocks would be better behaved," he added under his breath, sparing a sniff of disdain. "In any case, Thibaut and
Hortense have already insisted on hosting you for a family dinner while you're in France - "

"Declined," Draco said loudly, as Hermione nodded her vigorous agreement. "Irrevocably. Fatally, in fact," he
amended, "because we're very busy, and also, we'd rather die - "

" - which you will attend," Lucius continued, ignoring him, "or I will be forced to speculate about what, exactly,
could be the driving force behind your highly unorthodox courtship." He paused, watching Draco's brow twitch with
apprehension. "After all, Draco," Lucius continued knowingly, "you're hardly the spontaneous type - so could it be
that you're both covering for something, perhaps? Surely this engagement couldn't be the result of - oh, I don't
know," he mused, playing at a highly irritating innocence. "Perhaps a proclivity for illegal boxing rings one of you
might have - or alternatively, some connection to a wide array of global magical assassinations?"

He waited expectantly, flashing a pale-faced Hermione a signature Malfoy smirk as Draco's innards lurched with
displeasure.

"I've been away, true," Lucius remarked, "but my sources were quick to talk. I know all about your little
underground hobbies, Miss Granger," he warned, lifting a brow in her direction before turning slyly to Draco, "and
you can hardly deny what you've been up to as of late, can you, Draco?"

For a moment, eyeing his father's triumphant smile, Draco thought about denying it; considered challenging Lucius
to prove it.

But then he caught Hermione's tight-lipped glare of caution and he let out a heavy sigh, conceding his losses.

"Fine. One dinner," he muttered. "Just one."

"Excellent," Lucius pronounced, nodding once before turning to the door. "I'll have Hortense send an owl
confirming. In the meantime, this oath," he ventured carefully, glancing over his shoulder, "has some rather serious
consequences. Pureblood binding rituals are not easily undone, and I would hope that neither of you is foolish
enough to harm either yourselves or the house of Malfoy over anything less than unshakable certainty." He paused,
seeming to catch the color Draco knew was draining from his face. "But what am I saying? Of course you're
certain," Lucius muttered facetiously, shaking his head. "After all, if this were not the purest, most devoted of loves,
then you couldn't possibly be so stupid as to undertake something as weighty as marriage, could you?"

Hermione and Draco said nothing, equally dumbstruck by the latest turn of events, and Lucius gave them both a
grim, darkened smile.

"Bring something nice," he instructed flatly. "Hortense will expect a gift. And as for you, Miss Granger - "

She stiffened apprehensively, half-stepping towards Draco, but Lucius only gave her a slow, calculated narrowing of
his already slitted eyes, scrutinizing her with a rigid stare of disapproval.

"Don't wear that," he sniffed.

And then, with a sharp turn of the knob, Lucius was gone.

The Underground
Diagon Alley
10:47 p.m

"So let me get this straight," Cad said, glancing between Theo and Blaise as he tightened the tape around his
knuckles. "You want me to help you attract the attention of the Club," he ventured, carefully flexing his fingers, "in
order to pass off this Lady Revel's magic as yours? That would be quite a con, lads."

"How hard could it possibly be? I'm an utter delight, as you know, and Antioch would like me," Theo reminded him,
lifting his chin with an absurd, incongruous defiance. "You said so yourself, didn't you?"

"Yes, well, what I meant," Cad corrected briskly, shaking his head, "is that he would like you, yes, but under
completely different circumstances. Without political influence, you're no use to him. You're talented, sure," he
added, shrugging, "but to Antioch, a person is only as useful as what he can get from them, and he can't get much
from someone on the fringes of society - "

"Hence using the secrets as the draw," Blaise supplied, glancing around before dropping his voice. "The details
about the extent of the magic itself are - " He waved a hand. "Hazy, at best. But in terms of value, with regard to
leverage, surely possessing them would be enough, wouldn't it? Countless people are implicated in them."

"It's certainly compelling," Cad permitted slowly. "I don't know if it's enough, but it's certainly worth hearing out.
The problem with your plan, though, is that you can't approach Antioch directly. He wouldn't bother with anyone
who sought him out," he warned. "Never has. You'd have to give him a reason to come to you."

"Well, you know your brother, don't you?" Blaise prompted knowingly. "You'd know exactly what would get his
attention, then, I'd imagine. If anything you say is true, that is," he challenged smoothly, and Cad arched a brow.

"You know," Cad murmured, "for someone who doesn't believe I am who I say I am, you seem rather invested in
this plan, Zabini." He paused, eyeing Theo's stoically blank expression, before turning back to Blaise. "Are you sure
you're willing to take that chance?"
Instinctively, Blaise's gaze flicked elsewhere in the room, catching on a glint of silver hair from the shadowed
corner.

"Yes," he said simply, and stiffened, gritting his teeth around loaded silence.

One Hour Earlier

"What are you doing here?" Blaise hissed, hurrying to the doorframe the moment he saw Parvati descend the stairs
from the Arsonist. He took hold of her arm, pulling her into a corner. "I told you to stay in my flat until I figured this
out - "

"And I," she returned coolly, "opted to decline." She glanced over his shoulder, surveying the room as she tucked a
lock of silvery-blonde hair behind her ear. "So this is some sort of underground fight club, then?" she asked him,
looking impressed. "Good for Seamus. Very on brand."

"You shouldn't be here," Blaise reminded her firmly. "This isn't exactly wholesome company."

"You don't say," Parvati murmured, pursing her lips. "Well, thank goodness you warned me," she added snippily,
"seeing as I haven't spent the last five years in a literal den of sin and therefore would no doubt have been led astray,
my pure, unbridled innocence feasted upon in the absence of your insightful guidance - "

"Stop," Blaise sighed. "The point stands. And besides, the key to getting away with - oh, I don't know, let's just say
for argument's sake some sort of mass-publicized theft and arson," he suggested sarcastically, "is to lay somewhat
low, Patil."

"I was looking for you," she told him, glowering. "Not throwing myself a parade."

"And you thought to come here?" he prompted. "How did you even know where I'd be?"

"Well, as you know, I have the Sight," she replied casually, but at his frown, she rolled her eyes. "I'm joking, Zabini.
It doesn't work like that."

"I'm aware - "

"You aren't," she corrected, "but don't bother. I worked for Dionisia Trelawney," she reminded him. "I had the
confidence of the most powerful woman in London's underground for years - so to say I have some idea where to
look when I'm trying to find someone with your proclivities is something of an understatement."

Blaise stifled a groan. "Is this urgent?" he asked. "I don't see why it couldn't wait. Even I don't care for it down
here."

"No," Parvati agreed. "A bit too grimy for a Princeling, isn't it?"

"Yes," he returned, shuddering. "Deeply."

"Well, I want to see this Cadmus Peverell person," she said, looking over his shoulder again. "Before you and Nott
make a deal with him, that is."

At once, Blaise deeply regretted having informed her of his plans. He'd never much enjoyed teamwork, and Parvati
inserting herself into Theo's suggestion of profiting from Dionisia's network of secrets by way of the Club was
hardly reassuring.

"Look," he muttered. "You talked me into taking the secrets. I did. You suggested I should stage a robbery to cover
my tracks? Fine," he pronounced grimly. "But at this point, don't you think you've done enough?"

"Unfortunately, no," Parvati retorted. "You might as well accept my help, Zabini, seeing as you're out of your
element here. Is that him?" she asked casually, glancing over Blaise's shoulder, but he didn't turn, distracted by what
she'd said.

"Out of my element?" he echoed gruffly, irritated. "Sweetheart, this is precisely my element."

"No it isn't," she replied, her attention still trained on someone behind him. "Don't get me wrong; you're an excellent
criminal," she remarked, her voice a highly patronizing tone of coaxing, "but this is more than ordinary crime,
because it isn't purely about money or influence. This is magic you can't understand, Zabini, because you don't
believe in it."

"Magic is magic," Blaise returned crisply. "Power is power. What's to understand?"

Slowly, her dark gaze slid back to him.

"I've dreamt about you," she told him, "at regular intervals, ever since I was a child. I've heard your voice since long
before I knew who you were, or what you would turn out to be. And before you say anything," she cautioned,
stopping him before he let out a scoff, "I'm not saying that to influence you. I'm just telling you that whether or not
you believe me, I have to try, because I've always known I would be responsible for your fate. And for the record,
that's not him," she added tangentially, prompting Blaise to finally turn, glancing at Cad.

"Do you mean to tell me that Cad isn't what he says he is?" he prompted drily, feigning disbelief. "Impossible. Cad,
not a centuries-old wizard who's been murdered three times and brought back to life from a rock by the Dark Lord?"
he drawled. "Surely he couldn't possibly be lying - "

"No," Parvati corrected, "he's precisely who he says he is; he's just not a threat to you. Not the threat to you,
anyway," she amended, frowning. "I saw someone else. But the point is, he's fine," she said with certainty, nodding.
"If you want to align with him, that's fine."

"I - " Blaise broke off, scowling at her tone. "I don't need your permission, Patil."

"True," she told him. "But you have it, if that helps."

"It doesn't," he lied firmly. "And now that you've satisfied some inane need to tell me precisely what I was already
going to do, you can go - "

"Actually, I think I'll stay," Parvati countered, rejecting him as flippantly as if he'd offered her a drink or a napkin
instead of a highly sensible suggestion. "You may be a first-rate criminal, Princeling, but your house is far more
boring than Dionisia's. If I'm going to be kept in a cage," she said pointedly, giving him an unnerving stare, "I'd like
to at least be kept entertained."

"You're not in a cage," he told her. "I just think it would be wiser for you to stay out of the way - which, shockingly,
I don't find unreasonable," he added.

Parvati, however, seemed to disagree.

"You think a lot of conflicting things, actually," she commented. "You think this Cad person is a fraud, but you also
think he's the solution to your problems. You think I'm a fraud, too," she murmured, glancing pointedly up at him,
"but you protect me regardless, don't you?"

"I'm not protecting you. At least not the way you make it sound," Blaise corrected, shaking his head. "I'm just not
stupid enough to let someone who knows I'm guilty of something wander around with people of questionable
intentions. And speaking of intentions, I don't have to believe Cad's story in order to consider him useful," he
continued. "In fact, I find that the less I trust a person, the better I'm able to work with them. Occupational hazard,"
he added. "Keeps me from making the mistake of relying on them."

"Well, how wonderfully evolved," Parvati remarked skeptically, looking discreetly annoyed. "But still, Zabini.
Either I'm in your keeping or I'm not," she warned, "and if I'm not, you can't stop me from being here."

He groaned. "Fine," he pronounced unhappily. "But just stay, I don't know - out of the way, would you?" he
prompted. "If you're going to be here, I'm keeping an eye on you. I certainly don't like the look of anyone here," he
muttered, glancing around the room. "This place is seedy as fuck."

"There you go again," she said neutrally. "Protecting me. You do know I can take care of myself, don't you?"

"I know it," he replied. "I just don't care. And I stand by what I said," he added. "I'm not protecting you - it would
just be incredibly negligent of me to let you run around knowing what you know."

"Mm," Parvati murmured. "So you don't trust me either, then?"

"Of course I don't trust you," Blaise retorted. "A deal made on the basis of a favor isn't exactly the most reliable
thing in the world. I'm only not actively worrying about you because you have just as much to lose as I do," he
cautioned. "More than, actually, if I'm correct in assuming that whatever secret Dionisia took from you was enough
to bind you to her service."

Instantly, Parvati's expression turned from a playful smirk to a grimace wrought with fury, tension bristling up her
spine.

"I'm willing to be your friend, Zabini," she warned, "but I'm not your fucking tool. If you even think about using me
like one - "

"I wouldn't," he cut in. "But don't think that this is some sort of 'kindness of the heart' arrangement. You're useful,
Patil," he reminded her. "You're knowledgeable. But there's such a thing as knowing too much, and I'm certain
you're guilty of it."

By then, her expression had more than soured.

"Have your meeting, then," she determined bluntly. "Make your deals. Fetch me when you're ready to put me back
in my cage," she muttered, turning away.

"Patil," Blaise attempted, sighing after her. "Come on - "

But she didn't turn around. She walked away, settling herself in the corner without once sparing him another glance,
and left him to wonder whether he'd made a terrible mistake even as he and Theo approached Cad, trying to sell him
on their idea.

"You know for someone who doesn't believe I am who I say I am, you seem rather invested in this plan, Zabini,"
Cad commented, with his usual too-slippery tone. "Are you sure you're willing to take that chance?"

Blaise glanced at where Parvati sat in the room, kicking himself internally for what felt like the many, many chances
he'd already unwisely taken.

"Yes," he replied, and wondered where this inadvisable course of action would take him.

Nicholas Flamel was no stranger to necessity. Much of his life had been spent purely fixated on the need, for
example, to survive, which in the fourteenth century was already no easy task. Even the most talented of wizards
were barely living into their second century of life, and Nicholas, who much preferred to be called Nico, did not find
the prospect of an ordinary, haggard existence to be something worth striving for. True, his Philosopher's Stone was
somewhat elementary compared to what the Peverell Brothers had managed, but at least Nico knew the necessity of
making the right friends.

At first, that's all Ignotus Peverell was - the right friend.

"Sure, you could continue alchemy," Ignotus had suggested, noting Nico's influence and popularity among the
wizarding elite in Paris. "But what would be the point of simply commercializing your findings?"

Money, Nico had wanted to point out, and fame, but he suspected the youngest Peverell - who had a constant crease
of cogitation between his furrowed brows and regularly blurted out anxieties about the possible meaning of human
existence - wouldn't be capable of understanding something as mundane as marketable success.

Instead, Nico allowed Ignotus to convince him to leave his life behind and shrug on relative anonymity, passing the
Philosopher's Stone off to his wife Perenelle and her then-lover Corneille. Nico had married Perenelle for the
purpose of her money (she, a clever witch, had already snatched two fortunes from the cooling corpses of her prior
husbands), and she had chosen him for the freedom he permitted; but when presented with his plans, both agreed
that it was better for her to stay behind, and for Corneille to simply (under the constraints of a banal financial
agreement) adopt Nico's identity.

"Who the fuck is this?" Cadmus had asked upon meeting Nico, establishing himself as the indisputable worst of the
three brothers right from the start. "Don't tell me this is that tedious alchemist."

"I can hear you," Nico informed him sourly, to which Cadmus spared him half a second's irritated glance.

"Oh good," Cadmus muttered to Ignotus. "So he can hear."

"Don't be rude, Cadmus," Antioch cut in sharply, giving his brother a glare so effortless that Nico could see
immediately that the eldest brother was the one in charge, though Cadmus seemed consummately unbothered by his
presence. "Now, Nicholas," Antioch continued, turning to Nico, "may I ask what attracted you to our particular - "
he paused, clearing his throat. "Pursuits?"

"I found him," Ignotus supplied, looking up from something he'd been mindlessly sketching. "He's fairly well known
in Paris. Something of a local legend, actually."

"Oh," Cadmus chimed in at a drawl, "so Beedle got to you too, then?"

"Who?" Nico asked, already hating him immensely, and Antioch gave an irritated groan.

"Ignore him," he said flatly. "He's terrible."

"So true," Cadmus agreed, shrugging. "Frankly, I think they're both gearing up to kill me."

"And it won't be too soon," Antioch snapped, glaring at him. "But in any case," he said, deliberately smoothing his
voice over to address Nico, "what exactly are you hoping for from us?"

"Um," Nico began, sparing Ignotus a sidelong glance. "I suppose I just want to be part of whatever you're working
on. Ignotus is right," he added firmly, and the youngest Peverell beamed his approval. "Alchemy is very limited, and
I'd rather not be constrained to, you know, a rock. If you all have immortality worked out to some invariably more
effective degree, then that's what I'm here for."

Ignotus nodded vigorously, turning to his eldest brother. "I think it's worth having Nico on board," he said. "He's
great with people, first of all, and he's very clever with potions, and - "

"Is this a thing?" Cadmus interrupted, gesturing between Nico and Ignotus. "You two. What is this?"

"Oh hell, Cadmus," Antioch sighed, as Ignotus flushed a deep, plum-colored tint of horror. "Do you possess any
capacity for subtlety whatsoever?"

"Not remotely," Cadmus quipped unnecessarily, and Ignotus sighed.

"We're not - together," he supplied firmly; too firmly, in Nico's view. "I just admire Nico's intellect, that's all. We've
been communicating via owl for several months now, and he's been very helpful with my research on precious
metals and magical consisten-"

"Owls," Cadmus scoffed, propping his feet up on the table and leaning back in his chair. "It's nearly the sixteenth
century. You'd think we'd have come up with a better system of communication by now - "
"I'm simply interested in working together," Nico supplied loudly, sparing Ignotus a nod. "I believe I'm an asset to
you, and you are all naturally an asset to me. I'm not asking for anything more than to be part of your research."

But he was lying, of course, and heartily, because he'd been attracted to Ignotus since the beginning. The youngest
Peverell brother was a quieter sort of handsome than the other two, a little bit more delicate; while Antioch was so
alarmingly attractive and brawny as to be entirely intimidating and Cadmus maintained a masterfully carved set of
features and a sly, clever sort of sensuality to all of his movements, Ignotus was ethereal, elegantly crafted, with a
youthful face and a mouth that was always so temptingly pursed in thought. He was brilliant, too, and that was the
most alluring bit of all; Nico had never met anyone who rivaled his intelligence even remotely, and to be in the
presence of Ignotus Peverell was to be made a fool a dozen times over, though Ignotus had never once made him
feel diminished for it.

However easy their friendship was at the start, though, eternity is a rather long time, and therefore what would
eventually become the league dedicated to its pursuit was bound for constant evolution. As times changed, so did the
nature of Nico and Ignotus' relationship.

Nico was among the first to support Antioch's venture into politics, having always considered himself a philosopher
of sorts. Naturally, it wasn't much of a stretch to connect their improbable abilities with political venues. It was
during these times, oddly enough, that Ignotus turned more fervently to Nico; perhaps because his brothers were so
incompatibly at odds. The further Antioch reached for power, the more Cadmus was secretive, sullen, resistant. It
was obvious even to Nico that things were declining, and the more that Ignotus was caught in the middle, the more
desperately he came to Nico for stability.

Ignotus was always just out of reach, though; just slightly too oblivious to notice when Nico was staring at the curve
of his lips as he ran his quill across it, and just marginally too distracted not to notice how close they sat to each
other, poring over their respective books. It was a source of constant frustration, but Nico took what he could get -
and luckily, too, because it didn't last. Once Cadmus had been killed (the third time), Ignotus was far too devoted to
his cause to even look up from his manic scrawling, unless a purely academic argument was to be had.

"Something's wrong with him," Nico said in muttered tones to Antioch, the only person he suspected would care.
"Ignotus has always been obsessive and withdrawn, but this - "

"You don't know what it is to lose a brother," Antioch cut in sharply. "You can hardly understand this."

"But you hated Cadmus," Nico reminded him bluntly, and Antioch flashed him a look of annoyance.

"He is still my brother," he said, and shook himself. "He was my brother," he amended, "and more importantly, he
was a genuinely talented wizard. Better than me; perhaps better than Ignotus. If he ever finds his way back - "

"Which he won't," Nico interrupted, suffering a warning chill. "Will he?"

"You'd better hope not," Antioch replied. "If Cadmus ever returns, you can be certain he'll kill Ignotus first. And
then you, for fun," he added with a laugh, "seeing as you've never been anything but an annoyance to him."

"You really think he won't come for you?" Nico countered, bristling, and Antioch scoffed.

"He will, of course," Antioch assured him, "but I know my brother better than anyone on earth. I had years with him
that Ignotus did not, and I know the workings of his mind. He and I know each other so well, in fact, that what will
drive him to madness first is that he'll understand my motives - he'll know why I did everything I did, however he
might hate it. But it will be Ignotus he doesn't understand," Antioch concluded flatly, "and therefore, it will be
Ignotus he doesn't forgive."

Nico thought of Ignotus curled up on his bed the last few nights, arms tucked around his legs like a child as he
muttered to himself - to his brother - under his breath: I'm sorry - I had to - there was no other way.

"So you've set your youngest brother up for failure, then," Nico noted, scowling. "You know his conscience will
suffer this for centuries, and if that doesn't destroy him, then Cadmus Peverell will."
"Cadmus is dead," Antioch said firmly. "Ignotus and I made sure of that."

But for Ignotus, the ghost of Cadmus Peverell could not be put to rest.

"He was an obstacle," Ignotus protested, "wasn't he? If our mission was to stand, if our sacrifices were to be
successful, he had to stay gone, didn't he?"

"You're torturing yourself," Nico told him firmly, wishing, as he always did, to smooth the furrow between Ignotus'
brows. "You keep looking for meaning, Ignotus, like you'll discover something that's missing, but all there is is the
truth: that Cadmus would have killed you and Antioch had you not done away with him first."

"Self-preservation," Ignotus muttered, sighing. "The most prosaic of all possible motives."

"Not everything can be the basis of some grand morality arc," Nico replied. "As an immortal, Ignotus, you should
know that sometimes survival - that necessity, rather," he amended, "is lofty enough as a goal."

"You're right," Ignotus said quietly, but Nico could see, even then, that the other man had not truly believed him.

The fiasco with Lady Revel that happened later was more painful than Nico could have ever imagined. Perhaps it
was his fault; he'd mistakenly thought of Ignotus as an asexual creature, craving nothing more than knowledge and
answers and books, only to find out he was wrong. Either way, there was something terrifying that stabbed
relentlessly in Nico's chest at the knowledge that there was, in fact, someone (besides Antioch and Cadmus, whom
Nico finally realized he envied as much as he despised) that Ignotus Peverell could love.

Nico, as Ignotus' best friend, had been tasked with keeping the affair secret.

Unfortunately for Ignotus, some secrets (such as the ones kept for one's unrequited love) were simply too toxic to
hold.

"This Lady Revel," Antioch began gruffly, steepling his fingers at his mouth. "Do you think it's serious?"

"I do," Nico replied, with a pang of both guilt and longing. "I think he believes he loves her."

"Idiot," Antioch scoffed, rising to his feet. "I'll take care of it, then."

"Will you kill her?" Nico asked hopefully, and Antioch stiffened, pausing.

"Not yet," he said. "I may have need of her in the future. But until then - "

"You cannot tell him," Nico blurted in precisely the same moment that Antioch said the same thing, subsequently
arching a brow with interest.

"And why not?" Antioch prompted. "Don't tell me you fear Ignotus' wrath, Nicholas."

Nico flinched, saying nothing.

"Ah, well," Antioch sighed. "Cadmus would have something to say here, but I don't have time for mindless
unpleasantries. This stays between us, Nico. Not a word."

"Yes," Nico murmured, bowing his head. "Yes, it stays with us."

But whatever seed Dionisia Trelawney had planted in Ignotus' conscience - in his head, or disgustingly, in his heart -
did not dissipate with her loss. Instead Ignotus became even more moody and withdrawn, as if a piece of him were
now missing, severed from his existence by her absence.

It was a piece that Nico very much longed to reclaim.

"I'm running an errand," Ignotus said without looking at Nico, which could have been equally due to Nico's recent
disfigurement or to Ignotus' obvious lies. "I'll be back tomorrow."
"Ignotus," Nico urged, furtively vanishing the Daily Prophet containing the article about Dionisia's death with his
wand concealed in his sleeve, "where are you going?"

"Nowhere," Ignotus replied, but Nico rose to his feet, gripping his arm.

"I saw you send an owl to one of the Zodiacs," he said worriedly, referencing the muscle trained and favored by the
Club. "Does Antioch know?" he pressed, guessing that the answer was no, and Ignotus stiffened. "If you're planning
to kill someone, Ignotus, just tell me. It's me," Nico pleaded softly. "Ignotus, it's me."

Beneath his touch, Ignotus slowly softened, letting out a breath.

"I'm going to Paris," he finally said. "It's nothing. It doesn't concern you. I'll bring you back those croissants you
like," he added, and Nico waited, searching for any indication of more information, before nodding slowly.

"You'd better," he muttered, drawing a hand to his face, and promptly recoiled, lamenting the rubbery feel of his
skin.

At the motion, Ignotus glanced up warily, his gaze slowly resting on Nico's mangled face. "I'm so sorry about what
happened," Ignotus said sadly, his voice a now-rare, blissfully recognizable timbre of affection. "I promise, I'll fix it
for you, Nico."

Nico swallowed, savoring the cool weight of Ignotus' gaze on his cheek.

"An antidote, you mean?" he asked hazily, and the corners of Nico's mouth hitched.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, of course. An antidote, as soon as I'm back."

He reached up, nearly touching his fingers to Nico's jaw, and then, abruptly, he pulled back with a nod, placing that
morning's Prophète on the table and sparing Nico another hurried goodbye, ducking his head out the door.

Nico glanced down and frowned, noting a page missing from the newspaper.

"Montague," he called, waiting for the elf's appearance beside him. "Do you have this morning's copy of the
Prophète?"

The elf snapped his fingers, wordlessly presenting it to Nico, and he glanced down, skimming the material from the
page Ignotus had removed.

A reception is planned to honor Enchanteur Desroches, the article read, which is to be attended by a variety of
international guests, including British celebrities and bona fide ambassadors Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger
-

"He didn't," Nico gasped aloud, groaning, and understood now with a thud of frustration what I'll fix it for you had
meant. "Antioch is going to be furious," he added, and glanced down at Montague, who shrugged dispassionately in
response.

"Is that all you's wanting, Master Nico?" Montague asked drily, and Nico grimaced, considering it.

He was no stranger to necessity, and he knew what it was to make the right friends, which meant that he also knew
what it was not to make terrible enemies. An unauthorized execution by Ignotus would almost certainly cause a rift
between him and Antioch, and two more Peverells divided was not something Nico could stand to watch.

Or worse, be made a casualty to.

"Get my cloak," Nico sighed, as Montague gave him a stiff nod. "It looks like I'm going to Paris."

Les Catacombes de Paris

Cour des étoiles
October 3, 2003
9:13 p.m.

"I wish I'd worn a different dress," Hermione muttered, adjusting the lining of her rose-colored beaded gown. "I
mean, it's very lovely, and I do quite like that the designer doesn't use house elves for labor, but - " She paused,
glancing over at Draco, who was staring absently into the crowd. "I take it my fashion commentary doesn't thrill
you?"

"Hm?" he asked, glancing dazedly at her. "You look nice, Granger, don't fish."

"I'm not fishing," she grumbled, rolling her eyes. "You're not listening."

"Well, imagine that," he retorted, raising his glass to his lips. "A visit from my estranged father followed by a stuffy
gala in the catacombs, plus the constant, loathsome threat of Weasley's presence hanging over my head? Tell me
more about the exquisite beading," he drawled, and Hermione sighed.

"I thought you and your father had a good relationship," she commented. "What happened to, you know, the good
old days of 'my father will hear about this' - "

"Well, had is the operative term, isn't it?" Draco retorted sourly. "It's a bit difficult not to resent him for the whole
'inviting a Dark Lord to live with us' thing. Not to mention that possessing his name, his face, his legacy - " he
trailed off, shrugging. "Much as I know my ostracization is entirely my own fault, it's just a tad difficult not to credit
him for the initial fuckery."

Hermione frowned. "Well, what about your moth-"

"Do you see that?" Draco interrupted, pointing over her shoulder. "Over there, with Janvier. Is that who I think it
is?"

Hermione opened her mouth, about to protest his obvious avoidance of Narcissa when she, too, was distracted by the
familiar figure.

"Is that Ludo Bagman?" she asked, squinting. "I thought he was wanted by goblins or something."

"He is," Draco confirmed, thoughtfully sipping his glass of wine. "Though I think they wrote him off once he
disappeared. Probably more trouble than he was worth, to be honest."

"Apparently Janvier disagrees," Hermione commented, watching the Auror introduce Ludo to the newly-ordained
Enchanteur Desroches. "He looks like he's a guest of the Ministry."

"How unspeakably preposterous," Draco scoffed. "And yet here we are, almost not entirely criminals, forced to
linger cartoonishly across the room - "

"Speaking of criminality," she interrupted, turning to him, "should we have a look upstairs?"

"Always trying to get me upstairs, Granger," Draco remarked, setting his glass down on a floating tray. "Honestly,
do you have any idea how difficult it is to be this beautiful? Salazar's tits, it's as if I'm constantly objectified - "

"You're constantly obnoxious is what you are," Hermione corrected, reaching up to adjust his tie. "Would you stand
still, please?" she said disapprovingly, as he swatted her hand away. "You're entirely crooked."

"Oh, so now I'm crooked, too?" he muttered, letting her adjust his tie with a groan before reaching down to pluck a
bit of lint from her dress. "There's no winning with you, Granger, honestly - "

"You know, I tried out Cad's modified Revelio earlier," she continued, ignoring him. "It's a really powerful
enchantment - and I hate to say it, considering I don't treasure the idea of needing someone else's spellwork," she
sighed, withering internally, "but he's not exactly useless."
"Well, you're welcome for thinking to ask him for it," Draco returned. "I take it you're confident it'll reveal any
surveillance charms, then?"

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, placing her hand on his arm and sparing an indulgent smile at the other guests as they
worked their way around the outskirts of the room, making their way towards the Ministry's grand staircase. "Of
course, I've got a few tricks of my own," she added, bringing her left hand up for his scrutiny. "I imbued the
diamond with the spell so that I can keep my wand hand free."

"Ah yes, the diamond," Draco agreed, nodding approvingly at the sight of the engagement ring on her hand. "Make
good use of that."

"You know, on the one hand, I absolutely despise how showy it is," she told him, glancing down at the irrefutably
unnecessary size of the stone, "but on the other, I am rather tickled that I could probably kill a man with it."

"That was the goal," Draco reminded her curtly, and paused. "Well," he amended, "primarily, the goal was to buy
you a ring Weasley could never afford, but then secondly that it be concussive in a pinch, so - "

"I don't understand why you continue to pester him," Hermione remarked, and then shuddered without warning, an
eerie bristling at the back of her neck slithering through her limbs like a change in the wind. "Do you feel like
something's off?" she asked, not sure yet how to put the sensation into words. "Something feels strange - "

"What, is it your understanding of the word 'pester'?" Draco countered. "Because it's Weasley who pesters me,
Granger, whilst I in turn manage - against all odds, I might add - to carry on living my life despite his totally
irrational opposition to me - "

"I just feel like - " she paused, grimacing, and came to a halt. "Stop for a second."

"Fine," Draco sniffed, falling still beside her. "But not because you said to. Because I want to."

"Shut up," she snapped, beginning to move again. "There," she murmured, glancing across the room. "I think we're
being watched. Followed, possibly? Something's odd," she said firmly. "It's like something in the crowd's not
moving the way it should be."

"How delightfully vague," Draco remarked carelessly. "And back to the ring - "

"Yes, about the ring," Hermione agreed, sparing another glance around the room before nudging him up the stairs.
"What are you going to do with it when we, you know - don't get married?"

"Use it to identify enchantments, obviously," Draco pointed out, raising her hand and watching the diamond
glimmer, refracting panes of light from the chandelier above. "Speaking of, what'll it do when it encounters one?"

"Turn red," Hermione supplied, turning left down the wide corridor. "Figuring out how to disengage the surveillance
charm from there will be a challenge, of course, but it's not like Cad's the only person in the world who knows how
to - "

She paused again, stiffening, and was certain this time of someone else's presence in the corridor, the ring on her
finger glowing a low, pulsing crimson.

"Malfoy," she said quietly, tucking her hand behind her back, "do you trust me?"

"Not at all," he quipped without pause. "Why?"

"Go back downstairs," she instructed loudly, giving him a brusque shove back around the corridor and
surreptitiously drawing her wand from her purse to flick her wrist, wordlessly disillusioning him and hoping he'd
take the hint. "I'll head upstairs alone."

She stepped forward, attempting to cover her wand. "I know you're here," she continued. "Whoever you are, and
whatever you want, you might as well show yourself, or - "
She grimaced as her concealed hand flew up from her side, propelling her forward along with the motion of her arm
as jer wand sang through the air, landing in the waiting palm of a man she didn't recognize. He and his suit (which
even she had to admit was impeccably pressed) materialized a few feet in front of her, a slight smile pulling at his
lips as he tucked her wand into his pocket.

"Observant," he commented approvingly. "Though not enough to protect your wand, obviously."

Hermione hesitated, scanning the room. "Who are you?" she asked, looking around for something else to use as a
weapon, but he seemed to catch the direction of her gaze.

"It's over," he told her flatly, taking the few steps to reach her. "And I'm your worst nightmare, Hermione Granger."

"Terrible line," she informed him, stalling. "And anyway, unless you're some sort of human manifestation of my
crippling fear of failure or - I don't know," she muttered, wondering if the vase in the corner could be lifted, "my
lurking abandonment complex, I really don't think you have any idea about my nightmares - "

He cut her off with a motion so sharp it sounded like the crack of a whip, his wand rising in the air, and she
countered with the plane of her forearm smacking against the apex of his wrist, ducking beneath the motion to knock
the wand from his hand. He looked startled - surprised - and then smiled, curling his hand around the motion of his
lips as she kicked the wand down the corridor, just out of reach.

"I wasn't told you'd fight back," he commented, turning back to her.

"Pity. I find I'm consistently underestimated," she replied, and ducked forward as he lunged towards her, his arm
slamming into the wall behind her. He let out a hiss of displeasure and she came back up sharply, aiming the apex of
her elbow directly into the back of his neck and forcing his forehead into the wall with one swift blow before he
grabbed her hard, half-throwing her into the wall on the opposite side of the corridor.

"The element of surprise is helpful," he muttered, watching her struggle to her feet after the hard collision between
her head and the wall, "but not quite enough, I'm afraid."

She flicked her gaze over him, noting the constellation she hadn't noticed before on the lapel of his suit, and
staggered forward, cutting him off before he could reach his wand.

"Well, let's see," she ventured, and took hold of his tie, yanking him forward to hit him hard in the gut and then
jamming her fist directly into his nose, hitching her dress up and kicking him in the stomach to propel his fall as his
head dropped back from the impact. "How's that for a surprise?"

He rebounded from the wall with inexplicable ease, smearing the blood from his nose onto the arm of his suit before
tackling her without finesse, slamming her into the floor and punching directly into her face, seemingly as
retribution. She shifted her head, jerking it aside, and he let out a cry of pain, his knuckles shattering against the
floor where her face should have been. She reached for his tie - thank goodness for formalwear, she thought, just as
she heard a seam rip up the slit of her gown, both of them rolling over the beads that flew from it - and used it to
yank his forehead against the floor, snaking her arm around his head and forcing him into a headlock.

Her victorious hold lasted about ten seconds; he was, after all, considerably larger and heavier than she was, and he
picked her up with little effort, none-too-gently flinging her against the opposite wall as she let out a loud cry of
pain, a slight ringing manifesting in her ears. She stumbled forward, dizzied, but he slammed her back again, leaving
her to catch a hazy glimpse of something glittering just below her line of sight.

"Oh, right, of course," she murmured to herself, and brought her left fist to the side of his face, smiling with
approval as the stupidly too-large diamond Draco had insisted she get for an engagement ring shattered the bone in
the man's jaw, sending him backwards. She took a step forward as he staggered back and used her entire body
weight - and all her remaining strength, which was admittedly limited - to get him on the floor, wincing at another
tear in the fabric and half-tripping over him as the tiny iridescent beads spilled across the rug.

"This," she said, kicking him hard in the kidney and then dropping to straddle him, syncopating each word with
another punch to his rapidly bloodied face, "is - an - expensive - dress," she muttered, watching his eyelids flutter
shut. "You - utter - arsehole - "

"Slow down there, Granger," she heard Draco drawl behind her, his voice a strangely comforting relief. "I haven't
gotten my hits in yet. Always so selfish," he lamented with a sigh, and she glanced over her shoulder, brushing her
hair out of her eyes.

"How many hits do you need, Malfoy?" she panted, as a low, whimpered moan slipped from the assassin's lips
beneath her, and Draco smiled darkly.

"Just one," he promised, holding up a thin glass vial.

"Ah," she murmured, nodding. "Okay."

She let him take hold of her arm, using him to steady her own rising, and then watched as he bent to administer the
potion, prying the man's lips open to hold his head steady before pouring the liquid down his throat. Draco stepped
back, his grey eyes hard with malice as the man choked, coughing, and then let out a stifled cry of anguish, his eyes
rolling back in his head.

"A bit of distance would be wise, Granger," Draco advised, coaxing her backwards, and within seconds - within
unsteady blinks - the man before them withered to nothing with a crackle of spark and ash, leaving behind only the
suit with the constellation on the lapel.

She waited a minute, breathing hard, and then stepped forward, stumbling to pluck her wand from the inside of the
body-less suit before permitting Draco to hold her steady against his chest.

"Taurus," she mumbled to herself, finally regaining her equilibrium as she recognized the symbol, but Draco didn't
seem to have heard her.

"Did you have fun?" he asked, and she glanced up, catching his knowing smirk.

"Oh, a little," she admitted. "Where've you been, by the way? Took you long enough."

"Eh, I tried, but I couldn't get a clear shot," he replied casually, his lips very nearly quirking into a smile. "You fight
so messy, Granger. It's all such gratuitous gore."

"You're right," she agreed, surveying her ruined dress. "I suppose I should have told him to get his horse and meet
me outside so we could sort it out like gentlemen."

"Granger," Draco sighed, "gentlemen don't require horses. What is this, your first day?"

"Oh good," they heard behind them, and both froze, recognizing the familiar voice.

"I see you two are still in love, then," commented Nico Flamel, and Hermione stiffened, clenching an angered fist
with her left hand.

"Kill him this time?" Draco prompted in her ear, his fingers tightening around his wand as his free hand dug into her
waist, and she nodded.

"Might as well make it two for two," she murmured in agreement, pivoting with her wand outstretched.

a/n: Well, sometimes I have to claw for my writing time. Life's calamities! Look at it this way - less than a week until
the next chapter. Better, right? And for the record, if you're ever wondering where an update is, just check the #psa
tag on my tumblr. I will always tell you if there's a delay.

Dedicated to cocoartist (who basically made my week), gurrenn, and darthtater08 (be careful what you wish for,
friend, because I'm definitely going to do a kitchen sponge AU and everyone is going to be sorry...)
 19. Interspecies Romance

Chapter 19: Interspecies Romance

Les Catacombes de Paris

Cour des étoiles
October 3, 2003
10:15 p.m.

The face of the man whose voice belonged to Nico Flamel was devastatingly contorted, mangled beyond recognition
and a bit singed at the edges, forever ruining most oven-baked pastries for Hermione as she aimed her wand square
at the center of his forehead.

"You look upset," he remarked, raising his hands in the air and jutting his chin out towards the empty suit that lay on
the floor. "Will it help if I offer to explain who that is? Was, I suppose," he amended, shuddering. "For the record,
you two are far more problematic than you look."

"Problematic doesn't begin to cover it," Draco muttered, casting a silent Accio and summoning the other man's
wand, which flew directly from Nico's pocket into his hand. "You look good, by the way," he added, with the ghost
of a sneer that Hermione half-remembered from their school days. "Any last words, Flamel?"

"Oh please," Nico scoffed. "You and I both know you're not going to kill me so long as I still have answers.
Besides," he added, "you have my wand, there's two of you, and you've already disfigured me. I don't take either of
you for the type to kick me while I'm down."

"That," Hermione pronounced stiffly, "is fully incorrect."

"Yes," Draco contributed. "I have almost no morals, and will thus quite happily kick you at any given time, down or
otherwise."

"Well, I let you two sentimental idiots speak, didn't I?" Nico reminded them. "I should think I deserve some similar
sort of credence - "

"Oh, yes, silly us," Draco drawled, "because that worked out so well for you, didn't it? Hardly any chronically
horrifying repercussions - "

"And regardless, we don't have time for that," Hermione snapped. "In case you missed it, someone just tried to kill
us. There could easily be more people after us at this party, so - "

"There aren't," Nico cut in, his mouth forming something of a grimace. "This is - was," he sighed, "Taurus. One of
the Zodiac Killers."

"Zodiac Killer?" Hermione echoed, frowning, and Nico shook his head.

"Zodiac Killers," he emphasized. "As in more than one. Twelve, in fact. They work for the Club," he clarified, a bit
smugly. "We have our own assassins, naturally. The twelve most highly skilled contract killers in the world."

"Ha," Draco sniffed, in what Hermione considered to be an insanely inappropriate moment for vanity. "Hardly."

"Seems like an odd choice for a Club with political aspirations to name its assassins after something as frivolous as
astrology," Hermione commented, biding her time to draw Nico into further admission without lowering her wand.
"Were all the other pseudo-magics taken?"

"Of course you would say that," Nico muttered. "What are you, a Virgo?"

"She fully is," Draco confirmed, and Hermione elbowed him sharply, shaking her head.
"Why would one of your assassins be after us?" she demanded. "We had a visit from someone we're quite sure was
in the Club," she began, careful not to admit her certainty of Antioch's identity, "and - "

"Yes, yes, you guessed correctly," Nico said, rolling his eyes. "It was Antioch Peverell. He's decided to make you
two do the legwork on this one. Unsurprisingly," he added airily, "considering he's having trouble conjuring his own
ability to care - "

"So then why would he want us killed?" Hermione posed roughly, and Draco, to her surprise, let out a highly ill-
timed chuckle, slowly lowering his wand to survey Nico with a lofty expression of expectancy.

"He didn't, but someone did," Draco commented, "and I do believe our new friend Nico is protecting whoever that
someone was, Granger. It's a him, I imagine?" he guessed, and Nico scowled. "Lucky for you, we're very
progressive, having been born in the century just prior to this one and not, you know, several ago - "

"You," Nico muttered with a glare, "are truly the worst person I've ever met. Well, close," he amended, mumbling to
himself. "Cadmus Peverell's almost as bad, though he never tried to take my face off, and thankfully he's dead - "

"You're protecting someone," Hermione cut in, pointedly skirting the reference to Cad. "Who in the Club would
stand against Antioch? Except for - " She broke off knowingly, catching the motion of Nico's gaze darting away.
"His brother Ignotus, of course - "

"Ah, brothers attempting to kill each other," Draco sighed nostalgically. "It's all so comfortingly biblical, don't you
think?"

"They're not trying to kill each other," Nico corrected, grimacing. "There's simply been a highly understandable
breakdown of communication - "

"Breakdown of communication?" Hermione echoed skeptically, arching a brow. "Sounds more like authority is
unraveling."

"It isn't," Nico snapped. "Naturally there are issues involved that are far more complex than either of you can
possibly understand, but suffice it to say that Antioch has not seen fit to involve Ignotus in this particular project.
Ignotus, therefore, took it upon himself to target you as retribution for my own suffering - "

"Because you're in love," Draco guessed, "right?"

"First of all - "

"Frankly," Hermione interrupted loudly, cutting Nico off, "I just find it totally bewildering why Antioch wouldn't
simply tell Ignotus that we were working on his behalf. Wouldn't it only help the investigation to have everyone
involved?"

"Well," Nico said uncomfortably, "that's not entirely the case. There is such a thing as a need-to-know basis, you
know, and besides, there's also the issue of your - "

He trailed off, clearly hedging, and Draco made a familiar noise of impatience.

"Our what?" he prompted irritably. "Our roguish good looks?"

"Surely not our transcendent humility," Hermione muttered to Draco, rolling her eyes, and Nico let out a growl.

"Putting it simply, Ignotus cannot know of your connection to Lady Revel," he finally delivered, dropping his voice.
"Nor can he know that I've interfered on your behalf in order to tell you that."

"Well, you didn't actually interfere," Hermione reminded him pointedly. "Taurus was already dead."

"Yes, well, I'd have called it off," Nico sniffed, "if you two hadn't been so hell-bent on making a total mess, per
usual - "
"Yes, and speaking of making a mess," Draco interrupted darkly, "why should Granger let you live this time? You
offered information and now we have it, which in my view means you bargained rather ineffectively for your life,"
he reminded Nico, and the other man's expression soured even beyond its contorted state. "There's no reason not to
kill you now, considering our very understandable opposition to you. Not to mention that she's incredibly
bloodthirsty," he added, gesturing to Hermione. "Candidly, it's unsettling - "

"The last time we met," Nico attempted, "you told me that I must have thought about my own death before. About
what I would say if I were dying?" he prompted, reminding them, and Draco made a face.

"Don't know if you noticed," he grumbled, "but firstly, I was sort of trying to save my own life at the time, and
secondly, I subsequently lived, so - "

"Yes," Nico agreed, "but what I'm telling you now is that I have thought about it, countless times. I have thought
about what I would want to say, and who I'd want to say it to. And the truth is," he exhaled, "whether it influences
your decision or not, if I die protecting Ignotus, then it will be the one thing worth dying for."

Hermione waited a moment, gauging his sincerity with a frown.

"If you don't kill me," Nico continued, sensing their tepid suspension of disbelief, "I will help you. I'll keep you
informed about the Club and its dynamics, about what each member is planning and whether you are involved or at
risk. If you do kill me, however," he countered with a grimace, "I only ask that you not tell Antioch what transpired.
He will not take it lightly." He swallowed hard, and Hermione, startled by the genuine apprehension that crossed
Nico's brow, exchanged a furtive glance with Draco. "Believe me, Antioch would not forgive anyone who stood in
his way. Not even his brother."

Nico bent his head, withering visibly, and Hermione glanced at Draco.

It was, after all, difficult to deny the sincerity of the sentiment.

"Up to you," Draco told her, shrugging. "I believe I gave you free rein on murder, didn't I?"

She hesitated, chewing her lip.

"We'd have to trust him, though," she murmured back to him. "And it is incredibly easy to fool someone with
something that only sounds like a heartfelt plea," she added, giving him a pointed glance. "Particularly as we
ourselves managed it not very long ago - "

She paused as Draco bristled at that, tension shooting up his spine and prompting him rigidly upright.

"Yes, true," Draco agreed stiffly. "We did fool him."

She frowned, hearing something off in his voice, but Nico coughed quietly, interrupting them.

"If it matters, it wouldn't make sense for me to lie," he informed them. "I wouldn't be here if not to submit myself
candidly, and I have nothing to gain by doing otherwise. I could have killed you both on sight if I wanted you dead,
but I didn't. I don't."

Hermione and Draco exchanged another glance.

"True," she admitted unhappily, and Nico cleared his throat.

"I can also make sure no harm befalls you for killing one of the Club's assassins," he said carefully. "Of course, there
is some falsehood involved. Specifically, a lie of omission, in which you never mention this occurrence," he
clarified, "and permit me to leave with the suit. I'll need an explanation for his absence."

"Which will be?" Draco prompted, and Nico shrugged.

"Leave that to me," he said. "But know that Antioch will never know about this, and neither will Ignotus. You,
meanwhile, will have the Club's resources at your disposal. I'll make sure of it."

Hermione paused, and then let out a sigh.

"The surveillance charms," she attempted, testing him. "How do we get around them?"

"Ah," Nico said, and held up a finger, digging into his pocket. She re-trained her wand on him, anticipating danger,
but he only produced something that looked like a small muggle garage remote, a black rectangle with a single
button on the front. "Just wave your wand," he explained, "say which Ministry, and then push the button. Push again
to resume. The other Club members who work in the Ministry will be alerted and will replace the missing footage
with something enchanted to look normal," he warned, "so don't overuse it."

He tossed the disabler in the air to Draco, who caught it in one hand, nodding as he looked down at it.

"Are we in agreement?" Nico prompted knowingly.

Hermione fought a groan, eventually lowering her wand.

"Fine," she pronounced. "And what will we tell Antioch if we see him?"

Draco threw Nico's wand back to him, both of he and Hermione holding their breaths as the other man closed his
fingers around the wood.

For a moment, Hermione wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake; her fingers twitched around her wand, her
shoulders tense and poised to counter any possible motion, but Nico only tucked it into his jacket pocket, surveying
her with a nod.

"Tell him it was a fun party," he said simply, "and that you made new friends."

Then, with a loud crack, he was gone.

Katie Bell was generally not a person unduly affected by things that had gone wrong in her life. She considered
herself a fairly positive person, and fairly stable, too, as far as most things were concerned. It wasn't very difficult
from her to move on from a terrible thing, nor was she very hard pressed to conjure forgiveness.

Perhaps that's why things had happened with Draco Malfoy.

It had been a cool autumn evening when Draco had approached her for the first time, back when she was still
waiting tables at the Three Broomsticks. She hadn't known yet what she'd wanted to do, particularly with the state of
the world in such disarray, and had stuck around Hogsmeade in order to take the N.E.W.T.s required for general
Ministry employment. He, of course, had done something similar.

She recalled that upon first glance, he'd seemed wearier than she remembered. He'd always had a gleam of care to
him, but the intangible polished quality he'd previously maintained had clearly fled his constitution, and instead she
remembered thinking that his cheeks looked particularly thin, his eyes particularly burdened by shadowed circles.
He looked like he hadn't been sleeping, hadn't been eating particularly well (hadn't been much of anything at all
except for one-part ghost) and it was hard not to feel sorrier for him than she ever could have imagined when he
looked her miserably in the eye.

"I'm so sorry," he'd said, his voice breaking, and perhaps her heart had unwisely melted a little, seeing the guilt that
weighed on his shoulders.

"We were kids," she'd said back. "We were all kids, and it was all bad, and I forgive you, Draco," she whispered. "I
forgive you."

It was easy to forgive him; too easy. He wasn't at all what he had been - was so obviously troubled and alone - and
maybe she was lonely, too. Her friends had always been older, had left long ago, and while she'd spent her nights
going through the robotic monotony of charming dishes clean and scrubbing tables, Draco was there now, and he
was irresistible. He held her like he knew the value of every moment; like it could all end so quickly, so easily, but
he would not have let her go.

She should have known they could feel the fragility of what they were by the way they clung so tightly to each
other; it had never been like that with anyone before, and she was certain it never would be again. Even then she
knew it was as much need as it was love. Perhaps more so.

For a time, she thought she'd coaxed something normal out of him. She knew it was unwise to think she could save
him, or change him, but for a time she really thought she had. While he'd been at Hogwarts and she in a cramped flat
in Hogsmeade they'd each been a deliverance for the other, an escape from their respective realities: for him, that he
couldn't stand to be inside the castle he felt he'd betrayed; for her, that she hadn't yet managed the strength to leave
it.

She'd wanted to hold him when his mother died; wanted to cry with him, to care for him, to carry his burden with
him, because she knew in her bones it was killing him to watch Narcissa deteriorate over time. Instead, though, he
hadn't even told her when it happened. Katie had simply read it in the newspaper like everyone else and connected it
with Draco's sudden frequent disappearances. There was a time when he'd spent every night with her, but it became
a rarity the moment he suffered another loss he couldn't stomach. When Narcissa Malfoy died, some fractured sliver
of her son went with her - and Katie, who watched him look through her and pretend at intimacy while he wasted
away, was never given permission to help himself piece it back together.

It had hurt her just as much as it hurt him to end it, but one of them had had to do it. She knew he'd been taking the
potions again, knew he wasn't telling her the truth about what he was doing or how he was feeling, knew that her life
required a stability he simply couldn't provide. There was such a thing as loving a person fully, unrepentantly, and
still knowing love alone couldn't salvage pain.

She'd known she wasn't the one for him, nor he for her.

She knew she'd done the right thing.

But still - that didn't make recent events any easier.

"Don't read the newspaper," Alicia cautioned, half-leaping towards her from the kitchen, but it was too late. Katie
had already picked it up, catching Draco's familiar features on the cover of the Daily Prophet and settling herself in
the chair with a thud, scanning the headline. "Katie, I just said - "

"They're engaged," Katie read aloud numbly, feeling her pulse thud precipitously in her ears. "He's - it's only been -
" she broke off, frowning. "Hasn't it only been a matter of weeks? He can't - surely he didn't - "

"Katie," Alicia sighed, suddenly at her side and gently disentangling the paper from her hands. "It's been over for a
long time, love. I know it hurts, but you've both moved on - "

"Right," Katie said hoarsely, knowing full well that was a lie. Sure, she'd told Draco she'd started seeing someone,
but that hadn't exactly been true; she wanted to know that they'd both moved on, but there wasn't one person, per se.
More like an amalgam of dates she'd gone on with the genuine intention of finding someone else, but never anything
serious. Nothing that was ever even close to what he'd been. "Yeah. I know. But still - "

She trailed off, staring into nothing.

"Are you okay?" Alicia asked worriedly, leaning forward to grip her hand across the table. "Katie?"

"Katie?" Harry prompted, nudging her as he retrieved his cup of coffee from the elf-run cart in the lobby. "You
okay? You look distracted - "

"What?" Katie asked, blinking. "No, I'm fine. Sorry, Harry, what were you saying?"

"Our usual five-aside," he repeated. "Are you and Alicia still on for this weekend? Ron's still in Paris and I think it's
supposed to rain, but I mean - is it even quidditch if our lives aren't at risk? Frankly, I have my doubts - "

"Mm," Katie supplied vacantly, only half-listening; a witch with a wide-brimmed straw hat walked by with a copy
of that morning's Daily Prophet and she caught a glimpse of Draco on the cover with Hermione, his arm wrapped
comfortably around her waist. "Right - "

" - I also have a friend coming into town," Harry continued, as Katie stared at Draco's expression on the cover, his
lips curled up in the indulgent smile he used to reserve for her. "So I'm thinking I'm going to try to recruit her for it -
no idea if she plays - having a bit of a hard time, though, she's been - sort of under indictment by MACUSA but it's
fine, it's very much being handled, and - "

"Katie?" she heard, and turned slowly, realizing he was still talking. "Is everything okay?"

She swallowed hard, trying to focus, but couldn't tear her gaze from the newspaper.

"Did you know about them, Harry?" she blurted, feeling tremendously stupid as the words catapulted from her
tongue, and he immediately froze.

"Oh," he said awkwardly, momentarily eyeing the ceiling. "Um. Malfoy, you mean?"

"Yeah," Katie said, biting the inside of her cheek so hard she thought it might bleed. "I mean, did you know it was
this serious? I know you and Hermione are still good friends, and I just - " she broke off, suddenly horrified with
herself at the recognition of his obvious discomfort. "I'm so sorry," she offered rapidly. "I know we're not that close,
of course it's not your obligation to - to tell me about your friend's love life, and - "

"I didn't realize this was upsetting you," Harry broached hesitantly, and Katie blinked, feeling alarmingly close to
tears.

"It isn't, it's just - I guess it's just difficult that he's so sure," she managed quietly. "It was fine that they were dating,
really - but he'd never once mentioned marriage, and - I wasn't totally sure he believed in it much, honestly, and - "

She broke off as Harry abruptly wrested her into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around her stiffened form until she
gradually let out a sigh, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Try not to let it get to you," he murmured comfortingly to her. "Okay? I know that's easier said than done, but - "

"No, I know," she assured him hastily, pulling away and swiping at her eyes. "It's fine, Harry, don't worry. Of course
we're on for the game." She forced a sheepish smile, skirting the look of pity on his face and resolutely eyeing her
shoes. "I'll see you then."

He offered something like a mumbled farewell and she returned with something she hoped was a normal response
and they both promptly hurried away, her thoughts still firmly elsewhere as she headed back for the sugar she'd
failed to add in her distraction.

She was happy for Draco, she thought, stirring absently. She knew she possessed some genuine pleasure for him,
somewhere buried beneath layers of disbelief and disappointment and the knowledge that someone she had once
cared for deeply was now entirely a stranger. She knew, too, that her own pain would pass with time; after all, she
was a fairly positive person, and not entirely unreasonable. But still, in the moment, the wound was new and fresh
and sharp, and -

"Excuse me," someone interrupted, and she looked up, nearly stumbling into a man who had materialized from the
fringes of the crowd to stand beside her at the cart. "Were you just speaking to Harry Potter?"

"Hm? Oh, yes," she confirmed vaguely, gesturing over her shoulder. "Were you looking for him? His office is on the
second floor, you can't miss it - "

"Right, right, of course," the man said smoothly, his brow slightly furrowed in thought. "Actually, forgive me, but
that was a terribly misleading opening line. I was actually hoping to talk to you," he explained, clearing his throat
and letting his gaze flick somewhat appreciatively over her face. "If you don't mind, that is."

"Me?" Katie asked, blinking. The man was quite attractive, she realized, now that he had her attention; he had an
older method of speaking, a somewhat antiquated accent, but a youthful face, a bit delicate. Almost ethereal, really,
as if brought to life from a painting, and he was dressed impeccably, too, which was never an off-putting
observation. "May I help you with something?"

"Dinner, perhaps?" the man asked, catching her off guard. "I know I'm being terribly forward," he added hastily,
sensing her sharp breath of reticence, "but I can't very well waste such an intriguing opportunity. I'd ask you to join
me for coffee now," he added, gesturing to her cup, "but I'm just returning from Paris, which has left me rather
swamped, I'm afraid. But if you're free later - "

"I - " Katie began, and frowned; the timing of his attention was either disastrous or fortuitous, and there was no way
to tell yet which one it was. "Dinner?"

"Yes," the man confirmed, "dinner. If that's a thing you partake in, of course."

"Doesn't everyone?" she asked dazedly, and he shrugged.

"That's really not for me to say," he replied. "But if you do find yourself subject to the throes of dinner, then perhaps
you might consider my invitation, however ill-conceived it clearly seems. There's a relatively new restaurant in
Diagon, isn't there?" he mused. "Maybe you'd consider meeting me there after work?"

"The Arsonist, you mean?" Katie asked, referencing Seamus Finnegan's new pub, and the man nodded. "Do you
work here in the Ministry?" she asked curiously, and he gave her something of a half-confirming head tilt.

"In a sense," he supplied. "I certainly have a vested interest in the Ministry's affairs."

"So, like … a contractor?" she guessed. "A consultant?"

"Yes, that - a consultant." He paused. "If you have doubts, I completely understand, of course, but I'd be a fool not to
ask, so - "

"No, no," she assured him carefully. "It's not doubts, per se, it's just that - " I don't know if I'm ready for this, she
wanted to confess; but then she caught yet another flash of that morning's Daily Prophet, the sight of it abruptly
withering her insides. She recalled once again that Draco was ready for marriage, and thus she could probably
handle a single dinner - and hadn't she said herself that she was moving on?

"It's just that I was curious," she amended instead, nodding firmly, "but dinner sounds nice, actually. Tonight, you
said?"

"Yes. Around eight?" he asked. "I have some things to take care of early this evening. If that's too late, of course,
tomorrow night would work just as well - "

"No, no," Katie assured him quickly, shuddering now at the thought of a night without distraction (or worse - a night
with Alicia hovering over her and repeatedly asking if she wanted to talk). "Eight is fine."

"Excellent," the man said, looking pleased. "Well, tonight, then - "

"Wait," Katie said, realizing she'd forgotten something along the way. "You haven't told me your name."

She wondered if she imagined it, but she could have sworn she caught the man tripping over a breath of hesitation.

"My name?" he echoed. "Oh yes, of course, it's, um - Montague," he supplied hastily. "Montague Knightley."

"Like the sixteenth century chess champion?" Katie asked, and the man - Montague, as it were - gave something of a
nervous laugh, the stitch between his brow growing momentarily deeper.
"Yes," he admitted, grimacing. "A bit embarrassing, I suppose. I didn't realize you'd be familiar with my, um - my
namesake."

"Oh, my father's a bit of a history buff," she explained, shrugging. "And it's not at all embarrassing. I think it's a
great name, actually. Has a real ring of excellence, don't you think?"

"And an unexpected commonality, evidently," he supplied wryly, flashing her a smile. "And yours?"

"Katie," she told him. "Katie Bell. I work in Muggle Artifacts. You aren't actually a sixteenth century chess
champion, are you?" she teased, purposely turning towards him to avoid the influx of newspapers being charmed
onto the shelves next to the coffee cart.

"Aha, no," he coughed into his hand, smothering a broad grin. "I'm not particularly invested in chess, to tell you the
truth. And in any case, the sixteenth century is hardly my favorite."

"Oh, right," she chuckled. "Same. I much prefer the eighteenth."

"Well, hold on," he cautioned playfully, feigning opposition. "Be careful not to discount the surplus of overly
luxuriant monarchs then. Brewing the stuff of revolutions, et cetera - "

"Right," she agreed, rather enjoying the back-and-forth. "Silly me. I'll just stay in this one, then."

"Perfect," he said, flashing her a thoughtful, charming smile. "Ideal. See you soon, then, Miss Bell," he said, offering
her a little tilt of his head, and she smiled after him, marveling internally at the timing.

After all, it had never been too difficult for her to move on from a terrible thing, so perhaps Montague Knightley
was the universe's reward for having put her through a miserable morning of Draco Malfoy-related hell.

"See you soon," Katie murmured softly, hoping her luck was beginning to turn around.

Ministry of Magic
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
October 4, 2003
3:15 p.m.

Harry looked up at a knock on the door, finding himself pleasantly surprised by the occupant of the frame.

"Nott," he said, setting aside his quill. "Did you need something?"

Theo, for his part, loitered in the doorway, staring absently out Harry's window.

"I wanted to tell you something," he began, sounding unexpectedly far away, and Harry arched a brow, waiting.

"Well?" he prompted. "Do you know what it was?"

Theo shifted, meeting his eye.

"Not yet," he determined, abruptly returning to normal before stepping inside, deftly kicking the door shut behind
him. "You weren't busy, were you?"

"Actually, I was - "

"Good," Theo said with a nod, tossing yet another envelope on his desk. "Paperwork for the new company name."

"What is it this time?" Harry sighed, sliding the parchment from the envelope and scanning the page before reading
it aloud. "Okay, blah blah, we hereby gather under the articles for the Society for Parties and Eventful Wizardry,
abbreviated 'Spew' for sho-" he broke off, groaning. "Oh no - "
"Excuse you," Theo sniffed. "It's not 'Spew,' Potter, it's clearly S.P.E.W., as anyone with eyes could conceivably sort
out - "

"You can't use this," Harry cut in, shaking his head. "You know perfectly well that Spew is - "

"Again, S.P.E.W.," Theo sighed loudly. "Honestly, it's like you're not even hearing me, Potter, which is
disconcerting, considering I'm repeatedly told that communication is the bedrock of a successful relationsh-"

"You're being ridiculous," Harry reminded him, shaking his head. "Not that I'm surprised, but clearly you're going to
have to try again."

"How about this," Theo suggested, spreading his hands in the air as if unfurling a ceremonial banner. "'The Order of
the Phoenix.' Good, right?"

"No," Harry groaned. "Nott - "

"What?" Theo protested, coquettishly batting his lashes. "Do you not like it, Potter? Honestly, you're impossible to
please - "

"I suspect," Harry exhaled, rolling his eyes, "that it might have been used for something else, Nott. No idea what, of
course, not fully ringing any sort of bell - "

"The Imprisoners of Azkaban," Theo mused, and Harry rubbed his temple.

"No. Obviously not, that's not even - "

"The Philosophers Stoned?"

"Nott, for the love of g-"

"The Chambermen of Secrets," Theo trumpeted, and Harry reached across his desk, grabbing hold of Theo's face
and shutting him up with a kiss.

It should have been nothing. Nothing out of the usual, anyway, as it wasn't the first time (and certainly wouldn't be
the last time) that Harry decided the only satisfactory way to shut Theo up was to do it physically; to press his lips to
Theo's and deliver him forcefully to silence. After all, Theo always said so much more when he wasn't speaking. He
was always clever when he spoke - was always sharp and open and quick - but this was the core of him, the way his
breath caught in Harry's mouth; the way he reached for Harry, always holding on too tight for just friends, too close
for just sex and too inescapably for just anything.

Theo always kissed Harry with more truth than his tongue had ever spoken but this kiss - a kiss that was only
supposed to stop him from moving onto something even more absurd - instantly became devastating, became hungry
and urgent and promising, and it instantly delivered Harry to the height of frustration, the desk now presenting an
unforgiving obstacle between them.

Theo remedied it first, kicking half the papers off the surface as he clambered over the desk and leaned himself back
against the opposite side, yanking Harry towards him. It was rough, like it often was, but it was greedy, too; needy,
as if there was something to be snatched directly from Harry's soul. Theo's fingers dug into Harry's ribs and Harry
kissed Theo back just as firmly, just as resolutely, and if Theo's kiss had been a question, whether he understood it
or not (which he didn't) Harry made sure his answer was more than yes.

Breaking the kiss was like coming down from a high; like dismounting a broom, helplessly unsteady.

"What did you come here to tell me?" Harry asked quietly, once he'd taken the time to sweep his hands over Theo's
jaw; smoothing it down, softening his edges. "There was something, Nott."

Theo hesitated, his fingers coiled in Harry's belt loops. Harry could feel from the pressure on his nose that his
glasses had been knocked askew, but he felt it unnecessary to address under the circumstances.
"Nott," he warned, sensing avoidance. "Theo - "

"You know what this is," Theo abruptly said, leaning back. "Right? This," he clarified, gesturing between them.
"You and I know what this is, right?"

Harry knew Theo didn't require him to put it in words, which was ideal, because he was beginning to think he'd
never be able to.

"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat. "Why? You planning to fuck it up?"

"Hope not," Theo muttered, meeting Harry's eyes. "But we both know this is different, right? We know other people
do things differently, but with us - " he trailed off. "You know, don't you? That it can't be like it is with other people,
but I still want you to know that - " He took another breath, letting it out with a shudder Harry felt in his own spine.
"This matters. You know it matters, right?"

"Yeah," Harry said again, waiting this time, and Theo inhaled; let it out.

"I came to tell you," Theo began, "that I'm going to do something that I can't tell you. But it's not because I don't
want you to know. You the entity, I mean," he clarified. "If you were just you, I'd tell you, but you've got all this" -
he waved a hand - "to deal with, and - "

"The Ministry, you mean?" Harry asked, frowning. "Planning to do something illegal, Nott?"

"Not just that," Theo said, shaking his head. "No, it's not - it's not that." He glanced down, looking frustrated. "But
you know I've got shit going on I can't make you privy to, and I don't want to put your reputation, or - I don't know,
your conscience, I guess - at risk. I mean mine's been fucked for ages, so - "

"I don't understand," Harry interrupted, frowning. "Are you in danger, Nott? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No," Theo growled, obviously bristling. "I just - "

He broke off, shaking his head, and pulled out of Harry's reach.

"You're not just you," Theo said flatly. "You're Harry Potter. You're a fucking myth. You're a legend. You're the
face of the Ministry, the head of this department, but it's more than that. You're a good guy," he said painfully, and
this, Harry understood, was the itch he couldn't quite scratch; the impalpable crux of the issue. "And this is the thing,
Potter, because I'm not. I'm a fucking villain," Theo muttered, stepping away, "and you're a hero, and - "

"No," Harry cut in firmly, grabbing hold of him and shoving him back against the desk. "Don't call me that," he
snapped. "You don't get to say that shit, Theo. You know me better than that - you know me better than everyone,"
he growled, taking hold of Theo's face with one hand, "and if this is what you say it is, then you don't get to call me
what everyone else calls me."

Theo froze, not looking at him, and Harry let a few beats of silence pass, both their pulses ricocheting in what little
space he'd allowed between them.

"They decided I was a hero," Harry reminded him flatly. "Not me. It's a burden enough on its own. And if you need
to go about your business, then fine," he spat. "I'll never fault you for doing what you think is right. But don't draw
some line between us, Theo, because there isn't one. There isn't one unless you put it there, and I've been called a
hero too long - and by too many people who never mattered - to just let you use it as an excuse to fucking hide from
me - "

"I'm not hiding," Theo muttered gruffly, yanking Harry's hand away from his face. "I'm not. I mean it," he added,
staring at him. "This doesn't involve you, Potter. Not yet. And if I do it right, it never needs to, so - "

"Fine," Harry cut in. "Fine. Just do what you need to do, Nott."

He didn't know what had made the words feel like a lie.
He didn't know what to do next, either, so he stepped back, expelling something from his lungs he didn't know yet
how to name, and leaned against the cabinet behind his desk, leaving a few feet between them.

"That's it?" Theo asked, after the clock had ticked nearly a minute's worth of silence. "'Do what I need to do'? You
don't need to know?"

Harry grimaced, folding his arms over his chest.

"I'm not exactly new to keeping secrets," he said, though his voice sounded strange even to him. "I get that not
everybody needs to know every step of everything. You know what you're doing," he added, shrugging. "You don't
need my help, Nott. Believe me, I get that - "

"I do need your help," Theo interjected, launching upright. "Don't you fucking get that? I'm telling you now that I
need you," he growled, "I just - I can't tell you why, or how. Or anything, really, for now," he amended. "But I
fucking need you, Potter. I do."

Harry stared at him.

"So you want me to what - just guess, then, Nott?" he asked drily. "Just - sense when things are bad and save you?"

"I don't need saving," Theo retorted tartly. "I just need to know you won't - "

Go, they both knew, and Harry looked down at the gulf he'd put between them, shutting his eyes momentarily before
letting out a loud and - by the look on Theo's face - fully alarming sound of frustration.

"Just don't fucking get yourself hurt or killed or arrested," Harry half-shouted, taking a few accusatory steps forward,
"and don't you dare not come to me if you actually need help - and if anything happens to you, you bloody arsing
menace - "

"Alright, alright," Theo interrupted, rolling his eyes even as he put his hands securely on Harry's hips, drawing him
closer. "Jesus, Potter. You always get so soft - "

"Shut up, Nott," Harry muttered back grumpily, though he let Theo kiss his jaw and the side of his neck, letting out a
breath that was either relief or exhaustion, or more likely both. "I'm supposed to be working, by the way," he
grumbled, letting Theo lay his palms flat against his chest and gripping the back of Theo's neck, letting him find
comfort in the motion. "I have a lot of shit to do before Daisy gets here, and half my bloody paperwork is on the
floor - "

"I'll leave you to it, then," Theo said, abruptly pulling away with a smirk. "Glad this went so smoothly."

"For fuck's sake, Nott - "

"Oh, by the way," Theo drawled, pausing before he reached the door. "About what you said - "

"What about it?" Harry prompted. "That you need a new company name? Because you do, Nott, and I'm fully
serious ab-"

"No," Theo cut in loudly. "The other thing. You're right, you're not a hero," he sniffed, and Harry rolled his eyes,
allowing himself a childish scowl. "Actually, you're a little bitch, Potter - "

"Oh, fucking hell - "

" - and I love you, too," Theo finished, resting his hand on the doorknob and pivoting over his shoulder to flash a
vigorously smug glance at Harry, who gaped at him from behind his desk. "What?" Theo prompted, shrugging. "I
heard it buried in there under the shouting. I have some subtlety from time to time, and I'm saying it back. And
anyway, I can go soft, too, Potter," he added with feigned impatience. "It's not like you have some sort of ceremonial
monopoly on being shitty - "
"Get out," Harry sighed, shaking his head, and Theo grinned.

"See you tonight?" he asked, pausing before slipping into the hallway.

Harry fell into his chair, resting his head against it, and nodded.

"See you tonight," he agreed, noting that Theo had silently charmed the paperwork back onto his desk and
permitting half a smile, unexpectedly satisfied.

Le Château Perdu
Jardin des Tuileries
6:20 p.m.

"YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES," squeaked Hermione's watch, and Draco glanced over, sighing.

"I changed my mind," he announced. "I'm not going. Besides, one of us should work on this," he added, gesturing to
the Prophète. "Can you believe Bagman's being brought in as some sort of expert? I mean sure, magical adrenaline
is certainly a possibility, now that I think about it, but surely there's someone more qualified than Ludo Bagman - "

"You can't not go," Hermione reminded him, interrupting bouts of careful lipstick application in the sitting room
mirror to frown bossily at him. "Your father's going to out us if you don't, remember?"

"Oh, he knows nothing," Draco muttered, tossing the newspaper aside. "So he knows I'm a contract killer and you're
a maniacal boxing sociopath. So what?" he prompted, throwing his hands in the air. "So we have our lives and
reputations ruined. It's fine. There are worse things."

"Like what?" Hermione scoffed, and Draco rose to his feet, taking a few steps to stand behind her.

"LIKE THIS DINNER," he barked, and she promptly dropped her lipstick, turning to scowl at him. "I would think
that would be obvious. Honestly, it's like you're not even paying attention, and here you are, allegedly 'brilliant' - "

"What could possibly be so bad about your cousins?" she prompted, glaring at him as she bent to pick up her
lipstick. "They're family - and besides, I'm the one that's muggle-born, so I would imagine that if one of us should be
freaking out, it should be me, not you - "

"Well, to clarify, you should be freaking out," Draco assured her. "This is practically an interspecies romance to
them, Granger. Actually, any human interaction with them is bound to be unnatural, and you're going to despise
them. Hortense especially," he added with a shudder. "My mother always said that she - "

He broke off, swallowing, as he heard his mother's voice; Hortense looks like an oversized fern mated with an
undersized duck, she'd sniffed, and besides, she has the aesthetic of a half-blind pirate tasked with curating an
elaborate tomb for hairless gypsy thieves -

"You'll just hate Hortense," he amended, clearing his throat. "Nobody likes her except Thibaut, and he's her brother,
so that's automatically questionable, if you've seen my family tree - "

"Malfoy," Hermione pronounced slyly, with a tone he'd come to recognize as the one preceding a lecture, "what was
that?"

"What was what?" he asked, willfully ignorant. "Also, all three of them - my father included - will make several
references to Armand Malfoy; who, for the record, is the French nobleman who first came to England and not, as
they will make it sound, some sort of fun uncle they all drink gin with on the veranda - "

"Malfoy," Hermione sighed. "Your mother. What does she say about your cousin?"

He bristled.
"Something about hairless gypsy thieves," he replied, feigning disinterest, "and no, I don't know why they're
hairless, and something about a half-blind pirate's aesthetic, which seems needlessly detailed. I imagine he'd simply
suggest gold, blind or not - though if blind," he ventured, considering it, "then I suppose more gold, which does
make sense - "

"Malfoy," Hermione warned firmly, which he delicately ignored.

"Anyway, back to Armand," he continued. "So, for starters, he has a portrait. It's fucking huge. His portrait is
actually consulted, too, when it comes to family matters - I've seen it happen, and frankly it's totally unsettling - "

"MALFOY," Hermione shouted, and he let out a growl, turning to face her.

"WHAT?" he demanded. "WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING?"

"WHAT IS THE DEAL WITH YOUR MOTHER?" she snapped at the top of her lungs, taking three hulking stomps
in his direction and pausing with both hands on her hips. "IT IS TOTALLY MADDENING THAT YOU IGNORE
THE ISSUE WHEN IT'S SO OBVIOUSLY BOTHERING YOU - "

"LITERALLY NOTHING BOTHERS ME," he yelled back, staring down at her, "AND JUST BECAUSE I DON'T
WANT TO TALK ABOUT MY MOTHER DOESN'T MEAN I'M IGNORING ANYTHING!"

"MALFOY," she ranted, brandishing a finger in his face, "I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY IT'S SO
UNREASONABLE THAT AFTER WEEKS PRACTICALLY ATTACHED TO YOU, I MIGHT WANT TO
KNOW WHY YOU CAN'T TALK ABOUT HER! IS THAT SO CRAZY?"

"YES," he replied, "IT IS, AND SO ARE YOU, AND - "

"HOW HARD CAN IT BE?" she pressed. "I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND - "

"YOU CAN'T UNDERSTAND, GRANGER, BECAUSE SHE - " he broke off, choking, and her eyes widened.
"Because she fucking died, Granger, and I wasn't ready, and - "

He stopped, shutting his eyes.

"Do you think I like that I can't talk about her? That I can't even remember her without thinking about all the time I
wasted?" he confessed bitterly, flooded by the ghost of an old dread. "I can't think about her without thinking about
how the last few years of her life were tainted by something I brought down on our heads. I thought it was over," he
stammered, helplessly coughing up misery. "I thought when the war was over everything would be fine - that the
worst of it had passed, that after losing my reputation, my family's prestige, nothing else was left to be taken from
me - but then - "

He cut himself off, immediately sickened by his admission, and considered running off to vomit in the corner when
he felt her let out a sigh.

"Draco," Hermione ventured softly, her hands settling coolly on either side of his face and prompting his eyes to
flutter open. "You don't have to talk about her. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pushed - "

"No," he grunted, though he didn't pull away. "You're right. You shouldn't have. Honestly, Granger, you're getting
far too entitled - "

"Well there's no need to get snippy now," she cut in irritably, glaring up at him. "I'm just trying to understand you,
Malfoy. I'm trying to be, I don't know - friends, or something else equally inconceivable - "

"I don't need friends," he muttered. "I have enough. I have too many, actually," he amended gruffly, "and frankly,
I've been trying to get rid of most of them for years - "

"You're always doing this," she cut in sourly. "You're always shoving me away, and for what?"
"BECAUSE YOU'RE ALWAYS PUSHING, GRANGER," he retorted. "YOU'RE ALWAYS PUSHING AND IT'S
EXHAUSTING - "

"WHY ARE YOU YELLING?" she demanded at a shout, her fingers digging in now, her nails piercing the sides of
his jaw. "WHY IS EVERYTHING ALWAYS A FIGHT WITH YOU, MALFOY? I'M JUST TRYING TO HELP -
"

"STOP HELPING!" he snapped, gripping her hips. "YOU'RE ALWAYS HELPING AND IT'S HORRIBLE, IT'S
LIKE BEING TRAPPED IN A RECURRING NIGHTMARE - "

"I'M ALWAYS GOING TO HELP YOU, MALFOY, THAT'S THE BLOODY DEAL," she bellowed, "AND IF
YOU DON'T LIKE IT, THEN - "

"Then what?" he cut in bluntly, staring down at her. "I can leave?"

She paused, her chest rising and falling against his.

"Yeah," she said, swallowing hard. "You can leave."

For reasons he couldn't explain, the prospect of such a thing fully blistered his sensibilities.

"You promised me you weren't going anywhere, Granger," he reminded her stiffly. "I'm not fucking going
anywhere, either."

Her mouth curled slightly, accommodating something like bemusement or curiosity or approval, or maybe -

"Good," she said. "Then don't."

"Then don't help me," he retorted, and her gaze dropped to his mouth.

"Don't stop me," she whispered, and his breath snagged, realizing how closely he was holding her.

"Granger," he said quietly, already half-tasting the lipstick she'd so carefully applied. "I - "

"YOU HAVE SIXTY SECONDS," Hermione's watch squeaked, startling them both. "YOU'RE GOING TO BE
LATE, YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE, YOU'RE GOING TO BE LATE - "

"Holy hell," Draco grumbled, releasing her and stepping away to pick up his jacket from where he'd lain it on the
arm of the sofa. "That thing is a fucking tyrant - "

"Well, it's useful," Hermione reminded him primly, her cheeks flushed brilliantly crimson as she checked her hair in
the mirror, catching his eye. "Are you ready?"

He paused, feeling the familiar square in his pocket, and sighed.

"One second," he said. "I just have to - "

"YOU HAVE THIRTY SECONDS - "

"Oh for fuck's sake," he muttered under his breath, shaking irritation from his shoulders before turning to the
bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

He drew the vial of potions from his pocket and stared at them, weighing his desperation.

On the one hand, the evening was going to be miserable.

Things were weird enough with Hermione, and he'd never been a fan of either Hortense or Thibaut, and seeing his
father -
He grimaced, his thumb hovering over the blue vial he knew contained a sedative.

It wasn't overly strong, he thought, contemplating it. After all, he'd designed the potion himself. It would lower his
defenses, that was all.

It had some induced euphoria, too.

A bit of some other things, but nothing important.

Sure, he'd be a little numb.

But that would be ideal, wouldn't it? Responsible, even. Just the mention of his mother had driven him half to
madness already, and that was without the added strain. He might have kissed Hermione - maybe more, honestly - if
her watch hadn't gone off in time, and then what?

Then what?

He chewed the inside of his cheek, glancing over his shoulder.

They were going to be late.

Hortense hated tardiness.

Narcissa had always said Hortense had all the sensibilities of an over-plucked ostrich that had been irresponsibly led
to believe it was a golden swan.

He shut his eyes.

"You okay, Malfoy?" Hermione asked, knocking on the door and jarring him back to consciousness. "You're not
getting out of this, you know," she added warningly. "You have to come, however much you don't want to, and - "

"I'm coming," he called back, eyeing the vial again.

They were going to be late.

It was going to be awful.

It was only one dose -

"YOU'RE ALREADY LATE," came the watch from the other side of the door, "YOU'RE ALREADY LATE,
YOU'RE ALREADY LATE - "

Fuck it, Draco thought, and drained the vial, taking a breath and tucking the potions back in his coat before opening
the bathroom door.

a/n: This week, some love to UnicornShenanigans and aurorarsinistra for their help on my Halloween-adjacent
project, Fairytales of the Macabre, illustrated by Little Chmura with photography by Aurora. It's a collection of
four short stories of eerie, antagonistic, murdery, happily-ever-aftering romance plus a sneak peek at my new book,
and it would make my day (week, year, century) if you would check it out at olivieblake dot com.
 20. No Accounting For Taste

Chapter 20: No Accounting For Taste

Lucius Malfoy was tired.

He was exhausted, in fact. Down to his very bones, he was incapable of summoning the energy for much of
anything, and he very much resented that after approximately three years of semi-peaceful contemplation, he was
now staring across Hortense's ostentatious ivory table at his recalcitrant son and the frizzy-headed know-it-all that
said recalcitrant son had capriciously chosen for a bride. That Lucius was now forced to lie to his own cousins,
feigning approval and biting his tongue as the two miscreant idiots across from him whisper-fought over their
respective dinner plates, was not particularly helpful to his constitution.

Nor was the fact that Draco, the fruit of Lucius' very loins, was quite obviously stoned beyond any conceivable
realm of caution.

Perhaps Hermione had not noticed (she certainly hadn't appeared to) but Lucius, having witnessed his son's tendency
towards substance abuse many times, was not without a considerable amount of practice when it came to
recognizing the signs. They'd both sat through countless trials together, after all, which had probably been where it
had started; it had been no easy feat accomplishing the grand reward of house arrest under ball-crushingly strict
Wizengamot probation, and even Lucius hadn't been without the urge to drown himself in something other than
reality.

It was hard to look back and see the whole situation as much of a victory, and yet it had been one, without question.
Lucius' fear of going back to Azkaban had been palpable, and he'd felt his own crippling desperation resonating in
the very bones of his son. Ultimately, even after the threat of life imprisonment had passed, they'd both found it
easier to pretend not to know that Draco was brewing potions until well into the night.

Strangely enough, it had been Narcissa who'd saved them from what might have been a crippling fate. Her illness
had been the tipping point; when she had argued that her husband and her son were necessary for her care and
comfort, the Wizengamot had finally relented, ending what had been over a year of legal purgatory. Lucius always
felt that had weighed on Draco. It had weighed on him, too, certainly, but he was too much a coward - rendered too
daunted by life imprisonment - not to use his dying wife as a tool for his own freedom. They were strangers to each
other by the end, all three of them.

It was exhausting, and even then, Lucius had been bone-achingly tired. So tired, in fact, that even seeing Draco
openly toss a vial of something down his throat before entering his mother's room had not fazed him.

"Make sure she doesn't notice," was all Lucius had managed to say.

His son's grey gaze had slid to his, bereft of recognition.

"She's too sick to notice," was all Draco had replied.

Lucius saw the same vacant look in his son's eyes tonight, though he was clearly trying much harder to hide it, and
that was (in some way) a blessing of sorts. It wasn't that this dinner was any sort of pleasure for Lucius, either. He
was no fonder of Hortense and Thibaut than Draco was; but he knew, as Draco did not quite understand, that their
hospitality was a necessity. Lucius couldn't stand living where he'd spent a lifetime with Narcissa. He couldn't stand
England, either, where there wasn't a place he could go without being abjectly ostracized. Here, at least, he was able
to hide.

Had been able to hide, anyway.

"We'll have to meet her," Hortense had said, holding up the newspaper that announced the inane engagement. "You
know we will, Lucius. After all, we are the current keepers of the Malfoy seal. Their marriage cannot be binding
without it, and all blood-bound inheritance will fail to transfer in its absence - "
"And besides," Thibaut added, "it's about time something interesting happened around here with you, Lucius. You're
terribly boring."

"True," Hortense agreed. "Candidly, I have half a mind to call the British Minister and tell him you've violated the
terms of your house arrest, if only so that something interesting might finally happen - "

"Fine," Lucius interrupted, bristling. "I'll talk to Draco, then."

He'd figured at the time (rightly, based on a lifetime of experience with his destructively manic cousins) that there
was no way getting around it; he'd determined, too, that if he were going to have to suffer his son's wildly
mismanaged mistakes, then it was only fair that Draco should have to suffer equally.

However, now that Lucius was forced to watch the swotty brunette across the table bossily accost his intoxicated son
with a transcendently unsubtle mutter of admonishment, he wasn't totally sure he'd made the right choice.

"You know, there are a lot of things we need to discuss before we get married," Hermione informed Draco, looking
up from her salad.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Draco drawled back, only remotely bothering to keep his voice down. "Did I accidentally propose
again?"

Lucius glanced swiftly between either end of the table, grateful (for once) for Thibaut and Hortense's ridiculous
levels of pretension. They were each seated a span of several feet away, alternately shouting at each other from
opposite ends of the room about either the quality of the wine or the density of the silverware.

"No, I'm just saying," Hermione continued, frowning in thought, "that there are certain things we'll have to know.
Like, for example, where are we going to live?"

"Malfoy Manor," Draco replied instantly, tossing the answer out as carelessly as if it might land in a theoretical
rubbish bin, and Hermione made a face.

"No," she said. "Rejected."

"Well, good," Draco returned. "Then as I suspected, the marriage is doomed."

Privately, Lucius very much agreed.

"What about a flat in London, then?" Hermione suggested, and Draco shrugged.

"Fine," he said evasively. "May I continue eating?"

"And what about children?" she pressed, ignoring him. "People are bound to ask - "

"One child," Draco cut in firmly. "We're both only children, and we are unquestionably the best."

"True," Hermione mused, though Lucius wanted quite fervently to argue. "And what would we name it?"

"Scorpius," Draco said carelessly, just as she asked, "Harry?"

"Harry?" Draco echoed in disbelief, utterly confounded. "As in Potter?"

Lucius, for his part, choked on a shallot.

"No," Hermione retorted, her voice dripping inelegantly with sarcasm. "As in the adjective."

"We are not naming our son Harry," Draco snapped, glaring at her. "I would have to be dead first, and removed of
my bowels, considering that even my corpse would have a hernia - "

"Ah," she remarked, smirking at him. "So you're invested in the marriage now, are you?"
Lucius, who had only just recovered from dislodging the errant shallot, promptly coughed again, staring at them.

"I haven't been lobotomized," Draco retorted with a scowl. "And anyway, come back to the baby thing," he
muttered, stabbing gracelessly at a piece of arugula. "I don't want to think about it right now, for what I would hope
would be obvious reasons - "

"So, Hermione," Hortense drawled from afar, trilling her name, "tell me, where are you from?"

"Oh, I'm from London," Hermione replied, half-shouting it down the table as Hortense batted her lashes, the very
portrait of at rapt attention. "My parents and I have been to France a few times," she remarked anecdotally, and
Lucius stiffened in apprehension, cursing the girl's constant tendency towards meandering small talk. "Though I've
never been to this particular part of - "

"Ah yes, your parents!" Hortense trumpeted, adjusting the crystalline tiara she'd placed atop her powdered platinum
hair. "Uncle Armand has informed us that he isn't familiar with your surname, and I wondered if perhaps it was
derived from some sort of ancient Anglo-Saxon duchy? Of obscurely royal delineation, perhaps?"

"Uncle Armand?" Hermione echoed, frowning, and Draco elbowed her, gesturing pointedly over his shoulder to the
painting that hung on the wall behind their heads. "Oh," she managed faintly, as the portrait of Armand Malfoy gave
her a scrutinizing sniff. "Right - "

"TOO MUCH HAIR," Armand judged. "UNKNOWN PEDIGREE."

"Cheers to that," Thibaut proclaimed in agreement, raising his glass.

"Right," Hermione repeated uncomfortably. She glanced at Draco before taking a tentative breath, hesitating. "Well,
I think Granger just means 'farm bailiff,' honestly, but - "

"But," Lucius interrupted hastily, catching Hortense's disinterested nose-wrinkle, "that would have been to mislead
the muggle registry in 1478, of course. Miss Granger's parents are both Ministry Unspeakables," he assured
Hortense. "Both highly regarded in their fields. Actually, they were highly regarded in their fields," he amended
wildly, skirting Hermione's look of confusion, "until they died heroically defending the Ministry from a violent,
weaponized muggle-led raid of terror, and are now both very much dead."

"Not pitchforks?" Hortense gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as Hermione gaped at him across the table.

"Pitchforks," Lucius confirmed, ignoring her. "Fire." He waved his fork in the air, gesturing overhead. "Smoke for
miles."

"The air quality," Hortense moaned, aghast. "The tapestries!"

"To tapestries!" Thibaut agreed, raising his glass and draining it.

"I - " Hermione began, and paused, frowning. "Well, I don't - I wouldn't - "

"TO SERVE THE CROWN," Armand pronounced gravely, "IS TO BEHOLDEN ONESELF TO THE HEIGHT OF
DIGNITY."

"Too true," Thibaut said, adjusting his ruffled collar. "Well said, Uncle Armand, as ever - "

"Actually," Hermione began, but broke off before continuing, hissing in pain. "Ouch," she snapped to Draco, who
tossed her a silencing glare. "What? I would think, in this day and age, that honest-"

"Well, personally I think it's nice to see one of our English cousins choosing a suitable wife, for once," Hortense
commented, prompting Lucius to hold his breath, catching the whitening of Draco's knuckles across the table. "The
daughter of muggle-avenging heroes, how truly captivating. And to think," she continued, taking a careful bite of
lamb, "Uncle Armand and I were ever so worried you'd choose someone unsavory, Draco. Yet another in a long line
of spoilt princesses from a swollen, incestuous British family, for example, who wouldn't know 'noble' or 'ancient' if
she were grabbed by the bridge of her upturned nose - "

There was a clatter as Draco's fork propelled itself across the table, Hermione's face promptly turning pale beside
him.

"I wouldn't say that," she cut in hurriedly, thrusting a hand out to soothe him. "For one thing, I think that - "

"Bathroom," Draco interrupted, and Lucius watched his fingers twitch reflexively to the pocket he regularly kept his
vials. "Excuse me. Have to wash my hands."

"CLEANLINESS, LIKE UNQUESTIONING SERVITUDE TO ONE'S MONARCH, IS NEXT TO GODLINESS,"

Armand bellowed after him as Draco rose to his feet with a clatter, wrenching his arm free from Hermione's grip and
heading wordlessly into the hall.

"My goodness," Hortense commented, pursing her lips. "How rude."

"I would think that insulting his mother would be the rude thing," Hermione retorted, her mouth once again set in the
stubborn pout of displeasure that came so naturally to her Lucius wondered if she'd taken out a patent on the
expression. "You know, where I come from, we consider it impolite to speak ill of the dead, and even worse to judge
a person's loved ones."

"My dear, where you come from is England, and we couldn't manage to give two shits about it," Thibaut remarked,
snapping his fingers and prompting another glass of wine to materialize in his hand. "But well done you for trying."

"Besides, he mustn't take it personally," Hortense sniffed. "He's very sensitive, that Draco. I tell Lucius at every
conceivable opportunity - "

"Truly," Lucius agreed tartly. "Every conceivable opportunity."

" - that he failed his son spectacularly," she finished. "He made him irreverently soft. And anyway, I didn't say a
word against his mother," she added. "I merely heavily implied it, and such a thing cannot be prevented. Bad for
one's digestion to hold it in."

"TO EAT WELL IS TO DUTIFULLY HONOR ONE'S KING," Armand contributed sagely.

"He isn't soft," Hermione snapped furiously. "Draco's much stronger than you think, and I'm really quite
disappointed you'd say those things about someone you call family. Doesn't it matter to you what he's been
through?"

"No," Hortense said, and across from her, Thibaut nodded smugly. "It's his own fault, anyway. I tell Lucius that
every hour on the hour."

"Every hour," Lucius agreed with a sigh. "On the hour."

At the reminder of his presence, Hermione turned to face him, luminous with fury.

"How can you let them talk to him like that?" she barked at him. "Don't you realize you're responsible for most of
his trauma? You're his father, and it was your job to teach him!" she snapped, rising abruptly to her feet. "You are
the man he looked to for guidance - and what is he supposed to do now, knowing the man he adored, that he
admired for so long, was just a - was a - " She stammered, her cheeks turning brilliantly crimson. "Was a selfish,
prejudiced, small-minded, dishonest, terrible old FOOL!"

"FOLLY BEFALLS THE FAITHLESS SERVANT," Armand wailed, and Hermione stared at Lucius, unmoving,
while the pendulum from grandfather clock in the corner (designed, per Hortense's specifications, to grow louder
with tension) smacked abruptly against its sides.

"I'M WAITING!" Hermione shouted at him, and Lucius stared back at her, frowning.
Even after countless trials - after constant scrutiny and frenzied examination by politicians and lawyers and
Warlocks alike - he had yet to feel as he felt now.

Though, in his mind, nobody else had ever truly wanted to hear an answer before.

"You want an explanation?" Lucius asked dully, staring back at her. "I don't have one." He glanced down at his
plate, addressing the dollop of tartare that had been placed delicately in the center of the too-large plate, the whole of
the situation suddenly seeming vastly unnecessary. "I'm just very, very tired," he sighed, but Hermione would not
relent.

"Aren't you sorry?" she demanded. "He's broken! You left him alone to pick up the pieces, and you're not the least
bit sorry?"

Lucius said nothing.

Hermione shook her head in disgust, throwing her napkin down on her chair.

"I'm going after him," she informed the table, before glancing back down at Lucius. "Which you should have done a
long time ago, by the way," she added snottily, and stormed off in the direction Draco had gone, half-running
through the corridor to find him.

"Well," Hortense announced, gazing after Hermione as she left. "I like her, actually. She's got panache. And also,
you deserved that," she added pointedly to Lucius. "You are truly disastrous as a father, Lucius. Always have been."

"I'm just," Lucius began, and sighed. "So tired, honestly - "

"You need another hobby," Thibaut commented. "All this moping and despairing is making you an exceedingly a
dull houseguest. Ask Uncle Armand," he added, waving to the portrait.

"TO PERMIT INSERTION OF THE KING," Armand supplied solemnly, "IS TO PERMIT INSERTION INTO
HISTORY."

"I wouldn't say that I - wait, what?" Lucius asked the portrait, alarmed. "Did you just - "

"Oh, shut up, Lucy," Thibaut drawled, conjuring a branch of grapes and lowering it into his mouth. "You know
perfectly well Uncle Armand is gay as all hell."

"IT'S TRUE, I ENJOY FELLATING THE KING," Armand confirmed, as Thibaut held up a hand, gesturing a
languid I told you so. "I FIND THE WHOLE SITUATION SURPRISINGLY EMPOWERING."

Lucius sighed.

"I am just so tired," he said again, and fought a groan as Hermione reappeared, her jaw still lined with fury.

"Well, he's gone," she declared flatly, placing both hands on her hips. "Are you all quite pleased with yourselves?"

"Honestly? Yes. In fact, we should do this again," Hortense declared, with a dainty, bell-like tinkle of a laugh.
"Candidly, I haven't been so amused in half a century. I was beginning to wonder if I shouldn't simply hang myself
from boredom."

"A thought," Thibaut interjected, holding up a finger. "You'd miss your funeral."

"Oh, no," Hortense lamented, withering, and then brightened. "Ah, a fake death, then," she determined. "Things are
always much more enjoyable when they're done purely for attention and vanity and not remotely for genuine
feeling."

"Yes, and then - surprise! You're alive," Thibaut pronounced exuberantly.

Hermione, meanwhile, threw up her hands, unsurprisingly exasperated.

"I'm leaving," she announced, turning towards the Floo, but she stopped before managing it, pivoting abruptly to
stare at Lucius.

"Your son is a good man," she said, "but don't think for one second that you had anything to do with that." She
paused, clearly considering a continuation of her lecture, but ultimately opted against it, giving him a brisk, firm nod
instead. "And also, I'm going to take my muggle-born arse straight to the altar with him!" she shouted over her
shoulder, storming out of the dining room.

"Did she say muggle-born?" Hortense asked after she'd gone, frowning, and Lucius shrugged, too exhausted to
argue.

"She's also some sort of bare-knuckle boxer," he said, no longer bothering to pretend, "and Draco, for the record, is a
highly sought-after contract killer, and I'm fairly certain he was on drugs this entire evening."

"Huh, well, you should have said so," Hortense remarked blithely. "And here I thought he was so flamingly dull."

"Invitation to the surprise party funeral?" Thibaut prompted, and Hortense nodded vigorously, neither of them
batting an eye as Lucius slid under the table to lie down on the floor.

"Oh, certainly," Hortense pronounced adoringly. "Put them both on the list."

Le Château Perdu
Jardin des Tuileries
October 4, 2003
6:45 p.m.

"You look weird," Mel commented, glancing up to see Ron fidgeting uncomfortably over their dinner in the hotel
restaurant. "Is everything okay, babe?"

"Yeah, of course," he said, flashing her an astoundingly nervous version of his usual comforting grin. "I'm glad we
did this."

"Me too," she replied, reaching out to brush his knuckles with the tips of her fingers. "You've been really out of sorts
lately. Not that I don't understand, of course," she assured him, watching a flicker of unease cross his expression. "I
get it, Ron. I know it's difficult having Draco and Hermione here, but honestly, I think it will be much easier for
everyone if we all just learn to - "

"I don't want to talk about them," he cut in. "Please. I mean - " he exhaled shakily. "I just don't want to, okay?"

Mel raised her glass of champagne to her lips, forcing a smile.

"Right," she said tightly, wondering when, exactly, they'd be able to talk at all.

The last few days had been highly unpleasant. She'd hoped for the situation to ease, but there was no escaping the
horror that was Ron's nightmarish opposition to Hermione and Draco, both of whom were virtually unavoidable.
Their visit - highlighted by widespread praise for their admirable ambassadorship and buzzing rumors of Hermione
being invited to Chateau Malefoy - was ostensibly the most interesting thing the Prophète could think to report.

The four of them hadn't run into each other again (thankfully, though Mel was beginning to reflexively scan every
room she entered, just in case) but still, the prospect was unnerving. Mel felt she'd been walking on eggshells ever
since the proposal at the Ministry, and Ron was such a skittish version of himself she half-wanted to feed him nuts
out of her palm like a baby horse.

She sipped quietly at her champagne, trying not to descend to moodiness, though the prospect seemed unavoidable.
It was her second glass already, after having one or two glasses of wine earlier with her business partners, and she
supposed it was beginning to buzz faintly around her head; though, with the deafening silence coming from her
twitchily apprehensive boyfriend, it was hard to tell.
What they needed was a distraction, she thought, letting the fizz of the champagne dance on her tongue.

Or, on second thought, an orgasm would do just as well.

"Maybe we should just fuck," she began, just as Ron blurted out, "WE SHOULD GET MARRIED."

"What?" they asked each other in unison, and Mel frowned.

"You go first," she suggested suspiciously, and he paused.

"Well, your idea is good too," he stammered, and she opened her mouth, closing it.

"No," she said. "I think we have to do your thing first. Did you just - " she grimaced. "Did you just try to propose?"

"Well," Ron began sheepishly. "Um. I mean - "

"You told me you didn't want to discuss marriage," she reminded him, and brought her glass to her lips, only to
realize with a disappointed growl that it was empty. She wondered if she were not, in fact, slightly more intoxicated
than she'd initially predicted. "Weren't you the one who said it didn't interest you?"

"Yes, well, I was wrong," he said, as if that were so easily dismissible. "Things change, Mel, and - "

She held up a hand, stopping him.

"What changed, exactly?" she asked, the question coming out a little colder than she intended. "As far as I can tell,
the only thing that changed is that your sworn enemy is now engaged to your ex-girlfriend - "

"Fiancée," Ron corrected reflexively, and froze.

Mel stared at him.

She blinked.

He blinked.

She thought about shaking him.

Thought, briefly, about slapping him.

But instead, she opted to indulge the sulking that had already bubbled up easily on her tongue.

"Can I, for one second," she seethed bitterly, "have a moment with you that's about me and not her, Ron?"

"It is about you," he assured her, and hurriedly shoved his chair back, dropping to one knee and taking her hand as
the many heads in the restaurant swiveled to their table, staring from every angle of the room. "Mel, I love you. I
love you more than anything, and I know this is sudden, but what we have is real, and - "

"Ron," she said dazedly, forcing a swallow. "People are looking."

"Let them look!" he protested, leaning towards her. "I want them to see, Mel. Let them see how in love we are - "

"Why? So that you can keep up with Hermione?" she hissed, wondering how much control she actually possessed
over her volume. "Ron, do you even have a ring?"

"I," he began, and paused, his face promptly turning scarlet. "This is sort of a spur of the moment thing," he admitted
hesitantly, mumbling it without meeting her eye, and she felt something like an unpleasant stomp to her chest;
something like disappointment, though it could easily have been sadness, or pain.

"Did you even stop to wonder if this is what I wanted?" she asked him. "You never asked me how I felt about
marriage. And even if you had," she pressed, "did you really think I would have wanted you to ask me like this?
With everyone staring like some kind of - of spectacle?"

"I," he attempted again, but when it was clear that this was only now occurring to him, she shook her head, fighting
a humiliating onslaught of tears.

"Ron Weasley, I may love you," she snapped, yanking her hand from his and rising abruptly to her feet, nearly
falling over in the process. "But right now, I really, really don't like you."

She stumbled away, colliding with a waiter, and bit her tongue as a levitating tray crashed to the floor, the sound
muffled only by the clicking sound of countless camera flashes going off around her.

"Mel," Ron called desperately, shifting towards her, but she shook her head, pulling her shoes from her feet and
taking off at a run through the lobby. "MEL," he shouted, stumbling over a small French goblin, "MEL, WAIT!"

But she kept running and didn't stop, darting past the open-mouthed onlookers until she reached the hotel's gardens,
finally stumbling to a half to let out a painfully pathetic sob.

"Oh great," she heard, and glanced up, swiping firmly at her eyes. "You again."

7:15 p.m.

Draco had of course not gone to the bathroom.

In his defense, he had considered other alternatives to simply disappearing. In fact, he'd postured for a moment that
he could easily knock back a few more vials until he was just shy of unconscious, diminished to some passably
tolerant shell of himself that might manage to abide Hortense's passive aggression (and her horrifyingly garish
makeup, which had scared him as a child and had not delivered much relief since then).

He'd considered staying. He didn't relish the idea of leaving Hermione behind, after all. He figured she was about
five seconds from either blurting out the status of her birth and then producing pamphlets on the horrors of house
elves, or, alternatively, chastising everyone in the room for their inattention to her varying crusades of ineptly
tireless social outrage. She couldn't possibly be left alone.

In a very convincing counterpoint, however, he'd reminded himself that he was on drugs, and therefore wasn't
exactly making in the state of mind to make things better.

So he'd had about two minutes of good intentions before taking the Floo while Armand's portrait was shouting. He
figured he'd prefer to deal with Hermione's inevitable lecture later (when the opportunity invariably presented itself)
rather than spend one more minute with his dishearteningly vile cousins.

He'd gone to their hotel room first, thinking that would be escape enough. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go,
after all. The longer he sat in the dark, though, the more he realized that Hermione would eventually realize he was
gone (he was certain she'd be the first to notice, considering her aptitude for sticking her 'helpful' nose where it very
un-helpfully didn't belong) and that she would then come here, to force him to talk about his feelings; to shout at
him for his irresponsibility, probably.

Not to mention that maybe she'd think he wanted to be found, which he didn't.

So he'd made his way through the hotel gardens instead.

He figured he shouldn't have been surprised when he found a crying Mel Warbeck stumbling through as well, her
shoes in her hand and her lips bitten and cheeks flushed, her makeup still unnervingly perfect despite clear signs of
both pain and intoxication.

"Oh, great," he drawled. "You again."

In reality, though, he wasn't too terribly displeased to see her.

And maybe he was imagining it, but she didn't exactly look displeased to see him.

"Of course you're here," she muttered, a perfect reflection of his reaction. "That's just perfect, isn't it?"

She was definitely a little bit drunk, hiccuping once, and he shrugged.

There wasn't much to say to that.

"You hate Ron, don't you?" she accused bluntly, accosting him with a brandished finger. "Why?"

He blinked, caught off guard.

"I can't tell you," Draco began, "how long I've been dying for someone to ask me that question. Let's start with the
obvious: his face. No, wait," he amended hastily, "his personality. No, stop, hold on - "

"He hates you because you were cruel," Mel cut in, collapsing abruptly in the grass and staring up at the night sky.
"Was he cruel?"

Draco paused, hesitating, and fell down beside her.

"Ruin my fun, why don't you," he muttered under his breath, and she turned her head, arching a brow. "Fine. No," he
exhaled. "He wasn't cruel. I was the one who tormented him, and Potter. And Granger." He swallowed, swiping a
hand across his face. "Christ. Kill my fucking buzz, why don't you, Warbeck - "

"I don't get it," she said flatly. "This thing you've all got. You all have this huge, epic history that binds you all
together and I just don't think I'll ever understand it. I mean, he really hates you," she informed him, squinting at
him. "To an almost obsessive degree, and I can't make sense of it. I don't get it. I just don't."

Draco, to his immense displeasure, let out a gruffly resigned sigh.

"Look, I was a real fucker," he admitted. "I'm not much better now, frankly. I just took a vial of potions and ran out
on Granger," he informed her, suffering another sharp prick of guilt. "So if Weasley hates me, he's probably got a
solid set of reasons, honestly."

"Yeah, well, I just ran out on him, so I guess nobody's perfect," she returned, and scowled. "He proposed to me, the
bastard." She turned her head, glaring at him. "Which is your fault, by the way."

"Fuck," Draco commented. "He proposed?"

"Yeah."

"Did he have a - "

"No."

"Did he at least do it somewh-"

"No."

"Did you two ever talk ab-"

"Nope."

"Well, what a dumb cunt," Draco determined, and then grimaced. "Sorry. No offense."

"It's fine," Mel exhaled. "I mean, it was a dumb cunt move. Call a spade a spade, I say."
"Yes," Draco agreed, "exactly."

They stared up at the sky, saying nothing.

"I like you," Mel commented. "I mean, I don't hate you. I get it, you know?" she remarked. "The appeal. I see what
Ron doesn't see - which is probably because I don't see what Ron sees."

A surprisingly poignant thought, he noted internally.

Considering the level of intoxication, as it were.

"Well, for the record, I like you too," Draco replied. "You're a classy bitch, Warbeck. You've got a real flair for
excellence."

"I know, right?" she agreed firmly, glancing at him. "And besides, you wouldn't propose to me with everyone
watching just because your ex got engaged, would you?"

"Fuck no," Draco scoffed. "And you wouldn't force me to talk about my dead mum just because you wanted to
understand me, would you?"

She shuddered. "No," she assured him firmly. "I hate that."

"I hate it too," he confirmed, and folded his arms over his chest, hoping the earth might finally do him a favor and
swallow him whole. "Sometimes," he said, closing his eyes, "I think I hate Granger more than anyone else I've ever
met."

He listened to Mel take a breath, letting it out with a delicate, tickled laugh.

"And sometimes," she murmured, "that feeling seems pretty fucking close to love, doesn't it?"

He turned his head, looking at her, and she turned hers, looking back at him.

"God, I would love to fuck you right now," she remarked. "Seems like a brilliant move."

"It does, doesn't it?" Draco agreed. "There's some disgusting, self-destructive piece of me that thinks that would be
the thing to do at the moment."

"Yeah," she sighed. "It's sort of like - a voice in my head, you know? Telling me to do something horrible so I won't
have to worry about anything real. It's the same voice that sometimes makes me want to jump off a building," she
murmured fancifully, "you know what I mean? When you stand at the ledge of a precipice and picture what it might
be like to just fall - "

"L'appel du vide," Draco murmured, and Mel's lips quirked up.

"Yeah," she said softly, with another beguiling laugh. "Fucking you right now would be like jumping straight into a
cavernous void."

He chuckled, picturing it, and reached up, tracing his fingers along the shape of the stars overhead.

"I'm a terrific lay," he remarked, for no particular reason.

She nodded.

"I give head like you wouldn't believe," she replied.

He closed his eyes, letting his arms fall back to his side.

Hermione would be wondering where he was.

He pictured her with her hands on her hips, giving him that unbearably pursed look of displeasure.

He was always disappointing her.

She would be wondering where he was.

He was always disappointing her.

"I should marry that motherfucker," Mel grumbled, interrupting his thoughts. "Shouldn't I?"

"Don't know," Draco said, shrugging. "Do you love him?"

She groaned.

"Terribly," she lamented, spreading her fingers over her face. "Stupidly."

"Well then," he said, struggling to sit up. "Maybe you should at least tell him that."

"I don't want to tell him shit," she said, making a sullen face. "I'm angry at him."

"Still," he insisted, nudging her. "I think he means well. Or - I don't know." He shrugged. "Maybe I'm wrong about
that. But I think he means well. I think he's just a - " he paused, making a face. "He's a good guy, you know? He just
fucked up because his head isn't right. It's these fucking heroes," he added distastefully. "They don't always know
what they're doing, but it's not their fault. They're just irreversibly fucked, and they can't help it. They're idiots. They
saved the world, and in return, the world never taught them a lesson on how to not be shitty idiots. And they just
keep trying to save it, stupidly," he added loudly, "over and over again, because that's all they know how to do. They
see something they love, they want to save it." He grunted out a scoff. "Like idiots."

Mel, for whatever reason, gave him a goofy, delighted smile.

"You really love her," she commented. "Don't you?"

"I - " he began, and stopped, remembering the circumstances of their conversation. "I'm fucking marrying her, aren't
I?"

"Yeah," she said. "I know. I'm just saying."

They sat quietly for another minute or two, contemplating their respective nothings, and then Draco let out another
sigh.

"I shouldn't have left her," he said.

"I shouldn't have left him," she agreed.

They turned, exchanging a glance.

"We have to go back, don't we?" Draco asked, and Mel smiled.

"Our heroes need us," she replied.

8:00 p.m.

Draco wasn't in the room when Hermione arrived.

She knew he'd been there at some point, though, because his coat had been left behind on the sofa. She saw
something peeking out from the corner of its charcoal inner lining and paused beside it, glancing over her shoulder.

She knew it wasn't exactly moral to snoop, but if it was what she suspected -
She nudged the coat.

"WHOOPS," she exclaimed loudly, knocking it onto the floor, and bent down, eyeing the container of vials that had
slipped out of the pocket. She scanned it quickly and grimaced, noting the empty one and assuming, safely, that its
consumption must have been recent.

"Of course he did," she murmured to herself, wondering if she should look for him. He wouldn't want to be found,
of course, but still. What if he was in trouble? she thought, chewing her lip. What if something had gone wrong?
What if he was upset? What if -

She looked up, interrupted from thought as an owl appeared on the ledge outside their window, tapping its beak for
her attention and ceremonially squawking its own arrival. "Hold on," she called to it with a sigh, "hold on, I'm
coming - "

She took the evening edition of the Prophète from the owl's beak and frowned, surprised.

INTERNATIONAL WIZENGAMOT ASSASSINATION SUSPECT TAKEN INTO CUSTODY, the headline read.
FORMER BRITISH MINISTRY DEPARTMENT HEAD CRACKS CASE OF MYSTERIOUS POISONINGS -

"There you are," she heard behind her, the door to their hotel room opening and falling shut. "My goodness,
Granger, I thought for sure you'd have the good sense to leave that party a long time ago. And they call you the
brightest witch of your age, honestly - "

"Malfoy," she began, turning towards him as she scanned the article, but he continued to speak.

"Ah," he noted guiltily, catching sight of his vials on the ground. "I guess you know I took something, then."

"Yes, Malfoy, but - "

"Listen," he sighed, "I know I did this wrong. I know I fucked this up, and I'm sorry. I did a shitty thing and I'm
sorry. And I'm sorry I can't talk about my mother, too, but I just can't, okay? It's just not something I can - "

"Malfoy," she attempted, more firmly this time, but he wasn't listening.

"I understand that we're partners," he went on, "and partners shouldn't, you know, consume brain-numbing potions
and then abandon ship at the first sign of general fuckery, but - "

"MALFOY," she snapped, and this time he stopped, his brow furrowed.

She took a breath, wondering how to begin, and then sighed it out, unsure why it was so difficult to say.

"It's over, Malfoy," she informed him dully, holding up the newspaper in her hand. "They caught the killer. It's
over."

"I - " he began, and frowned. "What do you mean over?"

"The killer was some potioneer known for brewing his own adrenaline," Hermione said, tossing the newspaper at
him. He made absolutely no attempt to catch it, letting it bounce squarely off his chest. "Apparently they have proof
the poison is his design, and he's already been arrested for all three Wizengamot poisonings."

"But - " Draco stared at her. "Adrenaline?" he echoed in confusion, considering it.

"He brewed doses high enough to stop the heart without detection in a standard Auror investigation," she explained,
effectively quoting the article. "It's apparently a common practice in illegal performance enhancing potions for
magical sports, which is why they brought in Ludo Bagman, who used to be head of that department - "

"Well, fine, but where was he based?" Draco pressed. "Paris?" he guessed, and she shrugged. "Then why target
Stockholm, or MACUSA? Why the British Ministry?"
"I don't know, Malfoy - "

"How did he do it?" he demanded, looking rousingly irritated. "Did he have the resources to hire someone else? Is
he the one who hired Morrison?"

"I don't know - "

"And why try to frame the Club? Why never leave any ransom demands, or - "

"Malfoy, I keep telling you, I don't kn-"

"Why would someone who makes performance enhancing potions suddenly start killing people?" Draco growled,
pacing beside the door. "There's money in potion distribution," he muttered to himself, "but there's no way he would
have been getting paid off for these assassinations, so why would th-"

"I don't know," Hermione interrupted crossly, and then sighed. "I really don't have any answers, Malfoy. All I know
is that according to this article, our job's been done for us. If this is true, then - " she trailed off, shrugging. "Then
there's no reason for us to be here anymore. Which is best," she added. "Since clearly we can part with this ruse
now, and you no longer have to interact with your family." She paused, hesitating. "Or me."

She waited, tensed, for him to respond, but he didn't speak.

When she glanced up, questioning, he looked positively struck by something; to the point where she wondered if she
should apologize, despite not being entirely sure what she was supposed to have done.

"So it's over, then," Draco finally said. "That's … it?"

"I assume so," she ventured delicately. "I imagine Harry will be in touch with us soon, but we were only supposed to
be working on this one case, so - "

"So that's it, then," he said again, staring at her. "And you'll go back to Hawkworth, I take it?"

"I - " She frowned. "Well, it's hardly a matter of going back, Malfoy. I'm already with him." She stopped,
considering it. "I mean, sort of. Somewhat. In a very loose, unfulfilled sort of sense."

"But not tonight," Draco commented neutrally, and she blinked.

"What?"

"You're not with him tonight," he clarified. "Tonight you're still engaged to me, and I," he pronounced, taking a step
in her direction, "still have quite a lot of drugs in my system."

"I," she coughed up, half-choking on surprise. "So?"

"So," Draco continued, unperturbed, "I'm thinking we should do something reckless before Potter calls us back.
Otherwise it's just a waste of a potion," he lamented, taking a slow, languid series of steps to bring them face-to-
face. "And I," he murmured, tucking a finger under her chin, "am very firmly not a wastrel."

She did not look at his mouth.

She did not.

"You have a problem," she informed him stiffly. "You're incredibly self-destructive."

"Yes," he agreed. "Which makes me terrific in bed."

"But you're, you know - intoxicated," she reminded him, "and I'm sober. So I'd be - "

"Taking advantage?" he drawled, leaving the imprint of his teeth against his lower lip as he smirked at her.
"Vulnerable though I so clearly am, Granger, I hardly think this is an appropriate time for your insufferable morality
-"

"You know, if you're upset," she chided him, "which you clearly are, we should talk about it, Malfoy. We can have
a conversation, because we're friends, and we're partners, and - "

"Not anymore," he reminded her gruffly. "Not for long."

He took another step and she, unnerved by his closeness, stumbled back against the sitting room coffee table, nearly
falling backwards; he, to her dismay, caught her with an arm around her waist, deftly pulling her into him.

"Careful," he said, and she felt rather than heard herself make a small, incomprehensible noise of disbelief.

"Malfoy," she managed sternly, "this is highly unproductive."

"Good," he ruled. "Ideal."

"And if you recall," she insisted, "the last time we did this, we could barely look at each other afterwa-"

"Who cares?" he cut in, shrugging. "We probably don't have to see each other after tomorrow anyway."

"But - "

He cut her off with the kiss she'd been so thrillingly terrified he might have attempted earlier, when she'd been
diminished to madness and frustration and the infuriating memory of precisely how good he'd tasted. They'd been
shouting then, true, but it seemed no less charged now; she felt, if possible, even less in control now than she'd been
then. He was so good, so desperately enticing, so carelessly, unhurriedly in control and it was so distracting, so
utterly outside the realm of sensible judgment that she was certain he tasted exactly how impairment felt, dizzying
her straight to afflicted delirium.

"Malfoy, you fucking arsehole," she gasped, leaning her head back with a groan as he maneuvered her back against
the sofa, shoving her onto the cushions. "Why can't you just - just - behave like a normal human being - "

"What, and process my emotions with mature, insightful communication?" he muttered into her neck. "Sounds fake,
honestly - "

"Draco," she hissed, yanking his head back by a handful of his hair, "they shouldn't have talked to you like that.
Your father's a bloody coward, your cousins are a bunch of twatting loons, and you - " she broke off, staring at the
red-bitten swell of his lips. "You are a far better man than you think you are."

He blinked.

Froze.

Blinked again.

"Take off your dress," he said hoarsely.

She swallowed.

"You take it off," she retorted, and he let out a growl, his nails digging into her thigh as he kissed her again, and
again, and again and again until she finally had to admit that he was going to fuck her (was going to lick her cunt
through her knickers and tell her so sweetly, his voice low and husky and warm, just how obscenely he was going to
make her come) and had to further admit, grudgingly, that she wanted him to. She wanted to let her tongue curl
indolently around the sound of his name; to say it quietly in his ear, let it slip from between her lips in a hushed,
whimper-gasp of surprise; to let the breath-suspending urgency of her restraint drive him to madness. She wanted it,
wanted him, and by the time they stumbled to the bedroom, she was no longer bothering with her initial opposition.
What was one more night, after all?

One more time.

One last time.

"Harder," she whispered to him, arching her back, and he groaned in her ear, the two of them finally coming to
uncontested agreement.

The vanished gable wall of 52 Rue de Montmorency

Le Marais Quarter
11:17 p.m.

"Where have you been?" Dolores demanded, rising to her feet as Ludo apparated into the cramped floor of their flat.
"And what is this about?" she insisted, holding up a copy of the evening Prophète. "They're saying you've identified
a suspect, that he's been arrested - "

"Ah, excellent, effective journalism," Ludo replied smoothly, sparing her a smirk. "As you already appear to have
noticed, I've identified Emmanuel Gagnon as the originator of the adrenaline potion, and therefore - "

"Are you insane?" Dolores hissed, glaring up at him. "You can't just blame him without any proof! He's not going to
have knowledge of any of it," she reminded him brusquely, "and then what are you going to do when they're forced
to release him?"

"Oh, they won't," Ludo assured her, leaning his head back with a chuckle. "I've already had a chat with him.
Considering his highly illegal activities," he mused, shrugging, "I'd say he's between what I might call a rock and a
hard place. Both of which equally involve the destruction of his reputation and inevitable life imprisonment at best,
so - "

"You're playing with fire, Ludo!" Dolores accused, stumbling towards him. "You were only supposed to guide the
investigation, not totally derail it! The plan was to keep the poisonings relevant, to keep the Ministries paranoid long
enough for us to strike again where it hurt - "

"Yes, true, but I decided the plan no longer suited me," Ludo informed her. "You see, after being Janvier's guest the
other night, I realized I quite miss being in the public eye. And seeing as I'm now poised to make my return - "

"You can't honestly think you can just - go back," Dolores scoffed, cutting him off. "You're wanted by goblins,
Ludo, and fully ostracized by the Ministry - not to mention that you just facilitated the murders of three Warlocks - "

"Actually," Ludo corrected her, "you seem a bit behind, so let me catch you up. As to the goblin point," he
explained, "I've got a list of high-profile quidditch players at least a mile long that Gagnon made illegal potions for.
Unsurprisingly, they were each willing to pay quite a sum to make sure what I know about them doesn't get out.
Consequently, my debt with the goblins is settled."

"But - "

"As for the Ministry," Ludo continued, "Minister Shacklebolt has just invited me to meet with him to discuss my
findings, and I'm comfortably certain reconciliation is well on its way. That's where I was, by the way," he added
wryly. "Janvier arranged a Floo call with Shacklebolt about my impending return, and naturally it would have been
rude to refuse his hospitality."

"Ludo," Dolores seethed, "you can't possibly - "

"As for the last thing, I'm not totally sure I know what you're talking about," he remarked lazily. "After all, I don't
believe that I brewed any potions myself, did I? In fact," he murmured, "if I were asked under Veritaserum, I could
honestly say I wasn't responsible, couldn't I?"
Her eyes widened in disbelief.

"You were the one who gave me the basis for Gagnon's potion, Ludo. You hired Morrison," she reminded him, her
eyes narrowing. "You were the one who arranged to have each of the poisons delivered - "

"Ah, but Morrison's dead, isn't he?" Ludo remarked. "In fact, everyone involved who could conceivably corroborate
your story is dead. You've heard about Lady Revel by now, haven't you?" he prompted, delighting internally as the
color drained from her face at the news. "Yep. Dead," he said with a chuckle. "Which means that the only person
left is you, and you're - " he paused, smirking. "Not exactly innocent, are you? You can't touch me without going
down yourself."

"Ludo," she hissed, "you can't seriously think I'll let you get away with this - "

"You know what's adorable?" he interrupted. "That you think you're the mastermind here. You thought you were the
brains, didn't you? But I was always the one with connections, and I think I'll be using them to move on with my
life. Oh, but don't worry," he added with a laugh. "I'll leave you the flat."

"Ludo," she said, her eyes widening hysterically, "you can't leave me here. We had a deal, Ludo Bagman - we had a
fucking deal - "

"Yes, we did," he indulgently permitted, turning to the door. "But as it turns out, I can manage just fine on my own,
so that's what I'm going to do."

"Ludo," she shouted desperately, chasing after him as he strode away. "LUDO, YOU CAN'T - BAGMAN, YOU
SWINE, YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET THIS - "

He shut the door behind him, chuckling to himself, and kept walking, whistling as he went.

Sure, it was a gamble.

But Ludo Bagman was a gambling man, and he was fairly certain he'd just won big.

a/n: I have a lot of deadlines coming up (my D/Hr Advent one shot, for one) so it's possible that only one of my
WIPs will update next week; not sure yet which one it will be. In the meantime, feel free check out my Halloween one
shot (Eyes Closed, chapter 11 in my Draught of Living Death collection) and stay tuned for Modern Romance this
weekend. Thank you so much for reading! Dedicated to oblivionbaby, tessxox, and writer34!
 21. It's Not You, It's My Enemies

Chapter 21: It's Not You, It's My Enemies

In the rare moments that he was being honest with himself, Kingsley Shacklebolt had to admit that he was not overly
fond of having power.

The problem, really, was that power (at least the kind wielded by the Minister of Magic) was a rather hazy,
disingenuous illusion - which was what Albus had so often tried to tell him, as Kingsley now frequently recalled.
For all the times Kingsley had asked his friend and mentor why he hadn't simply accepted the many, many calls for
his campaign - all the many times that the wizarding world had pleaded for a leader, a hero like Albus Dumbledore,
the greatest wizard who'd ever lived and the very vanquisher of darkness - he'd never gotten much more than a
gentle, "It's not for me, Kingsley."

"But why not?" Kingsley had always protested. "Don't you feel some sort of responsibility to the rest of the world to
lead it? Nobody else is as respected, nobody as revered - "

"Yes," Albus permitted, "but even if I were to presume those things deserved, reverence and respect are hardly
prerequisites for service in the Ministry. I'm simply not made of the right materials for the job. Someday," he'd
added, in what Kingsley had then considered a blissful benediction, "someday, Kingsley, you'll understand what I
mean."

It was no secret, after all, that Kingsley aspired to the office. He'd tried to be as selfless as he'd believed Albus to be,
but in reality there had always been something in him that had selfishly longed for it, beyond the measures of
humble public service. Kingsley had served his career in the Ministry watching Cornelius Fudge flounder; watching
Rufus Scrimgeour mishandle nearly every aspect of his pseudo-tyrannical rule; watching the government he'd
worked so diligently to serve being taken over by puppets and Dark Lords alike; and eventually, Kingsley had to
wonder if someone else were not more deserving of the post - or, more accurately, if the post were not deserving of
someone rather like him.

Or, in fact, him.

To be chosen to lead the wizarding world after the darkness that had befallen it during Lord Voldemort's reign
(indeed, not only to be chosen, but to be unanimously identified as the only satisfactory option) was an honor, and
Kingsley had once worn it with pride. He imagined his friend and mentor, Albus Dumbledore, would have been
beaming with pride on his behalf, and on the day he'd been elected, he could have sworn the sun had shone on him
as indulgently as Albus himself might have done.

But oh, how wrong he'd been. Albus Dumbledore had not been selfless; in reality, he'd simply been much, much
smarter. Each time that Kingsley was pressured against his better judgment by the Wizengamot or by the self-
promoting bureaucrats he relied on to accomplish even the smallest tasks, he realized anew that Albus' indulgent
smile had not been borne of pride.

You fool, it must have said. You stupid, stupid fool, Kingsley Shacklebolt, for ever believing you might have made a
difference.

"You will have to speak to Ludo Bagman," the Warlock Ifan Hawkworth delivered unambiguously, accosting
Kingsley in his office at an hour that was unreasonably late, even for a Minister, who already could not afford the
luxury of sleep. "The Warlocks and I would like to see this resolved as soon as possible, Minister Shacklebolt,
particularly as our annual Ministry address draws closer."

"Ifan, have you forgotten Ludo Bagman's history with this Ministry?" Kingsley asked bluntly, wanting very much to
drag the too-proud Warlock straight into his pensieve to relive it as he had lived it; to see again the man who'd fled
from gambling debts, who'd manipulated a child, who'd done everything in his power to flex his privilege only to
subsequently embarrass the office he'd served and abandon it in the midst of a crisis. "Ludo may be informed in this
field, but are you and I really going to pretend that's some sort of faultless knowledge? Or that indeed, the
Wizengamot itself never once suspected him of a wide variety of wrongs?"

But Ifan, for all his stiff propriety, showed no evidence of shame.

"Not everyone can afford the reach of your memory, Kingsley," Ifan informed him stiffly. "Right now, there is panic
in the Ministry. In all Ministries, in fact, and if you don't cooperate with the French Ministre, we will be seen as
international antagonists. As fools, even," he scoffed, "who care less for the safety of our people than for our tired
old grudges. Did you not run for Minister on a platform of enlightened reform? Of compassion for those who
suffered beneath Lord Voldemort's reign?"

"Ludo Bagman is, and has always been, a liar and an addict," Kingsley reminded him. "He's hardly the demographic
that campaign was meant to protect. Compassion is one thing, Ifan," he added sharply, "but fool me twice - "

"As I say, Kingsley," Ifan interrupted, "some of us have to deal with far more pressing fears. For example, the fear
that one among us may be assassinated at any given moment," he trumpeted emphatically, "simply for doing our
jobs. For keeping the peace. Is your personal vendetta against Bagman worth more than our wider peace of mind?"

Kingsley blinked.

Now it was a personal vendetta?

"No," he rumbled gruffly, "but - "

"But nothing," Ifan cut in sharply, taking a threatening step closer. "You are expendable, Minister," he reminded
Kingsley quietly. "You can be recalled at any moment, and never more easily than once you refuse international
cooperation and reject an opportunity to put your public at ease. Do you want to go down in history as the Minister
who permitted an international criminal to go free simply because you didn't care for the source?" he prompted
warningly. "Would you prefer another Warlock to die, Minister, simply because you can't forgive a man something
as trifling as a gambling debt?"

It had been a darkly compelling point.

Too compelling, in fact, to argue it very successfully, and that had resolved to a powerless situation of its own.

"You can't possibly be thinking of summoning Ludo Bagman," Harry Potter demanded, storming into Kingsley's
office and angrily slamming his hands on the wood of his desk. "Kingsley, you can't be serious!"

"It's done, Auror Potter," Kingsley exhaled, thinking once again how much easier Harry Potter had had it. Harry's
actions, unlike Kingsley's, were never subjected to the fickle public's disapproval, and even if they ever were,
Kingsley doubted anyone could bring themselves to disapprove. A young, charismatic war hero was an
improvement on a weary lifelong politician, even if Kingsley had done more than his fair share for the restoration of
their world. "My hands are tied, Harry, as they have been for this entire investigation. You know as well as I do that
the Warlocks are getting restless. The Wizengamot wants a solution, and there is one available for them now,
whether I like it or not."

In response, Harry's green eyes only narrowed, the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead splintering as his brow
furrowed in disapproval.

"Ludo Bagman is not above tampering with things and you know it," Harry hissed. "Or didn't he try to influence the
Triwizard Tournament? How do you know he's not simply working for someone he owes now," he ranted, "or
covering his tracks, or - "

"I don't know for sure," Kingsley admitted, rubbing his temple, "but Harry, surely you know I'm going to keep an
eye on him. And at least we have answers now," he added, though it was more for his own benefit, he suspected, as
Harry did not look assuaged. "At least we can finally reassure the public that we've come to a reasonable conclusion
-"

"Well, I think you're wrong on this," Harry retorted, with all his insuppressible youth. "This doesn't make sense.
This Emmanuel Gagnon had nothing to gain by these assassinations, Kingsley, and something is off," he muttered.
"Something is - it's just too easy, Kingsley - "

"Unfortunately, neither your intuition nor the conception of 'too easy' is enough of a reason for me not to call Ludo
Bagman back," Kingsley sighed, having been up all night making the same argument to himself. "The potions have
been confirmed to be magical adrenaline of Gagnon's creation, Harry. Everything Bagman has claimed has been
correct, and at this point, knowing what we know, I have no choice but to close the invest-"

"NO!" Harry shouted, abruptly losing his temper. "You can't close the investigation, Kingsley! First of all, what
about Auror Carnegie?" he protested. "She's still being investigated for the death of her father, which this Gagnon
person couldn't possibly have been responsible for - "

"Harry, I know you like Aur- Miss Carnegie," Kingsley attempted, trying not to give another exhausted sigh, "but
once again, my job isn't to clear her name. My job was to aid in the international assassinations, but having no actual
victims, I can hardly insist the rest of the world keep looking when they already have the man responsible - "

"Your job, Kingsley, is to protect the wizarding world," Harry growled, his hands tightening to fists that swelled
angrily atop Kingsley's countless other parchments full of worry. "Your job, Minister, is to do what's right - "

It was an accusation so close to home that Kingsley nearly flinched, his jaw tensing with frustration.

"I have to do what's right for this Ministry, not my personal conscience," Kingsley reminded him, rising sharply to
his feet. "I have no choice, Harry, and my decision is final. Your partnership with Malfoy is over," he ruled angrily,
leaning into an unusual fit of temper, "as is your employment of Miss Granger. Send them home, Harry, now."

"But what about Dionisia Trelawney's death?" Harry pressed, unyielding. "What about the attempt on Percy
Weasley's life? Even if you remove Gagnon's potions from the equation, these things still don't fit together!"

At that, Kingsley's long-thinning patience finally snapped.

"That," he said coldly, "is your job, Auror Potter. My job is to afford your department its necessary resources, and
given that the resources previously discussed for this investigation are no longer necessary, they are hereby
rescinded. Malfoy and Granger are no longer under Ministry protection. They may no longer claim association with
the Ministry in any capacity - "

"I can't do that," Harry cut in, brow furrowed with rapid calculation. "Malfoy's company is planning the
Wizengamot's annual address, and their contracts have already been approved by the Ministry - "

"Fine," Kingsley permitted bluntly. "Then they are event planners and nothing else, Harry. No more sending
Granger and Malfoy as ambassadors, no more involvement of them in this case, and certainly no more discussion of
Ministry affairs with either of them. When their contracts are fulfilled, the Ministry's association with - with - "

"Deathstar Enterprises," Harry muttered sullenly.

" - is over," Kingsley finished. "Am I clear?"

He watched Harry Potter, the boy he'd once fought so tirelessly to protect and whom he'd so often been thankful for,
grit his teeth in abject frustration.

"It seems the Ministry never changes, then, does it?" Harry remarked, glowering. "I thought we'd finally put
someone worthy in this office - someone whose conscience couldn't be compromised," he accused, "but that's simply
not the case, is it?"

Kingsley tried not to let the slight sting too badly, though in truth, it resonated sharply in the depths of his soul.

"No," he said, without elaboration. "You're dismissed, Auror Potter."

Harry's expression soured.

"Thank you very much for your time, then, Minister," he replied insincerely, and turned to storm out of his office,
leaving Kingsley behind to let his head fall into his hands, considering once again how he should have listened to
Albus Dumbledore.

"You might have just told me, Albus," Kingsley muttered to no one, "that there's no good to be accomplished in this
office with politics tying both my hands behind my back. Should've just been Headmaster at Hogwarts, shouldn't I?"

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer.

"Albus, you too-clever bastard," Kingsley sighed, not for the first time.

Then he leaned back in his chair, marveling again just how much he'd come to loathe the utter powerlessness of
having power.

12 Grimmauld Place
October 5, 2003
6:15 a.m.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Daisy said carefully, watching Harry pace the floor of his study. "Listen, Harry, I
know it must seem like I'm just trying to protect myself, but my gut is telling me not to buy this Gagnon guy as a
suspect. Not to mention that there's still a lot of unanswered questions here - "

"I know," Harry replied irritably, his hand rising reflexively to rub at the scar on his forehead. "I know that, but I
don't know what I'm supposed to do now that Kingsley's closed the investigation. I still need something for you to
consult on," he muttered to himself, his gaze flicking momentarily towards her, "plus the Club continues to be
implicated in all of this, and I need some way to prove Ludo Bagman's up to something, although once again, I don't
know what - "

"Easy," Theo declared, rising to his feet and unrepentantly positioning himself as an obstacle to Harry's pacing,
forcing Harry to an unsteady halt. "You catch him in the act, Potter. He's an addict," Theo added. "A relentless
gambler. My contacts say he was placing bets with them for years, long before he actually fled the goblins."

"Who are you again?" Daisy asked, glancing up at Theo, but he ignored her.

"Ludo Bagman is a gambler, Potter," Theo said again, placing both hands on Harry's shoulders. "Sooner or later,
he'll come back to it. You just have to position yourself somewhere you can catch him slipping back into old habits."

"But what if I'm wrong?" Harry pressed, fidgeting. "Kingsley's right. Gagnon does seem to be the originator of the
potions, and I have no resources now that the case has been closed. Just because I personally don't trust Ludo
Bagman doesn't mean I have a reason to keep investigating the assassinations - "

"You mean Auror Potter doesn't have a reason to keep investigating," Theo clarified, prompting Harry to look up in
surprise. "The Ministry has no reason to suspect him, but you do. So hire me," he concluded, shrugging. "You say
it's personal, Potter? Then make it personal."

"I can't," Harry said, frowning. "That's - I can't - "

"As illegal as this so clearly is," Daisy agreed carefully, "this guy's got a point. You can't work within the Ministry,
but only half your investigation was ever public, was it?" she prompted. "So just let things continue as they already
have."

Harry glanced warily at Theo.

"I can't keep Hermione and Malfoy on this. At this point, they're too widely publicized, too closely watched - and if
you get caught," he ventured hesitantly, "I won't be able to protect you, Nott. I can't keep you out of Azkaban if
something goes wrong."
"Hey, I stayed out this long," Theo reminded him, shrugging. "Rather impressively, too, I might add - "

"Meanwhile, we do know the Club exists, Harry," Daisy reminded him. "We know more than the Ministry does, and
you have the option to investigate the Club for suspected conspiracy, don't you? Any open investigation on an
international scale would be enough to keep me here," she added carefully, "and then I could help you with this
Ludo Bagman character. And I could help this guy," she added, glancing disapprovingly at Theo. "Who, again, is
—who, exactly?"

"Theo Nott, person of ambiguous intentions," Theo supplied curtly, sparing her a disinterested nod. "I work for a
company called 'Parties Parties Parties Part-"

"Nott," Harry growled warningly.

"Well, you did say we're event planners again," Theo drawled. "It really does not get more fitting than that. Though
what do you think of this for a company name: 'Harry Potter and the Cursed Children,' or - "

"NOTT," Harry shouted.

"Fine, I'll fine-tune it," Theo assured him, but Daisy stepped forward, clearly toying with something unrelated.

"This Bagman guy," she said slowly. "He's a gambler, right? So where's somewhere he would go to bet on
something? I'm not exactly well-known around here," she reminded him. "I mean, certainly not in London's less
formal circles, so maybe if I went, you know, underground - "

"Underground," Harry echoed, recognition clanging, and glanced questioningly at Theo, who looked at once
exuberant and satisfied. "We already have Cad, but you know how I feel about him - "

"Quite. So tell me, then, Carnegie," Theo purred, turning his sly grin on her, "can you fight?"

"Fight?" she echoed, looking startled. "I mean, I'm an Auror," she clarified. "I've passed all my physical fitness
exams. Plus I have a fair amount of tactical training, and I do have quite a lot of experience with self-defense and - "

"Sure," Theo interrupted carelessly. "But can you fight?"

Harry waited, eyeing her for a response, and she exhaled slowly.

"Yeah," she finally admitted, folding her arms over her chest. "Yeah, I've been known to fuck shit up."

"Well, there we go, then," Theo declared blithely, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "And now, Daisy
Carnegie, we can all be friends."

Le Château Perdu
Jardin des Tuileries
7:45 a.m.

"Malfoy!"

Draco groaned.

"Later," he muttered, burrowing his face in his pillow. "I'm sleeping."

"Listen, Malfoy, this is sort of urgent - "

"I respectfully disagree," he retorted. "And once again, Potter, now that we have successfully reestablished my
continuing disinterest, goodbye forever - "

"MALFOY!"
"For fuck's sake, Pot- POTTER," he gasped in alarm, abruptly shifting in the direction he foolishly thought was
upright. Instead, he smacked his head directly into something smooth and soft and itchy, discovering with an
unpleasant lurch of recognition that it was Hermione's bare shoulder, her hair reaching in offensive little tendrils
directly beneath his naively unsuspecting nose.

"Will you tell Harry to be quiet?" Hermione half-moaned, half-whined, burrowing herself deeper in the blankets.
"I'm absolutely exhausted - "

"Think about what you just said," Draco hissed, jabbing at her spine with his finger, and she promptly bolted
forward, pulling the covers over herself and hiding behind him with a shrill, oppressive squeal of dismay.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, blinking at where Harry's face manifested impatiently from the fireplace across from the
bed. "We were just - I was, um - "

"Oh, spare me," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Are you both awake now? You sleep like the fucking dead, I swear - "

"Long night," Draco said, and immediately cleared his throat as Hermione smacked the back of his shoulder. "Long
night of innocence, of course," he clarified. "I mean, I took drugs, but what else is new, right? Certainly nothing
strange happened. Definitely nothing immoral, or anything premarital - "

"Or anything impressive, probably," Theo supplied, nudging Harry aside and appearing beside him in the fireplace.
"Post-coital suits you, Granger. You've got a lovely glow."

"I'm dressed," she informed him, having at some point regained sufficient presence of mind to quickly and
surreptitiously conjure clothes beneath the blankets, revealing herself to be wearing her usual sleep clothes.
"Nothing happened."

"Right, cool, so on the subject of obvious lies," Theo began, only to be interrupted by Harry.

"Listen," Harry cut in, "you've both heard about Gagnon by now, right?"

"Yes," Draco replied curtly. "So is this you dismissing us, Potter? Because frankly, I'd have liked to be wearing
appropriately somber trousers for my own unceremonious firing. Or, for that matter, any trousers," he remarked,
scowling.

"Yes, right, well you've got to come home," Harry confirmed hastily. "You no longer have Ministry approval to be
there, and you definitely can't go back to the French Ministre. Clear?"

"Crystal," Draco assured him, formally offering a hand to Hermione. "Well, Granger, it's been an experience, and
one I shall not soon repeat - "

For a moment, her eyes widened, processing what he'd said; then, abruptly, they narrowed, becoming irritated slits
of disbelief.

"Oh, believe me, Malfoy," she retorted, accepting his grip, "I for one will happily move on with my life. Thanks ever
so much for being such an abominable bed-hog, by the way - "

"Yes, and thank you for always taking bites of my food," he supplied. "I will so loathe regaining autonomy of my
own plate."

"Whereas I," she countered, "will similarly long for the days of having you critique my clothes, not to mention my
books, my shoes, my hair, my taste in music, my cruel and heartless attempts to be helpful - "

"Right, helpful," Draco agreed, rolling his eyes, "which once you have gone I will gradually recall is not, in fact, a
synonym for 'nosy' or 'over-involved' or 'annoying' - "

"STOP," Harry bellowed, the sound of his voice rattling around in the fireplace, and immediately, the entire room
seemed bewilderingly frozen in suspension.
For a moment, they paused, thoroughly bemused, and Hermione turned to Draco with a frown, the abrupt absence of
the wall clock's ticking pendulum becoming all at once eerily suspicious.

"Malfoy," she ventured uneasily, "is this - do Floo calls normally just - "

"Freeze?" someone asked from the corner, and Hermione gave a little yelp, gripping Draco's arm as Antioch
Peverell manifested in the chair on the opposite side of the room. "Well, you know how unreliable reception can be
sometimes. Terribly spotty when one's abroad, don't you think?"

"You're back," Draco noted, clearing his throat and mentally attempting to locate his wand before Antioch snapped
his fingers, summoning both wands in a single motion and holding them up for the two of them to see.

"Yes, well, I needed to have another conversation with you both, unfortunately. Obviously I took precautions," he
added, pointedly tucking their wands into his pocket, "though I do aspire to a time when neither of you feel the need
to hex me immediately upon arrival."

"Likewise, we look forward to not being accosted in hotel rooms," Hermione returned bluntly, and in return, Antioch
let out an unobtrusive laugh, as if she'd shared some charming little anecdote. "Is there something you need, then?"

"Yes, actually," Antioch confirmed, glancing at the Floo. "Ah, I see you're already speaking to Harry Potter," he
noted. "Well, a pity his resources have been rescinded from the Wizengamot case - the two of you included.
However, all the more convenient for me that your services no longer require the Ministry's oversight," he assured
them, "seeing as I now have your full attention."

"What for?" Draco prompted with a grimace. "The killer's been caught, hasn't he?"

To his surprise, Antioch's expression immediately went sour.

"Emmanuel Gagnon is almost certainly not the killer," Antioch pronounced brusquely, as if it were an insult to him
that Draco could suggest such an obvious misconception. "He's a potioneer, and hardly a master at that. He's greedy,
certainly, but not a killer, and more importantly, he has no conceivable connection to - or grudge against - the Club.
Which means that the true killer is likely still out there." He paused, indiscreetly eyeing his fingernails before
continuing. "Regardless, I do believe it is in the best interest of the Ministries to close the case and move on,
dismissing this mess from public speculation. Meanwhile, we can continue the investigation privately. And by we, I
of course mean - "

"Us?" Draco supplied, feeling Hermione tense beside him. "How exactly are we supposed to do that if you want
Potter to close the investigation?"

"You'll have Club resources, of course," Antioch assured them. "Obviously."

"Really," Hermione challenged, her mouth tightening. "So we'll have Club resources just like Emmett Carnegie had
Club resources, then?"

"Emmett Carnegie was a hapless fool," Antioch informed her, as if the man's life (and subsequent death) had meant
nothing. "He was ambitious and wealthy, yes, and a valuable card to play in the American wizarding world, but
beyond that, he was hardly any degree of useful. Stay useful to me," he beckoned with a slow, sly smile, "and you'll
have nothing to worry about, Miss Granger."

"Useful to you?" Draco asked skeptically. "Or useful to the Club?"

Antioch shrugged, rising to his feet. "One and the same," he assured them, and though Draco felt it highly necessary
to argue, he clamped his mouth shut, exchanging another apprehensive glance with Hermione. "Now, on the subject
of your engagement - "

"Our what?" Hermione asked, tearing her gaze from Draco's with a frown. "Isn't that whole thing irrelevant now?"

"Hardly," Antioch told them, scoffing. "You'll both have to continue operating in public, which means that likewise,
I need your engagement to continue. In the same house, ideally," he added, "which is probably best, Miss Granger,
as I'm aware you're currently homeless."

"That's - " she began, and frowned. "That's hardly a pleasing way to put it," she murmured to herself, sulking a little,
and Draco straightened.

"You're not actually suggesting we move in together, are you?" he demanded. "That's crazy. And what are we
supposed to tell Potter? That we've just… magically fallen in love, and that's that?"

"Yes," Antioch confirmed, without a trace of hesitation. "You've managed a fake relationship this long, haven't
you?" he prompted knowingly. "What's one more element of deception?"

Draco grimaced. "Does 'I don't want to' work for you as an argument?" he asked impatiently. "Just covering my
bases, you know, seeing as I try very diligently to be thorough - "

"Let me put it to you this way," Antioch cut in, advancing another step. "I have enough power to ruin both your
lives. I can put your father back in Azkaban," he informed Draco, and then permitted his gaze to slide to Hermione,
"just as I can ruin Harry Potter's career and blacklist him from the Ministry. You saw me do it to Carnegie," he
added, "and I can do it again, easily, without batting an eye. I can make sure that everyone you know is made to
suffer, implicated in a terrible, treasonous crime, or I can make sure that your friends," he ventured, turning back to
Draco, "are finally punished for theirs. Heroes though you may be - or at least one of you," he acknowledged to
Hermione, "I know perfectly well the many ways I can destroy you by destroying the ones you love. I can break
you, bit by bit, by shattering the world around you."

Antioch paused, half-smiling.

"But I wouldn't, of course," he continued smoothly, "because you're both going to help me, aren't you? You'll both
continue to investigate the Wizengamot assassinations and quietly turn the true killer over to me, and this won't be a
problem at all, will it?"

Draco felt Hermione swallow hard, her shoulders tensing against him.

"How are we supposed to convince Harry that this is real?" she asked quietly. "He's my best friend. I've never lied to
him before. I've never had to."

At once, Antioch returned to a state of complete, undisturbed ease, giving her a self-satisfied glimmer of a smirk.

"Just tell him you're - oh, what is it? Ah yes, 'Dramione,' that's it," he facetiously recalled, shrugging. "You fight,
you falter, you fuck - it's what you do," he declared with a laugh. "Frankly, I doubt he'll have a hard time believing
it, and in the meantime, be sure he actually does close his investigation. I no longer want the Ministry edging into
our business, and that includes Harry Potter's famously insuppressible hunches."

"But what about the other crimes the Club's implicated in?" Draco prompted. "Are we supposed to convince him to
look the other way on those things, too?"

Antioch arched a brow. "I presume you're referring to Lady Revel's murder?"

"And the theft of her secrets," Hermione contributed. "Is that not the Club's doing?"

For the first time, Antioch seemed caught off guard, though he recovered quickly.

"Lady Revel is not your concern," he told them. "Your job is simply to continue investigating the assassinations, and
to ensure that another one does not take place. Seeing as the killer is likely still out there," he added ominously, "I
wouldn't rule out the possibility of another Wizengamot death in the very near future, though I'll be certain you both
regret it if one does occur." He paused, and then smiled again, absurdly unperturbed. "All clear?"

In response, Draco watched Hermione's fists tighten anxiously in the sheets, pulling them closer around her as she
took in the magnitude of his threat.
"You do realize we've never been properly introduced," Draco ventured, returning his attention to Antioch's
expectant smile. "Don't you think we deserve to know who we work for?"

Antioch tilted his head, letting out an indulgent laugh.

"You know perfectly well who I am," he informed them, and removed their wands from the pocket of his robes,
holding them out in front of him. "And don't worry, we'll talk again soon," he assured them, winking once before
disappearing.

Immediately, the fire convulsed into motion, their wands magically returned to their hands.

" - STOP ARGUING," Harry shouted, as if no time at all had passed. "I swear, the two of you are going to kill me -
"

"Listen," Draco said hurriedly, noticing that Hermione's hands were shaking ever so slightly from Antioch's
presence in the room. "Look, we'll come home, Potter. We get it. Our part in this is done."

"Yes," Hermione agreed carefully. "And, um, Harry, I think I'm going t- to stay with Malfoy," she added uneasily,
glancing at him for reassurance. "So, um, nevermind what I said about staying at Grimmauld until Ron gets back."

"Oh," Harry said, looking sharply taken aback. "I mean, that makes sense, I suppose. Presumably he has plenty of
rooms."

"He does," Theo confirmed. "Some of them are cursed, but it's nothing to worry about."

"Right, sure," Harry agreed. "And obviously I'll help you move, of course - "

"Not me. I'm busy, and on an unrelated note, I hate moving," Theo added. "But naturally, that has no bearing
whatsoever on my previous statement - "

"Though, I can't help finding it odd," Harry cut in again, his brow furrowing as he looked from Hermione to Draco
and back again. "Didn't you just say you were happy to be rid of each other?"

Hermione hesitated, glancing at Draco, and he let out a sigh.

"We're - " he began, and withered. "We're Dramione," he ultimately supplied, shrugging. "We fight, we falter, we - "
he bit his tongue on the word fuck, not quite ready to admit the piece of Antioch's statement that was still so
unnervingly relevant. "It's what we do."

He waited, half-hoping Harry would manage to catch the lie, but in response, he only shrugged.

"If you say so," he said, leaving Draco and Hermione to exchange a glance of muted disbelief.

The Underground
Diagon Alley
9:45 p.m.

"Hey," Cad said, nodding to Theo as he approached. "Who's the blonde?"

"Old friend," Theo supplied without hesitation, which Cad could see was almost certainly a lie. "Where's Daph?"

"Out with Mars," Cad supplied, gesturing vacantly over his shoulder. "Some sort of engagement dinner, I think."

"Explains why Wood looks like he's out for blood," Theo commented, glancing across the ring at him. "Glad I'm not
Hawkworth," he added, watching Rhys smear blood and dirt from a shallow cut on his cheek, shifting to duck
Oliver's quick, furious series of jabs.

"Yes, well, some people don't handle secrecy well," Cad remarked, winking at Theo. "But then again, some thrive
with it, don't they?"

"Much as I adore your persistent antagonism, that's actually not what I came for," Theo told him, handing Cad a
glass of Odgen's and settling down beside him. "We can keep this between us, right? By which I mean no Potter," he
clarified, "and certainly no Daphne. She'd disapprove, and she does that whole - " he made a face. "You know.
Disapproving thing."

"I'm a vault," Cad assured him. "Fully sealed."

Theo nodded, steadying himself.

"I was thinking," he ventured, "about how to get the Club's attention. You said that what impresses Antioch is some
sort of flex of power, right?" he prompted, glancing at Cad for approval. "Specifically, some sort of manipulation?"

"Yes," Cad confirmed. "Show him how skillfully you can play your cards," he said, not for the first time, "and he's
bound to keep watching the hand. Not unlike a child," he couldn't help adding. "He's not that complex. He's just seen
quite a lot of tricks, and can tell a truly masterful one from the usual smoke and mirrors."

"Right," Theo agreed coolly. "Well, then I think we should pull off an assassination."

"Cool," Cad said. "Who are we killing?"

He paused, observing the slight twitch of disapproval from Theo's expression.

"Oh," he said. "Are we not actually killing someone?"

"No," Theo sighed. "But thanks for clearing up where you stand on murder," he added flatly, and then, with quiet
uncertainty, "which I'm sure Potter would positively love - "

"No problem," Cad assured him, raising his glass to his lips. "So who's the mark?"

"I'm thinking we use Percy Weasley as a way in," Theo supplied. "Youngest member on the Wizengamot," he
clarified, glancing at Cad for recognition, "and the one that Morrison tried to take out at the Ministry auction."

"I remember," Cad agreed, nodding. "So why him?"

Theo hesitated. "Not him, precisely," he amended. "More like, you know. Everyone."

Cad silently watched the ice in his glass, waiting expectantly for Theo to continue.

"I think," Theo went on slowly, "that if we really want to pull off something significant, we should allow the
Wizengamot feel safe and then rip that security out from under them. Leave them to question what's real. Every
important politician in Britain will be at the Ministry address," he remarked, with what Cad considered to be a rather
intriguing inscrutability. "And we'll already have the ins and outs of the event, thanks to Pansy. If we just make them
all realize they're at our mercy, that should be enough to get Antioch's attention, shouldn't it?"

"But nobody will actually die," Cad clarified slowly.

"No," Theo said. "And again, don't look so disappointed."

"So what are you saying, then?" Cad asked. "You want to almost kill the entire Wizengamot?"

"Yeah," Theo confirmed with a nod. "Get close enough to pull it off," he said slowly, "but ultimately refrain, thus
simply proving a point. That's doable, right?"

Cad paused, considering it.

"It's terrorism," he remarked.

"Barely," Theo retorted.

"And also, wouldn't this be easier if you just included other people in your plan?" he asked. "Parkinson, for example,
or Potter, even - "

"No. I'd endanger Potter's career, first of all, and more importantly, they'll both want to know why," Theo said
bluntly, shaking his head. "You know I can't tell them why."

"Do you even know why?" Cad prompted, squinting at him.

"Of course. Have to get rid of those secrets," Theo replied, shrugging. "We all agreed that the cleanest way to both
benefit from possessing them and successfully rid ourselves of them is to get the Club involved, didn't we?"

"Right, and the fact that you might be chosen for membership to the League of Eternality doesn't have anything to
do with it, then, I take it?" Cad prompted dubiously, watching Theo's expression fail to shift. "You're sure that
getting Antioch Peverell's approval is totally unrelated?"

It took a beat of hesitation, but eventually, Theo managed a shrug.

"You're the one obsessed with Antioch," he said. "I couldn't care less about your brothers."

"Well, sure," Cad permitted, tipping his glass of whisky back against his lips and draining the glass. "But," he
pronounced flatly, setting the glass down on the bar, "just to clarify - you're not getting tired of playing for the
heroes' team, are you, Nott?"

Theo looked like he wanted to laugh, but didn't.

Cad didn't laugh either.

"I don't like their rules," Theo said simply. "I like my rules."

"Which are?" Cad asked.

"Easy," Theo said, his gaze sliding purposefully to Cad's. "Just don't lose."

Rhys Hawkworth's flat

Diagon Alley
11:47 p.m.

"Hi," Hermione said softly, rising to her feet as Rhys stepped into his flat through the Floo.

"I - hi," he said, blinking momentarily when he saw her, and then immediately his expression softened. He let his
bag fall from his shoulder to the floor as he took her in his arms, wrapping them tightly around her. "I wasn't
expecting to see you - "

"I know, and I'm sorry it's so late," she offered apologetically, comforted by the feel of him before leaning back,
meeting his eye. "But listen, I really needed to talk to you, after - you know," she sighed, "the papers, and everything
-"

"Totally not a problem," Rhys assured her, pulling away to take her hand in his. "So do you need to stay the night,
then? Did you find somewhere to live? Are you and Malf-" He broke off, glancing down at the unmistakable
engagement ring on her finger. "Or, um," he stammered, frowning. "I - is this - "

"This is what I came to tell you," Hermione admitted uneasily, biting her lip. "I had kind of hoped that my work with
Malfoy would be done by now, but it's going to have to keep going. And I - " she took a deep breath, sparing him a
grimace of discomfort. "I'm going to have to move in with him."
Rhys took a moment before responding, clearing his throat.

"No offense, Hermione, but this," he said, eyeing the ring on her finger, "is the weirdest rejection I've ever
personally witnessed."

"It's not a rejection," she urged him, fighting a wince. "I mean, I know this is crazy, I know - "

"Do you?" he asked quietly. "Because it doesn't seem that crazy to me. If you want to be with him, Hermione, you
really only have to say so," he told her. "I'm not - it's not like I wouldn't - you know, understand, if - "

He broke off, frowning down at something on his side table, and she hurried to reassure him.

"Honestly, I have too much going on to really know what I want right now," she said, hearing how immensely
selfish she sounded and persisting anyway, for lack of a better alternative. "I know it's a terrible thing to ask of you,
Rhys, but I guess I just wanted to know if - "

"Who sent this?" he cut in sharply, picking up what appeared to be a brief handwritten letter. "Were you here when
this was delivered?"

"I - what? No, I wasn't," she said, frowning. "Why, what is it?"

"It's - " he froze, skimming the note's contents. "I just, um - " he swallowed. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Only that I know it's unfair to make you wait for me," she continued hurriedly. "Look, I like you a lot, Rhys, but the
truth is that I'm just not in a place for anything terribly serious. And if your feelings on this are of the, you know, 'all
or nothing' variety, then - " She cut herself off as he raised his hand to his mouth, absently curling his palm around
the visibly saddened line of it. "Rhys," she murmured, discarding her own soliloquy in favor of placing a hand on his
arm. "Is everything okay?"

He immediately shook himself, abruptly turning back to her.

"Sorry, just - a letter from my brother," he explained, hurriedly tucking it into his pocket. "I just - it just reminded
me of something I need to do. Anyway," he continued, fixing her with a radiantly wearied smile, "sorry, one more
time. You said all or nothing?"

"Yes," she exhaled, frowning. "If you want all or nothing, I think I'm closer to nothing, unfortunately."

She waited, not sure what she was expecting; frustration, she thought, or possibly sulking, or even disappointment or
possibly, if she were being truly egotistical, then perhaps a bit of anger.

Instead, though, he simply reached out, tucking a curl behind her ear.

"Hermione," he said, the sound of her name unquestionably lovely from between his lips. "I can do with some of
you, if that's how it has to be for now. I don't want to be a source of frustration," he added, and floundered, looking
momentarily agitated. "And for the record, if you wanted - not that you have to," he amended hastily, "but if you did
want to talk about whatever's going on - " he trailed off again, grimacing. "Or even if there's something I can do for,
um - whatever it is you're having to do for work - "

"I wish I could," she admitted, feeling more saddened than ever by the secrets she kept curled on her tongue.
"Really, Rhys, I wish I could, but this - "

"Is it really so dangerous?" he asked, a sudden hint of urgency to his tone. "Whatever it is, Hermione, if you could
just talk to me about what's really going on, maybe I could - or maybe, I don't know, we could - "

She bit her lip, helplessly eyeing her empty hands, and he stepped closer with a resigned sigh, taking her in his arms
again.

"Nevermind," he assured her hastily. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll pass, Hermione."
She shut her eyes, leaning into him, and wasn't so sure that it would.

The truth was that walking back into Malfoy Manor was like opening the door to a terrible nightmare; like drowning
in the midst of a pensieve, left to gasp for air in something she'd foolishly thought so far behind her. She felt a
scream - a thousand screams, all of them once unleashed in this very room - bubble up in her chest and she'd frozen
in place the moment she stepped through the Floo, paralyzed with apprehension.

She froze again, too, upon her return from Rhys' flat, closing her eyes as she entered and digging her nails into the
heels of her palms, holding her breath.

She wanted more than anything to break something.

She squeezed her fists tighter, letting her nails bite into skin.

She wanted, more than anything, to break everything -

"Ahem," she heard, prompting her eyes to open.

And then, across the room, Draco looked up from his chair, catching her eye at her arrival.

"Oh good," he remarked, and for possibly the first time ever, his dry tone of skepticism served as a welcome change
from the horrible crash of her memory. "I see you didn't run off with Muscles McWarlock, then."

She wanted to retort, but all possible cleverness died on her tongue.

"You didn't have to wait up for me," she said.

Draco opened his mouth to retort - to deny anything of the sort, most likely - but seemed to catch the look of anxiety
in her eyes, instead opting to close his book with a sigh.

"It's a big house," he said, setting the book down and placing his glasses on top of it. "Wasn't sure if you'd be able to
find your way back to the spare bedroom."

He rose to his feet, moving towards her, but paused just before reaching her, placing them an arm's length apart. He
stood far enough to leave room for their trauma; to accommodate the tangible awkwardness of having once again
gotten too close, too real, and in the wake of the constancy of their errors, having sprinted coltishly away.

It was close enough, though, that the words that crept from her lips could have been only audible to him, even if
someone else had stood in the room.

"I hate it here," she eventually whispered, half afraid that if she looked up, she might be forced to relive it. "Malfoy,
I just - I really don't want - to - "

"To sleep alone?" Draco prompted, and she looked up, meeting the grey of his eyes.

"Is that stupid?" she asked, and then shook herself. "Nevermind. Of course it's stupid. It's not like Bellatrix
Lestrange is going to reanimate just to torture me again, or Voldemort - and anyway, if Antioch's going to randomly
show up, it's not like you'll - it's not like I can - "

She faltered, and Draco took a step to bring an arm's length to a hair's width, tilting his head to look at her.

"You can stay with me tonight," he said quietly. "Tomorrow we can look for a flat."

"Malfoy," she exhaled, surprised. "You don't have t-"

"I have ghosts here too, you know," he reminded her. "You were right. I won't force you to - " he paused. "I won't
make either of us go through it again," he amended. "Not after everything else."

She shut her eyes, leaning her forehead against his shoulder and letting out a sigh.
"Stop being nice to me," she whispered.

"Your hair is stupid," he replied.

She nodded, satisfied.

"Better," she murmured, letting him pat the top of her head.

a/n: Today, dedications for everyone. Happy Thanksgiving from the colonies! I am immensely grateful for all of you.
Thank you for reading, thank you for your kind words, thank you for being in my life and in my heart and on my
screen.
 22. Umbrella of Togetherness

Chapter 22: Umbrella of Togetherness

Rhys Hawkworth's flat

Diagon Alley
October 6, 2003
2:07 a.m.

The note from Cadell was unnervingly brief.

I'm in London. Thought you should know.

"What do you mean he's in London?" Ifan demanded later that evening, after Hermione had gone to Draco Malfoy's
house and Rhys was left with only a bottle of Ogden's, his brother's sloping cursive, and the tumultuous buzz of his
thoughts. "Where is he?"

"I don't know," Rhys returned dully, staring vacantly into the Floo. "Dad, I just thought - "

"What about Hermione Granger?" Ifan pressed. "Have you seen her? I'm told she arrived back in London this
evening."

"I know," Rhys confirmed. "She came here."

"Well, good," Ifan ruled, nodding firmly. "Did she say why she was in Paris? Or, for that matter, why she returned
so abruptly?"

I don't know, Rhys wanted to reply, but he knew his father would only press him.

Besides, despite his increasingly frequent suspicions to the contrary, Rhys wasn't a total idiot.

"Given the timing," he ventured, "I would guess she had something to do with investigating the Wizengamot
assassinations. But seeing as that person's been caught, she would have been compelled to return. So is this over
now?" he asked wearily, though not with any particular optimism. "There's nothing more I can get from her, Dad,
and if Cadell is here, then surely we can - "

"Don't be a fool, Rhys," Ifan scoffed, returning to the subject of Hermione. "Did she seem anxious, or relieved? Did
she seem as though something had been resolved, or - "

"She was upset," Rhys confirmed. "But Dad, I really don't think she's going to talk to me about it. Whatever secrets
she has, I'm not going to be the one to get them out of her. She has Malfoy for that," he muttered under his breath,
and Ifan narrowed his eyes, considering it.

"You said that relationship was based in pretense," Ifan asked. "Didn't you?"

"It was," Rhys sighed. "But honestly, I'm not so sure anymore, and - "

"Then why continue the charade?" Ifan pressed bluntly. "If this were merely about the assassinations, why would
she persist with the relationship?"

"I don't know, Dad," Rhys attempted, rubbing at his tired eyes. "Maybe they genuinely like each other."

"Please. You've met Malfoy," Ifan retorted. "Does that really seem possible?"

Rhys paused, recalling their interactions.

"Not really," he conceded grudgingly, and Ifan shook his head, still staring into nothing as he considered Hermione's
activities.

"Something must be continuing," Ifan guessed. "Whoever she's working for - "

"The Ministry?" Rhys cut in, and Ifan shook his head.

"Doubtful," he said. "I made certain that Shacklebolt ended the ongoing investigation. It's better for everyone that
the Wizengamot be perceived to be untouchable again," he added. "There was a general sense of unrest festering
when the bureaucrats thought the Ministry was once again losing control. A glimpse at the prospect of a war yet
again," he explained darkly.

"That seems a bit much," Rhys said.

"You're not old enough to have seen how these things begin," Ifan retorted. "You haven't seen how easily darkness
can rise when there is fear. Better to end the investigation, and quickly, so things never progress that far. So that the
Ministry continues to maintain control. But if Granger and Malfoy are still working together," Ifan mumbled under
his breath, frowning, "then perhaps there is something more sinister at play."

"With the Club, you mean?" Rhys asked, and Ifan glanced up sharply.

"I told you never to speak of it," he snapped. "You shouldn't even know it exists."

"Who exactly is listening, Dad?" Rhys pressed, gesturing around the room. "If you're so afraid of them, then why
even be part of it?"

"I'm not afraid," Ifan retorted. "I'm simply cautious. Leadership in the Club is not what it once was," he added.
"Either that, or their resources are diminishing. An initiate dead, plus now one of the Zodiac Killers missing - "

"The what?" Rhys asked, frowning. "Did you say Zodiac Killers?"

"One of the Club's assassins," Ifan said, brushing it off. "In any case, something is amiss. For once, they seem no
more informed than the general public. Something in the Club has weakened, and I intend to find out what."

"You simply intend to find out?" Rhys clarified warily. "Or do you intend to do something about it?"

"Well, that's the question, isn't it?" Ifan murmured, half to himself. "If leadership in the Club has weakened, then
that leaves a power vacancy, which is of course the most dangerous sort of vacancy imaginable, particularly with
such a network - and with conspirators, no doubt, for how could they be without enemies? And if so, then - "

"Dad," Rhys cut in irritably. "I'm trying to ask you about Cadell. Surely there's something you can do," he pressed.
"Can't you interfere with his trial? Or, I don't know, ask the Club to assign him some sort of different identity, or - "

"Of course not," Ifan interrupted flatly. "Cadell is a criminal, Rhys. A murderer."

"But - "

"I can't ask the Club to interfere right now," he insisted. "Not with so much else at stake. It will have to wait, Rhys,
until you can find out what Granger and Malfoy are up to, and whether they might be working for the Club - or, in
fact, its enemies. For all you know, they could be responsible for the assassinations themselves, or party to the plot -
"

"Impossible," Rhys cut in sharply. "You know Hermione, Dad. She's brilliant, not malicious."

"Again, Rhys, I must beg you not to be a blind idiot when it comes to her," Ifan said, scowling. "I understand you
have feelings for the girl, but there's no reason to be so foolish. She's hardly innocent, and her associations - "

"Look, Malfoy might have a past, but he really doesn't seem like a threat," Rhys said. "He's certainly smug and
irritating, but I hardly think he's some sort of sophisticated criminal, and I doubt that Hermione would have anything
to do with him if he were."

"Rhys, the man was a Death Eater. He and his father have hatred in their blood, through and through - "

"But what if they don't?" Rhys countered. "Your son killed a man," he added, his mouth tightening. "Should Cadell
have to suffer for his past, too?"

"This isn't about Cadell," Ifan replied gruffly. "And I'll thank you to stop bringing it up. Even if this were about your
brother, how am I supposed to respond? Do you think I enjoy the suffering of my eldest son, Rhys? Do you think I
somehow luxuriate in his pain?"

Rhys hesitated. "No, but - "

"It pains me just as much as it does you, but he's a man who made a choice," Ifan interrupted. "Like most men - like
Draco Malfoy, in fact," he broached harshly, "Cadell is a man who made a choice, and he is being made to suffer the
consequences of that choice, just like anyone else."

"But Dad - "

"Cadell is my son, and I will fight for him when the time is right," Ifan cut in, giving him a quieting glare. "But you
agreed to have a part in this, Rhys, and your job is as yet unfulfilled. I need to know what Hermione Granger is up
to. Once I have some answers and can put the entire matter to bed, I will gladly put forth Cadell's cause to the Club,
that they might ease his difficulties. Or, perhaps," he murmured softly, "by that time, simply take care of it myself -
"

"I don't like being made to lie to her," Rhys insisted bluntly. "I was less ashamed standing beside my so-called
murderer of a brother than I am being forced to trick her - "

"What exactly is the lie?" Ifan cut in sharply. "Your feelings for her. Is that the lie?"

"No," Rhys said, blinking. "No - of course not, you know that - "

"Then how, precisely, are you lying?" Ifan demanded. "I've hardly required you to sacrifice your conscience, Rhys.
Only to tell me if she is putting the entire wizarding world in danger - which, to be frank, doesn't seem too much to
ask."

"Take my word for it, then," Rhys retorted. "She isn't doing anything to put anyone in danger. She's not like that."

At that, Ifan seemed to wither, or to soften, though it was difficult to tell which.

"My son," Ifan exhaled, "hardly anyone is ever what you think they are. You love your brother, as well you should,
but still, he killed a man when he could have chosen another spell. You defend Draco Malfoy, but he knew what he
was doing when he subscribed himself in service to a man who'd killed countless times before, and who made no
secret of his intent. You may think you know Hermione Granger, Rhys, but there is no telling who a person truly is
outside of the choices they make - and the truth is that she chooses secrecy and falsehood, and therefore cannot be
above suspicion." He gave Rhys a hard, steady glance, shaking his head. "I admire your belief in people, Rhys, but
I've seen the world go wrong too many times before to fail to recognize the signs of trouble. Something is afoot, and
whatever it is, you are doing far more good than harm by keeping an eye on her."

Rhys paused a moment, feeling his jaw clench in muted frustration.

There was no argument to be had, and even if there were, he doubted it would do any good.

"So what am I supposed to do, then?" he asked his father grimly. "How am I supposed to live with my choices?"

Ifan shrugged in the flames. "You simply do whatever it takes to sleep at night," he said. "Personally, I sleep well
knowing I keep my family safe."
"Not Cadell," Rhys reminded him, but Ifan shook his head combatively.

"I will do right by him," Ifan said firmly. "If you keep to your side of the bargain, Rhys, then I promise you, I will
bring Cadell home."

Rhys glanced at the table, eyeing the letter one last time.

Please, it had said, in the second line that he hadn't chosen to let his father hear. Rhys, please.

"Fine," Rhys sighed. "If that's what it takes, then fine."

The Arsonist
Diagon Alley
6:39 p.m.

When determining where to live, Draco and Hermione had agreed that Diagon Alley would be the best place to start.
It was entirely wizards, firstly, which seemed to them to make the most sense given that Draco was already being
"greatly inconvenienced" by the necessity of moving ("I thought you said you agreed!" Hermione protested, to
which Draco replied, "It's clearly still a nuisance, Granger"), post-discussion of whether they shouldn't simply live
with Theo ("Have you lost your mind?" Hermione had pronounced firmly, to which Draco had replied, "Yes, fine, I
hear it too") or Harry ("Weasley," Draco had grumbled, to which Hermione had replied, "Yes, in this singular
instance, I agree").

"Besides," Draco had said firmly, "if we're going to pull off tricking people who actually know us, then I imagine we
should aim for distance," which had been an incredibly (and unexpectedly) salient point.

"Fine," Hermione agreed. "Diagon Alley, then."

"Diagon Alley," Draco confirmed.

This, however, was not nearly as easy a process as they anticipated, for a number of fairly frustrating reasons.

Firstly, there was Draco, who even as the preceding counterpart of the oft-heralded 'Dramione,' was still regarded
with suspicion by most property owners.

"Will … he be living with you?" one landlord had asked Hermione, as if Draco had not been standing right beside
her.

"Yes," she replied, "he will, seeing as he is my - "

"Betrothed," Draco supplied ostentatiously.

"Not helping," she hissed, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow.

Even those who were more sympathetic (or, at least, more invested in the goings-on reported by Witch Weekly)
were still resistant to the idea.

"It's just," one potential landlady began tepidly, "he might make the other tenants uncomfortable. Do you
understand?"

"Ah, yes, of course," Draco assured her. "My murder room can be quite disruptive, and frankly, my torture chamber
is similarly subjected to a constant, dull banging - "

"HE'S JOKING," announced Hermione hurriedly, ushering Draco away as he turned to wave over his shoulder, both
of them leaving the horrified witch to clutch nervously at her paperwork.

Clearly it wasn't New York, which had been fascinated by their every movement, and nor was it Paris, which had at
least regarded them as semi-important figures of state. Here, in London, Draco Malfoy remained a former Death
Eater who'd cost the other inhabitants of Diagon Alley their family members and livelihoods, and Hermione, who'd
been absent for three years, did little to temper the effect of his presence.

"We could ask Harry for help," she suggested weakly, but Draco gave her a stern, disapproving glare.

"First of all, no," he said flatly. "And secondly, it's not as if that's Diagon's main problem."

And it wasn't.

The main problem with Diagon Alley, as it turned out, was that it was exceedingly small.

"Too small," sighed Hermione.

"Upsettingly small," grumbled Draco.

At the first building in which they thought they might have a chance of securing a flat, even for a short-term lease,
they'd collided unexpectedly with Pansy Parkinson, who looked just as violently stunned as they were to be crossing
paths.

"What are you doing here?" Draco and Pansy demanded in unison, and the latter sighed heavily, rolling her eyes.

"Checking on Weasley," she explained, gesturing to the door she'd just left.

"Which one?" Draco and Hermione asked in concert.

"The worst one," Pansy supplied, bored.

"That doesn't clear anything up," Draco remarked gruffly.

"Percy, you mean?" Hermione guessed, and Pansy's dark gaze slid approvingly to hers.

"Granger gets it," she commented neutrally, eyeing her perfectly charmed fingernails. "I do still have an event to
plan, Draco, which I don't thank you for. It's no small feat, this whole - " she shrugged. "Party planning business.
Which you two, of course, know intimately, I'm sure," she remarked sarcastically to Hermione. "Being that you two
are supposedly the public masterminds of this event, and certainly not because I'm the one still ordering cocktail
napkins - "

"You're checking on Percy at his home?" Hermione asked, bewildered, and Pansy's expression soured.

"Are you implying something, Granger?" Pansy snapped. "I need things when I need them."

"Probably don't argue," Draco advised Hermione unhelpfully, and she sighed.

"I'm just saying - "

"What are you two doing here, anyway?" Pansy demanded, glancing between them. "Shouldn't this whole affair be
done with now that Gagnon's been caught? By the way," she added to Draco, "Blaise is pretty fucking eager to get
back to work, so after this whole Ministry address business is finished, then - "

"Affair?" Draco echoed, cutting her off. "I haven't the slightest idea what you mean. Granger and I are in this for the
long run. Cohabitation, marriage, babies, monogrammed hand towels, you name it," he said, shrugging. "This is
love, Parkinson. Deal with it."

"Jesus, Malfoy," Hermione muttered under her breath, but whatever effort the lie had lacked, it seemed enough to
convince Pansy.

"Yes, fine, whatever," she judged, rolling her eyes. "But look, while you're here, you should probably talk to Blaise.
His flat is - " she glanced up, shielding her eyes from the sun, and gestured vacantly down the alley. "Over there
somewhere."

"Zabini lives here?" Draco demanded. "How?"

"Probably threatened the landlord," Pansy said blithely, placing an oversized pair of sunglasses on her face and
sniffing something like farewell to Hermione. "Bye, then," she said, and sauntered into the street, ignoring the many
stares at her presence and blowing a kiss to an Auror who paused to narrow his eyes at her.

"Threaten the landlord," Draco mused, tapping his mouth. "Now that's an idea - "

"No," Hermione ruled. "And a no to this building, too, if Percy Weasley lives here. Probably best we don't live in a
building with people we know."

"Understood," Draco said. "I personally hold myself to a firm 'No Weasleys' rule, and I'm not about to change now."

Blaise's building, in which he occupied the highest flat, was similarly a no.

"No," Blaise informed them. "You can't live here."

"We weren't going to!" Draco snapped. "And for the record, I don't recall asking for your permission, Zabini - "

"Well, goodbye, then," Blaise said, turning to close the door until Draco thrust a hand out, glaring at him.

"What are you hiding?" he asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. "And why did I not know you had a flat in
Diagon?"

"Because, Draco, you've never once bothered to send me any housewarming biscuits of any kind, and thus, you were
never invited," Blaise replied. "And in a similar vein, get out - "

"Pansy told me to stop by," Draco cut in gruffly. "Said something about you wanting to talk to me."

"Later," Blaise said. "Elsewhere."

"Right," Draco confirmed. "Because you're clearly hiding something here."

"No, I'm - what are you d-"

"Oh, hi Granger," Parvati Patil interrupted lazily, pulling the door open further and revealing herself in the frame.
"Malfoy. You're both looking well."

"Oh, hello," Hermione said, a little startled by her presence. She realized, abruptly, that she hadn't heard anything at
all about Parvati since her sister Padma had died during the Battle of Hogwarts, and Lavender Brown as well. "Um,
how are you, Parvati?"

"I'm very well, thank you," Parvati replied, as Draco gaped at Blaise.

"What is this?" he demanded, gesturing to her, and Blaise shrugged.

"She's just staying here," he supplied. "It's not a big deal."

"Like hell it isn't!" Draco retorted, his eyes widening. "Isn't she - didn't she - "

"Work for Dionisia Trelawney? Yes," Parvati supplied. "But, of course, I now find myself woefully unemployed.
Zabini here is doing his civic duty," she clarified, her gaze flicking briefly to his face. "Taking in a stray."

"What did you do for Trelawney?" Hermione asked, trying not to be fully unnerved by the subsequent glance Parvati
gave her. "Er, I mean, not to pry, but - "

"I'm a divinist," Parvati answered dully. "Not that you believe in that, Granger. Not to worry," she added carelessly,
"I'm aware."

"Well," Hermione attempted, trying as hard as she could manage not to reply with a scoff. "I mean, it's not - that
doesn't mean - I certainly wouldn't discount - "

"Your wedding is going to be lovely," Parvati informed her, without so much as a beat of hesitation. "A shame I'll
have to miss it, as the venue is going to be quite beautiful that time of year. And nevermind the mishaps," she added;
beside her, Blaise gave a tiny sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "It'll all work out fine in the end."

"I - " Hermione squeaked, glancing fearfully at Draco. "But - "

"Well, on that note, Zabini, let's never speak of this again," Draco ruled, tipping an imaginary hat and turning into
the corridor without another word.

"So, not here?" Hermione asked breathlessly, chasing him down as he reached the lift.

"Certainly not," he said, and both of them tacitly agreed never to mention whatever obvious madness Parvati had
just shared.

The straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, however, had not been either of those encounters. Instead, the final
breaking point was reached just as they thought they might have found a place.

"Come on," Hermione said, urging Draco as they stepped back into the corridor. "This flat is perfect, Draco. It's got
ideal windows, and, you know, I've never really thought of myself as the type of person to note the moldings of a
room, but the built-in bookcases beside the fireplace are really, really lovely - "

"Yes," Draco agreed, his brow furrowing. "But there's something about it - "

"It's not like we can afford to be picky," Hermione reminded him. "Unless this is a very important 'something,' I
would think we're just going to have to go with this one, don't you think?"

"I don't know," Draco muttered again. "There's something off about it, and the kitchen is too sm-" he broke off,
looking instantly dismayed. "Oh fuck, the kitchen - "

"What?"

"It's - it looked just like - "

"Draco?" they both heard, and Hermione's intestines twisted along with Draco's expression, Katie Bell's voice
venturing tentatively from across the corridor as she stepped outside of what was very clearly her flat.

"I only ever came in through the Floo," Draco explained hastily under his breath, giving Hermione a surprisingly
anxious glance. "I didn't know this was her building - "

Hermione, recognizing the tension in his shoulders, slid her arm around his waist, turning to Katie with a smile.

"Hi, Katie," she offered brightly, feeling Draco's spine stiffen as a man stepped out from behind her. "Oh, and - "

"Oh, right," Katie offered hastily, her cheeks flushed. "This is Montague Knightley, my - " she took a deep breath,
glancing between the dark-haired man called Montague and the blond statue that was Draco, positively frozen as he
was with panic. "This is Montague," Katie determined instead, clearing her throat.

Hermione noted the way that the man apparently called Montague took Katie's hand, and more relevantly, she
caught the way Draco swallowed hard at the sight of it.

"Montague Knightley," Draco repeated. "As in the chess champion?"

The man looked up, giving Hermione her first unobstructed view of her face. "My goodness," he commented. "You
all seem to know quite a bit about historical chess champions, don't you?"
Hermione frowned, her gaze traveling slowly over Montague's features; the green of his eyes and the youthful look
of his face. He was quite handsome, she thought, noting to herself not to say it out loud, ever, in Draco's presence -
but there was a strangeness to his attractiveness, and one which took her a while to identify.

Namely, a recognition, though she was fairly positive they hadn't met before.

He looked impossibly familiar, but she was quick to discard the sensation, figuring she'd seen enough raven-haired,
green-eyed men to begin assuming they all supplied her with some intangible level of acquaintance. There was
Harry, of course, not to mention Theo in certain lights, and Antioch -

Antioch, she thought with a pause, frowning, but cast aside the momentary mental snag the moment she felt Draco's
shoulders tense.

"I know things," he replied defensively, an unusual (and candidly, Hermione thought, rather sad) break from his
predictable sarcasm, and Hermione cleared her throat, speaking for both of them.

"We're looking for a flat," she explained. "Have to move out of Malfoy Manor, as it's a bit large for just the two of
us. You understand, I'm sure," she added, and Katie glanced sharply at Draco.

"You're leaving the Manor?" she asked, frowning. "But I thought you said - "

Draco bristled.

"Things change," Hermione cut in firmly, and then, in a moment of inspiration (and, admittedly, a heated,
overwhelming desire to end the conversation) she reached up to curl her fingers around Draco's jaw. "Right,
sweetheart?" she prompted, letting the outrageously large diamond on her finger flash against the pale skin of his
cheek.

She wondered if she had gone too far when she saw Katie look stricken at the sight of it, but the renewed jolt of
energy that seemed to have manifested in Draco's posture was a welcome relief.

"Right," he confirmed. "Well, lovely to meet you, Montague, but we should really be on our way," he said firmly,
pulling Hermione in closer. "It's a fine building, but the bookcases are quite frankly too small. Have to combine our
libraries, don't we, love?" he asked Hermione, and she nearly held her breath at the use of a pet name that sounded,
for the first time, as if it were not all a terribly hilarious joke to him. "Will be quite a process, I'm sure."

"I," she began, and swallowed, realizing she was being fantastically silly; of course he wants this run-in to feel more
real than the others, she chastised herself, recalling that Katie was perhaps the one girl on earth he'd ever truly cared
for, and therefore the only one he needed to convince. "Yes, Draco," she managed eventually, rather unable to
conjure a full smile. "Of course."

He blinked.

"Shall we, then?" he asked her, which seemed to her wild imagination to be is everything okay, Granger?

"Yes," she assured him briskly, nodding once before turning back to Katie. "Yes, of course. Lovely seeing you," she
said, as brightly as she could manage. "And you, of course, Montague," she added to the man, extending a hand for
him to shake. "Though I suppose we didn't introduce ourselves, did we?"

"Oh, rats, of course," Katie said, looking sheepish. "Montague, so sorry, this is Draco Malfoy," she said, gesturing to
Draco, "and his - " she cleared her throat, forcing a smile. "His fiancée, Hermione Granger."

Montague, who had just accepted Hermione's proffered hand, abruptly froze, his fingers tightening around her
knuckles.

"Ah," he said. "Of course."

Hermione frowned, watching him stare unnervingly at her. "Um," she began, gently disentangling her hand from his
grip, "sorry, is something wrong?"

"What? Oh, of course not," Montague offered, with what Hermione guessed to be a rather forced laugh. "Sorry, a bit
all over the place today. Speaking of, shall we get going?" he asked Katie, glancing down at her and squeezing her
free hand. "Don't want to be late."

"No, no, of course not," Katie agreed, offering Draco and Hermione a nod before letting Montague lead her down
the corridor. "Well, bye then - "

"Bye," Draco and Hermione called dutifully, waving after them until they disappeared before turning to face each
other.

"Well," Hermione broached tentatively, "I take it that's a n-"

"I need a drink," Draco announced flatly, releasing Hermione with a loud, irritated sigh and looking very much as if
he wanted to fling himself out the corridor window.

"Sounds like it went well," Seamus commented buoyantly when they arrived at The Arsonist, opting to stay in
Diagon for dinner after they'd run into him (because, once again, the place was so damn small) and permitted him to
seat them personally at the bar. "I take it you'll need a couple glasses of Ogden's finest?"

"Honestly, at this point, I'd be happy to settle for Ogden's worst," Hermione exhaled, grimacing. "Looking for a flat
is hardly an ideal way to spend an afternoon, and add everything else on top of it - "

"Nightmare," Draco pronounced flatly, his mouth tightening. "The worst."

"Ogden's it is," Seamus said with a chuckle, placing two glasses on the table and filling them both to the brim. "So
what do you think you're going to do, then?"

"Not sure," Hermione admitted, taking a blissful sip of firewhisky. "Still trying to recover, honestly. Haven't quite
moved on to next steps yet."

"I've never even heard of Montague Knightley," Draco muttered unhelpfully into his glass.

"Who?" Seamus asked, and then shrugged, turning over his shoulder to head back into the kitchen. "Nah, nevermind
-"

"Sixteenth century chess champion," a dark-haired man supplied, arriving beside Draco at the bar and leaning
towards them. "Sort of an incurable snot, too, or so I mentioned to myself in my notes. Which I thought was an odd
thing for myself to mention, but, you know - "

"I AGREE," Draco bellowed. "Total snot, fully incurable - "

"Did you just say that as if you knew him?" Hermione asked, bemused, struck for the second time that day by a
strange sense of recognition as she eyed the top of the stranger's head. "What do you mean you mentioned it to
yourself?"

"Ugh," Draco said, resting his forehead against the bar and gesturing between them. "Cad, Granger," he explained,
gesturing. "Granger, Cad."

"Cad," Hermione said slowly. "Do you mean Cadmus Peverell?"

"Hermione Granger," Cad acknowledged in reply, tipping his head towards her and raising his glass. "An honor to
finally meet you after hearing so much. Your legacy here precedes you," he informed her graciously, "and Harry
Potter speaks very highly of you."

She, however, was fairly distracted, taking in the full impact of his entirely too-familiar face.
"I - you're Cadmus," she repeated. "As in, brother of Antioch and Ignotus?"

"You know, I was led to believe you were a bit quicker than this," Cad commented, raising his glass to his lips. "But
I suppose you've had a rather trying day, so I'll let that one go - "

"Malfoy," Hermione cut in, smacking the side of his shoulder. "MALFOY!"

"What?!" Draco demanded, sitting upright. "Mother of balls, woman, what could you possibly have to - "

"Katie's boyfriend," she said, processing a half-baked theory. "Did he remind you of anyone?"

"Yes," Draco sniffed. "An utter miscreant, frankly - "

"Malfoy," Hermione growled. "Can you please, you know, function for a second?"

"No," Draco retorted.

"Malfoy - "

"Shan't."

"Draco - "

"Well, this is fascinating," Cad commented. "But may I ask why any of this relevant?"

Hermione sighed, giving up on Draco and leaning over to speak directly to him.

"We just met a man who looks rather like you," Hermione informed him, and at that, Draco paused mid-rant,
peering curiously at Cad's face. "He looks, in fact, like a slightly younger version of both you and Antioch, in fact."

At the mention of the name Antioch, Cad's eyes promptly narrowed.

"Green eyes instead of blue?" he guessed. "Sort of - "

"Boyish," Hermione supplied. "A little youthful. Almost - "

"Delicate?" Cad asked, his expression souring further, and Hermione tilted her head, considering it.

"Yes, actually," she said slowly, "and he also seemed oddly put out once he realized who we were - "

"Why?" Cad interrupted. "What did you do to him?"

"Well, he tried to have us killed, so - "

"Hi, yes, sorry to interrupt," Draco cut in, frowning, despite Cad opening his mouth to press the point. "But Granger,
are you possibly saying that you think Ka-" he grimaced. "That her new boyfriend is actually, for some fucking
unknowable reason, Ignotus Peverell?"

There was a pause as they all registered the unfathomable inanity of that statement.

"Well," Hermione ventured tentatively. "All I know is the resemblance. Obviously, I have no idea why he'd be doing
it," she admitted, "and it's hardly as though I have any way to prove it, but - "

"- but it's a working theory," Cad supplied for her, tipping his glass back with a scowl.

The Leaky Cauldron

Diagon Alley
7:30 p.m.
"You're quiet," Katie noted, glancing up at Montague as she picked at her food. "Everything okay?"

Montague paused; it was only their second date, but she'd noticed he tended to pause like that before some things he
said, almost as if he were being dragged from some other cerebral state.

"Draco Malfoy," he said carefully, prompting Katie's heart to lurch, "and Hermione Granger. Do you know them
well?"

"Um," Katie began, swallowing. "Well, Hermione and I were both Gryffindors. I was a year above her, so I wouldn't
say I knew her well, but you know, we know each other." She paused, not sure how to proceed, and finally resigned
herself to honesty. "Draco's my ex-boyfriend," she admitted. "It's been over for a long time, but - it was quite messy
at the end," she confessed. "It was a particularly terrible break-up, and it took me quite a while to recover."

"I'm not sure he's fully recovered," Montague murmured, taking a sip of his ale.

"What do you mean?" Katie asked. "There's nothing between us," she added hurriedly, "if you were, you know - you
shouldn't be threatened or anything - "

"I just suspect you are still of some value to him," Montague replied simply, and though Katie's initial reaction was
to drift into a spiral of overanalysis, she couldn't help noting something odd about his choice of wording. "No threats
taken," he added with a low chuckle, interrupting her sense of unease to give her an indulgent look of amusement,
"but I do think he still cares for you." He paused for a moment, toying with his thoughts again. "Not to belabor the
point," he ventured abruptly, "but what exactly does he do for a living?"

"I - " Katie began, and frowned. "You know, I actually have no idea. The Daily Prophet says he and Hermione are
doing event planning of some kind, and I think he mentioned at some point that he was doing some work for the
Ministry. For Harry, specifically, actually," she recalled, thoughtfully toying with her fork. "But I have no idea what
would qualify him to work for the Auror department. Actually," she realized with a vacant blink, "I have no idea
why the Auror department would even need event planners, so maybe I'm wrong."

"Harry as in Potter?" Montague asked, setting his tankard down, and Katie nodded.

"Yes. He's Head Auror, as I'm sure you know," she explained, and Montague nodded. "Hard to believe anyone
doesn't know all about him, of course. Everyone knows who Harry is. We don't normally cross paths at work," she
added, unsure why she was babbling; she suspected the introduction of Draco as a topic of conversation wasn't doing
her nerves any particular favors. "We do play quidditch together on occasion, though."

"Oh?" Montague asked. "I didn't know you played. I'd love to see a match."

"Oh," Katie said, feeling her cheeks flush. "Oh, I mean, they're very casual. You're welcome to come, of course, if
you want," she added hastily, "but I can't imagine it'd be all that interesting to watch. It's just a five-a-side with
Harry and his friend Ron, usually, and my roommate Alicia - all of us were on the Gryffindor quidditch team
together," she offered, feeling herself start to ramble, "and now we all work for the Ministry. Well, and so did Draco
- he's not on my team, I mean, I just mean that he also played, and, um, I suppose now he's sort of - also in the
Ministry, I guess, so - not that that's related," she concluded shakily, abruptly horrified with herself.

"My goodness," Montague commented, smiling slightly as he reached out to brush her knuckles with his fingers.
"What an umbrella of togetherness."

"Yeah," Katie sighed. "Amazing how small the wizarding world is, isn't it?"

"You have no idea," Montague agreed, sparing her a reassuring glance before raising his tankard again. "Harry must
be quite relieved now that the Wizengamot assassin's been caught," he commented neutrally. "Must be quite a relief
to the whole department, actually."

"Oh, well, like I said, we don't really work together much," Katie said. "But yes, I'm sure it's better. I do think they
have their hands full with the brothel murder, though," she remarked, and Montague paused mid-sip, tilting his head
curiously. "Even my department was affected. Apparently the madam had quite a few illegal muggle artifacts in her
house, so - "

"Brothel?" he asked. "Now that sounds scandalous."

"Yes," Katie agreed, rolling her eyes as he let out a low sputter of a laugh. "Have you not heard? Every politician
absolutely bemoaned having the brothel in Knockturn Alley, but of course once Lady Revel winds up murdered in
some horrendous fire, suddenly they're all scrambling to cover their tracks in case she kept records - "

"Lady Revel?" Montague asked, choking suddenly on his swallowful of ale. "That's - she's - "

" - plus, I'm pretty sure she was being investigated for decades," Katie said, not quite noticing his predicament until
he'd doubled over, sputtering. "So the Ministry thinks this is a good time to entrap her criminal associates or
something, but - hey," she broke off, staring at him, "are you okay?"

He held up a hand, waving her concern away and giving a little burp-hiccup to manage a question.

"Isn't that quite an old case?" Montague asked raspily, still coughing on his ale as Katie leaned forward worriedly.
"Wouldn't that have - " he broke off, looking stricken. "Wouldn't she have been killed some decades ago? Did they
just discover it?"

"I don't think so," Katie said slowly. "To our understanding, she was operating just fine until about five or six days
ago."

"That's," Montague said, and swallowed. "That - I - "

"Are you okay?" Katie asked again, feeling her brow furrow. "You're taking this rather, um. Hard."

"It's just - I knew her," Montague explained, his cheeks still flushed from his momentary suffocation. "I knew her
quite well, and I'm - I'm surprised, and - "

"You knew her?" Katie echoed, frowning. "But you just said - "

"A long time ago," he supplied hurriedly. "Ages, really - "

"Well, how long could it have been?" Katie asked, half-laughing. "My goodness, Montague, you say that as if you're
nearly a century old - "

"You know what? Never mind," Montague said, though there was a seriousness that buried itself in his brow before
he promptly vanished concern from his expression. "What were we saying? Ah, yes," he muttered, before Katie
could speak. "Your quidditch game. When is it?" he pressed. "I'd like to attend."

"This weekend," she said, a bit startled by the abrupt change in topic. "But Montague, is everything - "

"Everything's fine," he supplied, his knuckles tightening around the handle of his tankard. "I just remembered I need
to handle something with my brother," he added under his breath, "but it can wait, and really, I'm fine. Long day, I
suppose," he said, reaching out to take her hand in his. "A rather trying afternoon, wasn't it?"

Katie, unsure how to respond, let him squeeze her fingers, garnering comfort from his warmth.

"Yes," she exhaled. "Yes, I rather think it was."

Bastien Janvier had what was generally considered a dangerous job. As l'Auror Principal, his life was almost always
on the line on behalf of his Ministry, which he served loyally and devotedly. He was the sort of person who
understood the importance of being a team player, and of making sacrifices for said team in the interest of a greater
win.

Still, even with his dangerous profession, it was hardly his present circumstances that concerned him. What was to
dislike, after all? Even for its windows of danger, he had a generally comfortable job, and one which afforded him a
great amount of luxuries - including the opportunity to bump into Melibea Warbeck, of whom he had long been an
admirer.

"Mademoiselle Warbeck," he told her gravely, affording her the solemnity she so unquestionably deserved. "Truly,
it is an honor to meet you. You are immensely talented, and it is a gift even to be in your presence."

"Why thank you, Auror Janvier," she told him, giving him a stupendously beautiful smile. "And this is of course my
boyfriend, Ron Weasley," she added, gesturing to the lanky redhead beside her, "who is an Auror hims-"

"Yes, yes, of course," Bastien acknowledged. "Congratulations on the engagement, but of course I must return to
your pièce de résistance, your absolutely flawless socks for trousered men - "

"Oh, no, sorry, we're not engaged," Melibea corrected him, giving her redheaded companion's hand a squeeze. "Ron
experienced a temporary descent into uninhibited madness but we're doing quite well, and we're very grateful for the
kind wishes. We are very happy together, and I'm sure that someday soon we'll - "

"These socks," Bastien continued, "have changed my life, Mademoiselle Warbeck. You must understand, I played
quidditch professionally for many years, and as a retired athlete, the comfort of my feet is, as you might expect, a
close and personal matter - "

"Oh, yeah," Ron said, brightening. "You were keeper for the French National Team, weren't you? Shame about your
last World Cup season," he added, shaking his head. "The International Quidditch Association was brutal that year.
To cast that sort of doubt over your legacy was - "

"Certainly not as embarrassing as the public rejection of a marriage proposal," Bastien supplied smoothly, quietly
preening as the Englishman's cheeks turned pink. "But thank you, Monsieur, for your inimitable sensitivity on the
matter."

"Well, we should go," Melibea chirped brightly, hastily wrapping her fingers around a gaping Ron's arm before
giving Bastien a truly charming curtsy. "Such a pleasure to have met you!" she added, half-dragging her beau along
after her as she disappeared.

In their absence, Bastien let out a sigh, reminded again that no matter the possible danger of his position, it certainly
had its privileges. In fact, as Melibea's hapless ginger companion had reminded him, it wasn't remotely Bastien's
present that scared him.

It was his past.

He'd first met Ludovic Bagman when he'd been a young keeper playing for a British team, just prior to being called
home to play for the French National Team. Admittedly, in Bastien's early professional years, he had not been
particularly well-behaved; he had been notorious, in fact, for his knowledge of the underground scene when it came
to fights, gambling, and illegal potions, both where his team was based and back in France, where a potioneer named
Emmanuel Gagnon began brewing something that Bastien was only too happy to sample.

Naturally, his game improved with the help of the potions. It didn't just improve - it ascended. His endurance was far
and away beyond most other keepers; his skill and technique, the results of extended energy during training, were
unparalleled. For a time, Bastien Janvier was unstoppable, and perhaps that was why when he'd first met Ludo
Bagman, he'd been foolish enough not to question why a man so high up in the British Ministry so easily overlooked
what was very obviously going on.

During Bastien's first world cup, when the press and the IQA began speculating that he - and a number of other
French players - had been regularly practicing the use of performance enhancing potions, Bastien had been surprised
to find that Ludo Bagman, despite having witnessed the illegal adrenaline potions administered to the team by
Gagnon, was an adamant supporter.

"Of course he would never take performance enhancing potions," Ludo had assured his department and the press,
going out of his way to protect Bastien's reputation. "Nobody on the French team would sully their honor as a
player, and certainly not one as devoted as Bastien Janvier. I resoundingly call for a cessation of these charges, and
hope to see Janvier on the pitch with the rest of his team at the next World Cup."

Bastien had been surprised by the statement - after all, he'd only spoken to Ludo for at most ten or fifteen minutes,
and besides, it was a bald-faced lie - but still, it permitted him another attempt at a World Cup, and by the time the
skeptical press began to circulate again, squawking over the possibility that he might have been using some sort of
potion to aid in his play, Bastian opted to quietly retire and cling to the state of his reputation as it had been boasted
by Ludo Bagman. After all, nobody could prove anything; so long as nothing could be proven, Bastien had enough
of a successful career to be above reproach.

If they'd known the truth as Ludo had known it, however, everything Bastian had gained would be instantly stripped
from him, along with his good name.

It was only later that he realized Ludo Bagman had known just that.

"Hello, Bastien," Ludo had said, catching him outside the Catacombs. "Have a moment?"

"I - Monsieur Bagman," Bastien had ventured, startled. "Is - how are you - "

"So listen," Ludo said, scarcely wasting a breath, "I'm going to need a little bit of help from you. Nothing much," he
added, shrugging. "Just a few errands here and there, and of course, you'll be happy to help, won't you? After all,
there's nothing the world hates more than a liar," he murmured. "And I doubt your Ministry would be very happy to
hear what I know about your past, Bastien."

It had only gotten worse from there.

"I cannot in good conscience lie for you," Bastien had hissed to Ludo later, once Warlock Lefebvre had been
murdered and his office held responsible for charging his killer. "Yes, I am grateful I once had your support, but this
-"

"First of all, I did nothing," Ludo informed him, as flippantly as if they were discussing an upcoming match. "I
merely need to be certain that you do not look too closely into the matter, and that when you are approached by any
foreign ministries - or, indeed, any of your other Aurors - you will decline to share what you know."

"But I know nothing," Bastien snapped, and Ludo nodded his approval.

"Yes, very good," he determined. "Excellent, you understand. And, of course, I'd like you to keep me apprised on
the details of the investigation."

"But - "

"Don't worry," Ludo assured him, turning to leave. "France will not suffer twice."

"What does that mean?" Bastien demanded, but by then, Ludo had long since departed.

As it turned out, Ludo had dipped his toes in enough illegal activity to bind the hands of not only Bastien Janvier but
the Scandinavian Head Auror Alexander Poliakoff as well, who'd made the mistake of accepting a bribe while a
student at Durmstrang and for whom, similarly, Ludo Bagman had once offered an adamant defense.

"You're in good company," Ludo had told Bastien, "but I must once again be certain you don't say or do anything
foolish."

"Are you responsible for these murders, Ludo?" Bastien pressed, beginning to wonder precisely how deep into the
other man's deviance he was getting. "Is this your doing?"

"No, of course not," Ludo replied breezily. "But make yourself available, should anything arise. Oh, and also," he
added, "do you happen to have anyone on your watch list? Someone who might be willing to handle a hit? Abroad,"
he assured him, obviously catching Bastien's expression as it drained of color. "As I said, Bastien, Paris is fine, but I
require the services of someone rather… off-color, shall we say." He paused, giving Bastien a disturbing half-smile.
"I don't have to repeat my threats, do I?" he asked innocently. "Because at this point, your crimes - aside from your
prior potion use and oh, I'm sure a few gambling charges here and there - include collusion, corruption, and oh, yes,
conspiracy on an international scale as well, so - "

Bastien swallowed, fighting a grimace.

"There is a man," he admitted, wanting very badly to escape the situation. "His name is Morrison. He killed a goblin
and is in dire need of money. He will accept odd jobs."

"Excellent," Ludo said cheerfully, scribbling the name down and slipping it in his pocket. "As always, it's a pleasure,
Bastien."

Despite the continuance of the lie, Bastien was almost relieved when Ludo asked to be introduced to the case as an
expert. Of course, Bastien knew fully well that Gagnon was no killer, but by that point, he might have done just
about anything to have Ludo Bagman out of his hair. The man was ruthlessly connected, and it was very clear to
Bastien, even as he looked his former team potioneer in the eye and they both pretended they had never met, that
Ludo had successfully bought or repressed every link in the chain in order to secure his own return to prestige.

"Well, I'm off back to London," Ludo said buoyantly, delivering Bastien to a rare breath of relief in his presence
after parting from Melibea Warbeck and her decidedly uncharming boyfriend to head back into the Cour des étoiles.
"It's been a pleasure, as always, Bastien."

"Yes," Bastien muttered, "a pleasure, indeed. I take it we're done here?"

"Yes, of course," Ludo returned. "Your silence is, of course, perpetually required - "

"Noted," Bastien sighed.

" - but obviously you have concluded your investigation, and now we may both go our separate ways without fear of
the other," Ludo informed him in his usual bullying way. "Though - oh," he added, reducing Bastien to a wince. "I
do wonder, do you know of any good places in London? I've been away from the scene for a while," he added with a
chuckle, "and no longer know where to partake in entertainment."

"I'm sure there are many good restaurants," Bastien supplied grimly, and Ludo's mouthed curled with displeasure as
he managed an impatient shake of his head.

"You know what I mean," he said, his voice edged with irritation. "Who might I look for in London, Bastien?
Perhaps a former professional like yourself," he suggested. "Someone within our network?"

Bastien sighed again, reminding himself it was only one more thing, and then he would be free of the plague that
was Ludo Bagman.

"Try Marcus Flint," he suggested. "Or Oliver Wood. Both are former professional quidditch players, and I hear they
participate in some sort of underground fight circuit. Seems up your alley," he sniffed, grimacing. "Perhaps they'll be
able to find you whatever you're looking for."

"I'm sure they will," Ludo agreed, giving Bastien a brief salute and turning over his shoulder, whistling as he went.
"Goodbye, then, Bastien - "

"Au revoir," Bastien called back, thrilled that the danger of his past was now reduced to only the occupation of his
present. "And may you drown in the Thames," he added under his breath at Ludo's back, shaking his head and
heading upstairs to his office.

a/n: I am v sick and just trying to get this out so I can go to bed so dedications next time and also this year's Olivie
Advent, The Real World: Ministry of Magic, starts tomorrow in Amortentia and also I'm tired I will fix any errors
in the morning I love you bye
 23. Our Idiot Brother

Chapter 23: Our Idiot Brother

The League of Eternality

Unplottable Location
October 7, 2003
10:12 a.m.

"So," Herpo said, venturing around Antioch's chair and falling onto the sofa across from him, "how goes it with the
celebrity detectives?"

Antioch scoffed, not looking up from his newspaper. "I assume you mean 'Dramione'?"

"Well, never assume, as they say," Herpo reminded him. "But yes, I suppose I do."

Antioch paused for a moment, slowly looking up.

"They're not untalented," he commented, after giving it some thought. "They think I don't know about Taurus at the
French Ministry, but the result of that particular incident is evidence enough that they're a force to be reckoned
with."

"You know about that?" Herpo asked, and Antioch arched a brow.

"You know about that?" he prompted drily.

"I'm not supposed to," Herpo replied.

"Nor am I," Antioch agreed. "Which means - "

Herpo rolled his eyes.

"Nico," they said in unison, and Herpo shuddered.

"Speaking of. Is his face fixed?"

"Not yet," Antioch said. "Ignotus is busy with something."

"You sound like you don't know what it is," Herpo remarked.

"Actually, I simply have no interest in what it is," Antioch replied lazily, rising to his feet and wandering over to the
collection of rare liqueurs beside the sofa. "Let him stay busy. Keeps him from angsting all over my newly
upholstered chairs."

"Speaking of angst," Herpo mentioned, "you haven't asked me about Lady Revel."

"Why would I?" Antioch prompted, pouring himself a glass. "I know she's dead. That's all I need to hear."

"You have no interest in her last words?" Herpo asked, tilting his head knowingly. "Whether she tried to bargain
with me, or to give me information?"

"Did she?" Antioch asked neutrally.

"Nope," Herpo said. "Died with aplomb."

"Well," Antioch declared, taking a testing sip. "I knew I always liked her."

Herpo made a point not to mention that he had a funny way of showing his affection.
After all, he'd known Antioch Peverell long enough to know as much already.

"Isn't it a bit early for that?" Herpo asked, gesturing to the glass, and Antioch shrugged.

"Would you like one?" he prompted.

Herpo scoffed. "Obviously."

"Well, then phrase your question more appropriately," Antioch informed him, conjuring another glass. "And what is
it you'd like to tell me about Lady Revel, Herpo the Persistent, since you seem so very eager?"

"Just that she was expecting me," Herpo supplied. "Almost as if she'd been warned."

"Well, she's got that little divinist she keeps as a pet," Antioch reminded him, and Herpo smirked, accepting the
proffered glass. "I wouldn't be surprised if she knew her death was imminent."

"You really did like her, didn't you?" Herpo asked drily, swirling the liquid in the glass before taking a sip. "Sounds
like you kept an eye on her movements even after the whole Ignotus disaster."

"It wasn't a disaster," Antioch corrected, falling back in his chair. "It was a problem, and it was handled."

Again, Herpo politely didn't point out that that wasn't an answer to the question.

"Not handled very well, mind you, if I had to go back and kill her fifty years later," he reminded him instead.
"Usually when a problem is satisfactorily handled, Antioch, it doesn't resurrect."

Antioch paused, eyeing his glass.

"Speaking of resurrection," he ventured, and Herpo groaned.

"Don't, Antioch," he growled, fervently shaking his head. "I know what you're going to say, but for the love of my
immortal balls, please, please don't - "

"And here I thought you liked Cadmus," Antioch protested innocently.

"And I thought you said he was gone for good this time," Herpo accused, glaring at him. "You didn't keep him alive,
did you?"

"Of course not," Antioch scoffed. "Cadmus is dangerous, Herpo. He's the most dangerous man I've ever known. I
wouldn't leave him alive, not like Lady Revel - "

"But you clearly did something," Herpo countered. "After two fucking centuries, Antioch, wherein I foolishly
believed you when you said he couldn't possibly be alive - "

"I didn't want Ignotus to know that I left one," Antioch explained. "A horcrux, I mean. He needed to believe Cadmus
was gone, Herpo, or he wouldn't have killed him in the first place. Or third." He shrugged, as though nobody in
particular were counting on accuracy. "It wouldn't have fit with his principles at the time, and it certainly wouldn't
have fit with his moral appetite, so - "

"How many lies are you keeping from your brother?" Herpo asked bluntly. "Do you even know? For one thing, you
killed the woman he loved - "

"Actually, you did that," Antioch reminded him. "And thank you, by the way. I meant to send a card, but time's
really gotten away from me - "

" - and for what?" Herpo pressed. "Just to control him? Which you're not even doing very well," he added, "seeing
as Nico told some very flimsy lies to protect him - "

"Ah, yes, speaking of Nico," Antioch said, rising to his feet. "Is he around? We should discuss this with him."
"Discuss what with him?" Herpo growled. "Another lie? He won't take that well, Antioch - you know he's always
been half in love with Ignotus - "

"Well yes, precisely," Antioch said, rising to his feet and buttoning his suit jacket. "Just follow my lead, would
you?"

"Antioch, I really wouldn't - "

"Nicholas," Antioch said to the tip of his wand. "Would you come to my study, please?"

"ANTIOCH, I'M TRYING TO TALK TO Y-"

But there was a crack of apparition, cutting Herpo off as Nico materialized in the room.

"You rang?" Nico asked, glancing warily between them. "This isn't a sex thing, is it?"

"Five hundred years, Nico," Herpo said, shaking his head. "Five hundred, and never once have we invited you to
anything sexual - "

"Nicholas," Antioch cut in briskly. "We have something we'd like to discuss with you."

"I gathered," Nico permitted. "But if this is about the Zodiac Killer, I told you, I don't know how or why he was
compromised but he's already been dealt with, and - "

"Yes, of course, I do recall," Antioch supplied. "But no, actually, this is about Cadmus."

Instantly, Nico's mangled face paled.

"Cadmus?" he asked uncertainly. "Is he - do you think he's behind this somehow, or - "

"No, of course not," Antioch pronounced flatly. "Cadmus is dead, Nicholas. You know this."

"Right," Nico exhaled. "Right. So - "

"But I'd like to bring him back," Antioch delivered without pause, blatantly ignoring the loud growl of opposition
from Herpo on his right. "Ignotus has gotten entirely out of hand, and I believe that Cadmus will provide some much
needed stability."

"But - but Cadmus never once provided stability," Nico stammered, frowning. "He's - Cadmus is - "

"Cadmus Peverell was," Herpo supplied helpfully, "an unbearable, unlikable, arrogant little arsehole who's never
been loyal to anything but himself his entire life. Lives, actually," he amended, his disapproving gaze sliding to
Antioch's, "if we're aiming for accuracy, and surely he would have no interest in you or this Club. In case you've
forgotten, he spent the entire last century of his life as an unrelenting obstacle to the Club's pursuits."

"Yes," Antioch agreed. "And never were Ignotus and I more in sync."

Herpo gaped at him.

"But if you bring him back," Nico interjected slowly, sparing Herpo the effort of an exasperated response, "he'll
come for Ignotus. You know he will."

"It's a possibility," Antioch permitted, as if this were not particularly important.

"Or he'll come for you," Herpo muttered.

Antioch shrugged. "Perhaps."

"Forgive me, but I'm not really seeing the value here," Nico remarked slowly, and Antioch gave him a particularly
indulgent smile; one that Herpo unfortunately knew to be among his three most persuasive expressions.

"Just a thought," Antioch said flippantly. "You know as well as I do that Ignotus has been relatively out of sorts."

"Yes, but you've been saying that for over forty years," Nico reminded him gruffly. "Has it really progressed to the
point of needing Cadmus to intercede?"

Herpo watched Antioch's fingers tighten around his glass as he sat, toying effortlessly with Nico's attention.

"Why don't you tell me, Nicholas?" Antioch prompted carefully. "After all, you and Ignotus are close, aren't you?
Closer than ever, it seems. Tell me, do you have any idea why Ignotus went to Paris? Or," he suggested, with a
dangerous echo of disinterest, "do you have anything to share about why you so coincidentally found reason to
execute a Zodiac Killer on the same night?"

Nico swallowed. "I," he began, and faltered. "I told you. Ignotus was there looking into the assassinations on your
instructions, and the deposed Zodiac Killer is coincidental, but unrelated. I've already produced the evidence that his
loyalty was compromised for your consideration, and - "

"Yes," Antioch agreed. "So you have. But I have no means to question him myself, do I? Not since you did away
with him," he clarified, clearing his throat, "yourself."

Herpo frowned, wondering what Antioch's play was.

"I - " Nico broke off again. "Are you trying to say you don't trust me, Antioch?"

"Of course not," Antioch replied smoothly. "After all, you've given me every reason to trust you, haven't you,
Nicholas? It would be foolish for me to think otherwise," he murmured, raising his glass to his lips, "wouldn't it?"

The statement landed hard, as Antioch had clearly intended.

"You can trust me," Nico managed. "I have always put the Club first."

"You mean you've always put Ignotus first," Herpo began defensively, but Antioch gave him a nearly imperceptible
headshake, warning him to silence.

"Your input is valuable to me, Nicholas," Antioch said. "You warned me of Lady Revel's effect on Ignotus, and I
don't easily disregard that kind of loyalty. If you feel that resurrecting Cadmus would not be in the best interest of
the Club, then I will respect your position on the matter, and act accordingly."

At that, Nico was visibly relieved, though Herpo was left bewildered. "I'm so glad to hear it," Nico exhaled, his hand
floating to his mouth. "Truly, Antioch, I think it would be disastrous on many levels - Cadmus was never easily
controlled, and whatever benefits you might garner from having him, the costs, I think, would be exponentially
worse - "

"Very well," Antioch cut in firmly, waving a hand. "That's all. Oh, and Nico," he added, summoning a vial from his
pocket and tossing it to the other man. "For your face," he explained. "After all, Ignotus is not the only Peverell with
expertise in potions."

Nico swallowed heavily, blinking back confusion as he glanced down at the vial, slowly looking back up.

"Thank you," he said, with what struck Herpo as a worrying amount of sincerity.

"You're welcome," Antioch said. "And I trust you'll keep this conversation between us?"

"Of course," Nico exhaled, stammering. "Yes, I - of course, I wouldn't dream of bringing it up, though I just - " He
closed his hand around the vial, his brow furrowing in thought. "Just out of curiosity," he postured slowly, glancing
up to meet Antioch's eye. "Do you actually know how to resurrect Cadmus?"
"Oh, no," Antioch assured him with a laugh. "I only know that Cadmus kept very detailed instructions, and I suspect
there might yet be a way. But now, of course, there's no purpose to it, so - "

"Right, right, of course," Nico agreed, looking blissfully relieved. "Is that all?" he asked, glancing between Herpo
and Antioch. "Anything else?"

Herpo, who had his own reservations, said nothing.

"No," Antioch replied, with another too-clever Peverell smile. "Thank you, Nico."

Nico nodded, disapparating with a crack.

"You fucking liar," Herpo pronounced slowly, turning to Antioch with a somber shake of his head. "You know
exactly how to bring Cadmus back, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Antioch confessed easily, draining his glass and rising to refill it. "I left one horcrux behind. The
first one," he explained, gesturing to Herpo with the bottle. "The one he made after he and I met you in Greece."

"Ah, yes," Herpo said. "A memorable event."

"Yes," Antioch agreed, "and one which Ignotus would have no knowledge of."

"But what if Nico tells Ignotus about this?" Herpo asked, mildly concerned. "Surely he wouldn't keep it to himself,
even with you attempting to tip his favor."

"Well, the way I see it, it's a win-win," Antioch said. "On the one hand, Nico will recognize, as I have in the past,
that Cadmus poses a danger to Ignotus' safety, and he will do everything he can to prevent it, including keeping it
from Ignotus so as not to chance angering me. On the other," he suggested, pouring more liquid into his glass, "he'll
inform Ignotus of the conversation, prompting Ignotus to act more far erratically, and therefore make mistakes. You
know how he gets when he's emotionally invested," Antioch said, shaking his head. "He's much, much easier to stop
when he's conflicted."

"So you admit you've lost your hold over him," Herpo noted. "And now you're using the threat of your dead brother
to regain it?"

"You make it sound so crude," Antioch sighed. "But yes, fine. In any case, I'm not a total idiot," he said. "Eventually
Ignotus will learn what befell Lady Revel, and I mean to be prepared for his reaction."

"By what?" Herpo asked. "Giving him cause to fear you?"

"Ignotus is the youngest. He has always feared me as much as he has revered me," Antioch said. "Which, by the
way, is something that Cadmus always understood."

"Well," Herpo exhaled. "So long as you don't actually bring Cadmus back - "

"Oh, I'm going to," Antioch said blithely, prompting Herpo to choke on his drink. "Cadmus is valuable to me."

"But I thought you said he's dangerous," Herpo sputtered.

"Same thing," Antioch said, shrugging. "Either way, he's necessary."

It took a moment, the liquid gradually settling in Herpo's stomach, and then he rose to his feet, walking towards
Antioch.

"You mean you miss him," he commented, and Antioch stiffened.

"I don't," Antioch retorted, somewhat sulkily. "I simply require his skills. He's an excellent tactician, an unparalleled
enchanter, and - "
"And you miss him," Herpo finished for him, removing the glass from his hand. "You had years with him that
Ignotus never had, Antioch, and I know what that means to you. For all the difficulty that Cadmus has caused you,"
he said, placing Antioch's glass back on the table, "you still miss the man who stood by your side when you had
nothing."

Antioch stiffened as Herpo stepped behind him, resting his hands on his waist.

"You're too sentimental," Antioch said, glancing over his shoulder at him. "My brother betrayed me."

"Which one?" Herpo asked.

Antioch grimaced.

"You know what I mean," he muttered, and Herpo chuckled.

"If you'd only had one lifetime," Herpo suggested quietly. "If you'd been a humble mortal instead of the head of an
invisible empire, which brother might you have died for?"

Antioch's jaw tightened.

"Don't make me answer that," he said, and Herpo shrugged, resting his chin in the crook of Antioch's shoulder.

"Fine," he permitted. "But with everyone who lies to you all day, Antioch, you should not be one of them."

Antioch pulled away, turning to look at him.

"About Lady Revel," he said. "How did she die?"

"Avada," Herpo said. "It was quick."

"Did she say anything?"

"She said she knew it was coming, and that she had no regrets. She died at peace."

"And then?"

"I left," Herpo said, shrugging. "And I know you have an odd affinity for foreplay, Antioch, but even for you, this is
a bit morbid - "

"Did you take anything?" Antioch pressed. "Those secrets she kept, the magic we recruited her for - did you
interfere?"

"Should I have?" Herpo asked, bemused.

Antioch grimaced.

"Something happened after you left," he explained. "Didn't you see it in the papers? The house was left in ashes. The
Ministry is calling it a robbery. The secrets she kept have been stolen."

"Okay, now this is very off-putting," Herpo said, stepping away. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that there's something I don't know, and it concerns me," Antioch said brusquely. "I'm saying there are
many things I don't know at the moment, and it unnerves me, and I cannot rest. I cannot rest. And if I had Cadmus
here, then perhaps - "

Herpo took hold of Antioch's face, cutting him off.

"I will help you," he promised, and Antioch looked away.

"Your interests lie elsewhere," Antioch said gruffly. "You don't enjoy staying in one place."

"No," Herpo agreed. "I don't."

"You will wander into eternity," Antioch muttered. "I want someone who will stand at my side."

"I will. I do."

"Not like - "

"No, not like your brothers," Herpo agreed, shaking his head. "You can only love me, Antioch. You cannot keep me.
It's the way of the world, in fact, that you can't keep anyone. No man stands still, Antioch Peverell, not even for
you."

"But - "

"If you want me to help you bring back Cadmus, I'll do it," Herpo informed him. "If you want my help to secure
your authority in the Club, to find you answers to your questions, I will stand by your side. I'll stay for as long as
you need me."

"But then you'll leave," Antioch said.

"Yes," Herpo agreed. "And then I'll leave. But I'll come back."

"When another Wizengamot Warlock is assassinated?" Antioch joked bitterly.

"Maybe. Or maybe when I miss you," Herpo said, shrugging. "Depends what comes first."

Antioch grimaced.

"Take your clothes off," he muttered, and Herpo smiled.

"Yes, my liege," he said, leaning forward to close the distance.

Ignotus Peverell had not always thought of himself as a liar.

In fact, for the most part, Ignotus Peverell thought of his brothers as liars, and himself as the lone voice of truth. He
had always pursued the truth in its various forms, be it academic or magical or political; he had always thought of
himself as above the fray, in a sense, whereas Antioch and Cadmus belonged to a sea of lesser pursuits. Antioch was
greedy, always reaching for power and control; Cadmus was highly prone to vice, never focusing his intellect for
very long when there was some other enjoyment to be had elsewhere.

Still, it had always been the elder Peverells who were more broadly liked (Antioch, anyway, though Cadmus
admittedly had some strange appeal with others) because they belonged to a set of worldly concerns. They belonged,
in fact, to the world, whereas Ignotus had never felt part of his surroundings. For the most part, he didn't regret not
having gone with them on their initial travels; he'd always felt like a burden - always awkward, always saying the
wrong thing, always being told by one brother or the other to be quiet - and thus, he had always preferred to be
immersed in an experiment, luxuriating in isolation.

Admittedly, Ignotus hadn't enjoyed being married, either (he was relieved, in retrospect, that the life expectancy at
the time was a meager forty years or so, thus permitting him to believably escape into death just before he could no
longer stand it) and so joining his brothers after their twenty-some years out in the world had been rewarding at first.
It was nice to have a goal and Antioch had had so many that, for a time, Ignotus was always busy, always useful,
always caught up in some pursuit of greatness - or, at the very least, change.

There was a time, too, when he eventually became more valuable than Cadmus, and for someone who had craved
the approval of his brothers for the entirety of his life - especially from Antioch, who had always seemed larger than
life itself - Ignotus couldn't help permitting himself to be swept up in it, encouraged as he was by Nico's faith and
Antioch's pride.

But even then, not everyone had seen that as a blessing.

"Someday, you will fail Antioch," Cadmus had warned Ignotus. "Inevitably, you will disappoint him, and he will
turn on you without hesitation. Do you think that this is love? Or if it is, that his love will ever come without strings?
Do you really think this is approval?" he scoffed. "You're a bloody idiot, Ignotus, if you don't see that you're only a
means to an end, as I was. As I am."

"You only say that," Ignotus noted, "because you think he's going to turn on you, and you want me to stop him."

"You're both going to turn on me," Cadmus replied in his typical listless way, eyeing his fingernails, "and the only
thing that gets me through it is knowing that one day, he'll turn on you, too, and every choice you've made will come
to haunt you."

And though Ignotus Peverell had never thought himself a liar, he became one shortly after, because he told his first
lie to himself once he took his own knife to Cadmus' wayward heart.

"He's wrong," he muttered, to himself and to Nico, who even then had seemed lost for words. "He's wrong. I did this
for the right reasons - I'm sorry for it, I'm sorry, but I had to - I had to - "

"I know," Nico had said miserably, his hands twitching at his side. "I know. It will get easier."

But it hadn't, and so Ignotus became a liar by necessity. He became a liar, as Antioch and Cadmus had always been,
in order to survive.

Eventually, though, what had come so easily for centuries came to a screeching halt, all of his many pasts fading to
nothing the moment he met Dionisia Trelawney.

Strange, Ignotus had always thought, that a woman who trafficked in lies and deceit would bring out the truth in
him, but the girl who called herself Lady Revel, and who cared so little what anyone thought of her - who forced the
world to bend to her will, and not the other way around - had had something in her that he had recognized from the
start. A sense that she, too, didn't quite belong, always watching the world from the outside, from behind a mask,
and making use of it instead of living in it.

He'd been instructed by Antioch to invite her to the Club, and at one time, that had genuinely been his only intent.
After all, Dionisia Trelawney was undeniably useful. Her magical prowess was palpable the moment he entered her
house, and furthermore, it was clear that her network of leverage extended far beyond what even Antioch had
anticipated. She was the most singularly talented witch Ignotus had ever met, and yet, for some reason, she kept to
the shadows, not doing anything in particular with her extraordinary reach.

"It's more a habit than anything," she told him one night, when he'd still only been trying to recruit her. "I've never
really known how to be a friend, you know, or a lover. I've only ever known how to take."

"What do you do with them?" he asked. "The secrets."

She shrugged. "Power the house," she said. "Fancy myself using them, I suppose, should I ever be threatened in any
way. But honestly, I think it's mostly a compulsion. I don't understand people," she explained. "It's as though all I
can ever do is mimic them, and this is the closest I get to being - "

"Normal?" Ignotus supplied, with a jolt of sympathy.

"Something like that," Dionisia had said.

It had always been strange to him that everything about her seemed so familiar, cut from the same improbable cloth,
and yet she had always seemed so resolutely opposed to his vision of the world.
"Things are only valuable when they're fleeting," she told him. "A thing is always most precious at its peak, isn't it?
And it only peaks if it can fall? So, by that logic, a life only holds value if it can end."

"But why?" Ignotus pressed. "Isn't there more to be accomplished with more time? More knowledge, or more
wisdom, to be gained along the way?"

"Wisdom isn't something you collect," Dionisia retorted.

"Not like secrets," Ignotus teased, and she glanced at him.

"No," she said, with absolute sincerity.

He had never loved anyone like he loved her.

He had never known love was real, even, until he had loved her.

To lose her, then, had been unimaginable torture.

"She has to go," Antioch had said, without a trace of hesitation. "She's a threat to the Club. You've put us all at risk,
Ignotus, and you should have known better."

"But Antioch - "

"You killed Cadmus for the threat he posed," Antioch pointed out, playing a card that Ignotus should have foreseen
his brother would one day employ at his expense. "You're a rational being, Ignotus, so tell me: why should this Lady
Revel person be any different? She opposes the Club's existence - "

"But so does Tom Riddle," Ignotus argued. "If he is permitted to continue on, then - "

"Tom Riddle does not oppose us. He simply doesn't aspire to join us, and in any case, he will meet his end soon
enough," Antioch cut in, grimacing. "Greed like his does not go unpunished forever, and as it is, he possesses so
little knowledge of us that he does not pose any viable threat. But as for Lady Revel - "

"Why?" Ignotus protested. "Why does she have to die?"

"Because one look at you tells me you've given her ammunition enough to destroy you," Antioch said flatly. "And if
she is a threat to you, then she is a threat to me. She's a threat to all of us, and that makes her no different than
Cadmus."

Ignotus flinched; there it was again.

"But - "

"It's done, Ignotus," Antioch said, shaking his head. "You must have known you couldn't have everything when you
chose this life. When you chose this purpose," he clarified, gesturing around the room to the hallmarks of the empire
they both had built, "you must have known there would be sacrifices. What were you supposed to do, grow old with
her?" he asked, half-laughing. "She doesn't want the truths of your life, Ignotus, and do you really want hers? Did
you really imagine you would do it again, have a wife and a family, settle for mortality, be normal? Be serious,
brother," he said cruelly. "You tried it once, and you and I both know you were never built for that kind of life."

And he wasn't.

And he knew it.

And still it pained him, without respite.

For all that he knew Antioch was right, it had only spoiled the relationship between them. For all that Ignotus tried
relentlessly to appeal to his own logic, to his own clear-eyed understanding of the world he'd tried so desperately to
occupy, he couldn't help feeling betrayed; and through it all, only Nico had stood beside him. Only Nico had cared.
Only Nico had seemed to understand, to suffer with him, almost as though Nico himself had been the one to kill the
woman Ignotus had loved.

"It will get easier," Nico had promised, just as he'd done after Cadmus' death.

But it hadn't.

It never had.

And so Ignotus had become a liar once again.

"Where've you been?" Ignotus heard from behind him, catching the sound of Nico's footsteps padding quietly into
the room. "I haven't heard from you in a couple of days, Ignotus, and to tell you the truth, I was starting to get
worried - "

Ignotus turned and blinked, startled.

"Your face," he realized, frowning. "It's - you - "

"Antioch made a potion for me," Nico explained, stepping into the light. "Better, isn't it?"

Ignotus reached out, brushing the faint traces of scarring around Nico's long-familiar mouth and cheeks.

"It is," he agreed. "I don't think I could have done much better, but still, I'm sorry, Nico. I should have gotten around
to it sooner - "

"It's fine," Nico assured him, clearing his throat at Ignotus' touch. "And by the way," he added softly, "you don't
have to wear that face if you don't want to."

"I don't mind it," Ignotus lied, but Nico waited.

Ignotus gave in; took a deep breath, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly, permitting the charms to relent. When he
opened them again, Nico was nodding his approval.

"I like it like this," Nico said fondly. "There's no shame in looking a bit older, you know, and it must be quite a lot of
effort keeping up the glamor charms."

"I don't like looking older than Antioch," Ignotus admitted. "I think he likes surrounding himself with youth, and it's
just easier to scale back the ten years or so after he stopped aging and I didn't."

"Well, who cares what Antioch wants," Nico said, shrugging. "You lived half your lifetime without him. It's here,"
he explained, tracing his fingertips along the lines of Ignotus' eyes, below the slightly sunken cavities of his cheeks.
"The marks of what you are, Ignotus. There's no shame in that."

Privately, Ignotus disagreed, but he shook himself of the sensation, stepping out of Nico's reach.

"To answer your question, I've been seeing someone," he began, pausing as Nico blinked with confusion. "Not like
that," he amended quickly. "Well, sort of. She's - she's useful. Or will be, I suspect. And not fully unpleasant."

"Who is she?" Nico asked carefully, taking a wary step back. "I mean, what exactly is she supposed to be useful
for?"

"Well, she's actually more useful than I initially thought," Ignotus offered, returning to the musings he had been
entertaining before Nico had entered the room. "She's relatively good friends with Harry Potter, which was why I
initially approached her - "

"Harry Potter?" Nico asked, frowning. "What does he have to do with anything?"

Ignotus shrugged. "He's a descendant of mine," he said. "I wanted to approach him in a way that wouldn't make him
feel threatened."

"So you're going to lie to him?" Nico asked. "Do you really think he'll take kindly to that?"

"Honestly, I don't think the truth is going to be much better," Ignotus said with a grimace. "Better to get an idea of
how useful he is, too, before I actually decide to intercede."

"What do you even need a descendant for?" asked Nico, who, like Antioch, had none.

"Cadmus remained in touch with his," Ignotus explained. "Seems like I should be prepared with one of my own in
case anything happens to me. And besides," he added, "better that I reach out to him before Antioch decides to, if he
chooses to - "

"You sound like you're preparing for the worst," Nico cut in, looking distinctly nervous by the thought. "Are you
afraid of something, Ignotus? Of Antioch?"

At that, Ignotus smiled wanly.

"Anyone sane should be at least a little bit afraid of Antioch Peverell," he said, assuming Nico had had enough
experience with his eldest brother's ruthlessness to understand why without any further explanation. "I'm just trying
to be prepared, Nico. Just in case I need someone on my side."

"But I'm on your side," Nico protested.

Ignotus paused for a moment, wondering how Nico could possibly believe that were true; ultimately, though, he
determined the point not worth arguing, abruptly changing the subject.

"I think Katie is still of some value to Draco Malfoy," he continued. "I know that Taurus was compromised before
he was able to get rid of them in Paris, but perhaps there's still a way I can make up for what he's done to you."

"Ignotus," Nico urged, sighing. "I really don't think you should pursue this any further. I have no remaining
vendetta, and - "

He broke off as Ignotus reached out, touching his thumb gently to Nico's newly healed cheek.

"I suppose you owe him something now," Ignotus said carefully, tilting Nico's head to scrutinize the potion's
(admittedly expertly rendered, as Antioch had quite a hand with potions) results in the light. "Be careful what it is,
Nico."

"Ignotus, listen to me," Nico said firmly, "I really don't think this is a good id-"

"Anyway," Ignotus interrupted, taking a step back, "I may be out of contact again for a few days. I'm supposed to
watch Katie play a quidditch match, and Potter's on her team. I'd like to meet him, assess his uses, before the
Ministry conference that I believe they both have to attend. Potter's friendship may yet prove quite helpful, and in
any case, getting close to her helps me keep an eye on the many things Antioch has tried to keep from me. For
example," he added bitterly, fighting a shudder at the still-sharp stab of memory, "did you know that Dionisia's been
alive this entire time? Up until last week," he said, his voice breaking to think of it again. "She was alive, Nico. This
whole time, she was alive." He swallowed, digging his nails into his palms. "She grew old without me."

Nico reached out hesitantly, his fingers seeming as though they might have closed around Ignotus' shoulder, had he
summoned the nerve.

"Would you really have had a life with her, though?" Nico asked, somewhat unsteadily. "Does it matter? I thought it
was your choice to be rid of her."

"Really?" Ignotus asked bitterly. "My choice, Nico? When have I ever made a choice of my own that wasn't
determined for me by my brother?"
At that, Nico's expression tightened with dismay, and with a hint of warning.

"Ignotus, I really don't think you should make Antioch your enemy. The two of you are brothers," Nico half-
pleaded. "You and Antioch are to each other what no one else on earth has ever been to either of you - "

"Not true," Ignotus cut in sharply, blinking with sudden recognition. "That's not true."

He paused for a moment, contemplating the idea that had manifested so jarringly in his head.

"Ignotus?" Nico asked hesitantly, but by then, he wasn't listening.

Ignotus Peverell wasn't naturally a liar. He had become one by necessity, forced into it by the nature of his
overbearing brother, but once upon a time he hadn't been that way.

Once upon a time, someone had tried to warn him.

Once, someone else had had faith in his conscience.

There was only one other person who had been to Ignotus what Antioch was, and perhaps he could still be of use.

"He has a horcrux," Ignotus announced suddenly. "I didn't want Antioch to know I knew about it, but I know he
made one. He told me about it once, ages ago, told me I might need to use it. Thought I might take his side, even
when I didn't - when I thought he was in the wrong. Antioch thought I'd destroyed everything," he muttered, pacing
the floor, "and I convinced him I had, made sure he believed it - but I always wondered - I left one behind because I
always thought - I thought maybe, maybe one day I might - "

"Ignotus," Nico said urgently, taking hold of his shoulders. "Ignotus, you're babbling - what is this about? What is
it?"

All at once, the murmuring in Ignotus' head abruptly quieted, and he met Nico's gaze with a strange sensation of
alignment.

"Do you really want to help me?" he asked, surprising himself with the mettle in his tone. "Do you mean it, Nico?"

"Yes," Nico assured him, awash in confusion. "Yes, Ignotus, whatever it is, you can trust me - "

"Good," Ignotus said firmly, tasting certainty on his tongue. "Because I think it might be time to resurrect Cadmus."

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
6:24 p.m.

"Okay, so, even though I stand by my assertion that the Knockturn flat really wasn't so bad - "

"Wasn't so bad?" Hermione echoed irritably, glaring at him. "Malfoy, there was a shop full of cursed items right
below us, and not to be that person," she added, conspiratorially dropping her voice as she trotted after him up the
stairs, "but I did not like the look of the troll that was loitering outside by the bins - "

"Yes, yes, fine," Draco said briskly, waving a hand. "In any case, I confirmed with my father - which was not a
particularly pleasant conversation, by the way," he added, shuddering, "as I had to fend off Hortense, who is
apparently obsessed with you for reasons completely indeterminable - oh, and also, she's having a party, or a funeral,
I really don't know which," he remarked with a sigh, "but she insists that you and I attend - "

"Malfoy," Hermione cut in, arching a brow. "Get to the point. Where are we?"

An abandoned house, Granger, obviously, he attempted not to say, biting his tongue on his more detestable nature
and letting out a breath.
"It was my mother's," he clarified, pointedly not looking at her as he held the door open from the entrance corridor,
ushering her inside and avoiding any unduly sentimental reaction. "Well, it belonged to the Black family, and it
passed to her after one sister was disinherited and the other died. Clearly, she chose not to live in it.
Understandably," he added, grimacing. "It, uh, hasn't been occupied in a while, as you can see."

"Well, one manor house is probably sufficient," Hermione guessed, astonishingly declining to be nosy and instead
glancing around at the heavily cobwebbed room. "I don't understand. Where are we?"

Draco stepped forward, charming the windows open.

"Well, that's the other thing," he admitted, gesturing for her to see. "It's a muggle neighborhood. And the house itself
will take quite a bit of fixing," he added, beginning to wonder if this had not, in fact, been a devastatingly poor
decision. "And I think the Floo's been disconnected, so we'll have to deal with that with the Ministry. But honestly,
what good is Potter if he can't expedite bureaucratic paperwork, so - "

"A muggle neighborhood," Hermione echoed knowingly, smiling to herself as she looked out at the many wheeled
contraptions below. "Interesting choice, Malfoy."

"It's obviously not my preferred choice," he assured her hastily, turning back to begin charming away the sheets that
covered the flaking wallpaper and aging furniture. "But, you know, seeing as there's nowhere else to go, I just
thought, um. Maybe. But actually, this is clearly a sad exhibition of stupidity," he determined loudly, pivoting in
place. "So I guess we should just - "

"Malfoy," Hermione cut in warningly, shaking her head as she approached him from the windows. "You're
spiraling."

He scoffed, insulted. "I am n-"

"I like the moldings," she interrupted, glancing up at the ceilings. "They're very tasteful."

"Well, obviously, Granger," he muttered. "My family has preeminent taste."

"Good bones," she added, her gaze slipping slyly to his. "It's a nice house, Malfoy."

It was clearly meant to be an offering, but it made him distinctly uncomfortable.

"I mean, it'll do," he judged, and coughed, uncertain where to direct his eye contact. "In any case, if this will appease
your impossible sensibilities, we can at least save ourselves the issue of having a landlord. You can pay me rent," he
assured her, smirking. "I'll set up a tab for you."

"Hilarious," Hermione said, rolling her eyes, but he noted a not-unwelcome look of approval on her face as she cast
her gaze around the room; as if she were imagining it as a home, and not as a strange, slightly mildewed, mildly
decaying structure. "So," she determined, running a finger along the mantle and promptly wiping the dust away,
"should we talk about our predicament?"

"Predicament?" he echoed, playing at innocence. "You mean the one where my ex-girlfriend is very likely dating a
centuries-old murderer who tried to have me killed? No," he drawled, "I think we can just put that one to bed."

Unsurprisingly, she ignored him.

"I have to say, there's clearly something very strange going on with the Club," she pointed out, as if he'd said
nothing. "Antioch didn't seem to know that Dionisia's secrets had been stolen, and Nico was quite vague about
Ignotus' relation to her too, wasn't he? What if Ignotus is the one responsible for the poisonings?"

"A bit of a stretch," Draco pointed out. "Why would he implicate his own Club?"

"Impossible to tell, isn't it?" Hermione asked, shrugging. "Unless we talk to him, that is."
"Oh, sure," Draco said. "Let's just Floo him then, shall we? Offer to discuss his motives and those of his immortal
brother? Maybe ask him if he wants another shot at killing us?"

"Well, maybe not that," Hermione said, and pointed upstairs. "Bedrooms?"

Draco nodded, gesturing for her to lead.

"If you're somehow suggesting I make nice with Katie," he began, grumbling, and Hermione threw a look of
irritation over her shoulder.

"Don't be ridiculous," she retorted, coughing sharply and spelling away yet another cobweb as they stepped onto the
dusty second floor landing. "Even for normal people, that would be insane. That would be like suggesting we spend
time alone with Ron and Mel."

"Well, thank goodness - "

"What I'm actually suggesting," Hermione continued, "is that we spend time, you know, not alone, with all of them."

Draco paused in the corridor, gaping at her back.

"I'm sorry, Granger," he trumpeted, with a purposeful dearth of apology. "Did I just have a stroke, or did you by
chance suggest we take two terrible situations and combine them into one flaming pile of social ineptitude?"

"Well, I don't know if you've considered this," Hermione told him, turning with a sigh, "but when faced with - oh, I
don't know, an engagement and a new house, most people throw a party, Malfoy."

He froze, abruptly rooted in place.

"It's not completely unreasonable," Hermione continued, "and frankly, it might be a good opportunity to scope out
some of the other people who might be involved in the Wizengamot killings. For one thing, Harry said he suspected
Poliakoff knew something about it, and Janvier seemed a bit strange, too - and actually, if we invited your cousins,
they seem to be well-connected, perhaps we could get a few other political guests involved - and in conjunction with
the Ministry address, we could easily get Percy and some of the other Wizengamot members to come, and Harry
tells me Daisy's here now, too, so - "

She paused, turning.

"Malfoy?" she asked.

"Hold on," he told her briskly.

"What are you - "

"HOLD ON," he barked, glaring around suspiciously. "I'm - I have to - "

"What on earth - "

"It's this house," he determined flatly, glancing around with disapproval. "It has to be. Clearly the air is infected
somehow and we have to get out before we both succumb to its effects."

"Malfoy, what does that even m-"

"Do you know who else would think to use a party as a trap, Granger? NARCISSA MALFOY, THAT'S WHO," he
shouted. "So CLEARLY, this house has been COMPROMISED, and we cannot possibly LIVE HERE - "

"Malfoy, I really think this is a bit much, I'm just saying - "

"OUT, GRANGER, OUT - "

"Draco," Hermione sighed, trotting over to him and roughly taking hold of his face with one hand. "I'm going to
need you to regain control of your shit."

"MOTHER, IS THAT YOU - "

"Listen," she snapped. "I know it will be unpleasant, but we should really look at this in the long term. I think the
past couple of days have shown us that y- that we," she emphasized, sparing him the embarrassment of you, "need as
much good press as we can get. And also, this gives us the front we need to have everybody unsuspiciously
occupying the same room. The house isn't infected - or haunted," she said as he opened his mouth, correctly
predicting his next guess, "it just happens to be a good idea. Okay?"

He scowled.

"You're getting the small bedroom," he retorted grumpily.

She sighed, releasing him. "Is that a yes?"

"No," he snapped. "It's a totally unrelated fact."

"Draco, for the love of - "

"FINE," he growled. "Fine. You're right. We'll fix the house up and have a party. BUT ONLY BECAUSE
SOMEONE MIGHT BE MURDERED," he added as an afterthought. "And if this party is as terrible as I suspect it
will be, then I thoroughly hope it's me."

Again, though, he'd already lost her attention.

"We'll have to get the Floo hooked up," she remarked thoughtfully to herself, wandering back down the stairs, "and I
suppose we might as well have Pansy help, since she does have actual event planning experience now - "

"I hate this," Draco said, and then, in case she hadn't heard him, "I HATE THIS - "

"Not to mention we have to do it all in less than a week," she added. "If we want it to correspond with the Ministry
address, that is, and - " she trailed off, frowning at him. "Do you want to invite Hortense and Thibaut, or should I?
Actually," she determined, "they might be rather helpful. Maybe they should come early."

"Either way I would RATHER DIE, but fine, if we must - "

"Well," she sighed, glowing with something he suspected was mischief, or else lunacy. "You know what, Malfoy? I
did have some reservations at first, but I think I really rather like the house."

"I regret everything," he replied. "I regret every single thing I've done since the moment I woke up this morning.
Possibly earlier than that - no, wait, definitely earlier - "

"Mmm," she vacantly agreed, turning to flash him a brilliant smile.

Nott Manor
Spare bedroom on the third floor
October 8, 2003
2:06 a.m.

"How is it now?" Daphne asked, gingerly pressing her fingers to the vanished bruise around Cad's eye. "Better?"

He caught her hand, nipping at the tips of her fingers.

"You worry too much," he murmured. "I can take the occasional shot to the face, Greengrass. It's nature's way of
reminding me not to blink."
"You and Marcus should really stop fighting," she sighed, shaking her head. "I think you both enjoy it too much."

"Tell that to Wood," Cad countered. "He pummeled the goblins' pick. I think you and Mars are gradually reducing
him to madness."

"It couldn't be more perfunctory with Marcus and me," Daphne reminded him, as though he really needed
reminding. "I'm not really sure why Oliver has such a problem with it."

"Jealousy," Cad supplied.

"Yes, but I just said - "

"Not because Mars has feelings for you," Cad corrected. "He's just jealous of what you two are permitted to have. A
life together," he explained. "Not everyone is so lucky."

"This is hardly a life," Daphne corrected, rolling her eyes. "Frankly, I doubt Oliver would enjoy the sorts of things
Marcus and I have to do together. It's all stuffy parties, boring events. Really it's just an ancient pureblood mating
ritual that, in the end, amounts to a business transaction, joining access to our families' vaults while my parents
literally sell me for a fortune - "

"And here I thought I was old-fashioned," Cad cut in, his lips quirking up to a smirk. "You're practically medieval."

She hid a smile, tucking it against his palm.

"What have you been up to, anyway?" she asked casually, leaning back on the bed. "You and Theo seem awfully - "

"Close?" Cad guessed.

She shook her head. "Up to something," she countered, challenging him with the curve of a brow.

"I like Nott," he said. "He's the perfect amount of damaged."

"That," Daphne sighed, "is unfortunately very true, but not particularly reassuring. Theo can be - " she trailed off,
chewing her lip in thought. "He can sometimes lose perspective."

"Meaning?" Cad prompted.

"He's just - he gets caught up in things," Daphne attempted evasively. "I just want to be sure whatever you two are
doing, you don't let him go too far."

"Me?" Cad asked, surprised. "You think I have any control over Nott?"

"Control? No," she scoffed. "No one does. But would I want you to try to stop him from doing something
dangerous, or reckless? Yes."

He gave her a long, searching look.

"I told you, Daphne Greengrass," he said. "I'm a villain."

"You say that," she countered. "But I think you're good, Cadmus Peverell."

"Well, then I've done you a disservice," he replied. "Or have you forgotten what I was doing when you met me?"

"What exactly is your plan?" she asked neutrally, letting him yank her towards him on the bed. "What are you going
to do when you find your brothers?"

"Well, funny you should ask," he returned buoyantly, rolling to position himself above her. "I think" - a kiss to the
side of her neck - "I'm going" - to the hollow of her throat - "to watch them" - the curve of her jaw - "kill each
other," he finished, shifting to catch her astonished breath between his teeth. "I'm guessing by now I won't even have
to lift a finger," he added, pointedly sliding one of his own up the side of her thigh. "They'll happily finish each other
off for me."

"You say that," she said, swallowing hard, "but - "

"You have a sister, don't you?" he interrupted, sliding her knickers down her legs. "How would you feel if she built
an empire with you and then turned around and set it on fire," he suggested, rearing up to pull his shirt over his head.
"Or if she shared her secrets with you, and yours with her, only for her to turn and slice the life from your very
throat, or pierce it through your chest?"

"Cad," Daphne forced out, his name half a rasp. "Cad, it isn't - I don't - "

"This is a revenge story, love," he informed her, running his thumb over her lips as she reached out, digging her
nails into the gaps of his ribs. "It's not a pretty tale, and it certainly isn't the Tale of the Three Brothers. Ignotus will
pay for his cowardice," he promised her, "and Antioch will pay for his greed, and they will do it by betraying each
other, just as surely as they've betrayed me."

She propped herself up on her elbows, reaching out to slide her palm against the straining of his trousers.

"Am I the one doing this," she asked, flashing him her little pureblood heiress smirk, "or is it the thought of your
brothers paying for their sins that gets you hard?"

He smiled, leaning forward to slip his tongue between her lips, letting her tug him down to her.

"You don't really want me to be good, do you, Daphne Greengrass?" he said into her mouth, his fingers tightening
on her hips. "You like me a little rotten, don't you?"

He didn't need confirmation; the sound she made when he touched her said as much.

"Are you the villain of this story, Cadmus Peverell?" she asked instead, locking eyes with him as he drew her legs
around his hips.

He chuckled again, pinning her hands above her head.

"Watch and see," he invited, reveling in her gasp.

a/n: Dedicated to kaytea04, friskypony, and crookshanks the kitty! Also, thank you to many of you for asking after
my health, you are my dearest friends. I'm sure my sinuses will unclog soon. As a reminder, feel free to wander over
to Amortentia for The Real World: Ministry of Magic, which is updating once a day until Christmas.
 24. Storyboarding the Apocalypse

Chapter 24: Storyboarding the Apocalypse

Nott Manor
Living Room
October 8, 2003
12:45 p.m.

"So, let me get this straight," Blaise began tartly, eyeing Draco with his usual glaze of princely suspicion. "You're
saying that you don't currently feel able to take on any new cases because you are - "

"Desperately in love," Theo cut in at a drawl, "and unable to descend from the throes of such herculean romance?"

"Yes," Draco confirmed curtly. "And on a similar note, I'll need you both to attend a party."

"A party," Blaise echoed, exchanging a dubious glance with Theo. "For?"

"Well, sort of an engagement, cohabitation, lump-sum mandatory thing," Draco informed them, shrugging. "My
father's making me jump through all the usual premarital hoops, as you might have guessed. Also, apparently my
cousins have threatened to expose me for the criminal I am if I don't entertain them."

"You can't possibly expect us to believe Granger's okay with that," Theo scoffed. "Unless you're going to tell us that
she's been reading some sort of Narcissa Malfoy handbook for ceremonial pureblood antics - "

"Actually, you joke, but that's a real thing, and Granger has definitely read it," Draco informed him. "She picked it
up and said 'what is this, some sort of textbook' and I said 'yes, exactly that,' and then she just walked away. Two
hours later she came back and started hounding me about - I don't know, ecru or something - "

"Sounds right," Blaise confirmed, nodding with certainty, "but still. You don't actually expect us to believe you've
willingly leapt to commitment, do you?" he prompted. "I mean, this is the woman you called a mudblood for what -
seven years?"

"Which, you might be aware, is still considerably less time than I've spent calling Theo a dickhead," Draco sniffed,
bristling, "so I don't know why it would be in any way relevant."

"Hold on - Granger wants Blaise to come, too?" Theo asked, shaking his head. "I take it she's forgiven him for
drugging him, then - which is both admirable and stupid," he determined, "seeing as I certainly haven't."

"He didn't drug her," Draco began, exasperated, but Blaise abruptly cut him off.

"Yes, I most certainly did," he corrected. "But of course I'm invited, Theodore, because clearly Granger and Malfoy
here are embroiled in something they can't possibly tell us," he mused, shrugging, "and therefore we should simply
not ask questions."

"Ah, yes, of course," Theo agreed sagely, and Draco rolled his eyes.

"Did your divinist tell you that, Zabini?"

"No," Blaise replied. "Though, speaking of Patil, I'm pretty sure she just made that comment about Granger's
wedding being lovely to unnerve you. That's very much her play."

"Well, mission accomplished," Draco assured him. "I am consummately unnerved."

"She didn't actually say Granger was going to marry you, though, did she?" Theo reminded him. "She just said 'the'
wedding, which could very well be any wedding, couldn't it?"
"Well, she obviously meant me," Draco reminded him. "Seeing as I am presently engaged to Granger."

"Oh, right," Theo permitted airily. "Sorry, I forgot we're still playing along with that."

"For the record, I've learned not to buy everything Patil says," Blaise told them. "She certainly sounds convincing,
but mostly I think she's just observational enough to make everyone around her uncomfortable. It's like how Nott's
so good at tense silences," he added, gesturing to Theo. "You know. Uses it to make people uncomfortable and all
that. Patil does the same thing, only with vague comments about the future that people stupidly believe, because
she's smarter than they are."

At that, Draco and Theo exchanged a knowing glance.

"You sound a bit taken with her, Blaise," Theo commented on their collective behalf. "Perhaps you should also
throw a 'look how in love we are' party, seeing as I'm sure Granger's finished with the Narcissa Malfoy Handbook of
Stuffy Theatricalities - "

"I'm just saying Patil's not unclever," Blaise interrupted impatiently. "It hardly means I'm interested. The whole
thing is a bit like living with some sort of mystic cat, actually," he muttered. "I'm never totally sure she's not just
staring at me and licking her paws."

"Weird visual, but okay," Theo said. "If you say so, I suppose."

"Hey," Draco called to Theo, "speaking of tentatively buying into things - how much of this whole thing with
Granger and me is Potter sold on?"

"Why are you asking me?" Theo prompted defensively. "I don't know what Potter thinks."

This time, the glance was exchanged between Draco and Blaise.

"You do spend a lot of time with him," Blaise pointed out. "It's not unreasonable to ask."

"Well, you've been away," Theo said, flapping a hand pointedly at Draco, "and you've been, I don't know, flirting
with the occult - so someone had to ingratiate themselves with the Ministry, don't you think?"

"Fine," Draco permitted lazily. "Just answer the question."

"I think he's too distracted to have any suspicions," Theo supplied. "Though, of course, much as I am suspending my
own natural disbelief, I think it helps that he's already caught you two in bed together twice. It's a bit like one of
those things where you could either be finally admitting you've been in love with her since you were fourteen," Theo
mused, "or you could just as easily be leading us all on a hilarious romp of falsehood."

"Fourteen?" Draco scoffed. "Please."

"He's right," Blaise agreed. "It's more like eleven. And how is Granger in bed, anyway?" he asked curiously, tilting
his head. "Seems like she'd enjoy, I don't know. Restraint?"

"What, like quiet sex?" Theo asked.

"No, sorry, I meant restraints," Blaise said. "Like ropes."

"Ah, right, better," Theo agreed, and Draco grumbled his disapproval.

"Hold on," he pressed gruffly, "what exactly is Potter distracted with? The Wizengamot case is closed," he said
emphatically, thinking again how Antioch had specifically said to be certain the Ministry's investigation was over. "I
would hope he's not wasting more time on it."

"Well, I assume he has other things on the table," Theo said neutrally, which Draco perceived to be something of a
flagrantly misleading generalization. "He is Head Auror, which is apparently a real job with genuine responsibilities,
though as I've told him myself several times, I've yet to see the proof - "

"The Lady Revel case seems to be getting a lot of press," Draco mentioned, turning to Blaise. "Is Songbird on the
hook for that at all?"

"My mother is not a criminal," Blaise reminded him, repeating his usual public line. "A presumed murderess,
certainly, but that's hardly the same thing."

"Still, the investigation is ongoing," Draco reminded them. "Potter's already officially ruled it a theft. Does Cad
know anything about it?" he asked Theo, whose gaze then proceeded to flick warily across the room to Blaise.
"What?" Draco demanded. "Stop making eyes at each other. It's singularly annoying."

"Well, speaking of annoying, I singularly dislike feeding you gossip, Lord Malfoy," Theo replied stiffly. "I don't
personally know anything about Cad's thoughts on the subject, but you're welcome to pop over to the Underground
and ask him yourself once you've finished your little roleplay for the day with Granger."

"I'd just like to know if the Club's involved," Draco insisted. "I want to know whether he has any suspicions, or if it's
even plausible - "

"He did mention that you think his brother is dating Katie Bell," Theo cut in, drawling. "Care to share your feelings
on that, Draco?"

Draco paused, glaring first at Theo and then at Blaise, who was innocently eyeing the glass in his hand.

"You two are hiding something from me," Draco noted. "Don't think I can't tell that you're avoiding the question."

"You're also hiding something from us," Blaise reminded him, glancing up. "If you have a reason to conceal things,
then perhaps so do we."

"Of course, we'd be more than happy to inform you of the details with regard to our undercurrent of plotting," Theo
assured him drily, "if you could manage to disentangle yourself from Granger. Historically speaking, she doesn't do
well with moral ambiguity, and as I'm sure you're aware, that's our signature flavor."

"Certainly our soup du jour," Blaise agreed.

"I - " Draco grimaced, forcefully attempting to balance his curiosity with the knowledge that he would have to face
her shortly; to claim he'd learned nothing and yet have her press him, relentlessly, until one or both of them lost their
minds. "Fine," he ultimately conceded, growling. "How long do you plan to keep it a secret, then?"

"Don't know," Theo replied, shrugging. "How long do you plan to carry out your engagement?"

They each paused in concert, eyeing each other with palpable expectancy.

"Fine," Draco conceded again. "Touché." He paused again, looking around the room. "Where is Parkinson, by the
way? I thought she'd be here."

"That," Blaise said, "is genuinely something I don't know the answer to."

"Planning for the conference, isn't she?" Theo said, shrugging. "It's in less than a week. I can't imagine she doesn't
have work to do," he added, "seeing as she's the only one of us who's actually doing the job she's supposed to, as far
as I can tell."

"Well," Draco sighed. "Good to know one of us is managing to keep out of trouble."

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Wizengamot Chambers, Office of Percy Weasley
1:15 p.m.
"Everything is basically done," Pansy said stiffly, facing Percy in his office. He had leaned casually against his desk,
for once actually remembering to pause his usual office charms at her entry and approaching her, rather than leaving
her to weather a storm of paperwork. "There was a last minute problem with the centerpieces. Apparently there was
some outburst of tulip fever, which is evidently something that tulips get, so I've had to opt for orchids instead. I
know it shifts the color palette slightly," she muttered with displeasure, "but it was either that or, I don't know,
succulents, which everyone knows are basically desert rubbish meant for hippie weddings and restaurants that serve
quinoa - "

"Impressive," Percy commented, abruptly derailing her floral monologue. "It's almost as if you've begun to care
about this event, Miss Parkinson."

"It's Pansy," she sighed (again), shaking her head. "And if I'm going to have spent a month of my life working on
this, then I'm hardly just going to throw something together."

"Too true," Percy contributed, straightening. "So I take it you understand, then."

"Understand what?" she prompted irritably.

"Why I take my time," he informed her, taking a step in her direction. "I invest," he clarified, "in the time it takes to
ensure the height of satisfaction."

She fought a flame of something horrible in her chest at the word satisfaction, which was by then a very teasing
concept that he could not seem to help himself from repeatedly puncturing her sensibilities with.

"Stop it," she muttered.

"Stop what?" he asked, unfussed. "Have I offended you?"

"You're - " she grimaced. "You know what you're doing. You can't possibly not know what you're doing," she
abruptly flung at him, suddenly inflamed by his outrageous attempts at feigning ignorance. "I've never met anyone
as - as non-impulsive as you. Everything you do is intentional," she accused him bluntly. "You know exactly what
you're doing, don't you?"

"You seem upset," Percy noted. "Frustrated, perhaps?"

"Yes, I'm fucking frustrated!" she exclaimed, glaring at him. "You do realize I've already saved your life once, don't
you? I'm not a fucking event planner, Percy goddamn Weasley," she declared bitterly. "I don't care about menus, I
don't care about permits, and I certainly don't fucking care about flowers. I haven't been doing this for fun," she half-
shouted, wishing suddenly to stomp her feet, to throw something, to slam a door; to make him feel the weight of her
frustration, to let it clang resoundingly around his head.

"Then what have you been doing it for?" Percy asked neutrally, tilting his chin.

God, he was impossible.

The worst.

"I - " she attempted, and swallowed. "I," she began again, and then a growl of exasperation ripped itself from her
throat, manifesting in incoherence. "Nevermind," she spat furiously, turning so sharply that a slip of parchment slid
from the top of the pile from her hands, landing delicately at her feet. "Fuck," she snapped, and shifted to pick it up,
but Percy's hand shot out, stopping her.

"Let me," he offered quietly, and knelt down, picking up the vendor permit from the floor.

Pansy inhaled sharply as she glanced down at the top of his head, the angle of his neck; she felt a dizzying
awareness of how close he was to her, and how little motion it would take for him to slide up the hem of her skirt, to
put his mouth on her, to pull her to the ground and fuck her positively senseless. She could feel his intake of breath,
could practically taste it, and she watched with a terrifying thrill of immobilization as he slid his fingers carefully
around the bone of her ankle, his hand drawing slowly up the back of her calf.

"Pansy," he murmured, looking up at her, and fuck, fuck, fuck -

"I," she attempted again, her mouth dry. "I want - "

"I know what you want," he assured her, his blue eyes resting carefully on hers as he gently coaxed her knee towards
him, his fingers still loose around her leg. "Seems silly, though," he murmured, brushing his lips with an impossible
lightness against the inside of her thigh. "Almost a waste, I think, to spoil the effort of waiting."

She registered that she was shaking, that every inch of her was alert and tense and keenly aware of every inch of
him, and then he slid his gaze back down, tracing the shape of her calf before lingering somewhere near her ankle.

"You wear entirely inappropriate footwear," he commented, brushing his thumb over the straps of her shoes. "Much
too high for an office setting."

She bristled. "I don't think I asked for your commentary on my fashion choices."

"Well, you didn't let me finish," he told her with a chuckle. "I find I look forward to said choices," he clarified,
glancing up at her, "in a way that's rather unproductive to my job."

He rose to his feet, then, handing her the permit she'd dropped.

She shoved the papers onto his desk, yanking him against her and partially wanting to sob with longing; partially
wishing, alternately, to drill her 'inappropriate' heel directly into the brogues of his oxfords.

"You could have me here," she told him, snaking her arms around his neck. "On your desk, if you wanted. On the
floor, against the wall. However you wanted." She felt his shoulders stiffen, his hands settling carefully on her waist.
"I could ride you on that chair right here, right now. I could keep my shoes on for you - you could have my skirt
bunched up in your hands, my blouse ripped open while you fuck me," she whispered, tilting her chin up to taste the
tiny, inconspicuous breath of arousal that slipped from his lips, "or you could have me bare, right now. However you
wanted," she said again, triumphantly registering the motion of his heavy swallow. "You could have it, if you would
just - if you could just - "

"You're a consultant," he reminded her, with a deplorable lack of hesitation. "Essentially an employee of the
Ministry, and under my personal direction."

She glared up at him, staring for a moment in disbelief.

"You can't honestly tell me that actually matters," she managed after a moment of shock, consummately furious.
"I'm not an employee, and even if I were, if we just - " She exhaled sharply. "Nobody would have to know, and we
could just - "

"Miss Parkinson," Percy asked softly. "Are you by chance begging for me?"

She froze, her breath suspending violently in her chest.

"You fucking arsehole," she said, though it lacked the bite she'd intended; she'd already progressed to desperation by
then. Transcended it, even, to some sort of out-of-body sensation of anguish, torn between cursing him and fucking
him right then and there.

"You said it yourself," he reminded her, "that I am not particularly given to impulsiveness." He stepped away,
releasing her, and she blinked, surprised that her knees were in any way up to the task of holding her upright. "After
all, isn't it eminently more gratifying," he postured quietly, his gaze tracing the distressingly unsteady state of her,
"to have worked for something over time?"

She could kill him.

She could kill him.

If, that is, she could manage not to want him so goddamn badly.

"I wouldn't know," she muttered eventually, letting her nails bite into her palm.

Percy smiled.

"Well, I'll make certain that you learn, then," he informed her neutrally, turning to seat himself behind his desk and
leaving her staring, hopelessly, at the spot he'd just been standing. "Have you run these security details by Harry, by
the way?"

Pansy blinked, startled into awareness.

"Who?" she echoed, still thoroughly frozen in place.

Ministry of Magic
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
October 9, 2003
10:45 a.m.

Harry slid his fingers into Theo's hair, yanking his head back.

"What did you want again?" he asked gruffly, his voice still rough from not having been used aside from a few
scratchy groans of fuck yes, yeah, like that while shoved up against his office wall. "Eventually I have to get back to
work, Nott."

"Parkinson," Theo muttered as a reminder, shrugging Harry's grip away and bringing his lips back to the side of
Harry's neck. "Wants something signed, or - approved, I don't know - "

"I saw that one of those is another name change form," Harry grumbled, the vibration of it resonating against Theo's
lips. "What stupidity have you thought of now, Nott?"

"Events by Malfoy and Co.," he replied, and Harry blinked.

"Seriously?" he asked, nudging Theo away. "Because if that's the case - "

"It's not that, you dumb fuck," Theo said. "It's 'Nott, For Fuck's Sake, Just Get Him to Sign the Bloody Papers
Before I Use Your Testicles As Christmas Ornaments and Bury Your Dick in the Ground,' give or take a few extra
expletives - "

"Inspired by Parkinson, I'm guessing?" Harry asked dizzily, reaching for the name change form on his desk. "Wow,
it actually says that - "

"Well, I barely ever lie," Theo remarked at a drawl. "Only when there's something hilarious in it for me."

"Which is nearly always," Harry reminded him. He set the form down, returning his attention to Theo and resting
both hands on his chest. "By the way," Harry ventured carefully, "you've seemed relatively up to something lately."

"Have I?" Theo asked vacantly. "That doesn't sound like me. And here I thought I was just fucking my preferred
sexual counterpart during his government-funded work hours, like a responsible private citizen - "

"'Preferred sexual counterpart,'" Harry echoed, chuckling. "Fuck, you're getting soft, Nott."

"Well, I've been known to have my moments," Theo agreed. "Though we should really stop meeting like this,
Potter," he sniffed, "as I'm very busy and important, and therefore cannot be subject to your every passing whim."

"If you recall, we wouldn't have to if you could keep more reasonable hours," Harry reminded him. "I have to
actually be at work during the day, Nott. I can't keep coming over at three in the morning after you get home from
the Underground."

"Yes, and I maintain that you were the one who wanted me to keep an eye on Carnegie," Theo countered. "So how
am I supposed to do that, exactly, if I'm off irresponsibly blowing you all the time?"

"'All the time' is a stretch," Harry sighed, "unfortunately. And anyway, Daisy said you've been spending a lot of time
alone with Cad." He paused, his fingers tightening just slightly in Theo's collar as he sorted out how to proceed.
"Anything you need to tell me about him?" he asked, apparently having opted for a gentle prompting. "Or, you
know. You?"

Theo paused, considering it.

'Are we all set?' had been the crux of the conversation with Cad the night prior, which put the 'anything' Theo might
have needed to share with Harry at a semi-advanced stage of denial. His response to Cad, of course, had been yes;
while Cad had handled most of the necessary enchantments - he knew more of them than anyone, as was becoming
increasingly obvious - Theo was the one responsible for most of the logistics, and he'd come through with his usual
skill.

What Theo couldn't tell Harry - now comprising a list of transgressions, which only seemed to grow at every
possible turn - was that there had been a few reasons he'd been making such frequent trips to the Ministry, and these
little episodes of intimacy together were only about half of them. The other half were the kind belonging to Theo's
particular specialty: reconnaissance, always to a faultlessly detailed degree. Luckily, having a regular audience with
the Ministry's Head Auror made Theo's presence virtually unremarkable, and he'd always had a talent for blending
in.

So yes, they were all set. Not that Harry could possibly find that comforting.

"Well, as I've told you," Theo said neutrally, "it's just better if you don't know."

Harry nodded grimly. "I know, but - "

"Listen," Theo cut in firmly. "I'm going to do everything in my fucking power to keep you out of whatever mess I
may or may not make, Potter. If that means lying to you to keep you clean, then I'll do it," he said brusquely, "but I
don't want to, so you probably just shouldn't ask."

To his surprise, the corner of Harry's mouth twitched.

Then he sighed.

"I love you, too," Harry said, and Theo glanced up, startled. "What?" Harry prompted innocently, shrugging. "I
heard it."

"Oh, fuck off," Theo muttered with unwilling satisfaction, sighing.

"Blow me," Harry countered.

"Actually, I believe it's your turn for that," Theo reminded him, and in response, Harry shoved him towards the desk
approvingly, backing him against it before sitting himself in his office chair and unbuttoning Theo's trousers.
"Really?" Theo asked skeptically, letting Harry shove his legs apart and tug the zipper down. "You're going to sit
down in a chair while you do this?"

"Back support," Harry informed him, shrugging. "Posture is important, Nott."

"Christ, romance is dead," Theo sighed, but relented, tightening his fingers in Harry's hair. "By the way, have you
heard anything new about Bagman?"

Harry didn't answer. By then, he had taken on other tasks.

Oliver Wood was not a particularly complex man. He considered himself fairly simple, actually.

To start with, he had been a good quidditch player. He was driven, hard-working, and only occasionally difficult to
handle on the pitch (until he wasn't, of course - but that was hardly his fault). He was a pretty good friend for the
most part, too; he'd been known to move furniture from time to time. He certainly wasn't above admitting that he
was an exceptional boxer, having a solid combination of power, discipline, and technique. In short, nothing about
him was terribly misleading or ambiguous; he was, all in all, a rather simple person.

So he wasn't sure, then, how he'd managed to fall into such a complicated relationship with Marcus Flint.

Oliver and Marcus had always been like two sides of the same coin, provided that one of the sides was normal and
the other was a pureblood fucking menace who couldn't prevent picking a fight with every single person in sight,
ever, or attempting to break at least one (1) rule. But whatever divergences their exteriors made, in the end they were
made of the same thing: they both worked hard, maintained an unerring sense of competition, and lived and breathed
for the sole purpose of spiting the other - until one day, horrifyingly, Oliver realized what he felt wasn't actually
repulsion.

It was something much, much worse.

For one thing, he'd thought he got off on winning until he realized what he actually enjoyed was beating Marcus,
and then beating off in the showers afterwards, imagining the look of frustration on his face; recalling with perfect
clarity the way sweat had dripped down the other man's chest while he stripped his jersey, furious, and stormed
away, leaving Oliver to watch the muscle in his shoulders tense with palpable irritation. It was painfully hard not to
watch, though he wasn't sure why at first. Eventually, he decided it was because he knew what it took to be Marcus'
particular flavor of quidditch excellence; he knew what each line of muscle required, and so he couldn't look at
Marcus without imagining the drills, the workouts, the early mornings and the discipline of it - the pain it took,
which Oliver knew all too well, and which nobody else had ever understood. Take breaks, people always said, take
rest days, but Oliver never did, and he knew perfectly well that Marcus didn't either.

He didn't realize that was some bizarre, twisted form of love until he'd landed himself in Marcus' bed.

"You think you're normal?" Marcus had said to him. "You think just anyone can do what you do? Fucking
impossible, Wood." He'd been dripping with sweat, fucking aching, and even then, Oliver still hadn't been sure
whether he wanted to punch Marcus in the mouth or kiss him again. "Nobody understands you but me, Wood.
Nobody can see you, really see you, but me. Fuck," Marcus swore, his fingers digging into Oliver's ribs. "Fuck,
Wood, you were made for me."

Oliver had come, hard, with those words ringing in his ears, and he had thought for the first time that maybe, for
once, something that fucking Marcus Flint had said was actually worth believing. Up until then, Oliver had been
thoroughly lost, having been removed from the quidditch league - for fighting, unsurprisingly, although it hadn't
helped that he'd been suffering the worst season of his career even before that, which he also attributed to a certain
former Slytherin - but once he'd found himself in the arms of Marcus Flint, Oliver Wood started to feel as if some
form of purpose had finally returned to his bones.

But while Oliver's side of the coin was reasonably inclined to think that one person professing to belong with
another person might mean that said person would want to invest in any relevant conceptions of belonging, the other
side was clearly of the mind that pureblood expectations of marriage were not to be lightly put aside.

"It'd be one thing if you were just a man," Marcus had laughed. "But add in the half-blood bit, and the sad lack of
preexisting fortune - "

"I thought that didn't matter to you," Oliver muttered under his breath, and Marcus shrugged.

"Doesn't," he said. "At least not the way you think. But I'm not actually looking to be defaced from my family tree,"
he remarked lazily, "and thus, I've got the none-too-pleasant task of marrying an insipid, wealthy heiress to keep my
wretched family from much-deserved destitution."
"I'm not fucking impoverished," Oliver pointed out, annoyed. "I was a professional quidditch player, Flint. I'm not
some sort of homeless waif."

"It's different," Marcus said, shaking his head. "You earned that money. You're not going to want to watch my
mother waste it on gaudy candelabras and illegal creature furs. That's much easier to stomach for someone who's
just got generations of gold sitting around, languishing somewhere in her vault at Gringotts."

And so Daphne Greengrass had entered the picture.

It wasn't so bad an arrangement, really, as Daphne was by no means intolerable. She was lovely, witty, and largely
uninterested in Marcus, instead fielding a private affair of her own. Still, there was something immensely
complicated about Oliver watching the man he might have simply loved (and loved simply) starting to build a life
with someone who wasn't him. Even if it wasn't a life he wanted, it was still a life with Marcus that somebody else -
someone who wasn't him - got to have. And while Marcus appeared to believe that he could hold all the many facets
of his complicated life (juggling them, Oliver perceived, with reasonable dexterity, though perhaps not longevity)
Oliver began to wonder if he were not the piece that Marcus could ultimately stand to lose.

"This shit with Daphne is temporary," Marcus tried to assure him. "You know it doesn't matter."

"Well, if it's only temporary," Oliver asked, "then when will it end?"

He could see Marcus' unwillingness to answer; could see, too, that the answer could very conceivably be never, and
more importantly, Oliver could see, with a painful stab of certainty, that while he might have been made for Marcus
Flint, Marcus Flint had clearly not been made for him.

"Excuse me," he heard, startling him out of his thoughts as someone reached out, pausing him as he wandered down
Diagon Alley. "Are you Oliver Wood?"

"Yes," Oliver confirmed, and frowned. "Hold on," he said with stammered disbelief, taking in the broken look of the
man's nose and the signature short blond hair that was going just slightly grey at the sides. "Ludo Bagman?"

"Yes," Ludo exclaimed, looking delighted at being recognized. "Are you a fan, then?"

"Oh, of course," Oliver said, struggling not to be excessively starstruck. "What quidditch player wouldn't be? You
still hold all the records for the Wimbourne Wasps - fuck, I had your poster over my bed for what, a decade? At
least? It's a bloody honor to meet you - "

"Ah, well, always nice to know I haven't been entirely forgotten," Ludo returned cheerfully, "though you had quite a
season yourself recently, didn't you?"

"Oh, I - " Oliver coughed. "I haven't played in a bit - a year or so, but my last season was, um, sort of a mixed bag - "

"Yes, I have heard you've taken on other pursuits since then," Ludo remarked. "A bit of a boxing fiend, eh?" he
prompted, giving Oliver a conspiratorial wink. Oliver opened his mouth, about to protest that no, no, of course not,
but Ludo shook his head. "Not to worry," he said, "I'm rather an enthusiast myself."

"You fight?" Oliver asked, frowning, and Ludo let out a loud, boisterous laugh.

"No, no, my dear boy, I'm much too old for that," he said with a smothered chuckle. "I meant that I enjoy watching,
of course - when I can find some worthy participants to observe, that is, which is always a bit of a challenge - "

"Oh," Oliver said, feeling immensely foolish. "Well, I'm actually heading to - " He paused, recalling what had
happened to Hermione after her involvement with the Ministry had come out and biting his tongue. "Sorry, you
work for the Ministry, don't you?"

"Well, I've been brought in to consult on a case - the Wizengamot assassinations," Ludo prompted, "which you
might have heard of - "
"Right," Oliver permitted, recalling that detail now.

"But I keep a very low profile," Ludo said reassuringly, despite Oliver very much doubting that were true; after all,
Ludo Bagman was nearly unmistakable, possessing as he did an oft-photographed face and a booming, unavoidable
voice. "I assure you, I can be very subtle."

"Well," Oliver began hesitantly, "I'm just not quite sure - "

"You know, I have connections at quite a few of these boxing clubs," Ludo said. "Not to mention quite a good
relationship with the Wasps, still. As you might imagine, they're rather receptive to my needs," he added with a
chuckle, "and I would be happy to recommend you to them. Keeper, aren't you?" he prompted, and Oliver nodded,
swallowing his pleasure at the recognition. "I hear they're looking, you know. Hornby retired this year, which leaves
a rather pressing vacancy."

"Oh, well, I don't know. I didn't exactly leave the league voluntarily," Oliver admitted, but Ludo waved his concerns
away.

"Nonsense," he said. "The league is all about slaps on the wrists, that's all. I'm sure I can make them see sense."

"That's - " Oliver blinked, frowning. "That would be quite generous of you - "

"Yes, yes, well, I'm known for my generosity. And my skill with a bat," Ludo added, winking again. "But anyway,
you were saying?" he prompted expectantly. "Where was it you were headed for the evening, again?"

Oliver paused, weighing his options.

On the one hand, Ludo Bagman was clearly bribing him, which didn't quite register as entirely innocent.

On the other, though, the opportunity to play quidditch again was no small offering, and all Ludo was being asked in
return was to take him to the Underground, which anyone in Diagon Alley with a nose for rumors would know how
to manage. Oliver was a relatively simple man; he loved quidditch, and it was all he had ever really wanted to do
with his life. Even for just the prospect of playing again - was it really so difficult a choice?

In a sense it was, as playing quidditch again would mean no more Marcus. The travel was extensive, and the
Wimbourne Wasps in particular weren't based out of London. Oliver would have to move, and who knew if he'd
ever be able to come back? Marcus, in the meantime, would have to continue his charade with Daphne alone.

Though it would continue, Oliver remembered with a hard swallow, whether Oliver were present or not.

He sighed.

"This way," Oliver said, gesturing Ludo towards the Arsonist and realizing that, in the end, whatever he had with
Marcus Flint wasn't very complicated at all. After all, Marcus had never led Oliver to believe he ever intended to
choose him.

"Wonderful," Ludo proclaimed, falling in step beside him. "I'll tell you something, this entire town's a different
place now than it was, but it's comforting to know that there's still some camaraderie between former players. Also
quite nice to be somewhere where people aren't unrepentantly chattering on about 'Dramione' or whatever the new
thing is for the kids these days - "

"Sorry, what?" Oliver echoed.

"Dramione," Ludo repeated, making a face, and Oliver frowned.

"What the fuck is that?"

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
October 10, 2003
7:45 p.m.

"No, stop," Hermione sighed, shaking her head as Draco levitated the sofa closer to the fireplace. "You're going to
block the Floo if you put it there."

"Oh, this Floo?" Draco prompted with a huff. "You mean the one that still isn't in working order despite your
constant assurances that Potter is not, in fact, useless?"

"No, Malfoy, the other Floo in the room," Hermione snapped. "And it's not my fault that Harry hasn't done it yet.
For one thing, we still have plenty of time, and for another, he's coming to take care of it on Sunday."

"Sunday?!" Draco demanded. "The Lord's day? That's outrageous."

Hermione sighed. "I don't know why I bother, but - why, Malfoy, is that outrageous?"

"It just is," Draco sniffed. "Obviously I would prefer he get it working immediately."

"Well, what do you want me to do? He works during the week, you know, like a normal employed person, and then
he's got that quidditch game or whatever he's up to tomorrow - "

"Some alleged 'best friend' he is," Draco remarked gruffly, nudging the sofa to the left until Hermione nodded (with
some reservations, considering how little she wanted to approve anything he was doing or saying) for him to set it
down. "Still, at least until then that means we probably won't have anyone showing up uninvit-"

He broke off as there was a small crack behind them, both of them reaching for their wands and leveling them at the
exasperated form of Nico Flamel, who held his hands up with an irritated sigh.

"You can put those down," he informed them, pointedly holding his wand between two fingers. "I think we've
established there's not going to be any murder between us."

"Not today, anyway," Hermione remarked grimly, glancing at Draco as she lowered her wand and then turning back
to Nico. "Still time, though."

"We should at least get some kind of doorbell," Draco muttered. "Or a very loud alarm - "

"Believe me, I highly doubt anyone but me wants to see either of you," Nico assured them, walking around the
living room and falling onto the sofa. "Nice place, by the way."

"Yeah, well, we obviously chose it for its unparalleled security," Draco remarked.

"What is it you need?" Hermione prompted, cutting Nico off as he opened his mouth. "We have things to do, Nico,
and - " She paused, abruptly registering the difference in his face as he looked at her. "Huh. You look better, by the
way."

"Yes, well, benefits of being part of an international society of immortal wizards include not being totally without
useful potioneers," Nico informed her. "But anyway, I don't intend to keep you. I just wanted to inform you that
whoever 'Katie' is, you should probably stay away from her for the time being."

At that, Draco spared Hermione a look that was part apprehension, part irritation.

"Can't," he said flatly. "Granger here has decided to invite her to our engagement party."

"Engagement party?" Nico echoed, looking surprised. "Well, congratulations, I suppose - "

"Hold on. Katie?" Hermione echoed. "Because of - " she began, and stopped herself. "Er, why?" she attempted,
aiming for innocence.
"Well, there's a small possibility Ignotus might use her to extract some sort of loosely-formed vengeance plot against
you," Nico supplied flippantly, gesturing to Draco. "I think I talked him out of it, though, since as far as I can see,
that's not precisely his aim - but still, just in case - "

"Against me?" Draco echoed, drawing a hand to his chest. "You really need to have a talk with your friend, Flamel.
He seems entirely caught up in pursuing my destruction, and I find it's beginning to take its toll on my sensibilities.
Forgiveness doesn't grow on trees, you know."

"The phrase is money doesn't grow on trees," Hermione corrected him.

"Like hell it doesn't," Draco scoffed. "Then what do you call the ones next to the gardenias?"

"Look, Ignotus is just - " Nico sighed. "He means well, but - "

"Have you considered the possibility that Ignotus might be using the Wizengamot assassinations to plot against
Antioch?" Hermione asked plainly, folding her arms over her chest. "I know you have feelings for him, Nico, but
that doesn't excuse the signs. He's already acted against the Club once, and now with all this - "

"He's - look, it's nothing," Nico said, obviously lying. "He's not plotting against Antioch, he just has some - some
personal things going on," he exhaled, "that he needs to deal with. "

"Well in that case, what he needs is a therapist," Draco pointed out obnoxiously. "Someone, for example, to sort out
his inexplicable need to murder Granger and me - "

"Ah yes, excellent mental health advice from the contract-killing drug addict who won't admit he's in love," Nico
remarked drily. "So Antioch never threatened you, then? Not even once?"

"What? I'm not in love," Draco scoffed, deliberately sidestepping the question.

"Case in point," Nico supplied, and Hermione cut in, sighing loudly.

"Look," she said. "What exactly is going to happen when it comes down to choosing between Antioch and Ignotus?
We're already involved, whether we want to be or not," she added, expressing her immense displeasure at the
thought. "Are we going to have to choose sides too?"

"Personally, I'm leaning towards the guy who hasn't tried to kill me," Draco pointed out. "It's a fairly not-
insignificant leaning, actually - "

"That won't be necessary," Nico said firmly, rising to his feet. "At least, I desperately hope not. They've already both
brought up the possibility of reanimating Cadmus - their third brother who betrayed them," he clarified with a shrug
(unnecessarily, of course), "and whom they killed to protect the Club, which obviously makes bringing him back
just about the most horrendously ill-advised idea I've ever heard - "

"Cadmus?" Hermione echoed, and glanced sharply at Draco, catching a nearly imperceptible flicker of warning that
twitched between his brows. "Why him?"

"Well, Antioch and Ignotus each seem to believe that Cadmus would side with them," Nico rumbled in irritation.
"Rather recklessly, I might add. Of course, there's no telling whether either of them are correct, but either way,
Cadmus is supremely unpleasant. I do not desire a world where he resumes his smarmy occupation of my general
space," he muttered, "and much worse, too, for Ignotus, if Cadmus were to side with Antioch - "

"Are you sure that he would?" Hermione asked carefully. "Didn't you say that both his brothers sort of - " she
paused, glancing at Draco, who shrugged.

"Murdered him?" Draco suggested indelicately.

"Frankly, I've never understood Cadmus Peverell in my life, and I don't intend to imagine I do now," Nico informed
them. "I do know, however, that we must all do everything in our power to ensure, firstly, that he does not return,
and that Antioch and Ignotus never become rivals. Am I clear?" he prompted, glancing between Draco and
Hermione. "You can't tell Antioch any of this, and you certainly should not express your suspicions about Ignotus to
him. Understood?"

Draco and Hermione exchanged a glance; within it, they seemed to come to the identical conclusion that there didn't
seem to be any point in arguing, so -

"Understood," they conceded in unison, and Nico nodded.

"Enjoy the party," he informed them, looking a bit tickled by the prospect of that being any sort of reality, and then
he disappeared, apparating away.

"Well," Hermione sighed, "I suppose that's yet another secret we'll have to keep."

"Or not," Draco countered, prompting her to turn towards him with a frown. "If you're right, Granger, then we'll
have to pick a side - and I don't know about you," he said, arching a brow, "but given everything, I can't exactly
envision a world where I'm rooting for Ignotus Peverell."

Hermione grimaced her unwelcome agreement. "It's not like Antioch is much better. And still, I hardly think it's our
place to intervene," she ventured. "Maybe we should just try to do our job and get out before things in the Club get
worse."

"Well, will that be before or after Potter gets our Floo working?" Draco prompted gruffly, and Hermione rolled her
eyes.

"I'll ask him tomorrow," she said. "After his quidditch game. Do you want to come, by the way?" she asked, the
question slipping out without much forethought. "I already told Harry I'd go, but - "

"Granger, we're not gal pals," Draco sniffed. "We can go places without each other, you know."

She bristled. "Yes, I know that," she said forcefully, feeling her cheeks heat. "I just thought that you might want to.
It can't hurt," she added, "you know, since we're engaged and all that, and also seeing as you're the one whose image
could use a facelift - "

"Fine," Draco grumbled, shrugging. "I suppose I've got nothing else going on aside from fixing up the house,
anyway. Luckily you've got all the earthly possessions of the average street urchin," he sniffed, turning to the box
she'd brought with her, "so getting this stuff in order should take, oh, about twenty minutes?"

She rolled her eyes, joining him as he poked needlessly through her things.

"You know, it's funny," she commented, nudging him away. "Everybody seems willing to believe we're in love, and
yet nobody seems to believe we might be in an actual relationship."

"That's because neither of us is the relationship type, Granger," Draco reminded her without hesitation, and she
frowned, glancing up at him with surprise. "What?" he prompted irritably. "It's true."

"You were in a relationship," she reminded him. "Not to mention that I was engaged - "

"Yes," he agreed, "and both of those things ended with spectacular failure, didn't they?"

"I don't know about 'spectac-'"

"Spectacular failure," Draco repeated emphatically. "As a reminder, normal relationships, even when they're bad,
don't usually turn into a situation where afterwards, someone becomes either an assassin or a vagrant boxer. Our
relationships literally ended in lives of crime, so I have to assume we're not particularly adept at them. Besides," he
added, waving a hand. "Look what's happened since then. You could have easily been with Hawkworth, couldn't
you? But you're not."
"That," Hermione pronounced crisply, "is because I'm - " she paused. "I'm busy. I have a job, and you know, and - "
she waved a hand. "Secrets!"

"What you have are excuses," Draco corrected her, "but hey, I'm not judging, I'm just pointing it out. If you wanted a
relationship, you'd be in one. Instead you have me," he drawled, "a notoriously unreliable person that you hate - "

"I don't hate you," Hermione interrupted, accidentally blurting it out.

Draco blinked.

"Fine," he permitted. "A notoriously unreliable person you half-heartedly tolerate."

"Better," she agreed, somewhat uncomfortably. "But still, I don't think you can say that I'm n-"

"Did you sleep with Hawkworth?" Draco cut in.

"What?" she asked, alarmed. "I - why would you - "

"Just answer the question," Draco said, arching a brow. "Did you?"

Her cheeks, which had been flushed a moment ago, burned ferociously at that. "No," she admitted, "but - "

"Exactly," Draco cut in, looking supremely convinced of something she couldn't yet fathom. "Because it could have
gone somewhere, Granger. Because he's a good guy from a good family, and it might have actually gone somewhere
good, or somewhere real. But instead you slept with me - twice," he reminded her, and she winced, "because I - we -
are never going to be anything. Because you," he said firmly, "are bad at relationships, and so am I, and therefore
nobody will ever believe we're getting married, because we're not exactly functional beings. We're just - " he
shrugged. "I don't know. Dramione."

"Well," Hermione exhaled. "I suppose we are that."

"Much as I loathe it," Draco agreed, digging out a framed picture and glaring at it. "What's this?" he demanded,
turning his sour expression on her. "This isn't going up in my house."

"Our house," Hermione corrected him, "and yes, it most certainly is! That's Harry and Ron and me at Bill and
Fleur's wedding - "

"None of that means anything to me," Draco interrupted. "Weasley's in this picture, and I hardly plan to stare at him
while I eat breakfast."

"I was going to put it in my bedroom!" Hermione insisted, snatching the frame from his hand.

"Well, that's even worse," Draco announced, "as I'm certainly not having this anywhere near where I sleep,
Granger."

"Where you - " She broke off. "I thought we weren't going to keep sharing a bedroom after we got the rest of the
house fixed up," she reminded him, frowning, and he shrugged.

"It's not permanent," he said. "But I imagine people will want tours of the house during this insipid engagement
party of yours. It wouldn't make much sense if we had separate bedrooms, would it?"

She blinked. "Oh," she agreed. "Right."

"In any case," Draco said, reaching out and swiping the frame from her hand, "put this away. Don't put it in the
nightstand, either," he told her, brandishing it at her, "or there'll be hell to pay."

"Fine," Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes. "No Ron, then."

"A good rule to live by in general, I find," Draco sniffed in agreement, tucking the frame under his arm and
sauntering away until she was forced to chase him down to recover it.

London Arena
Recreational Quidditch Pitch
October 11, 2003
1:45 p.m.

"That was a pretty good game," Harry remarked, sidling up to Ron in the air. "And here I thought you'd come back
from Paris too laden down with croissants to fly."

"Yeah, well, every now and then I manage something suspiciously resembling a save," Ron permitted, grinning as
Harry rolled his eyes. "They don't call me the king for nothing."

"Yes, that's definitely a thing," Harry wryly agreed, and then he glanced over at the stands, shading his eyes from the
sun. "Is that Malfoy sitting next to Mel?"

"Yes," Ron confirmed, shaking his head. "Mel seems to like him - for totally unknowable reasons," he added,
sparing a expression of displeasure, "so I think I'm going to have to make nice with him, unfortunately."

"Well, he's not too terrible," Harry said. "Hermione tempers his effect quite a bit." He glanced aside, checking for
the statement's possible damage, and inwardly, Ron found the reflex vaguely amusing, if not outright kind. "Sorry,"
Harry said, looking as though he were attempting a vague wavelength of sympathy. "Don't know if that's okay to
talk about yet."

"I'm adjusting," Ron admitted, watching as Hermione and Mel engaged in what looked like small talk, the latter
looking up to flash him a grin and a euphoric thumbs-up.

In reality, Ron had never much enjoyed his occasional bouts of stupidity - in his experience, they seemed to happen
once a year, like Christmas or government holidays - but having his proposal rejected by Mel had been one of the
better terrible things he'd experienced. It certainly ranked above following a trail of spiders and riding a dragon out
of a bank heist, and he might have thought it would be more mortifying than it was, only Mel wasn't the silent type,
which he appreciated. Hermione in a fight was impossible; she kept her anger bottled up, building like rage-plaque
over her clenched teeth until she inevitably attacked him with a horde of charmed birds. Mel, on the other hand,
merely shouted for a bit, and strangely, it reminded him how much he loved her; how much, in fact, he truly did
want to marry her.

Just, perhaps at a more convenient time.

"Hey," Ron said, once again noticing someone sitting alone a few rows behind Hermione and Mel. "You know that
guy?"

"Who?" Harry asked, frowning. "That one?"

"Yeah," Ron said. "He's been staring at you for pretty much the whole game, and he keeps looking over here."

"Me?" Harry echoed, surprised. "Why?"

"Well, naturally I thought at first that he was staring at me," Ron remarked, giving Harry a pointed glance, "seeing
as I'm extremely famous, but - "

"Ha," Harry said, shaking his head. "Well, there are quite a few celebrities here, now that I think about it. Mel," he
pointed out. "Daisy, in a sense, not to mention 'Dramione,' and of course you, the great and powerful Ron Weasley -
"

"Somehow I think Harry Potter still trumps all of us," Ron reminded him, "much as you try to pretend otherwise."
He paused, glancing for the man again and finding that he'd disappeared. "You know, I thought for half a second
that he kind of looked like you."
"Why," Harry joked, "does he also have my mother's eyes?"

"Well, I was going to say it was his nice skin, but if you're going to be a prat about it," Ron sniffed, and Harry
laughed.

"Come on," he said instead, gesturing for them to land. "Let's get out of these robes, shall we? I could use a shower."

"You certainly could," Ron agreed, as he, Harry, and Alicia floated down to the base of the pitch, the others
hovering down to join them from the stands.

"Great game," Alicia said breathlessly, beaming at both Harry and Ron. "And that American friend of yours is great,
Harry - "

"Yeah, Daisy's pretty useful to have around - "

"Babe," Mel interrupted, grabbing Ron's arm for his attention. "Hermione's just invited us to her engagement party,
isn't that lovely?" She gave him a firm look, daring him to disagree. "Anyway, it's next week, so make sure you don't
forget that we have to - "

"Harry," Hermione panted, suddenly catapulting herself towards him with her eyes blown comically wide. "Harry, I
need to talk to you - there's something that you need t-"

"Whoa, slow down," Harry said to her, chuckling. "Good to see you too, Hermione - and you, of course, Malfoy - "

"Yes, yes," Draco drawled, loping after her, "a breathtaking pleasure, as ever - "

"Harry, listen, this is important," Hermione hissed. "I have to tell you about Ign-"

But the rest of it, whatever she'd said, was garbled from the noise around them.

"Who?" Ron asked, but before Hermione could clarify, Katie interrupted, tugging the man from the stands in her
wake.

"Harry," she said, "have you met my boyfriend?"

1:51 p.m.

"Sorry," Harry said, holding a hand out for his. "What did you say your name was?"

"Montague Knightley," Ignotus told him, removing his hand from around Katie's waist and offering it to Harry. "A
pleasure, Harry Potter."

"Wait," the redhead beside him said, "Montague Knightley? Like the sixteenth century chess champion?"

Ignotus forced an insincere chuckle, resolutely wishing he'd chosen another pseudonym - like perhaps a name that
had not been based on Nico's house elf.

"Yes," he permitted tightly, "quite."

He opened his mouth to continue but paused, noting Harry's distraction; beside him, a fidgeting motion abruptly
caught his eye. Ignotus noticed, then, that Hermione Granger was attempting to vigorously sign something to Harry,
who clearly could not sort out the message; she caught Ignotus looking at her and immediately pinned her arms at
her sides, prompting him to frown.

"Would you mind?" he asked, nudging away from Katie and gesturing for Harry to step aside, and Harry looked
confused but nodded, following him. "Sorry," Ignotus offered, with as much ease as he could manage despite the
appealing sensation of finally meeting his descendant, "I'm actually a consultant for the Wizengamot, and I thought
we might schedule a little chat during the Ministry conference next week. I'm sure you must have a variety of
demands on your hands," he added, noting Harry's brief furrow of skepticism. "So I suppose I thought it would be
best to accost you now," he attempted to joke, "while you might have some free time left to schedule."

"I don't have my calendar with me," Harry said slowly, "but, um, I suppose - "

"I told him you wouldn't mind," Katie cut in eagerly, joining them after having been momentarily distracted among
the others. "You don't, do you, Harry?"

"Oh," Harry said, appearing to soften slightly at the sight of her. "Right, no, of course not. Anything for Katie,
right?" he said warmly, glancing conspiratorially at Ignotus before turning his attention back to her. "I hadn't
realized you were seeing someone, Bell, or I'd have asked to meet him sooner."

"Oh," Katie said, flushing slightly, "that's sweet of you, Harry, but - "

"It's a bit of a new thing still," Ignotus supplied, slipping an arm around her waist again. "But when you know, you
know, right?"

"Right, of course," Harry agreed, appearing to have warmed to Ignotus slightly by virtue of their common interest.
"Well, send me an owl, would you? I'll definitely get you in the books for next week, and - " he broke off, shaking
his head and peering at something over Ignotus' shoulder. "Sorry, my friend Hermione just seems determined to be
very odd about something," he said with a chuckle, waving at her and turning back to Ignotus. "Do you mind?" he
asked, gesturing, and Ignotus shook his head.

"No, go ahead, of course," Ignotus said, more irritated with Hermione Granger's existence than ever as Draco
Malfoy's sullen presence beside her served up a wholly unhelpful addition. "I'll send that owl to your office right
away."

"Sounds good," Harry called, giving Katie a quick squeeze and jogging towards the others. "Good game, Katie," he
added over his shoulder, waving again to Ignotus, and then headed over to pause beside Draco and Hermione.

"Well, he's got a lot of demands on his time," Katie sighed, giving Ignotus a reassuring squeeze, "but hopefully you
two will get to chat. You'll love him, he's great - "

"Right," Ignotus agreed, watching Harry lean in as Hermione spoke and then turn over his shoulder with a jolt, his
brow abruptly furrowed as he gave Ignotus a sweeping glance.

There was still that look of something on Hermione's face; possibly recognition, although that seemed unlikely.

Could she know? Ignotus thought, and frowned. Impossible, there was no way -

Unless, of course, Antioch -

"Montague," Katie was saying. "Montague? Does that work?"

Ignotus blinked.

"Sorry," he said. "Yes, sure, of course - "

"Oh good, so you won't mind?" Katie asked, visibly relieved. "I already told her we'd go, so - "

"Who?" Ignotus asked, blinking. "Sorry, what?"

"Hermione," Katie repeated, as once again, Hermione Granger gave him that strange, unnerving look from across
the pitch, her brown eyes wide with a troubling aura of suspicion. "She invited us to their engagement party next
week, so - "

Ignotus tuned her out again, thinking. Nico had given such a flimsy excuse for Taurus' failure, he remembered,
frowning, and then recalled the way Antioch was so certain the two shouldn't be killed -
Yes, he determined silently, she definitely knows.

And now she was clearly going to ruin everything he'd planned for Harry, and could that have been Antioch's plot
all along? He'd have to find out, of course - would have to unearth whatever Hermione Granger might know, and
Draco Malfoy, too - would have to find out if they were working for Antioch, and determine how best to gain Harry
Potter's trust, even against his friend's obvious warnings -

"The party sounds delightful," he told Katie abruptly, turning towards her and producing as innocent a smile as he
could, the gears still turning in his head.

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
October 12, 2003
12:45 a.m.

Hermione flipped onto her right side, sighing.

Draco waited.

Then she flipped onto her back, heaving another weighty sigh.

"What is it, Granger?" Draco prompted loudly, glaring at her silhouette in the dark. "I'm going to make you sleep on
the haunted mattress in the spare bedroom with that horrendous picture of Weasley if you don't stop your incessant
fidgeting - "

"I just - " she sighed again. "What would he want with Harry?" she demanded, and Draco was reminded with an
inward groan that yes, they were indeed still talking about Ignotus Peverell's appearance at the quidditch game. "It's
not like he needs him for access to the Ministry, and - I swear," she lamented forcefully, "I've spent half my bloody
life worrying about Harry Potter's terrible decision making - "

"Potter's a big boy, with the strength of an entire Ministry behind him," Draco reminded her. "This is hardly
something you need to worry about. You told him who Ignotus is; you've fulfilled your obligation. Now he can take
care of himself."

"Yes, but he only looked curious, he didn't look concerned, like he should be," she growled. "He got that look on his
face like he did when he first got his invisibility cloak, or like the time he was using that stupid potions book to - "
she sighed again, infuriated. "I swear, he never listens - "

"Listen, Potter still isn't dead yet, much to everyone's very great efforts, so he might actually be invincible," Draco
reminded her. "I really don't think you need to worry about him this much. In fact," he pressed, "you might be better
off worrying about something else, like what exactly we're going to do to figure out these assassinations before
things get really fucking shitty in the Club."

Hermione sighed again, expressing agreement this time as she settled back against the pillow.

There, Draco thought. That should keep her busy long enough for her to -

"The remote," she said, prompting his eyes to snap open again. "The one Nico gave us to disable the surveillance
wards. We should use it during the Ministry conference," she said, turning to face him. "Don't you think? Nobody in
the Ministry will be in their offices, and maybe there's a way we can find out who's in the Club - "

"Yes, good, sounds wonderful," Draco said wearily, patting the space between them in approval. "Good job,
Granger, well done - "

"Okay," Hermione exhaled. "Okay, I'll think about it in the morning."

"Good," Draco said curtly. "Do that. Goodnight, then - "

"Goodnight," Hermione agreed.

He closed his eyes.

She sighed again.

"What now?" he demanded, turning to face her. "What could possibly be so distressing that you feel the need to
expel it at such unrelentingly constant intervals?"

For a moment, she said nothing, holding her breath.

So he sighed.

"Just tell me," he mumbled, and she tilted her chin up, meeting his eyes in the dark.

"We wouldn't be so bad in a relationship, would we?" she asked fretfully, and he thought at first to say yes, Granger,
we'd be fucking apocalyptic, and for the hundredth time, GOODNIGHT, but there was a quiver of vulnerability to
her voice that stopped him. "I mean," she began helplessly, and then floundered, the doubts dissolving to nothing in
the air.

Draco figured it was about time he resolved himself to sleeplessness for the night, rolling onto his back with a groan.

"Let's try it out, then," he suggested wearily. "Let's roleplay. Ready?"

"What?" Hermione asked, bewildered. "What do you mean, like a sex thing?"

"Wh- no," Draco growled. "No, like - how about this," he suggested. "Say it's some time in the future and we have a
kid. Then say our kid comes home when he's sixteen with a tattoo that we didn't approve. What would you do about
it?"

"What kind of tattoo?" Hermione asked.

"Does it matter?" Draco prompted. "It's a tattoo, we said no, he got one anyway - "

"Well sure, but does it mean something to him?" she pressed. "Is there a reason he got it without our permission?"

"I - stop it, Granger, that's outside the scope of the experiment - "

"Well, you started too big," Hermione informed him with her usual swotty air. "Kids? Come on, Malfoy."

"Fine," he grumbled. "Say I forgot our anniversary, then. That's certainly plausible."

"That's ridiculous," Hermione countered firmly. "You never forget anything. If anything, I might forget, only I
wouldn't, because I'd put it in my watch, which would remind me - "

"I could forget," Draco protested, but Hermione shook her head.

"Nope," she said. "You remember details. It's part of why you're good at potions."

"But - "

"What about this," Hermione suggested. "You've been working too much, and I prepare you a nice dinner, but you
miss it and now I'm furious."

"Why would I miss dinner?" Draco demanded. "Did you make something terrible?"

"What? Of course not. I made a lovely roast."

"You hate roast," Draco reminded her. "Why'd you make me a dinner you don't even like?"
She groaned. "That's beside the point - "

"No it isn't!"

"Say I take up too much of the bathroom, then," she suggested instead. "All my hair potions are everywhere, all the
time, without fail - "

"Impossible," Draco said. "First of all, I know a spell for that. Total space saver. Secondly, I snuck some of your hair
potions in New York and they make the strands so soft. We can share."

"Okay, don't do that, I only have so much - "

"There we go," Draco said. "Say I use your hair potion, then."

She paused.

"Well, I can buy more," she conceded, "so - "

"Well, what if you can't? It's over. World's done. Only one vial left, one of us can have it and the other will,
naturally, descend to their inevitable deaths - "

"Then you can have it," she replied.

"I certainly don't want it," Draco snapped. "The world's over, Granger! Who gives a fuck about my hair?"

She groaned. "This was your example - which is why it was so terrible, by the way - "

"See?" he prompted, waving a hand between them. "This is precisely why we don't work. Antioch had it right,
Granger, because this is what we do. We fight, we falter, we fu-"

He broke off at that, swallowing, and she paused too, the two of them facing each other, wide-eyed, in the bed.

He registered then how close they were to each other; the spare bit of moonlight from the window bore through the
room in a softened ray that settled gracefully across her décolletage, each rise and fall of her breath drawing his gaze
back to the curve of it. She, meanwhile, appeared to be looking at his mouth, her own throat shifting slightly from
the effort of drawing moisture to her lips.

"Which we should not do," he parsed out slowly. "Because - " he coughed, clearing his throat. "Because that would
be stupid."

For a moment, she said nothing.

And then -

"Yes," she agreed, much to his relief. "Immensely stupid."

"Because we have a job to do," he reminded them firmly.

"Yes. That."

They paused.

Hermione sighed again.

"But," Draco murmured. "On the other hand - "

"Okay, goodnight," Hermione said quickly, flipping onto her opposite side and facing her back to him.

Draco grimaced.
"Goodnight," he agreed, and then rolled onto his back, waiting for the sound of her rhythmic breathing; for evidence
of sleep, which decidedly did not come.

a/n: Psst... if you want more parkweasel (Percy x Pansy) I recently wrote a one shot featuring them called Survival
Techniques, which is chapter 97 in Amortentia. Dedications for BellaDrobny, anonkneemoose, and
theprinceofsuffering. Thank you for reading!
 25. The Call Knows Where You Live

Chapter 25: The Call Knows Where You Live

The Ministry of Magic

Wizengamot Annual Address
October 16, 2003
12:26 p.m.

The voice was oddly incorporeal; like a ghost, in a way - like a trick the Hogwarts poltergeist might play, for those
who still remembered Peeves' tendency for dramatics - only far worse, because it was audible from every corner of
the room. Suddenly, the room was filled with the motion of heads turning; with the sound of voices gasping, and
silverware clanging against tables as glasses fell to shards on spare beams of the floor.

"Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards of the Ministry; esteemed colleagues, dear friends, and honored
leaders," the voice had said, something strange and toneless and neither male nor female. "Welcome to your rude
awakening."

All at once, the room went pitch black. The collective inhalation of breath was powerful, and palpable, and within
every corner of the banquet hall hands shot out at random for others' out of a strange, reflexive need to be certain
there was someone beside them; to find comfort in the presence of someone equally trapped.

"I'm aware you're pressed for time," the voice continued, "so I'll cut to the chase. This, ladies and gentleman, is a
demonstration; a showcase, if you will."

"This," the voice announced boldly, "is how you might have died today."

A light appeared from nowhere, from nothing; it swiveled, landing somewhere in the crowd.

"Warlock Percy Weasley," the voice said. "Welcome to the Wizengamot. You will notice that above your head,
there are three knives suspended from the ceiling."

There was a loud thud, a clang, and a series of shrill screams.

"Now, of course, there is a knife in your butter dish, a knife in your water glass, and a third knife just beside your
right hand. Had I wished it, all three knives would have fallen into your head, or perhaps the side of your neck. But I
said this was merely an exhibition, didn't I?"

There was a scrape of a chair as Head Auror Harry Potter rose to his feet, instantly sending his Aurors to the
perimeter of the room without a word.

"Moving on. Warlock Ifan Hawkworth," the voice continued, the light shifting to fall upon someone further down
the same table. "I would similarly advise you not to move."

Warlock Hawkworth launched to his feet, whipping his wand from his sleeve, and where he had been sitting, the
floor abruptly parted, its mouth opening to accommodate a vast, wind-filled chamber that swallowed the now-vacant
chair whole.

"Luckily," the voice chuckled, "I knew you wouldn't take my advice. Authority problems, Warlock? Ironic."

"Everyone stay calm," Minister Shacklebolt's voice boomed, magically enhanced to carry over the sounds of
breathless panic. "Everyone remain still, we are handl-"

"Yes, yes, I told you," the voice cut in, brusquely dismantling the Minister's voice charm. "I told you that already,
didn't I? To stay calm. Everything is fine. You're all in my hands now - and yes, that includes you, Minister."

The magical spotlight swiveled to fall on Kingsley. His chair had transformed into an oversized wrist that rose up
from the floor, with the Minister himself seated cupped within the hand's robotic-looking palm.

At this, the sign of their own leader in distress, even Head Auror Potter looked wan and nervous.

"What do you want?" Warlock Hawkworth shouted, giving into the room's tense curiosity, and the voice chuckled
again.

"Nothing," it said. "I simply want your attention. This is the problem with exclusivity, isn't it? Some clubs are harder
to break into than others. Not the Ministry, of course." Another laugh. "No, this is rather too easy. Already infested,
isn't it? The Ministry, I mean, though not just that. The world, even. Eternality, immortality. I'm just a bit louder
about it," the voice added, meaningfully filling the space with sound, "but I'm not the only one who's already gotten
in."

Antioch Peverell looked up from where he stood in the shadows, feeling a crease in his brow that he hadn't felt in
quite some time; not since his brother Cadmus had been killed, in fact, which felt like an eerie coincidence.

"Come find me," the voice invited flatly, and then was gone.

Then, as the lights flickered back into being, all hell broke loose.

Three Days Earlier

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
October 13, 2003
5:42 p.m.

"Hortense," Hermione exclaimed, blinking. "You're - "

"Here," Draco grumbled unpleasantly. "Uninvited."

"Nonsense, Draco, I was most certainly invited," Hortense replied, stepping out of the now-operational Floo and
gesturing behind her for Thibaut to follow. "Don't you remember?"

"I remember saying Wednesday," Draco informed her stiffly. "I also remember being informed this morning by Gr-
by Hermione's militant watch that today is not, in fact, Wednesday, nor is it even the day immediately preceding
Wednesday, and therefore -"

"What do you have to drink?" Thibaut interrupted, walking through the Floo and hefting a large covered rectangle
under his arm. "I'll give you a hint: don't say anything that isn't Bordeaux."

"Well, could I say claret?" Hermione asked, and then frowned, eyeing the item he'd brought with him. "And what's
that?"

"I think you mean 'who' is that, little girl," Thibaut corrected. "And more importantly, don't say 'claret' unless you'd
like to be equally as severed from your toes as you are from any respectable sensibilities - "

"Oh, for the ever-living sake of fuck," Draco growled, cutting Hermione off as she opened her mouth to attempt a
baffled response. "Thibaut, don't tell me you brought - "

"IT IS VERY DARK," pronounced the still-covered portrait of Armand Malfoy. "YOU TOLD ME THE KING
WOULD BE WAITING."

"Yes, Uncle Armand," Hortense sniffed, "we did indeed say that - "

"HE USUALLY HAS THE CANDLES LIT," bemoaned Armand. "HE IS A VERY SENSUOUS LOVER, A
TRULY ROMANTIC SOUL - "

"No," Draco interrupted. "No. No. No - "

"No to what?" Thibaut asked, briefly fanning himself. "Is it hot in here?" he asked Hermione, looking immensely
perturbed. "It feels hot. What's the humidity in this room?"

"Fourteen percent," Hermione replied, in what Draco had to assume was a lie.

"Impossible," Thibaut returned. "Sixteen, at least - "

"Hermione, chérie, this house is not remotely ready for a party," Hortense interrupted, turning to her and giving the
half-covered sofa a look of disdain. "Unless there's some sort of theme, I suppose, and that theme is - oh, I don't
know, 'slumming it in the mausoleum' - "

"Yes, actually," Hermione replied, unfazed. "That's the theme."

Hortense blinked.

"My goodness, how sublime!" she crowed in approval, bending forward to kiss Hermione on either cheek. "Genius.
What a brilliant subversion. Are you quite sure you're British?"

"Didn't you hear 'claret'?" Thibaut demanded. "She's so British I'm surprised she's not trying to colonize us as we
speak."

"Who says I'm not?" Hermione prompted without hesitation, a response which Draco was furious to discover drove
him to unreasonable pride.

"Touché," Thibaut returned, pulling a slender bunch of grapes from his pocket and levitating them towards his
mouth.

"Hold on," Draco grumbled, hastily backing away before Hortense could manage to approach him. "I thought you
two had some sort of funeral-party to attend before you came here. My father specifically said - "

"Who, Lucius?" Thibaut interrupted. "That old bore. He said something about wanting to lie down or something -
and then, I don't know, something-something 'hurl myself through a window directly into the Seine,' or - "

"No, that was you, Thibaut," Hortense corrected. "Don't you remember? The toast was dry, and then you said - "

"That's impossible," Thibaut returned stiffly. "You know I would have specifically used the word 'defenestration,'
Hortense. There's only so many times to use it - "

"Siblings," Draco muttered to Hermione. "Impossible."

She nudged him away to address Hortense. "Listen," Hermione began firmly, "you are here a bit early, so why don't
Draco and I just take you to a hotel, and - "

"Hotel?" Hortense scoffed. "What, share towels with the other guests? Submit myself to arbitrary search and
seizure? Chance strangulation by my bedding? No, thank you, certainly a tempting offer but that's a firm no - "

"I - what?" Draco asked, blinking. "That's not even remotely how hotels work - "

"TELL THE KING MY SHIP IS READY," Armand bellowed. "I'VE PREPARED THE FLEET FOR LAUNCH,
AND ALSO, MY PENIS IS UNLEASHED - "

"Wait a minute, what are you saying?" Hermione pressed frantically, launching after Hortense as she meandered
towards the stairwell. "If not a hotel, then - "

"No," Draco said again, choking on the bitter taste of his fervent opposition as he arrived late to the same
conclusion. "No, Hortense, Thibaut, listen, we don't - the house isn't ready, there aren't enough rooms - "

"Have you put any thought into the arrangement?" Hortense asked, peering around the room. "Of the furniture, I
mean. You don't seem to have determined anything about the entertainment space," she continued, sauntering
through the corridor as Hermione chased after her, "and what's in here? Why's this room locked- "

"NOT THERE," Draco barked, lunging forward and startling Hermione as he barricaded the door to his study. "I
mean, it's a mess, of course," he offered hastily, pointedly avoiding Hermione's look of confusion. "Nothing
interesting, either, just my collection of, um - " he cleared his throat. "You know, rare books, plus piles of soiled
dish towels - "

"Gross," muttered Thibaut.

"We definitely wash our dish towels," Hermione assured him, flashing Draco another glance of horrified
bemusement, and Thibaut shrugged.

"I meant the books," he sniffed, "but that's beside the point. You realize if you have people coming in through the
Floo you're going to have everyone backed into one space, effectively destroying any reasonable manner of queuing
-"

" - not to mention," Hortense continued, now appearing to measure the kitchen with a ruler she had produced from
nowhere, "that if you only have one room for entertainment, you're going to have people running into each other at
every possible opportunity - "

"Well, we also have the foyer," Hermione began uncertainly, and Hortense cut her off with a scoff.

"It's pronounced foyer," she corrected.

"Foyer?" Hermione echoed.

"Foyer," Hortense repeated emphatically.

"IS THE KING READY FOR ME?" asked Armand, and Thibaut sighed.

"Do you have somewhere I can put Uncle Armand?" he asked impatiently. "He is prone to imbalanced humors after
travel."

"You do know he's dead, right?" Draco prompted, only to be brushed aside by Hortense.

"If I were you, Hermione," Hortense continued, as Thibaut conjured a hammer and began eyeing the walls, "I'd set
the elves up in here - "

"Elves?" Hermione asked uncertainly. "But I wasn't - I thought we could just - "

"NO," Draco said, hurriedly running after Thibaut. "NO, DON'T DO IT - "

"Do what?" Thibaut asked innocently, flicking his wand to place a nail squarely in the center of the living room
wall.

" - well, if you must," Hortense continued, "you can pay them - totally charming, honestly, what a concept - but still,
you're going to need someone to serve the beverages. You cannot simply let the drinks sit out unattended, chérie,
they're not children - "

"That's," Hermione said, and blinked. "Well, putting that aside, I don't know how you expect me to find some sort of
horde of servants in the next, I don't know, three days - "

"Well, you could charm the trays," Hortense said disapprovingly. "It's not ideal, but I suppose I can make do. Show
me your silver and we'll see how pliable the metal is - "
"Silver?" Hermione asked meekly, and Hortense drew back in dismay.

"Are you telling me you don't have - "

"STOP THIS," Draco shouted, lunging for his cousin as Thibaut leapt deftly away, humming loudly and flicking his
wand to levitate Armand's portrait onto the nail. "YOU - CAN'T - BE - SERIOUS - "

"THESE ARE NOT THE KING'S CHAMBERS," Armand wailed. "THIS IS CLEARLY A HAUNTED
ORPHANAGE - "

" - HOW A PERSON CAN SIMPLY WANDER AROUND NOT POSSESSING SILVER AND THINK
THEMSELVES IN THE CORRECT STATE OF BEING FOR SOMETHING AS GRAVELY SIGNIFICANT AS
A WHIMSICAL MAUSOLEUM PARTY - "

" - I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, THIBAUT, I'M GOING TO KILL YOU WITH MY HANDS AND I'M NOT
EVEN GOING TO THROW YOU A FUNERAL, I'M JUST GOING TO TOSS YOU OUT THE WINDOW AND
INTO THE BINS OUTSIDE - "

"THE WORD YOU'RE LOOKING FOR, YOU SHOUTY TYRANT, IS 'DEFENESTRATE' - "

" - I'M GOING TO DEFENESTRATE YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL, THIBAUT - "

"Malfoy," Hermione whispered urgently, grabbing his arm and yanking him violently around to face her. "Malfoy,
she's already putting her things in the spare bedroom, I don't - what do we do?" she demanded, her eyes wide with
panic. "What do I - how do we - "

She was very upset, Draco noticed, tearing his attention from his uncle's portrait on the wall (and his cousin's
gleeful, sing-song denial that such a thing was even happening) to stare at her, unwillingly driven to sorting out the
obvious.

She was very upset, he reminded himself, ignoring the fact that Hortense had already taken the opportunity to
levitate herself grandly up the stairs.

She was very upset, Draco determined again, conclusively this time, taking in the look on Hermione's face and the
degree of wildness to her unruly hair and calculating, gradually, that in the equation that was Hermione Granger's
discomfort plus his own presence in the room, the only plausible outcome was that it was now his job to calm her.

It occurred to Draco Malfoy, in a brutal strike of terror, that it had somehow become his job to take care of
Hermione Granger, and in a subsequent moment of utterly dismal failure, he realized he hadn't the faintest idea how
to do it.

"Study," he said hoarsely, having already surrendered his voice to helpless fury. "Now."

Hermione nodded.

"Okay," she whispered, taking his hand and sprinting down the corridor with him.

Nott Manor
Theo Nott's bedroom
10:42 p.m.

"THEODORE," Draco roared, bursting into the room with a lordly expression of mania. "I have a problem."

"By all means," Theo said lazily, waving a hand. "Interrupt me. I have no life outside of your qualms. In fact, I
actually stop breathing when you're not here, Malfoy. My life positively collapses when you leave. Actually, I'm a
figment of your imagination. I physically cannot exist without you -"
"My cousins," Draco snapped, pacing the floor as if Theo hadn't spoken at all. "They're terrible. They've moved in.
My portrait-uncle, or - I don't know, uncle-portrait - won't stop shouting about blow jobs, Hortense is filling our
kitchen with back-talking flatware, Thibaut is - he eats too many grapes, who can eat that many grapes? And
Granger, don't get me started on Granger - "

"I wouldn't," Theo said, eyeing his fingernails.

" - and I don't know what to do!" Draco shouted, thrusting his notably empty hands directly in front of Theo's face.
"She's obviously stressed, I'm stressed, and my only solution was to lock us in with my potions but she's - you know,
she's not like me, she's not going to want to - to hide," he stammered. "She's going to want to, I don't know - deal
with it, or want me to deal with it, and I don't - WHO DOES THIS?" he demanded, staring expectantly at Theo.

"Oh, sorry," Theo drawled. "Did you want an answer?"

"AND," Draco announced, abruptly returning to his rant-pacing, "I can tell she's still upset that I told her we aren't
relationship people. But of course we aren't relationship people - LOOK AT US!" he shouted, rounding again on
Theo and gesturing helplessly to himself. "Obviously I can't be what she wants me to be! I can't help her with Potter,
I can't help her with this, and I just - "

"What do you mean help her with Potter?" Theo asked, frowning. "What's wrong with him? Aside from the
obvious," he conceded, carefully returning his attention to the book in his lap.

"Specifically, she's worried about Ignotus Peverell," Draco muttered, scrubbing brutishly at the furrow in his brow.
"She doesn't know what he wants with Potter, and seeing as he already tried to kill us - "

"Seems a silly thing to worry about," Theo remarked. "If Ignotus wanted to kill Potter, he would, wouldn't he? I can't
imagine that's his actual goal."

"Well, whatever it is, I hardly like it much either," Draco retorted, bristling. "I don't like that Ignotus Peverell is
dating - or that he's - whatever he's doing," he exhaled grumpily, "with Katie, who doesn't know who he is, unless
Potter's told her." He paused. "Has he?"

"Why would I know?" Theo prompted. "None of this has anything to do with me, Draco. As I told you, I don't even
exist when you're not here."

"Oh, shut up," Draco muttered, collapsing backwards on the bed. "I'm in distress."

"I see that," Theo informed him, reaching over to pat his forehead. "There, there."

Draco sighed.

"What do I do?" he mumbled crossly.

"About Granger?" Theo asked.

Draco gave a sullen nod.

"Be nice to her," Theo advised. "She doesn't need you to fix it, Draco. She just doesn't want to do the shitty stuff
alone."

"What about the rest of it?" Draco demanded. "My cousins. Potter." He shut his eyes. "Katie."

"Not my problem, not my problem, and not your problem," Theo replied easily, ticking them off on his fingers.
"Have Granger help you with that stuff."

"Seems needlessly circular," Draco commented skeptically. "Help her, and then make her help me?"

"No. Help her," Theo corrected, "and she'll want to help you."
"Ugh," Draco scoffed incoherently. "None of that sounds right." He paused. "Also, I hate you."

"I know," Theo replied, giving his best friend's forehead another brisk pat. "Are you finished?"

"No," Draco said.

Theo waited.

"Fuck," Draco groaned, dragging himself to his feet. "Thanks."

"Come back soon," Theo replied airily, waving a hand. "I'll just be here, frozen in your absence."

"Shut up," Draco called over his shoulder, pulling the door open and striding through it.

Beside the bed, Harry let out a breath, dispelling his disillusionment charm.

"That," he announced, "was - "

"Wait," Theo told him, holding up a hand just as Draco came barging back into the room.

"Potions," Draco barked, and though it had not been phrased as a question, it clearly was.

"Try not to," Theo replied.

"But," Draco protested, exhaling.

Theo shrugged. "If you must."

"But if she - "

"Then don't."

"But if I can't - "

"Then do."

"But she's - "

"Maybe you don't give her enough credit," Theo suggested, finally setting aside the book he'd long been pretending
to read. "She's marrying you, isn't she? You might be able to hide some of your dark stuff, but you definitely haven't
hidden it all. She's almost certainly under no false pretenses about you being a functioning human."

"Yeah," Draco conceded uneasily, "but - "

"You're not shitty," Theo told him. "You've just got some unresolved shit."

Draco blinked.

Opened his mouth.

Groaned.

"You know I don't hate you, right?" Draco pronounced forcefully.

"Yeah, I fucking know that," Theo replied. "Go home, Malfoy."

Draco flipped him off with his usual digital fluency, heading through the door frame again.

"Okay," Theo said to Harry's wavering vacancy on the floor. "You're good now. Things got emotional, so he's
definitely not going to be able to talk to me for at least forty-eight hours. Purely from centuries of carefully-bred
shame."

"You're calling that 'emotional'?" Harry echoed, re-materializing and sitting up from the floor. "Jesus, you guys are
really fucked up."

"Amazing, isn't it?" Theo agreed, reaching down and hauling Harry up to the bed to resume their previous activities.
"Anyway," he mused, sliding his hand down Harry's trousers. "Where were we?"

"Actually, we were talking," Harry reminded him, closing his finger's around Theo's wrist and giving him a stern
look of admonishment. "About where you've been. Who you've been with. What you've been doing. You know, the
general Nott-ness of being -"

"You heard me," Theo said. "When Draco's not around, I just fold myself into a little square and tuck myself into a
drawer."

"Nott," Harry sighed, and Theo rolled his eyes.

"Listen, if we're going to talk," Theo suggested mockingly, "then maybe we should talk about Ignotus Peverell. Why
aren't you freaking out?" he pressed. "You heard Malfoy. Granger's worried about you doing something stupid, and
history has proven she's not exactly wrong."

"I'm not going to jump to conclusions," Harry countered stubbornly, nudging his glasses up on his nose with a
gloriously childish look of opposition. "I don't know what he wants with me, Nott, but I'm pretty sure it isn't to hurt
me or anything. And even if that is what he wants," Harry added, now employing a razor-sharp smile, "I'm not
eleven anymore, or even seventeen. I know what to do with people who are trying to hurt me now."

Theo shuddered against his will, blinking away the countless chilling nightmares he'd had over the last year of Harry
broken, bleeding, gone.

Theo Nott had so few weaknesses in the age before Harry Potter.

Now he only had the one, but it was a terrible one.

"It's not just Draco or Granger, you know. I don't like it either," Theo pointed out. "Ignotus. Whatever he wants with
you, I don't like it. I'm just not making a scene about it, unlike some people."

"Nott - "

"You should be more careful," Theo said gruffly. "Don't meet him alone. Don't meet him at all, in fact. He killed his
own brother, Potter, and he tried to kill Draco and Granger, so I hardly think - I don't - "

"Theo," Harry rumbled quietly, shaking his head. "Relax. I'm fine."

Theo swallowed.

"I know you're fine," he replied stiffly, "but still, I don't understand it. I don't understand why you have any curiosity
at all."

Harry sighed, rolling onto his back.

"I never had a family," he admitted after a moment's pause. "And that's sort of what Ignotus is, right? I mean, I'm his
descendant. There's - it's just - I don't know." He turned his head. "I know it's stupid."

"It's bloody idiotic," Theo agreed.

Harry chuckled. "Lucky you're always so sympathetic."

Theo shut his eyes, suddenly tingling with unknown frustration.

"What do you need a family for, Potter?" he demanded brusquely. "You have me."

He heard the catch in Harry's breath.

"And other people, I assume," Theo added gruffly, suddenly grateful that he wasn't being touched.

After all, Draco wasn't the only one who disliked unnecessary displays of emotion.

Or honesty.

(And this, regrettably, had been both.)

Harry toyed with the silence for a moment.

"I agreed to see him Thursday afternoon," Harry said eventually. "Ignotus - or, well, Montague, since I didn't admit I
already knew who he was. After lunch during the conference. It'll be in my office," he added, "where there are
surveillance spells and Aurors I trained myself and a very low likelihood of me getting trapped or harmed or murd-"

"Stop," Theo said forcefully, and Harry stopped.

Another few seconds ticked by.

Harry opened his mouth. Theo braced for a lecture.

That wasn't what happened.

"I want to tell people about us," Harry said.

Theo fought the immediate urge to vomit, or something.

Something - somewhere - threatened to burst, and whatever it was, he swallowed it down.

"Someday," Harry clarified hastily. "I just - someday. You know," he added. "When you're not keeping secrets and
I'm not - I don't know." He cleared his throat. "Someday," he attempted again, "I want people to know you're my
family."

Too much.

Much too much.

"Fuck," Theo exhaled sharply, scrubbing at his eyes and meeting Harry's green ones. "Fuck you, Harry Potter. Fuck
you, fuck your immortal lineage, fuck all of it entirely."

Harry blinked. "Well," he said. "That's - "

"Fuck," Theo said shakily, cradling his own head in his hands and imploring himself not to do something stupid, like
cry.

He felt a steady grip on his wrist.

Then a brush of Harry's stubble against his cheek.

Then Harry's lips against his.

"I love you too," Harry said.

Theo kissed him, furious.

And then again, softer, because he wasn't actually angry.

He was something else entirely.

"Someday," Harry suggested again, and Theo breathed it in; let it out.

"Someday," Theo agreed, licking the taste of it from his lips.

Nott Manor
Upstairs Library
October 14, 2003
5:42 a.m.

"So," Daphne said, insufficiently battling a yawn as she levitated her yoga mat in behind her. "Is there a reason we're
doing this so early?"

"Yes," Pansy said curtly. "It's because I'm in desperate need of motion, and there's no way I'm going to have time
tonight. This Ministry conference is terrible," she added, half-muttering under her breath. "I thought my job would
be over once it started, but apparently 'crisis management' is still a thing Weasley's insisting from me, so - "

"Oh," Daphne said with a laugh. "So you're sticking around for him, then? Interesting."

"He's - " Pansy hesitated. "It's not like that. It's not for him, it's just my job - "

"Sure it is," Daphne said, stifling another yawn. "Don't forget, Pans, I saw you with him yesterday when I came to
help with the centerpieces. You looked like you wanted to strap him to the table and swallow him whole. In a sexy
way, obviously," she amended.

"Murder him, more like," Pansy countered, and Daphne shrugged.

"Potato, potato," she replied. "They're similar impulses."

"Oh, and you would know?" Pansy asked skeptically, arching a brow.

"Well, I'm blessed with a vivid imagination and legs that won't quit," Daphne assured her. "This, though," she
sighed, turning around to gesture to her enviable derrière. "This is precisely why I'm up early to work out with you,
despite the fact that being up at this hour is firmly against all my principles. I'm pretty sure Cad thinks all of this" -
here she gestured vaguely to her body - "happens by accident."

"Men are so stupid," Pansy muttered, letting her mat fall beside Daphne's. "They deserve to get trapped by our
artfully cultivated wiles."

"So true," Daphne yawned out again, settling herself on her mat. "Child's pose?"

"Five breaths," Pansy confirmed, and Daphne nodded.

They both knelt on their mats, bending over and then proceeding to take the prescribed five breaths to levitate
themselves into the air, releasing their inevitable toxins.

"Downward dog," Pansy instructed, pressing back to lift her hips as Daphne followed her motion, stretching out
their hamstrings. "How is Cad, by the way?"

"Up to something," Daphne exhaled between carefully calculated breaths. "He isn't telling me what, but I'm not
totally sure I should ask."

"Why shouldn't you?" Pansy prompted. "Rag doll out," she added, and Daphne nodded.

"Well, partly because I don't really want him to ask me about Marcus. And I don't know, also because - " she trailed
off uncertainly. "Well," she attempted again, "you know how sometimes it's hot when someone says they're fully
devoted to vengeance, and other times, you're like -" She paused. "This can't possibly be a sustainable way to live
your life?"

Pansy glanced over dubiously. "Yes," she said drily. "Such a common problem."

"I just don't know if I want to know, that's all," Daphne clarified. "I mean - the sex is great, he's great - well, and
terrible. And, you know, I'm engaged. To Marcus Flint. So yeah, I kind of - " she hesitated. "It's just - " Another halt.
"Sun salutation?" she asked hopefully, and Pansy glared at her.

"Your aura's a mess and you're completely lying," Pansy said. "But yeah, fine."

"Of course I'm lying," Daphne retorted in mountain pose. "But you're lying too, aren't you?"

Fair, Pansy thought, lifting her chest.

"Fine," she said gruffly. "Want the truth? I want to fuck Percy Weasley."

"I'm in love with Cad," replied Daphne.

"Shit," they both exhaled.

"Is it just sex?" Daphne asked after another breath, and Pansy grimaced.

"Don't know. Maybe," she said. "Maybe not. Maybe I just - I don't know. I'm hoping it's just sex," she clarified, "but
he's - I don't know. He's something. He's something different, something fucking - rare, I guess. Ugh." She groaned,
shaking Percy Weasley from her system. "Plank."

"Fine," Daphne said, shifting. "Is it so bad if you like him, though? He's kind of, you know. Important. Tactically,
it's not a bad match."

"It's Percy goddamn Weasley," Pansy shot back. "How can that be anything but a bad match?"

"It could be a twelfth-century murderer you met while he was robbing the Ministry," Daphne said, and though Pansy
could tell she was aiming for some sort of airy lightness, there was something utterly perturbed in her best friend's
voice.

"You love him," Pansy repeated, frowning. "You're sure?"

"It's not really something I can be sure about," Daphne replied, and paused. "But yeah, I'm sure."

"Yikes," Pansy said, and Daphne sighed.

"I know. Chaturanga?"

"Yes. Elbows in further," Pansy advised, and Daphne grimaced, following her lead. "So what are you going to do?"

"What, about being in love with him? I don't know. It's not like I can do anything about it, seeing as - oh yeah, I'm
engaged," Daphne repeated, with a darkened laugh. "I mean, I'm going to marry someone else eventually - so it can't
really ever be normal, can it?"

"Maybe it can be something else," Pansy said, trying to shrug as decently as she could while holding her shoulders
still. "I mean, what's normal? I want to fuck a Weasley, Daph, and Draco's marrying Granger. Pretty sure normal's
not in the cards anymore."

"Ugh," Daphne said, bending over to wrap her arms pitifully around her knees. "This is - this is all terrible. Can I
just, like - suspend, for a minute?"

"Yeah," Pansy said, rolling her neck out. "Sure. Take a minute, and I'll just - "
She stopped, something catching her eye outside one of the top windows of the Nott Manor library. She and Daphne
regularly used the room (not to Theo's knowledge, obviously, not that he would care) because of the high ceilings,
which meant that they were able to levitate with plenty of space. It also meant an unobstructed view of the
courtyard, where Pansy could see two dark heads bent over something that had become much too familiar over the
last few weeks.

"What is it?" Daphne asked, her voice muffled with her chest pressed to her thighs, and Pansy considered it for a
second.

"I don't know," she said, because Pansy didn't, in fact, have any idea why Theo Nott and Cadmus Peverell would
need a detailed map of the Ministry's main banquet hall, nor why they would be looking over it so intently. "You
said you think Cad's up to something?"

"He's sort of secretive," Daphne confirmed. "Also, I inherently don't trust anyone who's that good at fighting.
Always a problematic sign if he's had a reason to be so talented at trying not to die, don't you think?"

"Mm." Pansy tilted her head, watching Theo point to something she realized was precisely where she'd placed the
Warlock table. "Daph," she determined suddenly. "Come with me for the rest of the conference, would you? In case
I need backup."

"Why?" Daphne asked, following Pansy's lead as she clambered into upward-facing dog. "Need a barrier so you
don't fuck Percy Weasley by accident?"

"By accident?" Pansy echoed dubiously, glancing over at her, and Daphne giggled.

"Yeah, you know, like - oops," she mimicked coquettishly, "I was just standing here, innocently doing absolutely
nothing, and accidentally his penis SLIPPED and FELL into my vagina - "

"God," Pansy cut in, groaning. "Yes, Daph. That's exactly what I'm worried about. You nailed it."

"Good," Daphne said, passing her a sly sidelong grin. "I'm just glad you're finally telling the truth, Pansykins."

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
October 15, 2003
8:13 p.m.

"Oh my god," Hermione said, falling onto the stiff Victorian sofa in Draco's study as he hastily shut the door behind
them. "I never realized anyone on earth could be so exhausting-"

"Which one do you mean?" Draco asked drily. "The woman who's charmed all our silverware to life, the man who's
turned our living room into some sort of Roman bathhouse, or the dead portrait who refuses to desist in his fondness
for fellatio?"

"All of them," Hermione said. "All of it. Also, I thought musical kitchen implements would be charming, like in
Beauty and the Beast," she added, "but they're truly awful singers. They're genuinely worse at singing than I am at
knitting, and that's all I'm going to say about it."

"I don't know what beauty has to do with it, but are you the beast in this scenario?" Draco asked. "I mean, given the
options, I have to assume you are, so - "

"Ha-ha," Hermione said, rolling her eyes as he flashed her his usual smirk, falling down beside her. "We can't keep
escaping here, you know. Much as I wish we could."

"Sure we can," Draco countered, waving a hand. "Look, there's all these fun potions we can take to get us through
the next two days or so. Or not get through them," he suggested wryly, "if you, like me, would prefer the welcoming
arms of death to any more of Uncle Armand's distressingly erotic poetry -"
"You haven't taken any," Hermione noted, glancing at the vials that hadn't been touched. "I have to say, I'm
surprised. And impressed, I suppose."

"Well, I assumed you wouldn't approve," Draco grumbled, looking away. "And it doesn't seem fair for me to do it
and leave you to deal with their nonsense alone - "

"Well, what if I want some?" Hermione prompted boldly, and Draco blinked. "I mean, I'd at least like to be offered.
You don't have to treat me like I'm some kind of - " she broke off, unsure what word she wanted to use. "I mean, I've
broken rules too, you know," she said firmly. "I - I broke into Gringotts!" she declared. "I cursed Marietta
Edgecombe's face. I lit a teacher on fire." She broke off, half-smiling. "I beat the shit out of Millicent Bulstrode - "

"Okay, my apologies, you're a nightmare and I irresponsibly overlooked it," Draco conceded with a hint of approval,
before glancing anxiously at his workspace. "Does this mean you want a vial?"

Hermione paused, grimacing. "Er, well - I - "

"You deplorable hussy," Draco said proudly.

"HERMIONE," they heard from outside the door, both of them instantly tensing at the sound of Hortense's voice.
"ARE YOU AWARE THAT NONE OF YOUR NAPKINS ARE MONOGRAMMED?"

"In fairness to Hortense, my mother always did love a monogram," Draco remarked, and Hermione watched his
expression stiffen slightly, the humor abruptly gone from it. "But anyway, back to the potions - if you don't want to -
"

"Let's do it," Hermione said quickly. "Just - just one vial. Something to take the edge off," she warned, "but nothing
near as strong as last time."

"I - yeah, of course," Draco said, blinking, and rose to his feet, looking unexpectedly relieved. "Sure, just - just a
little something for anxiety and, um, maybe a little bit of euphoria - "

"Not too much," Hermione warned. "Or none, possibly."

He waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah, sure - "

"WHERE IS THE SMALL ONE?" Armand demanded. "HAS THE LITTLE ONE SEEN THE KING?"

"YOU'D BETTER BE DOING SOMETHING INTERESTING, DRACO," Thibaut added, "OR I'LL DISINHERIT
YOU - "

"YOU MEAN DISEMBOWEL," Armand corrected.

"POTATO, POTATO," replied Thibaut.

"Okay, fine," Hermione conceded, withering slightly. "Slightly more than a little euphoria, maybe."

"Not to worry," Draco assured her, smugly turning to hand her a vial. "I was going to lie to you anyway."

She waited until he had sat down beside her before carefully waving the vial under her nose, getting a whiff of
something like plums and honey before quickly leaning away, erupting in a series of loud, obtrusive coughs.

"What?" she sputtered, catching Draco's look of amusement.

"You have to drink this one," he said, clearly fighting a laugh. "It's not an inhalant."

She glared at him. He shrugged, raising the vial to his lips, and drained it in one swallow.

"Oof," he announced with approval, eyeing the vial. "Not bad."

She took a sip, testing it, and then proceeded to tip her head all the way back. It had a slightly tart, vaguely earthy
hint that struck her as not precisely a flavor, but a color; the vial tasted golden, she decided, letting it slip coolly
down her throat.

"Hey," she said, blinking as she set the vial down on the table beside the sofa. "Why didn't you move out of Malfoy
Manor before this?"

"Christ," Draco said, shaking his head. "Couldn't wait for the potion to kick in before you got wildly personal, could
you, Granger?"

"It's not wildly personal," she countered. "It's a simple question, isn't it? Why didn't you leave?" she pressed, turning
to face him. "Katie seemed surprised," she added, unable to prevent bringing it up, and Draco's mouth tightened.

"I lied to her," he said. "She wanted me to move in with her, but I -" he cleared his throat. "You saw what happened
to me in Diagon," he reminded her brusquely. "That's how it is everywhere. It's like that," he exhaled, "everywhere,
and I didn't want her to see me like that."

"Like what?" Hermione asked tentatively.

"Like how the rest of the world sees me," Draco said miserably, eyeing his empty vial. "Plus my father had already
left," he added, shaking himself of whatever he'd been reliving. "And I don't know, it was hard to leave it. My
mother," he said, letting the reference to her hang alone in the air between them. "Which I'm sure you're tired of
hearing about."

"You know, you've never actually said anything about her," Hermione reminded him. "I can see the trauma," she
added, "but you don't actually, you know. Use words."

"Don't call it trauma," Draco protested briskly. "That's ridiculous. I'm not traumatized, it's not some sort of
pedestrian head injury - "

"Really?" Hermione interrupted. "You really want to argue over semantics?"

"If you don't know that the answer to that question is always yes," Draco informed her, "then I don't know how to
help you."

"Malfoy, honestly, I'm just trying to have a convers-"

"I'm not like you," he cut in flatly, glaring at her, and she wasn't sure what she'd done, but she was solidly convinced
he was about to inform her. "I don't hit my problems, okay? I don't even face them. I run from them, or avoid them.
With this," he clarified roughly, dangling the vial in the air between them before letting his hand fall. "With - I don't
know. Persistent evasion. I couldn't face my trial, and I couldn't face my mother dying - actually," he said with a
mocking scoff, "I was barely conscious when it happened. I'd taken so many vials I barely knew where I was. My
father was holding me upright so she'd think I was actually there when she died, but I wasn't there. Not really. And
do I regret it?" he demanded, launching to his feet and turning to stare down at her.

"Um," she said unhelpfully.

"I don't know. I don't know." He paced the floor. "Who would it have helped, Granger? If I'd been - I don't know.
Aware. Who would it have helped?"

"I," Hermione began, only to be cut off.

"I'm not like you," Draco said again, angrily. "You can look directly into the face of your problems" - here he jabbed
his fingers out, demonstrating this - "and fight back. You can fight, but I'm not like you," he repeated, and Hermione
felt it was imploring this time. "I'm not like you, and I can't - and all of this is just - and I never left my house
because I - because I can't - "

She watched him falter helplessly and blinked, feeling a slightly woozy sensation in her head from the motion of
him pacing.

"Put your hands up," she said, rising to her feet, and he stared at her, his grey eyes narrowing slightly.

"What?"

"Like - like this," she said, taking his wrists and curling his fingers into fists. "Don't tuck your thumbs in," she
added, "or they'll break. Trust me, I did that a few times. Do you have a knife in here?" she asked, glancing around
his study, and Draco gaped soundlessly at her. "Fine, fine, no knives, then. That's advanced stuff anyway. Just, um -
"

She looked down, eyeing his feet.

"Here," she said, kicking his feet apart and then taking hold of his hips, squaring them. "Yeah, there. And, um - "
She straightened, pressing down on his shoulders and smacking the bottoms of his elbows until they were at the
appropriate height. "Yes. Good."

She watched him swallow.

"What are we doing?" he asked hoarsely, and she shrugged.

"We're fighting," she informed him. "It's not that hard to face your problems if you can just punch them in the face."

"Granger," he growled irritably, "that was a metaphor - "

"I know what the fuck it was," she retorted, vaguely determining that the words leaving her mouth were doing so
without her permission, "but I don't know how to fix it for you, so instead we're going to do this. Okay?" she
demanded.

He blinked.

"Okay," he said, and she nodded.

"Okay," she said. "Hit me."

"What?" he squawked, withdrawing. "No. That's - no."

"Malfoy, you fucker," she informed him. "I'm not going to let myself get hit. You absolute fucker."

"You're swearing a lot," he said defensively. "You're scary."

"I'm on drugs," she reminded him. "It's fine."

"Okay," he said, and frowned. "But I don't want to hit you."

"Don't hit me," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Hit everything. Hit everything. Take everything you've bottled up
and every horrible thing you've ever seen or felt or witnessed and hold it in your hand; sharpen it and aim it, so that
when you take all that force inside you and all the terrible, terrible things from your life and you expel it from you
like a fucking curse, it shatters something." She looked up, meeting his grey eyes. "Aim true," she told him, "so that
maybe something other than you might break."

A pause.

"Granger," Draco attempted, and she shook her head.

"We're fighting," she reminded him, putting her fists up. "Hit me."

He sighed, throwing a fairly weak punch at what appeared to be her shoulder.

"Don't be a pussy, Malfoy."

"Jesus, don't be a cunt, Granger."

"Hit me again. Hit harder. Aim for something."

"But I - "

"Punch me in the face," Hermione beckoned conclusively. "I won't let you hurt me, I promise."

"Granger, this is insane."

"Come on, Malfoy."

"Hermione - "

"Draco - "

He went with a right uppercut, aiming straight for her jaw.

"Fuck," she determined with surprise, blocking his fist. "You've done this before."

"What, punch someone?" he asked gruffly. "I'm Theo's best friend, Granger. Ever heard him speak? It's not like I've
never been in a fight before."

"Well, hit me again, then," she said. "Not an uppercut. A -" she thought about it. "A hook. Left hook?" she
suggested, curious now.

He obliged. She blocked it.

"Not bad," she said. "I mean, it's not amazing, and you'd probably still get the shit kicked out of you by Flint or
Wood, or even Rhys - "

"Don't talk about Hawkworth," Draco growled, aiming a right hook at her cheek. This one she sidestepped with a bit
more motion, nearly missing it.

"Well, that's a start," she said, and punched him hard in the stomach.

"Fuck," Draco spat out, doubling over. "I wasn't ready!"

"Better not stay down," Hermione said, aiming a blow at the back of his neck until he shot upright, knocking the
wind out of her with his elbow. "Ouch - "

She aimed a fist at his sternum, shoving him backwards in the same motion and dizzily straightening to catch her
breath as he stumbled, staring at her.

"What the fuck are we doing?" he demanded.

Rather than answer, she ducked her shoulders and crashed into him, promptly knocking him to the floor.

"Shit," he coughed up, scrambling out from underneath to roll on top of her, catching her wrists. She wriggled her
knee out, threatening to strike him in the groin with it, and in his moment of hesitation she forced him onto his back
again, staring down at him.

She pinned his shoulders down, resting her palms flat with her knees astride his hips, and he stared up at her.

"Are we fighting?" he asked.

She swallowed. "We always fight."

"Not like this," he said. "Do you want me to fight you like this?"

Do you want me like this?

"No," she said.

Yes.

"You're lying," he said. "Don't lie."

"You always lie."

"Yeah, well, I'm a coward," he spat back.

She pressed down on his shoulders, watching him flinch. "I wouldn't want a coward."

"You don't want me," he said.

"I shouldn't," she agreed.

"That's - "

She could see his mouth was dry.

"That's not the same thing," he said, and she opened her mouth to say something - anything, or nothing, she hadn't
decided - but he took advantage of her hesitation to roll her onto her back as he shifted onto his knees, looking down
at her on the floor.

He didn't say anything.

"This potion," she attempted, "was supposed to make things better."

"I didn't know you were going to want to fight," he countered.

She had to fight a humorless laugh.

"I always want to fight," she said. "Don't you get that? Don't you get it?"

He clearly didn't.

She struggled to sit up, glaring at him.

"I'm not better than you, Malfoy," she said. "You were right when you told me I was fucked up, too. I just have a
different code. My code says you face down your demons. My code says you fuck your demons up so they don't
fuck you up."

"Language," Draco said. She ignored him.

"Your code says run," she said, as maliciously as she could manage. "Your code says hide, Malfoy, and maybe that
works for you, or maybe it's a stupid code and I hate it, I hate it, I hate it," she spat furiously, "but even if it's the
stupidest code on earth, you're not less than me. I'm not better than you." She swallowed hard. "Can't you accept
that? I'm a genius," she added stiffly. "I'm a genius, Malfoy. Draco. Draco, I'm a goddamn genius. I know what I'm
talking about. I'm right about this, and Draco - Draco, you should - "

She stopped talking when he got close.

Close to what?

Just close.
She could smell the potion on his breath; could imagine the taste of gold on his lips. She could feel the skin of his
cheek brushing hers, she could hear the motion of his lungs, she could see the hesitation in his throat, the look in his
eyes that was molten when it met hers.

"What was in the vial?" she asked him hazily.

She watched his tongue slip between his lips.

"Nothing," he said. "I wouldn't drug you."

Damn.

"Liar," she whispered.

"No," he said. "I told you not to lie. I'm not lying. I lied at first," he corrected himself. "But it was just - it was just
flavors. I don't know. A charm to make it look pretty, to taste good. That's all." He swallowed again. "I swear. That's
all."

"Then what is this?" she asked him.

This.

You, me, us.

"You tell me," he said. "And don't lie."

She wanted to lie.

She was pretty sure it would be easier.

She closed her eyes, tilting her chin up, and let her cheek brush against his. She closed her left hand loosely around
his right wrist and felt the tension there; felt him stiffen at her touch, her thumb lingering penitently over the motion
in his veins.

He shifted, his mouth close to her jaw now, his honeyed breath on her neck. She leaned in, tilting her chin up
further, and felt his lips graze her throat. Not a kiss. Not kissing.

The thrill of him was electric.

His hand shot out for her waist, his fingers pressing firm. She leaned her chin down again, letting her lips brush
across the bone of his cheek. Sharp, sleek, angled. He sucked in a breath and she touched her lips to the side of his
mouth, daring him to come closer.

Not a kiss.

Not kissing.

She felt his eyelashes brush her cheeks as he dropped his chin, his lips near her ear now, floating over the dull roar
of her bloodstream. Another motion and they hovered above her pulse, the feel of his shaky sigh skating over the
pressure of her unsteady heart.

She raced through the facts as she knew them.

There was nothing in the potion.

He didn't want a lie, but she didn't know the truth.

If she kissed him now -

No.

No.

But on the other hand -

She ached.

She ached.

She pulled away.

"Draco - "

"It's fine," he said, his voice clipped as he tore himself away. "Don't worry. It's fine."

He stood up, facing the door for a second before reaching out for the handle.

Then he paused, shut his eyes, and doubled back.

She held her breath, waiting to see if he'd come back to her, but instead he swiped three vials from his desk, shoving
them into his pockets.

"Don't worry," he said again, his mouth tightening. "I won't remember this."

Then he yanked the door open and passed through it, disappearing without a word.

Antioch Peverell nearly died the day he was born. For a brief period after he had been expelled from his mother's
womb, the midwife who delivered him could not compel his eyes to open; could not convince his lungs to inflate;
could not urge his heart to beat. For a time, the old woman was certain that Antioch was simply not strong enough to
take a breath, or perhaps had not been fully formed in some way - so even she, a witch like his mother, had no
explanation for why, after nearly ten minutes, he suddenly opened his eyes and inhaled, as if he'd merely been
awaiting proper invitation.

His mother used to say he was a miracle; that God or fortune or fate had chosen that day to bless him with his
handsome face, his easy humor, his effortless charm, but Antioch knew it was none of those things. It was magic,
certainly; he'd had it in droves from the start, rushing through his veins, and it had kept him alive when he should
have died.

But it was more than that.

He was more than that.

It was purpose as much as it was magic, and from the day of his birth, Antioch Peverell had always known he was
destined for something more.

Perhaps that was what contributed to his nature. His brothers often called him arrogant, and he was. Of course, it
isn't that difficult to believe you're meant for something bigger when you are quite obviously bigger than everything
in your village (metaphorically speaking, of course, with regard to the realms of talent, ability, and skill) and over
time, it became increasingly difficult for Antioch to imagine that he could persist within the limitations of Godric's
Hollow. After all, he and his brothers were the only truly talented wizards for miles, and Antioch itched, as he
always had, for something above local celebrity (or, more accurately, notoriety).

He had nearly died the day he was born, having accomplished nothing. He wouldn't die permanently that way.

It was Antioch's decision to leave, but he'd known without asking that Cadmus would be with him when he did. He'd
known his brother better than anyone, and Cadmus could not resist the temptation of things he didn't know, or the
impossible lure of things he couldn't have. In truth, Antioch was relieved that their youngest brother Ignotus had
chosen not to accompany the two elder Peverells on their initial journey for discovery. Ignotus was always very
concrete, highly definitive; he wanted answers, but in order to have an answer, there needed to be a very specific
question, and Antioch didn't have a question. He simply had an arrow in his heart that pointed whichever direction
the wind blew, and he was pleased that Cadmus, the second Peverell brother, lived on much the same compass.
Cadmus had no need for direction; he was aimless, and happy to follow Antioch's lead. Cadmus had no need for
wealth, for fame, for much of anything - but neither did he have Ignotus' conception of morality.

The darkest magic Antioch ever produced was with Cadmus steadfastly at his side.

Thus, the greatest magic he ever produced was with Cadmus steadfastly at his side.

Antioch didn't know exactly what went wrong when his relationship with Cadmus had soured. They'd begun to
argue, certainly, and Cadmus wasn't particularly secretive about his feelings on Antioch's meddling with muggle
politics (or anything), but Antioch could never say for sure when Cadmus' vision had diverged so dangerously from
his own. Purpose and certainty had always driven Antioch, but whatever it was that drove Cadmus, it also drove the
two brothers apart, ultimately leading to Cadmus' death.

It was an old story by then, and Antioch Peverell had lived a number of old stories. In general, he tried not to think
about it.

"You don't need him," Herpo had said, and granted, Herpo was nearly always right. "Cadmus contributed nothing
that Ignotus wouldn't otherwise bring."

Not true, Antioch hadn't wanted to say, though he'd known it even then. Ignotus was strange, always very different
from either elder Peverell, and Antioch had always feared that if the more like-minded of his brothers could fail him,
then it was only a matter of time before the youngest one did, too. He didn't have long to wait, either; Ignotus proved
Antioch right when he put Lady Revel above their brotherhood, above their Club, above their mission.

Above their purpose.

It wasn't that Antioch was unable to grasp the concept of love. He grasped it. It wasn't particularly helpful that love
came so easily to Cadmus (and apparently even to Ignotus) and was always somewhat out of reach for Antioch, but
he knew what it was. He understood it, in some abstract way. He loved Herpo, certainly - he knew it like he knew
his own pulse - but he could never separate the man from his abilities, and he'd never had to. It wasn't a soft love
between them; it didn't feel romantic. It was a man who loved power making room in his heart for a man who loved
knowledge, and for them, love was more like the tides of a restless sea than any steady current, always crashing and
disappearing and resurfacing with time. It was a love that felt desperate - as though Antioch would never truly be
heard or seen or understood except in Herpo's arms, and vice versa - but they parted from each other, and often.

And still, even Herpo's incurable periods of wandering were no more lonely than Cadmus' absence.

If anything, losing Cadmus had been worse.

For Antioch, who had valued loyalty above all things, the loss of his closest brother was disappointment, heartbreak
and betrayal all at once. It was such a devastating blow to his view of the world that he thought it had taken nearly
two centuries for him to fully recover, no matter the assurances of the man he so tenuously loved.

But now, sitting silently in the British Ministry while a formless voice terrorized the entire crowd, Antioch firmly
knew that he had never truly recovered. And what's more, while Antioch was looking out at a room full of fear - full
of extraordinary magic that he could already tell he wouldn't be able to trace, unless the person who cast it had
wished it - he felt the strange sensation that Herpo had been wrong after all.

Antioch did need Cadmus, because Cadmus Peverell was Antioch's creativity. He was Antioch's ingenuity. Ignotus
may have been Antioch's right hand, but Cadmus was Antioch's bag of tricks. He was the half of Antioch's brain that
was capable of the kind of genius that nobody else saw coming, and for which the world had been lain at his feet. If
Antioch was a lion, a fearsome king, then he needed his sly, clever fox by his side, and that had always been
Cadmus.
But since Cadmus Peverell was dead, he desperately needed whoever had done this.

Antioch turned sharply, heading up the stairs. Clearly whoever had caused the disruption at the Ministry conference
had been speaking directly to him; come find me, the voice had said, and Antioch could not resist the invitation. He
wandered into the corridor, watching the fleeing, panicked crowd, and headed the opposite direction, carelessly
bumping shoulders with a Ministry witch who clung, howling, to her overlarge straw hat.

Someone who had done this knew the Ministry well. Surely they weren't in it, though. The entire display had reeked
of objectivity rather than contempt, and it was impossible to be a piece of a machine and not come to either love or
loathe it. Which meant that if Antioch wanted to find them, he would simply have to -

He paused, feeling a hand close around his arm, and turned with surprise to find a familiar face at his elbow.

"Antioch Peverell," said Hermione Granger, using what appeared to be her unreasonably large engagement ring to
locate his disillusionment spell as she spared him a grim, tightened smile. "I think it's about time you and I had a
talk."

a/n: Hi guys! In my absence, I've done some things. You can now find my book, Masters of Death, on Amazon (you
can find the link in my website, olivieblake dot com), and I would be incredibly honored if you would give it some
consideration. If you enjoy this story, I feel fairly confident you will enjoy that as well. I have also recently
completed Nobility. But I'm back now, and obviously things around here are picking up, so I shall see you all here
next week!
 26. Love Across Battlelines

a/n: I am foregoing my post-chapter note today for reasons that will hopefully feel reasonable when you arrive
there, but preemptive dedications for: saphorakhalidi, wordvomitz, tinheung, silverlovedragoness. Thanks as always
for reading!

Chapter 26: Love Across Battlelines

Wizengamot Annual Address

Stairwell outside the West Corridor
October 16, 2003
12:46 p.m.

"Where's your partner?" Antioch asked, with a tone so loftily elevated it read more like curiosity than suspicion.

(Hermione found, unhappily, that she would have preferred the reverse, and stiffened in her opposition.)

"Elsewhere," she said, and then, firmly, "and this isn't about him."

"Sure it is," Antioch countered, arching a brow. Maddeningly, even with his initial surprise at her appearance, he'd
recovered quickly enough to regain his obtrusive sense of superiority. "Or do you really think I haven't been
watching you for the last few days? You're on all the Ministry surveillance charms, you know," he informed her. "I
removed you from them myself."

Hermione frowned. "But -"

"Do you really think you'd have that," he said, gesturing to the pocket containing the remote Nico had given her, "if
I hadn't wished it? Nothing happens without my permission, Miss Granger." His expression hardened at that.
"Nothing."

Ah, she thought, recognizing a weakness when she saw it.

"Not true," Hermione countered, with an almost blissful certainty. "This just happened without your permission,
didn't it? As did the theft at Lady Revel's? And the Wizengamot poisonings? All of which are why I'm here."

"Alone," Antioch noted again; a worthy adversary, clearly, where it came to uncomfortable truths. "Where is Mr
Malfoy?"

Hermione cleared her throat, brusquely shoving the thought of him aside.

"Elsewhere, as I said. So are you willing to listen to me," she ventured gruffly, "or not?"

Antioch glanced around, pursing his lips, and then permitted a stiff nod.

"I'm listening," he beckoned, warily folding his arms across his chest.

Five Hours Ago

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
7:46 a.m.

The day had not started out particularly well for Draco Malfoy.
For one thing, he'd woken up alone, which he judged with displeasure had suddenly become a highly unpalatable
way to start the morning. Over the last few weeks, he'd unnervingly come to expect the sound of Hermione yawning
melodically before the sun came up - or perhaps beginning both their days with a series of rapid-fire rhetorical
questions about how she intended to solve the world's many innumerable ills - and he now found it consummately
strange to do without something that had so reprehensibly plagued him. Perhaps the two of them weren't technically
together, but they were certainly often next to each other, which meant that feeling the cold vacancy where
Hermione should have been (reprehensible rambling or not) was an extremely unwelcome occurrence.

For another, Draco woke up with perfect clarity as to how the previous night had gone, having not found it within
himself to remove the memory of her lips lingering beside his - temptingly, tauntingly, terribly. He found that he
couldn't blame her for not letting things go forward - how many times had they opened themselves up to disastrous
consequences already? - and it had at least been a truth, in a way.

He didn't know what he wanted. He couldn't blame her if she didn't know, either - but neither could he let go of
whatever the night before had been.

As if he hadn't been conflicted enough before then.

Eventually, though, he'd crept down the stairs, careful to not wake any other unsavory Malfoys (a relatively easy
thing, actually, considering they rarely stirred until the early afternoon) and found himself standing over Hermione
and attempting to be as un-creepy as possible, briskly tapping her shoulder where she lay on his study's sofa.

"You didn't come to bed," he said, which wasn't an apology, but seemed to be enough for her to warily permit him
eye contact. She squinted, nodding, and he sat beside her once she'd managed to bring herself upright.

"I didn't think you wanted me there," she informed him, not unreasonably.

"That's," Draco began, and stopped. "I - "

She waited, but he hadn't come up with anything, so he shrugged.

"Sorry," he offered, and she nodded.

"Me too," she said, and glanced down at her watch. "Want to get breakfast before we infiltrate the Ministry again?"

He nodded, relieved that no further discussion had been necessary. "Yeah. Sounds good."

He supposed it had gotten better from there, although it wasn't nearly the degree of 'better' he might have preferred.
By then, it was day three of aimless searching in Wizengamot chambers, snooping in offices and poring over
documents for hints, clues, anything (all while wearing the hideous but cleverly charmed tie clip that Pansy insisted
was necessary for internal communication) and it seemed unlikely to end any time that day, as it hadn't on any other.
Hermione was distracted, for the most part, operating the enchantment on her ring and busying herself with a tireless
search for any semblance of evidence. Draco, meanwhile, was distracted with his own memories of her, which made
a tedious task somehow even more torturous.

The day had started unsteadily, and then it had rapidly gone downhill, of course. Though, in fairness, it was at least
in a way Draco had not remotely expected, and thus received points on the basis of genuine surprise.

"We should check Katie's office," Hermione had said, prompting Draco to experience a series of nightmarish
stomach cramps.

"What?" Draco barked. "Why hers? She's a low-level Ministry employee with no particular security clearance, and
she works in muggle artefacts - "

"Yes," Hermione agreed simply, "and she's been placed on the Lady Revel case. Or have you forgotten that we still
don't know who's responsible for that?"

Draco groaned, following her lead, but he should have known that it was hardly ideal for his psyche to be that close
to his ex-girlfriend's more intimate possessions. Namely her handwriting, which had once been used for things like
see you tonight xx and was now being used for things like meeting tuesday 9 and dinner with M, which Draco only
realized too late was a reference to -

"Montague," he scoffed aloud, prompting Hermione to look up, frowning. "As if that's in any way a better name than
Ignotus. What's he lying to her for?" he added brusquely, flailing a hand into empty, inconsiderate air. "I don't like
it."

Hermione paused, opening her mouth, and then closed it. "I don't know, Malfoy. I'm sure he has his reasons."

"Oh, really?" Draco said irritably. "So when it comes to Katie it's a simple matter of 'he has his reasons,' but when
it's Potter at risk you lure me into a fun game of 'let's stay up all night and postulate wildly'-"

"It's just none of your business, Malfoy," Hermione interrupted flatly, and then glanced down. "Unless it isn't, I
guess."

He frowned. "What?"

"Well, I just." She stopped. "I mean, if you still have." Another halt. "If she's, you know. I guess. Well, it's." Another
pained moment of indecision. "Not my business, obviously. But if you, then." A shrug. "Of course. I mean, yes. Of
course. Obviously."

He gaped at her. "What?!"

"Nothing," she tossed out angrily, forcefully shoving a file back into one of Katie's magically enhanced cabinets. "I
don't know why you asked."

"Did I ask?" he prompted, dazed, but she wasn't listening.

"Look, the Dionisia thing is definitely a theft," Hermione announced absently, "and since Antioch doesn't seem to
know anything about it, maybe this is what Ignotus wants with Katie. If he gets close to her this way, then he can
keep an eye on that investigation. I mean, what if he's the one who stole the-"

"Granger, don't do that," Draco attempted, already exasperated by his weak attempt to derail her tangent, but he
could see she was already lost to her more (less?) functional self.

"If this is Ignotus, then we should tell Antioch," she said, glancing up at the clock. "And we should also get down to
that conference lunch before everyone gets back." She dug around for the remote in her pocket, waving her wand
over it. "British Ministry," she said quietly, and then pushed the black button, looking expectantly up at Draco.
"Shall we?" she prompted, and he'd sighed.

If he'd thought it would get better from there (he hadn't, but still) he was immediately proven wrong.

"This is how you might have died today," said the voice that had cast down from nowhere, from nothing, and Draco,
standing between Pansy and Hermione as requisite specialists for the event (some more relevantly 'special' than
others, obviously), had known with an inward groan that of course this was going to happen on that particular day,
because it had started poorly and would now surely end that way. He'd managed a moment of relief when Hermione
had shifted towards him - he'd grabbed for her hand out of a now-practiced need to insure the state of his assets and
found hers waiting anxiously for his - but that, too, had come and gone swiftly.

It had gone the moment the lights came on, in fact, when Draco had seen Ignotus Peverell standing beside Katie,
glancing with a suspicious lack of fear around the room.

"She doesn't know," he'd said to Hermione, who looked at him with confusion. "She doesn't know, Granger, and if
you're right about what Ignotus is doing - "

He stepped forward, zeroing in on Katie in the crowd, and turned to see if Hermione had followed him in the
madness that ensued. "Granger? Granger, wh-"
But he'd been bowled over without respite (or, for that matter, apology) and when he lost track of Hermione in the
crowd, he shook himself of concern and forged ahead. Hermione Granger, he knew, would be able to take care of
herself. She was smart, resourceful, and uncannily deadly in a fight, and she would be fine without his help.

Unlike some people, who had a terrible history of falling for men who would never love her properly, despite
whatever better things she might have thoroughly deserved.

"Katie," Draco hissed to the person in question, taking her arm and yanking her towards him amid the sea of
escaping Wizengamot members. "I need to talk to you."

"What - now?" Katie asked, startled by his presence. "Draco, didn't you see what just happened? We have to get out
-"

"That guy. Montague," Draco cut in firmly. "He's not who you think he is."

"Draco, what th-"

"Just listen to me," Draco urged. "Don't trust him, Katie. He's not who he says he is, and - I can't explain exactly
what's going on right now, but believe me, whatever he's told you is a lie, and I can't -"

"Draco," he heard Pansy's voice say, the sound of it resonating from his godforsaken tie clip. "Draco, I need you.
Now. It's important."

"Pansy, what the - hold on," he growled back, getting abruptly shoved into a table by a stampede of Ministry
workers before rearing up with a loud burst of curses. "Katie, I have to go - just - Pansy, where are you?" he said
into his tie clip, which seemed to be suffering a bit of magical interference from the Ministry's anti-reconnaissance
charms. "Are you with Granger?"

"Draco, what are you on about?" Katie pressed, staring helplessly at him. "If this is how you want to tell me you're
jealous of my boyfriend while you - I don't know, continue to look for your fiancée, you should know that this is a
uniquely upsetting way to do it - "

"Draco, can you hear me?" Pansy's crackling voice was borderline hysterical. "Draco, I need you t- oh fuck,
Weasley, GET DOWN - "

The sound of her voice abruptly cut out, and Draco glanced around with a growl of displeasure.

"I have to go," he said to Katie. "Just trust me, okay? His name isn't Montague, it's Ignotus Peverell, and he wants
something, I just - I don't know what he wants," he admitted with displeasure, "but just - "

"Draco!" Katie snapped, reaching out to grab his shoulder. "Wait a minute, what on earth - "

"Just - don't do anything. Not yet, not until I have a chance to explain, I just - GRANGER," Draco shouted abruptly,
pulling from Katie's reach and scouring the tops of heads in the crowd for a familiar bit of messy brown mania.
"GRANGER, WHERE ARE YOU?"

"Draco!" he heard Daphne's voice say from his tie. "Do you know where Pansy is? She sounds like she's in trouble
and I can't - I haven't seen her - "

"Daph?" Theo's voice that time. "My fucking tie clip is going absolutely insane, I hate this thing - "

"Theo Nott, where the fuck have you been - "

Draco let out a frustrated groan, shooting a few stray sparks into the air.

"May I have your attention," he called, and when only a few heads turned, he increased the volume of sparks. "GET
- THE FUCK - OUT OF THE WAY," he yelled, and bounded forward, heading for the Wizengamot chambers to
wherever Pansy might have gone, having now totally lost track of Hermione.
By then, Draco had begun to wonder if all moments spent in the absence of Hermione Granger were now to be
interpreted as sure signs of trouble.

By the looks of it, the day that hadn't started well certainly wasn't going to finish well, either.

Four Hours Ago

Ministry of Magic
Main Banquet Hall
8:35 a.m.

Pansy Parkinson had woken up that morning with the strangest feeling that today was not going to go remotely as
she'd planned.

It wasn't like she expected anything sinister to happen. If anything, Pansy had thought she'd feel relief the moment
she opened her eyes. It was the last day of the Ministry conference and now, at long last, she might finally be able to
put her feelings on Percy Weasley to bed.

Either literally or figuratively, of course. At the moment - after this long a wait - she wasn't particularly choosy
which.

She still had a job to do before the whole ordeal was finished, obviously, but Pansy at least managed to revel in the
prospect that by approximately one in the afternoon, she would finally be able to shed the outrageous facade of
being some sort of experienced event planner and instead don her favorite guise of 'woman who gave no fucks,'
which was always her preferred mode of operation.

"Hey," Daphne had said, wandering into the ballroom while fiddling with the locket she wore around her neck. "You
sure this is still necessary? I thought this was a shorter day."

"Hm?" Pansy asked, glancing distractedly at her before adjusting one of the table's centerpieces. "The locket, you
mean?"

"Yeah. It's not to my impeccable taste," Daphne informed her, still fidgeting with it. "You know I like my jewelry to
be more, I don't know. Subtle, I suppose."

"Well, wear it anyway," Pansy instructed briskly. "I've already put up with enough whining from Draco about the tie
clip, but as I have said repeatedly by now, it's a powerful enchantment and not all metals are equally as susceptible t-
"

"I know, I know," Daphne interrupted, soothing Pansy with a placating sigh. "I'll wear it, Pans, and for the record,
yours looks nice." She reached out, adjusting the twin locket that Pansy wore around her own neck. "I just find it
odd you wanted us to wear them to this."

"We always wear them on jobs," Pansy reminded her, turning to toy with one of Daphne's loose curls. "Don't we?
Just in case."

"Yes, but this isn't really a job, is it?" Daphne asked, and then looked over her shoulder. "Huh," she remarked. "Cad
wanted to come with me, but once again I've completely lost track of where he went - "

"Cad?" Pansy asked warily, thinking again of his head bent over the image of the very room they were standing in.
"Is Theo with him?"

"Theo?" Daphne asked, bemused. "No. Why would Theo be here? I tried to bring him along this morning, but you
know how absolutely useless he is at everything."

"Everything except blending in," Pansy reminded her, "and wreaking havoc - "
"True, but this is hardly his scene," Daphne reminded her, gesturing around at the flowers and the artfully selected
calligraphy on each of the name plates. "I don't think we'll be seeing him today - but since you were so worried, I
had him wear the tie clip anyway."

"Well, thanks for that," Pansy exhaled, shaking her head. "Not that I really think we'll need it, of course."

But that hadn't been the case.

That hadn't been the case at all.

It was difficult to describe the sensations that had coursed through Pansy's limbs upon hearing Percy Weasley's
name from that ghostly, ghastly voice overhead. It was even more difficult to describe the way her feet seemed to
detach from control of her brain the moment she noticed the three knives above his head; the moment she registered
the look on Percy's face, too, and the way his blue eyes had widened, his hand flexed beside the spot where one of
the knives had fallen. His face had gone ashen, fearful and stark, and Pansy had leapt forward without waiting,
abandoning Hermione and Draco where they stood in the shadows to stumble to Percy's side, immediately losing
sight of him when the spotlight shifted to Warlock Hawkworth and then to Kingsley.

The moment the lights came on, too, was an utter stampede of people. She lost track of Percy again, losing him in
the crowd and then very nearly crashing into him as he hurried in the opposite direction, heading for (where else?)
his office - rather than the exit, as any reasonable person would do. She stormed after him, disregarding Draco
altogether (not like he'd done any work for this anyway, and was he any help to her now? - of course not) and
sprinting to catch up to the redheaded Warlock who simply refused to keep his head down.

"Weasley," Pansy hissed, half-panting by the time she caught up to him. "Where are you going? It's not safe, for
fuck's sake - "

"Hm?" he asked, frowning. "You heard them, it was simply an act of terror. Of incitement. But what I want to know
is how they got in," he postulated absently, "and how, more specifically, they were able to accomplish all this. It's
like they knew precisely where everything would be, and how could that be - how could that be possible? I had the
security plans turned over to Harry, certainly, but I doubt anyone else could have gotten hold of them. I just need to
check for any spare copies that might have gotten out - "

Pansy blinked with surprise, realizing as she stumbled into Percy's office after him that he hadn't even thought to
blame her.

He hadn't thought to blame her, not even for a moment; not even when it was most likely her fault.

Mentally, she reminded herself to have a talk with Theo later.

"Weasley," she said, dazed, but he wasn't listening. He seated himself at his chair, searching for something she
couldn't begin to fathom in his cluttered, disarrayed desk. "Weasley, listen to me, you have to get out. You have to
get out, it's not safe here, and - "

She stopped, freezing in place and registering belatedly what felt wrong.

"Weasley," Pansy yelped firmly, "how did your office look when you left it?"

"Hm?" he asked again, not looking up. "I don't know. It was - " he waved a hand. "The usual."

"The usual? Weasley, the usual," she reminded him firmly, "is your little charmed hurricane of paperwork, not this -
this mess of - "

She broke off, fumbling for the locket around her neck. "Don't touch anything," she warned Percy, who leaned back,
startled. "Don't drink anything, don't eat anything - Draco," she said into her locket. "Draco, I need you. Now. It's
important."

"What is it?" Percy asked, frowning, and Pansy shook her head, shushing him to listen to the sound of crackling
from the locket before slipping her wand from its placement in the holster on her thigh.

"Draco, can you hear me?" she asked, holding her wand out as she began to slowly circle the room. "Draco, I need
you t-" she broke off, half-tripping on something she realized too late was a disillusioned foot. "Oh fuck - Weasley,"
she shouted, aiming an unsuccessful disarming spell into vacant air, "GET DOWN - "

She let the locket fall from her hand and aimed a Revelio, catching the bottom of a cloak and a man's heavy black
boot. She dove, just missing what was almost certainly a blasting curse, and scrambled behind the desk in time to
shove Percy to the ground, sparing him from the sharpened debris of splintered wood.

"Do you have your wand?" she asked him, panting, and he nodded with a grimace, reaching for it. "Never mind,"
she said firmly, "I've got this. Just stay down, Weasley, or I swear I'll-"

She broke off as another blasting curse ricocheted to bring down one of the beams from the ceiling, sending it
crashing down on both of them. Percy flicked his wand, suspending the beam instantaneously before it fell, but
Pansy could see that a levitation charm of that magnitude was taking most of his energy; she slid beneath his arm,
struggling up to her feet and aiming blindly at their attacker.

"Incendio!" she shouted, catching the outline of a cloak that immediately went up in flames, leaving the wearer to
cast it aside. In their moment of hesitation, though, Pansy aimed another Revelio, prompting the intruder's face to
flicker momentarily into being.

She paused, startled. "Is that - "

"Ludo Bagman?" Percy exclaimed, dismayed, and then the intruder - Ludo Bagman, as it were - aimed another spell;
this time at Percy, and though he barely managed to block it, Pansy was almost certain it wasn't something she
wanted to chance. She flicked her wand, not registering the words until they left her mouth.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Ludo Bagman dropped to the floor.

Pansy's wand fell from her hand.

Her ears rang.

Bile flooded her mouth.

"Pansy," Percy exhaled, his hands closing gently around her arms as she swayed in place, stunned. "Pansy, are you
okay? Pans-"

"Pansy," she heard, registering a different voice this time as it slid through her temporary tinnitus. Draco's voice.
"Pansy, what happened?"

"Jesus fuck, Parkinson - " Theo this time. "What the fuck did you d-"

"Pansy." Percy's voice again. "Pansy, look at me - look at me, please, Pansy - "

She turned slowly, finding his blue eyes, and stared blankly at him.

"Are you okay?" Percy asked her, his brow furrowed with concern, and she wanted to laugh, wanted to vomit,
wanted to sob.

She'd never actually killed someone before.

Sure, she'd assumed that perhaps death had been incurred by her wand from time to time, but usually from
incidental injuries.

This, though -
"I'm fine," she whispered blankly, even though every bone in her body indicated that she was not, in fact, fine.

On the plus side, she reasoned, she'd at least been right.

She'd been so certain the day was not going to go as planned.

Two Hours Ago

Ministry of Magic
Wizengamot Chambers
10:46 a.m.

Ignotus Peverell had started the day as Montague Knightley, but if all went well, he wasn't going to end it that way.
Katie was nice enough, obviously, and he didn't oppose her company, but still; she was hardly the end goal.

And besides. She wouldn't stop talking about Dionisia.

"The thing is," Katie had been saying as they walked the halls between seminars, "the Aurors won't actually tell us
what they think has been stolen from Lady Revel's house, which I think means they don't actually know. So it might
be muggle or it might not, but honestly, either way it's like trying to hit a target while blindfolded - "

"Can we not talk about work?" Ignotus interrupted, hoping to play it off as a romantic gesture. In truth, he suspected
he might lose his mind if he heard any more about the woman who'd once been taken from him, almost certainly by
the hand of his eldest brother. "Better to, you know. Keep your mind off things, don't you think?"

"You're right," Katie sighed, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Besides, I suppose it's not like you
would know what she was hiding."

Except he did know.

Ignotus knew perfectly well, and he also knew it wasn't a great sign that this had been the end of Dionisia
Trelawney. He'd known Antioch had always wanted the secrets she possessed - the magic was admittedly unique,
and the skill involved had been half the reason Ignotus had fallen in love with her - but he couldn't imagine why
Antioch would take it upon himself to steal them now.

That is, Ignotus couldn't have imagine it until an incorporeal voice that sounded uncomfortably familiar brought him
to a bristled realization of the obvious.

Of course Antioch wouldn't steal the secrets from her, Ignotus thought with certainty. Not alone. But then, Antioch
Peverell had never acted alone, had he? And when it hadn't been Ignotus resolutely at his side, then it had been -

"Come find me," the voice had said, a perfect episode of Cadmus Peverell's signature brand of insuppressible
trickery, and then Ignotus knew he had no time to waste. He could no longer be Montague Knightley - not if Antioch
had somehow gotten Cadmus on his side.

He would have to be Ignotus Peverell, and if Antioch wasn't alone, then he couldn't afford to be, either.

"Auror Potter," he said, finding Harry in the crowd and heading straight towards him, losing track of Katie
(thankfully) in the process. "I need to talk to you."

"Yes, yes, we have a meeting," Harry agreed, his knuckles white with tension as he gestured for one of his other
Aurors to secure the perimeter. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid my hands are rather full at the moment Mr Kni-"

"Peverell," Ignotus corrected. "And I'm afraid it can't wait."

Harry frowned, opening his mouth, but at the look on Ignotus' face, he stopped himself, gesturing brusquely to the
corridor.

"Make it quick," he said when they were alone, and Ignotus nodded.

"I am Ignotus Peverell," he offered, which did not seem to surprise Harry in the slightest. "I presume I don't need to
explain to you how this is possible?"

"No," Harry permitted stonily, folding his arms expectantly over his chest. "Though I'd like an explanation as to why
you've taken on some other identity and sought me out."

"Fair enough," Ignotus permitted. "I didn't want to overwhelm you. I wanted to approach you as a friend."

Harry didn't look convinced; worse still, his gaze repeatedly strayed over Ignotus' shoulder to the masses of people
who poured out from the hall. "Why?"

"You're my descendent," Ignotus said. "I have much to offer you, I would think, though for right now, I'm afraid I'm
the one who needs your help. My brother has unfortunately taken it upon himself to make an enemy of me, and I
cannot understate the risk he poses. Not simply to me," Ignotus added, "but to the world at large."

"Which brother?" Harry asked, and then blinked, as if he'd let something slip.

Ignotus frowned, registering that perhaps his descendent had given away more than he'd meant to by the asking.

"My eldest brother, Antioch," Ignotus clarified slowly. "He's plotting against me. With my brother Cadmus," he
added on a whim, waiting to see what Harry would do with the information.

The younger man merely shifted from foot to foot.

"Are you sure?" Harry asked, and Ignotus, moderately inflamed at what was all-but an admission of Cadmus'
resurrection, forced himself not to react too volatilely. "Why would they plot against you?"

"My brothers have always stood against me," Ignotus replied plainly. "Crime comes easily to them. Murder comes
easily to them, as do lies, and guilt scarcely plagues them. They are both in possession of a number of techniques in
the dark arts, and it is no secret that they wish to have the world under their command. Antioch especially," he added
darkly. "If you are looking for Lady Revel's secrets, Harry, then I would look no further than Antioch himself."

"How do you know?" Harry pressed. "If this is some personal vengeance plot, or some bad blood between brothers,
I want no part in it - "

"You saw what happened in there," Ignotus reminded him, gesturing to where the hall had only just been emptied of
its frantic inhabitants. "They take pleasure in this, Harry. In reigning through fear. After centuries of it, I've had
enough - and haven't you, after far less?"

"And what do you want me to do?" Harry asked suspiciously. "I won't bring the Ministry into this."

"I don't want the Ministry," Ignotus said honestly. "I just want someone I can trust. Think about it if you wish, but
you know as well as I do that there isn't an answer that makes sense for the Wizengamot poisonings, nor for this."
He gestured behind him, referencing again what had happened on the Ministry's watch. "My brother is too corrupt,
Harry. Too wrecked with power. I only want to stop him." He let out a breath. "I only want the aid of someone I can
trust, and who trusts me."

"And why should I trust you?" Harry prompted.

"Well," Ignotus said. "I suppose it's ironic to bring up the relevance of blood, but in this case I think it's quite
different. You own a cloak of invisibility, don't you?" he asked, softening slightly. "Given to you by your father, and
given to him by his father - "

"Given by you to your son," Harry murmured, and Ignotus nodded. "It's one of my most valuable possessions. If not
the most."

Harry was quiet, then, and Ignotus waited.

"If I help you," Harry began uncertainly, clearly wrestling with himself, and Ignotus stopped him with a slight shake
of his head.

"I won't ask you for anything yet," Ignotus assured him. "I'd just like to know that, in a moment of need, I might be
able to come to you for support. Should I find myself vulnerable," he clarified, "or otherwise requiring of aid."

Harry nodded slowly.

"In the meantime," Ignotus said, "I have to go. I have things to take care of - and uncover, as it were." He paused.
"And you, I imagine, have quite a mess on your hands," he added wryly. "Though I think I can help you in that
respect, too."

"What are you going to do next?" Harry asked.

"Well, there is no telling where Cadmus is now," Ignotus replied, suffering a moment of dismay at the thought of it.
"I would be willing to bet he's responsible for this, and has likely been responsible for the other poisonings all
along."

"You think that could also be Antioch's doing?" Harry asked, surprised.

Ignotus merely shrugged. "I'd have to prove it first, but I certainly have my suspicions."

Harry paused, frowning. "If you can prove that," he said slowly, "can you also help me prove the assassinations
weren't Gagnon? It wasn't him, I'm sure of it."

"I will help you," Ignotus assured him. "I promise, Harry. Together, I promise, you and I will find the truth."

And at the moment of clarity in Harry Potter's eyes, Ignotus at last felt vindicated in his hopes, in his aims, in his
efforts.

He was Montague Knightley no more, but neither was he the lowest brother of three.

He was Ignotus Peverell, and at last, he stood with a worthy ally beside him.

One Hour Ago

Ministry of Magic
Main Banquet Hall
11:46 a.m.

Percy Weasley had begun the day thinking about Pansy Parkinson's shoes.

Specifically, about whether or not he wanted her to leave them on while he fucked her.

It was a distressingly consuming thought, and one which he'd suffered throughout the morning's seminars. For one
thing, Pansy was a constant presence, having apparently decided to actually care about the event itself (not that he
didn't, obviously; let it never be said that Percy Weasley lent no thoughts to whether ironing charms had been
successfully employed on the various tablecloths) and she stood there, outrageously appealing, while he attempted to
carry on living his life.

He hadn't really expected to be this fixated on her, considering what an important event this was as his first Ministry
conference on the Wizengamot, but he found that he was able to take a brief reprieve from his ambitions to think of
some of his smaller, more achievable goals, such as hearing Pansy come with his head wrapped securely between
her thighs.

Unfortunately, his concentration on such considerably pleasing matters had been abruptly interrupted by his narrow
escape from death.

Two narrow escapes, in fact, and had Percy not grown up with his twin miscreant brothers who took great joy in
torturing him, he might have wondered how anyone could possibly conjure up the will for so many attempts on his
fairly innocuous life.

The first, of course, had been the knives overhead. In truth, that had felt more like a practical joke than anything.
He'd almost looked over his shoulder for Fred.

The second, which had put Pansy herself in danger, had been slightly more worrisome. It had been, in fact, far more
serious, and had Pansy not keenly noticed the anomaly in the room, Percy suspected he would be genuinely,
seriously dead.

Which was perhaps why he now found himself unable to prevent himself from touching her.

"I don't know how you're going to get away with this," Draco was saying, abruptly jarring Percy back to
consciousness and away from the feeling of Pansy's fingers wound tightly in his. "Was it self defense?"

Beside him, Pansy swallowed hard.

"No," Percy said, feeling immensely guilty. "No, it wasn't. She was protecting me. The Wizengamot -" he turned,
glancing at her, and lamented how pale her face still remained from shock. "They'll want you in Azkaban for this,
Pansy. Miss Parkinson," he amended, coughing. "Your name will precede you. You won't get a fair trial."

"Fuck, that's bleak," remarked Theo Nott, glaring at Percy from across the office. "I don't suppose you have any
more sunshine to sprinkle on us, Warlock?"

"She has to run," Percy said simply, and Pansy looked up at him, frowning. "She has to run. I can take the blame for
it," he added slowly. "I - if you leave your wand, it'll show the spells that were cast, and I can at least go through the
proceedings with slightly more benefit of the doubt - "

"No," Pansy said firmly. "This is my mess. This is my mess, and if the Wizengamot won't listen to me, then -"

"Pansy," Percy attempted, but Draco held up a hand.

"I can get rid of the body," he offered flatly, not looking at anyone else in the room. "I can remove this from the
surveillance enchantments and restore the office and nobody will have to know this ever happened. We won't be
able to prove anything," he added in warning. "We won't be able to pin this on Bagman, which would be
unfortunate. But he'd simply go missing, and Pansy would be fine."

"Do it, then," Pansy said quickly, and Percy blinked.

"But - but what if Ludo Bagman is responsible for the other poisonings - "

"Then we can tell Potter about this," Pansy suggested, turning to Draco and Theo. "Can't we? He's discreet, isn't he?"

"I don't know if I'd use that word," Theo muttered, exchanging a wary glance with Draco. "But it's certainly a
possibility - "

"Then do it," Pansy said, looking at Percy again. "I'll set the office right, Draco - just get rid of the body and take
care of the surveillance charms."

Theo turned to Draco, frowning. "How the fuck are you going to -"
"Don't ask," Draco cut in sharply, and then grimaced. "Please."

"Pansy," Percy attempted, turning away from where the other two men engaged in some sort of muted stand-off to
face her. "Pansy, are you sure this is what you want to do?"

She looked at him, unwavering, and didn't flinch. "Do it," she said again, to Draco this time, and he nodded.

Draco knelt to the ground, pulling a vial from his pocket, and Pansy turned sharply away, setting herself to work on
the smoldering remains of Percy's bookshelf and the shards of his desk that lay on the floor, focusing her attention
away from the disintegrating body in the center of the room and instead on the tasks that needed mending.

"Pansy," Percy attempted again, somewhat weakly this time, and she shook her head.

"Fix that fucking beam," she instructed, pointing to it, and then, instead of thinking about her shoes, Percy thought
about her strength; her convictions; the way she had so fearlessly put herself at risk for him. He thought instead
about the look on her face and the certainty in the angle of her jaw, and he set to work restoring his office without
another word until Draco finally cleared his throat, the office carpet left as vacant as if a man had never lain there to
begin with.

"I have to find Granger," he said once Pansy had turned towards him, and she nodded.

"Go," she agreed, sparing only a silent glance at Theo.

"This wasn't me," were Theo's parting words, and while Percy felt that had been rather a non-issue, Pansy gave him
a stiff nod of concession.

And then the two were gone, leaving Pansy and Percy alone.

A few moments ticked by in silence.

"You saved my life," Percy said eventually, which felt obvious, but which also seemed a thing that needed to be
stated.

She said nothing.

"What are you?" Percy pressed, turning to her, and she looked up at him, her dark brow furrowing with confusion.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not an event planner," Percy said gruffly. "I understand what you mean now. You're really, truly, not at all
an event planner." He paused. "You're something else entirely."

Pansy's mouth twitched.

"I'm a contract killer," she said. "Well, I work for a company that specializes in contract killing, but I'm usually the
decoy. The distraction. The bait." She exhaled shakily. "I don't actually kill people. Or, I don't know, I don't
normally kill people - not like that, but - "

She stumbled to a halt, looking down at her hands, and mumbled something.

"Sorry?" Percy asked, stepping towards her, and she looked up.

"For you," she repeated, spreading her hands wide in a vacant show of helplessness. "I wouldn't - I couldn't," she
exhaled, "hesitate."

He stared at her.

"Hold on," he said, and leapt behind his desk, searching for something as she turned with a bemused little frown. "I
just need to - ah, here it is," he determined, finding the parchment he'd set out the night before and grabbing a quill,
handing them both to her. "The final invoice for your services, paid in full. Your duty to the Ministry is over," he
clarified, watching her look up at him with surprise. "And your obligations to me with regard to this matter are at an
end," he added, in case the prior statement had been unclear.

He thought about saying more, but was promptly cut off by the sound of her sprawling, filigreed signature, followed
by her fingers abruptly wrapping themselves around the Windsor knot of his tie.

"Done," she said, tossing the parchment aside and pulling him into her. "Now tell me, Warlock Weasley," she
beckoned softly, her thumb coaxing along the line of his throat, "are you quite satisfied with my performance?"

He blinked, impressed.

And then, before he really knew what he was doing, he'd pressed his lips to hers and nudged her hips back against
his newly repaired desk, setting her brusquely on top of it and burying his fingers in her hair.

She tasted just as sweet as he'd imagined; just as multifaceted and intense and crackling, and he savored the tactility
of the tension they'd so long been building underneath. He'd thought to fuck her slowly, with immense amounts of
calculation, but found that his hands had minds of their own the moment he slid his palms around the shape of her
ribs, his fingers digging into the slats of them. He'd imagined it slower - he'd envisioned a bit of gasping, panting,
begging - but he barely managed sufficient time to breathe as she fumbled with his shirt, tearing it open and letting
the buttons fall to the floor.

He inhaled sharply at the coldness of her fingers, at the sharpness of her nails, at the way she pressed herself against
him, all her bristled edges so temptingly softened in his arms. He dropped to his knees, helping her wriggle out of
her knickers, and spread her legs to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh.

She let out a quiet, devastating sigh of satisfaction.

By contrast, his pulse raced.

It wasn't as if he hadn't imagined how wet she would be, or how slick she would feel when he dove his fingers inside
her. It wasn't as if he hadn't considered the sounds she would make when he licked the slit of her pussy, or how it
would look to shove her skirt up to her hips and watch the white outlines of his fingers where they wrapped tightly
around her thighs. He'd thought about it - all of it - at least a hundred times before it had happened, but he'd woken
up that morning thinking very specifically about her shoes, and about whether or not he wanted to leave them on
while he fucked her.

Off, he decided with pleasure, and slipped the shoe carefully from her foot before rising up, sliding her hips down on
the desk and lifting her leg to rest it on his shoulder. He turned his head, kissing the bare arch of her foot, and let the
leather stiletto heel in his hand fall swiftly to the floor as she kicked her other foot free, her lip scraping hungrily
between her incisors.

"Please," she whispered to him, fumbling with his zipper, and he paused her hand, holding it still.

"Are you by chance," he murmured, leaning forward to brush his lips against the lace of her bra, "begging for me,
Miss Parkinson?"

She shuddered, her dark eyes floating shut. "It's Pansy," she rasped irritably, "and yes. Yes," she said again,
breathily this time, "please."

"Pansy," he agreed, brushing his lips against her neck. "Pansy. Pretty Pansy," he whispered in her ear, dropping a
kiss to her jaw, to her collarbone, to the swell of her breasts. "Tell me, have you waited long enough?"

By the time she pulled him closer, he found it was acceptable as a yes.

Fifteen Minutes Ago

Ministry of Magic
East Corridor
12:46 p.m.

Cadmus Peverell had known his brothers were likely to be wildly mislead by the events he'd very knowingly helped
set in motion, but he hadn't been aware just how strikingly the actions of the two would converge.

"There you are," Daphne said, sprinting over to him from what must have been the banquet hall. "I finally heard
from Draco and Theo, and you won't believe what just - what are you doing?" she asked blankly, cutting herself off
to frown at him.

Cad held a finger to his lips, gesturing for her to follow.

Daphne sighed, perturbed, but she was always more curious than she wanted let on, so she followed without
argument - which, frankly, was one of many reasons he liked her. (The curiosity, of course - not the blind following,
which was a far less common impulse for her.)

"There," he murmured, gesturing down the corridor once they'd turned the corner. "Do you see it?"

Daphne frowned. "Granger?" she asked, obviously hoping for further clarity. "Talking to a… ghost?"

"Talking to my brother Antioch," Cad corrected. "I gave her an anti-disillusionment charm along with a
surveillance-revealing charm to put on that ring. The enchantments might even be worth more than that ostentatious
diamond at this point," he added drily, "which is saying something, though that's obviously not the point."

"How do you know it's your brother?" Daphne asked, and Cad shrugged.

"He wouldn't miss this. He's really quite diligent about his despotism. He attends every major political summit,
wizarding and otherwise."

"Yes, but - "

"Well, that, and because she opened by using his name," Cad clarified, prompting Daphne to gift him one of her
gloriously privileged scowls. "Which - fine. Admittedly, I might have mentioned that first."

"Immortality really makes you drag your feet about getting to the point," Daphne muttered under her breath, though
she permitted him to brush his lips soothingly against her cheek. "Are you responsible for this whole mess, then?"

"Only barely," Cad said. "It wasn't my voice, if that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I'm asking," Daphne said crisply, "but that's certainly good to know." She paused. "You don't know
anything about Ludo Bagman, do you?"

"The former bureaucrat, you mean?" Cad asked, and Daphne nodded. "Only that he's been coming to the
Underground with some regularity over the past week. Why?"

"Well, it appears he just tried to kill Percy Weasley," she said, and Cad frowned.

"Odd. Doesn't quite make sense. But one thing at a time," he suggested, beckoning again for her to follow him back
to the other side of the corridor. "For now, I'm a bit occupied with what my foolish brothers are up to."

"Which is?" Daphne asked, as he raised a warning finger to his lips. "Sorry," she whispered. "Which is?"

"They're making alliances, it seems. Strangely enough, they've both mentioned Lady Revel," Cad said quietly, half
murmuring it to himself as he turned it over in his mind. "Do you know much about her? Both my brothers seem to
have a history with her, but I hadn't thought her valuable before aside from -" he paused, skirting Daphne's artful
look of curiosity before foolishly mentioning the word secrets. "Aside from the robbery at her house, obviously.
Which was clearly something."
"Mm," Daphne permitted skeptically, shaking her head. "Well, I think you know more than I do about it, Cad, but
thanks for pretending. I suppose you could ask Zabini's little divinist," she added thoughtfully, considering it. "She
worked as part of Lady Revel's household for a few years after the war, I believe. She might know something about
whether your brothers were ever there."

"Well," Cad proclaimed delightedly, "aren't you a helpful little minx! Ideal, frankly." He bent his head, lifting her
chin in the same motion and kissing her soundly. "Someone," he murmured, stroking his thumb across her bottom
lip, "should really make an honest woman of you."

"You're actively making a dishonest woman of me," Daphne reminded him testily, though her hands had already slid
approvingly to either side of his waist. "So if I were a little less helpful, I think it'd do me some good, actually."

"Well, remind me to reward you, then," Cad murmured to her, hearing a sound that indicated that Harry and Ignotus
were about to part ways. "Later, of course. Or now?" he mused, stroking his thumb along her jaw.

"Now," she agreed firmly.

Cad smiled. "Well then, my goddess, if you insis-"

He paused, catching the sound of conversation dropping in volume slightly, which was never a very promising sign.

"What are you going to do next?" Harry was asking.

"Well, there is no telling where Cadmus is now," Ignotus replied, as Cad suffered a momentary impact of
displeasure at how easily his name escaped from his traitorous brother's tongue. "I would be willing to bet he's
responsible for this, and has likely been responsible for the other poisonings all along."

"You think that could also be Antioch's doing?" Harry asked, surprised, and Cad tugged Daphne's hand in alarm,
pulling her back to where they'd been as she protested incoherently with a series of tiny mews and scoffs.

"I'm saying," Hermione was informing the specter of his brother Antioch, "that we have to end this. Ignotus is up to
something, and if you don't have someone on your side willing to bring him down, use me - "

"Well," Cad exhaled to Daphne, frowning. "That's an interesting turn of events."

"What is?" Daphne asked, and he glanced down at her, sorting out the turbulence of his feelings on the matter and
determining how to explain what he'd just uncovered. It was surprising, in a sense - he'd known Antioch and Ignotus
would each react badly, but he was out of practice in predicting their movements - and Cad took a moment,
processing what might happen next.

"I think," he said slowly, "that my brothers are blaming each other. And possibly me," he added wryly, pairing the
realization with a shrug. "But they seem to have both leapt to rather surprisingly inaccurate conclusions in the
process."

To his surprise, Daphne looked unimpressed by this. "Does it matter whether the conclusions are true or false?" she
asked him, her hazel eyes alighting knowingly on his. "This is still what you wanted, isn't it? For each brother to
destroy the other while you sat back and watched?"

At the salience of her point, Cad nearly permitted a laugh.

She was right, of course. What did it matter if one brother or another incorrectly suspected him to be behind this
somehow?

The truth had never mattered much, in his experience. Not nearly as much as the end result, so -

"Yes," he permitted slyly. "Yes, Daphne, it's precisely what I wanted."

Five Minutes Ago

Ministry of Magic
East Corridor
1:06 p.m.

It was a normal day for Katie Bell.

That is, it had seemed like a normal day, until it very abruptly wasn't.

Obviously there was the psychopath who had threatened the members of the Wizengamot. Katie was afraid,
obviously, but not in any life-altering way; she'd known she wasn't important enough to merit being singled out.

Then there was Draco, who was experimenting with his own special brand of psychopathy, or so it had appeared.
He'd come out of nowhere, half-lunging for her, and then disappeared just as abruptly. Of course, he'd babbled
something about her new boyfriend, which would have been a flattering show of jealousy (not an ideal one,
obviously, but she wasn't completely made of stone) had it not been totally nonsensical.

For one thing, she was pretty sure Draco had suggested her boyfriend, a very normal Ministry consultant named
Montague, was actually some sort of obscure figure whose name she remembered quite firmly from a book she'd
once read on wizarding history.

For another thing, she'd long suspected Draco had been up to something in his 'work' for the Ministry, and now she
was uncomfortably certain that was the case. He seemed to know a little too much, and by comparison, Katie now
felt she knew disturbingly little.

"Montague," she exhaled, catching sight of him as he reappeared in the corridor she had been pacing, waiting none-
too-patiently for any sign of him. "Thank goodness. I really need to talk to y-"

"Sorry," Montague said briskly, not quite looking at her. "I have a few things I need to do, Katie, but if you could
just - "

"Are you really Ignotus Peverell?" she blurted out, unable to sort out how else to venture the question, and
Montague turned slowly, his jaw clenching slightly at the name.

"Who told you that?" he asked, and she paused.

"Um," she began, and then felt a little itch in her brain; felt the name Draco come loose, as if someone outside it had
knocked it free. "Hey," she exclaimed, glaring at him. "Get - get out of there, I didn't say you could - "

"Draco Malfoy is a threat to me," said the man she was growing increasingly sure was not Montague Knightley.
"More importantly, though," he said, with a look she might have called regretful if she didn't know any better, "you
are now a liability to me, Katie."

She blinked. "What?"

He advanced a step, the wand from his sleeve slipping out into his palm.

"You know who I am," he told her, with a strangely pensive expression of concern, "but I can't have you telling
anyone else. I can't have you influencing Harry Potter, nor can I have you consorting with Draco Malfoy. I had
hoped things would be easier," he added, with another brief twinge of remorse-adjacent hesitation, "or, at least, that
things would not progress to this stage, but things being what they are - "

Katie registered fear too late as her wand ripped itself from her hand, depositing itself wordlessly in his palm.

"I don't know anything," she offered quickly, fidgeting with her hands at her side and glancing down the corridor to
see if someone - anyone - were coming. "I - I only know your - your name, but that's - but I wouldn't - "
"My name," the man who was almost certainly Ignotus Peverell said, "is the most important bit, don't you think?
Unfortunately. And now that I know Malfoy will be asking you about me - and that perhaps Harry Potter will, too - "

He trailed off ominously, and Katie's heart thudded.

She'd thought it would be a normal day.

It was supposed to be a normal day, but now -

"Mont- Ignotus," she attempted helplessly, taking a step back. "Ignotus, please, I - I won't get in the way," she
promised him. "I won't tell anyone, I swear - "

He sighed, and flicked his wand.

It was not a normal day.

Now

Ministry of Magic
Stairwell outside the West Corridor
1:11 p.m.

Maybe it had started with the terrible sensation of waking up alone, her heart inexplicably heavy from the events of
the night before and her mouth still dry from the words she'd failed to say.

Maybe it had started with Draco's obvious dismay in Katie's office, her own lauded maturity and faultless intellect
suddenly woefully cast aside in favor of a prickly, sticky sort of hurt.

Maybe it had started with Draco's fingers laced with hers, and her relief at the comfort of his touch, right before he'd
leapt after Katie.

Or maybe it had started a long time ago when Harry Potter had asked her to do him a favor, and she'd foolishly
agreed to work with the man she might have presumed she hated most in the world - right up until the moment she
realized she had no hatred whatsoever left for the image of his face in her mind, worried and tense and pale.

In any case, however the events of Hermione Granger's day had started, they ended with her holding her hand out
for Antioch Peverell's, offering him something of a deal.

"Lady Revel's robbery," she'd reminded him, ticking the instances off on her fingers. "The poisonings. The assassin
sent after Malfoy and me. You have to admit your brother has both means and motive to make those things happen,
which means that your control over him - and the Club itself - is far more tenuous than you thought."

Antioch's mouth had tightened, but he hadn't replied.

"We have to end this," Hermione pressed. "Ignotus is up to something, and if you don't have someone on your side
willing to bring him down, use me."

"You wish to end this?" Antioch asked warily. "Your partnership with Mr Malfoy would be at an end. Are you so
certain that's what you want?"

"Yes," she said, firm in at least that much. "I'm tired of the secrets, the lies. I want it over with, and I don't want to
merely do your bidding." She shifted, folding her arms over her chest. "And I want a say in your brother's downfall."

"A little bloodthirsty, aren't you?" Antioch asked neutrally. "Interesting." He paused, and she said nothing. "War did
something strange to you, Hermione Granger," he commented, eyeing her with a stoic sort of interest. "Simply
bookish before, weren't you?" Another recalcitrant pause. "Was it the trauma of losing your parents to your own
memory modification spell?" he mused, and she flinched, but didn't respond. "Was it the dissolution of your
relationship with the boy you loved in school?" She hardened in the silence. "What was it, Miss Granger, that finally
broke you?"

"I'm not broken," Hermione snapped, unwilling to sit through any further taunts. "I just want to have a say in this.
Whether you like it or not, you and I have similar interests. I want this over with," she said fiercely, "and you
certainly can't afford to let it drag much longer. So are you willing to include me or not?"

"Include you," Antioch echoed slowly, her intent finally registering. "You're saying you want membership to the
League of Eternality?"

She didn't respond.

"Interesting," Antioch mused. "Very, very interesting."

"I want to be consulted in your plans," she corrected sharply. "If that means being a member of the Club, so be it.
But I want my friends protected," she warned. "I want to know what Ignotus is doing with Harry. I want to know
how you plan to deal with the threat of Nico's competing interests. I want to know what comes next, and - "

"And you want Draco Malfoy to choose you," Antioch murmured. "Rather than having circumstance continually
force his hand. Am I correct in that?"

Hermione stiffened.

"This isn't about him," she insisted again. "Though, for the record, I don't want to be forced, either. Especially if -"

"Especially if your feelings are not returned," Antioch determined with a laugh, and she bit her tongue, resolutely
saying nothing. "Ah, Cadmus would love this," Antioch mused nostalgically, "in that he would mock it relentlessly,
of course. He is not particularly sensitive," he added, shaking his head. "A deeply unfortunate but frustratingly
endearing quality he had." He glanced around, considering something. "Speaking of Cadmus, I need to find whoever
did this," he postulated, which Hermione took to be an offering of sorts; an indication of next steps, which had been
along the lines of what she'd requested. "Whoever set this in motion, I want them on my side."

"That's the other thing," Hermione admitted stiffly. "I think I know exactly who it was."

Antioch tilted his head then, too curious to refuse, and she held out her hand again, waiting.

"So. Do we have a deal?" she prompted, glaring firmly up at him.

Antioch eyed the space between them, contemplating it.

Then he shifted, offering his hand expectantly for hers.

"Yes," Antioch said coolly. "Yes, Miss Granger, we do."

Warlock Ifan Hawkworth had not risen to where he was by some celestial launching of fortune. He had climbed
there, step by step, to reach a level of impenetrable influence, and he was not about to let it go because some
incorporeal voice had guessed correctly that he would try to put up a fight whenever there was one to be had.
Anyone who knew Ifan at all knew that he'd always had a ruthless quality to do what was necessary, after all.

Take his relationship with his son, for instance.

Ifan always been proud of all his children - his horde of seven handsome, clever boys - but none of them had ever
reminded him more of himself than his eldest, Cadell. A Gryffindor, like himself, Cadell had been Ifan's first and
dearest son, the least trouble and the most eager to mimic his father's path, and though Ifan tried very hard not to
have favorites, Cadell was unavoidably his.
Had been, at least, until the son who had most resembled Ifan himself had managed to disappoint him most fully.

It wasn't as if Ifan couldn't understand his eldest son's motives. Ifan wasn't so heartless a man that he couldn't grasp
Cadell's loyalty to his wife, the part-fae creature called Gwen. Ifan had, of course, hoped for someone better - for all
that he'd married a muggle-born, his darling Rhiannon, he'd hoped Cadell would sort out the obvious: that a
pureblood wife (or, at least, a pure human one) was a wiser choice for a successful wizarding politician - but Ifan
still understood that his son had fallen deeply in love with Gwen le Fay, and that it was a thing that could not be
helped.

But Ifan still wished with all his being that Cadell had not ruined both their lives by killing the Snatcher who'd killed
his wife.

It had been a problem on a variety of levels. For one thing, Ifan had risen on a platform of swift and fair retribution.
It was an age where many former Death Eaters had gone woefully unpunished, permitting the Dark Lord's return,
and many admired Ifan for his willingness to stand firm without exception, even beneath a dystopian reign.
Unfortunately, that stance also meant that the moment Ifan had been informed that his eldest son was missing and
his youngest son, Rhys - already a troublesome youth, mildly wayward and lost as he was, being a child of war - was
held in custody by Snatchers, Ifan had known with sinking, painful certainty that his son Cadell would have to be
dead to him. Anything short of his own dismissal - anything less than the act of putting his own son in Azkaban -
would be politically hypocritical.

It would break Ifan's heart to do it, but he could not adjust his morality for favoritism. Crimes had to be paid, and
Cadell Hawkworth had killed a man in what had not been self-defense. He had killed out of retribution.

Ifan hated more than anything that Cadell had inherited that compulsion from him.

By then, though, Ifan had at least gained a variety of other things to focus on. The very same day he'd been made a
foremost leader on the Wizengamot, in fact, Ifan had received a visit from a man who'd worn a cloak embroidered
with a lemniscate, explaining himself to be a member of the League of Eternality, otherwise known as the Infinity
Club. Ifan, who had rightfully recognized the honor, had been quick to accept, and after a few years of being
faithfully devoted to the Club's needs, he'd awaited a visit from its leaders: from Antioch or Ignotus Peverell, or
perhaps Herpo the Foul, or even Nicholas Flamel, who was said to mainly do the Peverells' bidding.

But no such attention ever came.

At first, Ifan thought it was because of Cadell. As a result of his eldest son turning to murder, Ifan suspected that the
Club might have turned itself away from him. Then, after he'd maintained his distance to no conceivable shift in
favor, Ifan assumed that perhaps it was Rhys, who'd always seemed borderline vagrant even at the best of times. Ifan
then single-mindedly turned his attention to improving Rhys, trying to prove that because one son had gone wrong,
the others were not yet lost to the same fate. (Rhys, of course, mistook these efforts as some sort of deal for Ifan's
forgiveness of Cadell; he had not understood, as Cadell had not understood, that a murder was not any less a murder
simply because it was committed by one's favorite son.) Even then, though, nothing had changed.

Then Emmett Carnegie, a Club initiate who'd been invited the same year that Ifan had been asked to join, was killed,
with no real effort at explanation.

That was when Ifan realized, jarringly, that the Club did not care about him. That he had risen to the top of the
Wizengamot after decades of sweating away at the bottom of the Ministry, only to find himself the bottom of yet
another hierarchy of powerful men.

He did not care for it.

He did not plan to endure it.

Luckily, all evidence appeared to be pointing to the Club's influence starting to wane. There was no thorough
explanation for the Wizengamot poisonings, and the longer the Club went without supplying an answer, the more
obvious the infighting in the Club's leadership had become. When Ifan began to notice the odd behaviors of
Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, particularly in conjunction with Emmett Carnegie's death, he recognized that
they had somehow become the Club's weapons of choice.

What a laugh, he'd thought. A girl his youngest son's age (a brilliant one, certainly, though hardly any considerable
landmark of power) who was at best a paparazzo's darling, favored over the most powerful man on the Wizengamot?
Absurd.

The Club was obviously weakening, and having already lost a son for the cause he'd once thought worthy, Ifan
steadied himself once again for a climb.

"Ludo Bagman," Ifan offered, waiting until the other man had hurried out from the banquet hall after the outrageous
display of terrorism from what was clearly yet another new enemy of the Club. "Might I have a word?"

"Er, now?" Ludo asked, glancing over his shoulder. Ifan stiffened, impatient with the other man's obvious
cowardice, but forced himself to be firm.

"Yes, now," Ifan confirmed, leading him towards his office in the Wizengamot chambers. "Tell me, Ludo," Ifan said
slowly, "how is it you knew about Gagnon's part in the Wizengamot poisonings? The adrenaline potion," he
clarified, and Ludo spared a laugh, looking distinctly guilty in a way that only other guilty people understand.

"Well, as you know, Warlock, I have some experience with adrenaline potions in international sports," Ludo said,
quite obviously repeating a rehearsed public line. "It was my job for many years, as you might recall, and - "

"You threatened Gagnon if he didn't take the fall, didn't you?" Ifan asked abruptly, gesturing the other man into his
office, and Ludo opened his mouth to argue, but Ifan held up a hand. "Don't deny it," he warned, taking a seat at his
desk. "I'm not here to oppose you. In fact, I'd like your help with something."

"My help?" Ludo echoed, openly bemused. "But why - "

"I don't know the extent of your involvement, Ludo, but I do know this," Ifan said, leaning forward. "I know that
you and Gagnon used to have an intimate working relationship, and I know it was much more sinister than you wish
people to believe. I know you have a disastrous gambling problem, and miraculously, you now have a number of
mysteriously cleared debts. I also know you have a talent for networking. You're like a spider," Ifan mused, "luring
people into your web and consuming them before they even realize they're in danger." He paused, leaning back. "I
find I have a use for someone with such a crucial set of skills."

Ludo's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, Ludo Bagman, that we have an opportunity to take over the League of Eternality. I presume,
considering your circles, that you've heard of it?" Ifan prompted, and Ludo nodded slowly. "If you have the stomach
for such a thing, obviously. It will be no easy task, and there is always someone to be used. Someone to be stepped
on." Ifan smiled grimly. "That is, after all, what makes success a climb."

Not unsurprisingly, Ludo's mouth twitched with interest.

"I'm not opposed to climbing," Ludo permitted. "But why should I do it with you?"

"You have enemies," Ifan said. "Kingsley Shacklebolt doesn't like you, nor do many in the Ministry. Head Auror
Potter has long disliked you, and quite openly, in fact - "

"Potter," Ludo grumbled incoherently under his breath. "An utter nuisance - "

" - whereas I am respected enough in my office to cover our tracks. The Club is destroying itself," Ifan said simply.
"We merely have to let it continue to fall apart. And when the Club has ripped itself in shreds - "

"We pick up the pieces," Ludo supplied thoughtfully.

Ifan smiled. "Precisely," he confirmed. He gestured to the door. "And now that we've had this little talk," he
continued, rising to his feet, "we should probably evacuate the building. You know," he added, "much public
distress, mayhem, et cetera - "

"Do you know who did this?" Ludo asked, following Ifan as he opened the door to his office and paused for Ludo to
pass.

"No," Ifan admitted. "But I hardly think it matters. All it shows is that the Club is losing influence. Of course, that
being said, if we can provide answers where the Club cannot, then that would be - "

"Thank you, Warlock Hawkworth, for considering my concerns," Ludo interrupted loudly, and Ifan looked up,
catching sight of a slightly disheveled Percy Weasley exiting his office down the hall. The young Warlock froze,
startled, and inclined his head.

"Warlock Hawkworth," Percy said, and then blinked. "And - Mr Bagman?"

"Have we met?" Ludo asked, and Percy gaped at him. "Sorry," he added cheerily, "I like to think I have a good
memory for faces but names are entirely another story, I'm afraid - "

"Ludo Bagman?" Percy asked dumbly, glancing over his shoulder into his office and then back into the hallway,
looking as if he'd seen a ghost. "Is that - are you - "

"Is everything okay, Warlock Weasley?" Ifan asked. The young man was a bit of an oddball - constantly distracted,
and in a way that was occasionally preposterous - but still, even for him, this was exceedingly strange behavior.
"Are you quite well?"

"Yes, I just - forgot something," Percy said unsteadily, suddenly depositing himself back in his office and shutting
the door firmly behind him, almost as if he'd been yanked inside.

A moment passed, permitting space for utter bewilderment.

"Well," Ludo said eventually, lifting a brow, "speaking of people to step on." He turned, eyeing Ifan. "See you soon,
then?"

All at once, the strangeness of Percy Weasley evaporated from Ifan's list of concerns.

"Yes," Ifan confirmed, with the sly smile of someone who felt the promise of opportunity in his bones. "Yes, Ludo,
I'd wager that we'll be seeing each other again quite soon."

1:20 p.m.

"So wait, what you're telling me," Draco hissed into his tie clip, grabbing Theo to drag him to a halt as they made
their way out of the Ministry, "is that Ludo Bagman isn't dead?"

A slight crackle.

And then, in Pansy's clipped, sharp voice: "No."

Draco looked up, exchanging a wary glance with Theo.

"Well then who the fuck did we just kill?"

Thirty Minutes Ago

Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Wizengamot Chambers

Office of Warlock Percy Weasley
12:50 p.m.
It hadn't been very difficult to find one of Ludo's hairs. After all, she'd lived with him for over a year, hadn't she? It
wasn't as if Ludo Bagman, who was made up of considerably more ego than sense, might have thought to consider
what Dolores, with her skill at draughts and her calculated patience, might manage to accomplish with polyjuice
potion. He'd had foresight, certainly, but not enough for that.

She hadn't expected the fight upon her arrival, though she supposed it wasn't fully a surprise. She might have done a
better job - might have been more subtle about it, and might have actually managed to kill Warlock Weasley this
time around, too - but she'd lost the will to care much by then.

Dionisia was dead. Ludo had abandoned her. Dolores had been betrayed.

What was left, really, aside from vengeance?

Lucky there was at least that. Dolores had always loved a good revenge story.

She'd hoped, of course, that the attempted murder would leave Ludo Bagman exposed, at least long enough for his
reputation to be tainted in a way that his actual gambling problem had not. He liked his comforts, after all, and
perhaps the attempted killing of a Wizengamot member would mean he'd finally get the time in Azkaban he so
richly deserved. She hadn't carried it out quite that far, admittedly, but still.

The vaguely familiar former student who'd dueled her had recognized Ludo's face, so it hadn't fully been for
nothing.

Maybe she'd turn back into herself after death, Dolores pondered, though privately, she doubted it. More likely her
killer would try to stash the body before the hours she'd secured herself were up.

At the very least, she'd pointed an alarming finger at Ludo Bagman that couldn't be ignored, and frankly, she
couldn't wait for Harry Potter to hear about it.

Dolores was relieved to have been hit with an Avada, honestly, because it seemed a pleasantly quick way to go. In
fact, she had barely managed to blink before the spell hit her; before it had convulsed through her in a wave, and
before she'd begun an impossibly slow descent to the floor.

"What have you done?" she heard, and looked up, finding a glowing, crossly-pursed mirage of Dionisia Trelawney
lording above her, shaking her head. "Dolores Umbridge, you absolute cunting lunatic."

Is it real? Dolores wanted to ask, reaching out for Dionisia's gilded face, but she couldn't open her mouth. Is this
real?

But she couldn't do anything but laugh, really, so she laughed;

She laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and then she fell;

She fell

And fell

And fell

But if she hit the ground, she never felt it.

She merely drifted off and let out her final breath, the light from Lady Revel glowing like sunspots behind her eyes.
 27. Last Confession Wins

Chapter 27: Last Confession Wins

Outside the Ministry of Magic

London
October 16, 2003
1:31 p.m.

For a long time after they heard from Pansy, Draco and Theo merely stood in place, letting their respective thoughts
percolate in silence. For Theo, the lack of conversation was a relief. The alternative would be Draco actually
speaking the many things that he seemed to be turning over in his (unfortunately) not altogether inept mind, and
Theo had never appreciated a scolding.

"We should go somewhere," Draco suggested after about five minutes of silence.

It wasn't like Theo was going to be the one to break first, though he knew perfectly well he should have been. After
all, he had just terrorized an entire Ministry, his best friend included.

"Fine," Theo replied, shrugging. "Where?"

Draco grimaced. "Not like we can go anywhere in the Wizarding World. Not after that." He jerked his head towards
the Ministry. "The Daily Prophet will have published something about it by now, and nobody's about to serve two
former Death Eater sympathizers." At that, his grey gaze cut grimly to Theo's. "Why did she think it was you?"

"Who?" Theo asked smoothly, and Draco's expression soured further.

"Pansy." A pause, and then, unsurprisingly, "Come on, Nott. Don't fucking lie to me. Not now."

"I thought you wanted to go somewhere," Theo said neutrally.

Draco sighed, grabbing his arm. "Fine. Come on."

They made their way to a muggle bar they used to frequent during their more isolated periods of social ostracization.
It was quiet and mostly dark, which was a highly appropriate aesthetic, and it wasn't like the two of them weren't
skilled enough to transfigure a galleon to a pound, or whatever else it might need to be. The exchange rate there was
off, of course, but it didn't matter. They were rich.

Wryly, Theo was glad he had at least one thing sorted out, even if it was only money.

"I know it was you," Draco said once they'd been served, a pint of Guinness set in front of each of them. "If it didn't
seem like a Theo Nott thing to do to begin with, then Pansy's accusation really sealed it." He pursed his lips. "What I
want to know is why."

Theo took a careful sip of his beer. "You don't really want to know," he replied slowly, and Draco shook his head,
displeased. Still, Theo was gratified to see Draco was more annoyed than angry, which was much closer to the
natural state of things than he expected.

"Of course I fucking want to know," Draco informed him. "And what does Blaise have to do with this?"

"Very little," Theo said easily, shrugging. "He's really more the source of the problem than a symptom of its ills. I
made him mostly stay out of it."

Draco glared at him. "What about me?"

"What about you?" Theo prompted. "You've been off with Granger."
"So?"

"So, nothing," Theo replied. "You just can't really expect me to tell you my plans when I know you have other
things weighing on your mind. You're keeping something from me too, in case that slipped your mind," he added, as
Draco's gaze cut guiltily away. "I haven't forgotten, and this is how it works, Draco. Secrets don't make friends."

"Oh, fuck off," Draco growled. "We're not friends, we're - " he broke off, irritated. "We've never kept anything like
this from each other. Ever. When you said you were keeping a secret, I thought, I don't know - " Another growl. "I
didn't think it would be something like this."

"Well, riddle me this: what would you have done if I'd told you?" Theo prompted. "Seriously, Draco. Tell me. If I'd
said to you in advance that I had to do this, would you really have wanted to know?"

Draco grimaced, but didn't relent. "I just want to know why," he pronounced sharply. "Can't I at least know why?"

"Yes, you can. I have something I shouldn't," Theo replied truthfully, parsing his remark with a sip. "I need to get rid
of it."

Draco stared at him. "Then why not just ask me for help?"

"Because," Theo replied lazily, giving the Guiness a swirl. "You have a conscience now."

At that, Draco was consummately offended. "I have never had a conscience in my entire life," he retorted, "and I'm
not about to start now."

"You have a Granger, then," Theo informed him, shrugging. "Same thing."

Draco frowned. "What does she have to do with it?"

"I told you." Theo leaned forward. "You'd tell her."

"I wouldn't." An obvious lie.

"You would," Theo corrected.

Persistence, of course. "I wouldn-"

"You would," Theo countered with a laugh, "and the most ridiculous part is that you don't even realize that you
would. You don't even know what's happening to you." He leaned back, lifting his pint glass again. "You didn't
change for Katie Bell, Draco, no matter how much you try to tell yourself that you did. But I have news for you," he
mused, taking another sip and pausing to eye Draco over his glass. "You're changing for Hermione Granger."

By the look on Draco's face, Theo suspected he might have swung too hard, or aimed too low.

"You're making excuses," Draco said darkly, and if he wasn't angry before, he was definitely angry now. "This
doesn't have anything to do with Granger, Theo, and we both know it. This is about you not wanting to tell me the
truth."

"Well, you're right about the second bit. I definitely don't want to tell you the truth," Theo confirmed smartly. "Not
even a little bit, Draco, because there's probably going to be some colossal fucking fallout from this, and I want it to
be on me."

Unsurprisingly, his better intentions were aptly disregarded. "You're not that selfless," Draco accused, his eyes
narrowing. "Since when did you have a fucking hero complex, Nott? I thought that was Potter's contribution to this
whole circus of ineptitude."

"Maybe I'm a hero too, Draco," Theo replied drily. "Ever think of that?"

Another glare. "Fuck off."

"You don't have to stay," Theo reminded him. "If you want to storm away in a tantrum, Draco, the door's right" - he
glanced up, jutting his chin towards it - "there."

"Walk out on you?" Draco prompted, scoffing. "Yeah. Right. Like I'm going to make that mistake." Another long,
broody stare, and then, brusquely, "What do you even have that you need to get rid of? Are you in trouble?"

"No," Theo said, fidgeting with the glass again. "Not yet." He looked up. "I just want one goddamn thing to be on
my terms," he said, with more vehemence than he'd initially planned to use. "You're not the only one who got fucked
up and fucked over, Draco, but you at least had a choice in what happened to you. You dug your own grave, and if
the aftermath's shit, you earned it. Let me make my own mistakes."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco demanded.

Theo nudged his chin out again, his gaze flicking to Draco's wrist. "What did she say when she saw it?" he asked
quietly, dangerously, and Draco flinched. "Did you feel her breath catch? Did she suddenly pull away from you,
even if it was just for a moment? After she saw it, when she looked at you - " He paused, watching Draco's mouth
tighten warningly. "Could she even look at you?"

Silence.

"That's why you can't forgive yourself, Draco," Theo said, aware he was being crueler than he needed to be and
unable to prevent it. "But what about me? What the fuck did I do to get here?"

"Nothing," Draco spat at him. "You didn't do anything either way, did you? Real hero move, Theo. Well played."

Theo drained his glass, setting it firmly on the table and rising to his feet.

"No, I didn't," Theo agreed, dropping a few transfigured bills on the table. "I didn't then, but now I am. Good or bad,
this is my mistake. I'll deal with whatever happens next by myself."

"Theo," Draco said furiously, grabbing his arm. "Come on, Theo - "

But he yanked out of Draco's reach, heading briskly for the street. He paused the moment the wind hit his face,
glancing back briefly with a moment of curdling remorse, but ultimately decided he needed some time to himself
before he wanted to face Draco again. Theo opted to step into the closest alley and apparate himself home, exhaling
only once he arrived in his own living room.

"Theodore Nott," he heard, and pivoted on the spot, finding an exceedingly well-dressed, ambitiously attractive man
sitting in his preferred chair. "I found you."

Theo exhaled, rubbing brusquely at his temple. "Antioch Peverell," he noted, as the other man rose to his feet. "It's
Theo. Don't call me Theodore."

"Well, what a way to start a negotiation," Antioch replied smoothly, stepping in closer. Intimidation tactic, Theo
figured, as Cad had said would be his elder brother's preference.

Theo drew his shoulders back. He was tall and intimidating too, when he chose to be.

So he chose it.

"There's little to negotiate," Theo replied airily. "I have something your Club wants. In return, you'll give me what I
want. You won't call me Theodore, and in return, I won't call you an arrogant cunt." He shrugged innocently. "That's
just how this thing is going to play out."

Antioch threw his head back, laughing. This, too, Theo had expected. It was an unusual reaction by most standards,
but if Cadmus Peverell was anything to go by, his brother certainly wasn't going to be anything less.

"Ah, you're very like my brother," Antioch remarked in a moment of perfect symmetry, and then he sobered slightly,
giving Theo a hard glance. "But I killed him, you know."

"I know," Theo said. "But you need me."

"Do I?" Antioch mocked. "Interesting take, Theodore."

Theo didn't flinch. "Well, seeing as you couldn't even wait, oh -" he glanced down at his watch. "What, three whole
hours to come find me? My goodness, Antioch." Theo tutted softly. "Someone's a little eager, aren't they?"

Antioch folded his arms over his chest, resetting his power stance. "I'm not in the business of wasting time," he
replied, tilting his head slightly. "Spare me the pageantry, would you?"

"Ah, but you love a show," Theo countered. "So who told you? I didn't leave any hints," he added. "Though I would
have, of course. I love the chase, you know." He spared Antioch an irreverent wink. "Really gets the blood flowing,
I find."

"I have my sources," Antioch replied. "Someone who suspected you, in fact, so perhaps you're less careful than you
thought. Or do many people know you're a specialist in reconnaissance?" he mused, an obvious shot to Theo's
confidence.

Inwardly, Theo ran through the list of possibilities. Couldn't have been Blaise, or he'd have sold off the secrets
himself. Couldn't have been Pansy; she wouldn't have kept this quiet. Daphne had no motivation, Cad had higher
aims, Harry certainly didn't possess any capacity for duplicity, so that left -

Draco.

Theo clenched a fist.

"I have something," Theo said, clearing his throat to suppress his temper. "I have a network of leverage I can offer
you, but I won't do it for nothing."

"What do you want?" Antioch asked, relaxing slightly. This was business; just business. The air in the room seemed
to change once both players openly approached the board.

"I want membership to the Club," Theo said. "None of your initiate bullshit, either. You got a council of some kind?
A board? A tier," he determined, tapping his mouth. "A hierarchy, I'm guessing, and you're at the top." No
confirmation, but Theo had already known as much. "I want a seat at your side."

"Many people do," Antioch said warily. "Why should I offer it to you?"

Theo spared him a grim smile. "Because you want to. Because I'm quick, I'm clever, I'm rich, and I'm bored," he
said, taking a step forward and trying out Antioch's dance of superiority himself. "And because you're a collector of
things you can use, and you know as well as I do that you'd be better off with me at your side."

He could tell he'd hit on something. Antioch's jaw shifted, preparing to accommodate whatever he planned to say
next.

"Very well, then," Antioch said after a moment, holding out his hand. "Give me something worth my time, and we'll
call it a deal-" He permitted a smirk, suddenly keen-eyed and thoughtful. "Theo."

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
5:15 p.m.

Hermione walked through the Floo and fell into the living room sofa, groaning. It had been an exceedingly long
afternoon, and now, with the extreme likelihood of further lunacy from what she couldn't believe were even more
unsavory Malfoys than the ones she had known before, she wasn't sure she could stand another moment of -
Silence?

She sat upright, frowning.

"Uncle Armand?" she asked timidly, finding his portrait vacant from its frame above the fireplace. "Uncle Armand,
are you - " She frowned. "Are you fellating the King?"

Silence.

Slowly, she began to register slightly more of her surroundings. For one thing, the sofa she had fallen into was
resolutely not the sofa that had been there this morning. This one was some sort of lovely indigo velvet material, and
while she was not particularly an admirer of velvet, she had to admit this one was sort of stately and elegant. She
glanced around, slowly taking in the other details that she'd missed when she entered the room. There was a
surprisingly attractive area rug beneath her feet, featuring a complicated but not ostentatious design, and two side
tables, each boasting a creamy marble surface, chic brass hardware, and topped with some of hers and Draco's more
decorative books. The walls and moldings had been painted - the former a slate grey, the latter a crisp white - and
there was art on the walls now, shelves stocked with her full literary collection, and an impeccably cared-for
philodendron that suspended regally from a corner near the windows.

She waited, gathering something of a voice. "Uncle Armand?"

"Oh, he's off visiting one of his other portraits," Hortense supplied airily, floating into the room and sniffing the air.
"My goodness, Hermione, you positively reek of working-class exhaustion. I recommend a nap and a spoonful of
caviar."

"I - what?" Hermione asked. "Hortense, is this - did you do this?"

"We did it, you pedantic hussy," Thibaut supplied, following his sister as he drew casually from a gold plate of
olives. "It's hardly a masterpiece, but it'll do for a party, and we're tackling the ballroom next. By the way, that sofa
is resolutely not for slouching," he informed her, and then, muttering to himself, "I'll have to add a charm to make
sure that particular rule sticks - "

"You did?" Hermione asked, glancing around the room again. The photo of her with Harry and Ron had been placed
in a different (much nicer) frame, settled comfortably on one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. "But - but your
taste is - "

"Delightful? Refined? Très sophistiqué?" Hortense prompted.

"Er - I was going to say extravagant," Hermione said weakly.

"Yes, well, that is because your taste is simple and dull," Thibaut determined, perching beside her. "But this is, after
all, your house, I suppose." He and Hortense exchanged a conspiratorial look of doubt before glancing back at
Hermione. "We're not totally without some understanding of boundaries."

"That seems unlikely," Hermione said, lifting her arms as Thibaut draped himself across her lap and began sensually
lowering the olives into his mouth one by one. "But, you know, thanks, I think - it is really lovely - "

"Yes, it is, if one is aiming for plodding, or banausic," Hortense agreed, settling herself daintily on the coffee table
across from Hermione, "but now for more relevant things."

"What?" Hermione asked. "Like what?"

"Stroke my hair, please," Thibaut told her, and she sighed, grudgingly conceding.

"We have to discuss the rituals at your engagement party," Hortense supplied, as if Hermione should have already
known this. "Typically there is at least one performed in the company of your friends, family, and any close
nepotistic government officials, though some of the more private rituals may be completed closer to the wedding - "
"But there was nothing about engagement rituals in Narcissa's book," Hermione protested, and then paused, glancing
down at Thibaut. "Your hair is really very soft."

"Yes," Thibaut agreed. "It is very much a privilege to stroke it."

"SO SAYS THE KING," agreed Armand, who was apparently back in his portrait.

"Narcissa probably thought she would be around to oversee Draco's engagement herself," Hortense informed
Hermione. "She doesn't have the Malfoy gift for foresight, obviously, and I doubt she would have felt it necessary to
discuss. After all, most pureblood women only do it once in their lives. Perhaps she thought her elder sisters might
help her, too," Hortense mused, and then immediately cast off the thought. "Though the Black rituals are immensely
stupid, of course. So frankly, you're better off."

"You really should be more sensitive about her," Hermione sighed, glad that Draco wasn't there to hear it. "I think
Narcissa was estranged from one of her sisters when she died, and the other was already dead."

"Oh, how sad," Hortense drawled facetiously. "Were you close to the dead one?"

Hermione grimaced. "No. She tortured me once."

Hortense made a spectacularly snotty face of righteousness, and Hermione sighed again.

"Fine," she conceded. "So the Black rituals are stupid."

"Yes, correct. And since you have no rituals from your family - " Hortense broke off. "Or do you? Do muggles have
any pre-marriage ceremonies?"

"Feats of strength?" Thibaut guessed. "Or perhaps a battle of wits!"

"I once heard there's something where they put on ice skates and competitively dance," Hortense said, her eyes
brightening. "Was that, by chance, an engagement ritual?"

"I think that was probably the Olympics," Hermione informed her uncertainly, but by then, both Hortense and
Thibaut had directed their interests elsewhere.

"The ritual Thibaut and I would suggest for your party tomorrow evening would be this one," Hortense said, flipping
her palm over to reveal an old, leather-bound book that bore the Malfoy crest on the spine. "This is traditionally
what would be done, though there are different styles of verses." She showed Hermione an enchanted illustration,
wherein a man and woman held out their hands to be bound together with a narrow cloth. "Generally, the man wears
ivy and the woman holds gladiolus - "

"Gladiolus?" Hermione interrupted, frowning.

Thibaut made a lazy gesture with his hand, procuring a stalk-like flower. "It means faithfulness and honor," he said,
nudging her cheek with it. "And also, keep stroking."

"SO SAYS THE KING!" Armand wailed.

"Okay," Hermione permitted unsteadily. "So we wear some flowers and, um - do something with our hands. Is that
it?"

"There's an oath, too," Hortense said, turning the book towards herself to look over it. "But we'll have to translate it."

"It's essentially something-something 'now you are bound to each other,'" Thibaut supplied, "'with a bond not easy to
break,'-"

"YES, LIKE CHAINS," said Armand. "WHICH ARE THE KING'S PERSONAL PREFERENCE."

"It's basically a binding ritual," Hortense confirmed. "Though Uncle Armand's not technically wrong, chains
certainly have their place in a relationship. Do you need any?" she asked Hermione brightly. "I have a wonderful set
- egregiously restricting, fully excruciating - "

"Please stop," Hermione begged desperately, and then, at Hortense's warily exchanged glance with Thibaut, looked
back down at the flower in her hand. "So, what if I don't want to, um. Bind myself?" she asked, wincing slightly. "I
mean, what would happen if we didn't, er -"

Thibaut sat up slowly. "Are you suggesting the engagement may not stick?"

"No, no, of course not," Hermione assured them both hurriedly. "It's just - this is very serious, you know, and um, in
muggle culture there usually isn't any sort of binding, so - I guess I'm just wondering what specifically is being
bound -"

"Your lives," Hortense supplied shortly. "Your futures."

"Oh, well that seems inevitable," Hermione grumbled under her breath. "By the looks of my life up to this point, I
couldn't avoid him even if I tried."

"Well, fate's even bitchier than my brother," Hortense agreed, rising to her feet and tucking the book under her arm
as Thibaut nodded his agreement. "But yes, if the ritual is broken, there is a chance of constitutional damage. No
telling what, seeing as no one who's ever undergone the oath has tried to break it - "

"Right," Hermione sighed.

"But I'd guess, you know, loss of limb," Thibaut suggested, and brightened. "Which is manageable."

"Manageable compared to what?" Hermione demanded.

"Compared to our other family curses," Hortense said very seriously. "Nobody's broken the binding oath, but plenty
of people break other things. Honesty oaths, friendship oaths, oaths agreeing they won't steal someone else's infant
firstborn when they're not looking - "

"What?!"

"That was the worst one, by far," Thibaut informed Hermione. "Great-Aunt Adalie never had another orgasm in her
life. In her life!" he barked. "Not one!"

"Well, she stole someone else's baby," Hermione pointed out.

"THERE'S STILL SUCH A THING AS TOO FAR!" shouted Thibaut, just as the Floo lit up, revealing Draco's
stooped blond head as it emerged from the fireplace.

For a moment, catching the familiar sensation of him walking into the place they both called home, Hermione
wondered what it might feel like to bind herself to him. To promise that she would love him - that she could love
him - for an actual eternity. It hardly seemed possible to be able to make any promise of the sort, especially given
the events of the day (and certainly given their particular circumstances), but her wonderings quickly fell away when
he looked at her, an inexpressible tiredness filling his grey eyes.

Draco stood still, blinking, and let his gaze drift from her to Thibaut to Hortense and then back to her, dropping
slowly to the flower she still held loosely in her hand.

"Gladiolus," he noted, wearily pulling at his cheeks. "Binding ritual?"

Hermione cleared her throat, suddenly awkward. "Yes." She paused, looking down. "Did you - were you able to talk
to Katie, or - "

She trailed off.

"THIS SOUNDS UNCOMFORTABLY PERSONAL," said Armand. "I'M GOING TO LEAVE."

"Yes, and we have silver to teach French to," Hortense agreed, patting Hermione's shoulder and gesturing for
Thibaut to follow as they left the room.

"Wait a minute, don't teach our silver to - " Draco exhaled, throwing his hands up. "Nevermind."

He waited a moment, scraping a hand back through his hair, and then stepped closer to Hermione with a slow,
vacant sigh, considering her for a moment before reaching for the gladiolus in her hand.

"Use gardenias instead," he said, taking the flowers from her hand and setting them on the coffee table. "If you don't
mind. My mother never liked gladiolus."

Hermione nodded slowly, not looking at him.

"Granger," he said. "I've had a terrible day."

Hermione forced her voice to remain neutral. "What happened?"

Draco opened his mouth to reply and hesitated.

And then, after a moment, and with an air of concession: "You weren't with me."

Hermione shut her eyes, fiercely disappointed in the way her chest ached.

"We don't have to do this oath, you know," she said. "It's just - it's a lot, you know? And I know we need this to
continue, but maybe it can wait. Maybe tomorrow we'll solve this whole thing, and then we won't even have t-"

"Can we not talk about it? Please," Draco said, stepping closer. "Please. I just really, really don't want to talk."

Hermione looked up, startled.

"Then what do you want to do?" she asked, finding her voice upsettingly hoarse.

At that, Draco leaned closer, as close as he'd been last night; as close as they could get without touching. She could
feel the weight in his chest, the tension in his fingers, as firmly as she felt her own labored breathing, her own sense
of what-comes-next, the scribbled lines of her insecurities and her many foolish wants instantly filling the tomes of
her heart, or at the very least, her abruptly contorted stomach.

"I want to go to bed early tonight," he said, his gaze flicking pointedly towards the bedroom above, and she
swallowed hard.

"Malfoy," she attempted warningly, shaking her head. "That's - we shouldn't - "

He turned his head, his lips near her ear.

"Come to bed, Granger," he beckoned, and slipped past her, headed for the stairs.

Daisy Carnegie had been called a lot of things in her life. She'd been a bitch, a competitive asshole, and on one
occasion, an "annoying, overbearing, cheeky snot of a cocksure hellion" (by a nanny, in fact, just before Daisy's
mother decided she no longer needed nannies), but one thing she'd never been accused of being was a quitter.

Daisy had never been very liked, but then again, she'd never cared much for popularity, either. Work was her life, as
soon as she was able to make it so. She had a personality that had also been called a lot of different things - like
"obsessive" and "compulsive" and "disordered" - but having never had much else to work with, Daisy had simply
adjusted to a life where popularity was not an option. Where friends, in fact, were hardly an option.

Daisy set her sights on being Head Auror at MACUSA when she was nine years old, the day she saw her mother
Emilia being questioned by one about her father Emmett's business practices. Daisy had never seen anyone stand up
to Emilia Carnegie (née Vanderbilt) before, but this Auror had, and it changed everything. From that day on, Daisy
decided she was going to work as hard as she could to get that Auror's job as quickly as possible.

From the moment Daisy had stood in the center of the Ilvermorny sorting room and heard the roar of the Wampus
cat, she'd decided that no matter what anyone else called her, she was going to be a warrior. She was the only
daughter of two great American families, she was smarter and more capable than anyone ever expected her to be,
and more importantly, she worked harder than anyone she'd ever met. She worked so hard, in fact, that she was
hospitalized twice before she graduated; once for a stress-related collapse, and another for what the medi-witch had
called a "systemically poor relationship with food." A poor choice of words for the truth, really, which was that
Daisy rewarded herself with food, and she punished herself with it, too. Emilia had put a stop to it, as Emilia
Carnegie put a stop to most things. Daisy learned her lesson after that.

By the time Daisy arrived at MACUSA, she'd begun coming into her own. She passed her Auror examinations with
the highest scores that the department had ever seen for both physical and mental agility, and rose quickly through
each promotion in Magical Law Enforcement. She continued to have a tenuous relationship with her fellow Aurors
(most of whom envied her rise and claimed she'd slept her way to the top), so she supposed she couldn't be surprised
to find that once there was some hole in her faultless reputation to aim at - the investigation into her father's murder,
which had been pinned on her by the Infinity Club - her own deputy shot without hesitation.

By the time Daisy arrived at Harry Potter's house in London, she was down her dream job, her father, a fair amount
of her sanity, and most of her pride, the remains of it only salvaged by the knowledge that there was at least one
person that she could conceivably call a friend. Which was probably why when Harry suggested that Ludo Bagman
was more duplicitous than he seemed, Daisy was quick to trust Harry's judgment on the basis of little more than his
generally reliable gut. Her mother had advised against interfering, obviously - Daisy, sweetheart, they were going to
pin the assassinations on you; you might as well let someone else take the fall until they cross your name off the list
of possibilities! - but Emilia Carnegie held no dominion over Daisy's tea-drinking, crumpet-loving refuge. She'd
been more than happy to agree to Harry's request that she begin privately investigating Ludo Bagman at the
Underground. It was a horrible thing to be blamed for a crime, after all, and she would know - and with so little
pointing to Emmanuel Gagnon as the source of the poisonings, Daisy was inclined to think Harry might have been
right.

Daisy sat off to the sidelines that evening, wrapping her hands with specially-charmed tape and waiting to see who
her challenger would be. It was a quiet night outside, considering the attack at the Ministry, but at the Underground,
the usual crowd was out in full force, scoping Daisy out with carnivorous interest. Tonight, Daisy figured it'd be
another thugette with too much rage and not enough sense, like usual; another witch who'd go in without a plan, not
having any idea just how much Daisy Carnegie could take before she'd even begin to crack.

Daisy rolled out her neck, tightened her long blonde ponytail, and smiled. Nobody had ever known what to make of
her. They hadn't known she'd been a fighter her whole life.

She wasn't worried about her match.

"Hey," Oliver Wood said gruffly, nudging her. She didn't know him well, but he was one of the friendlier people
who hung out there. "How's it going?"

"Not bad," Daisy said, rolling her shoulders back. She was a little sore - a bit inexperienced with this type of
fighting, which was messy and lawless and much, much longer than the usual perp-takedown drills during Auror
training - but in general, she was fine. She let her gaze cut to where Ludo Bagman was sitting, merrily spilling his
tankard of ale and laughing too loudly at what couldn't have possibly been a joke. "Hey," she mused to Oliver, "you
know Bagman, right?"

"I wouldn't say I really know him," Oliver said uncomfortably. "He just said he can help me get back on a team for
next season."

"Team?" Daisy echoed, and then, "oh, right. Quidditch."

"Yeah." Oliver cleared his throat. "Yeah, so, I don't know. He's saying he can get me a spot as Keeper for his old
team, but that's about it. I don't actually know who he bets on or anything."

"Looks like it's probably everyone," Daisy remarked, watching Ludo flash someone a bag of galleons. "Not very
savvy, is he?"

Oliver grimaced. "Kind of thinks he's untouchable," he agreed, and looked over his shoulder at a noise behind them.
He let out a swift exhale and frowned, his attention abruptly shifting, and Daisy turned when he did, following his
glance. Someone had just entered the Underground, assessing the room briefly before altering their path to head
straight for Ludo.

"Oof," Oliver commented, gesturing. "And that might be why. Looks like Bagman's still got friends in high places."

"Who is that?" Daisy asked, watching an older man lean over, admonishing a still-grinning Ludo. "Wait. Is that - "

"Warlock Hawkworth," Oliver confirmed, whistling softly and glancing again over his shoulder. "This isn't good. I
wonder if Sea knows."

"He doesn't look like he's investigating anything," Daisy pointed out, watching the Warlock gingerly take a seat
beside Ludo. "Maybe he's just corrupt."

"Doubtful. He's one of those tough-on-crime Warlocks," Oliver said neutrally. "But you're right, it does look like
he's only here to talk to Bagman."

"Looks like he's here to scold him, actually," Daisy noted with a frown, watching the Warlock rise angrily to his
feet. He was obviously very irritated by something, waving a parchment that might have been a letter in front of
Ludo's face.

"Fuck," Oliver let out on a breath, gesturing to where Rhys Hawkworth, the Warlock's son and another Underground
pseudo-resident, had just entered the room, stopping short when his father looked up and caught his eye. "Looks like
a couple of people are getting scolded tonight."

"Huh," Daisy agreed, watching Ifan Hawkworth's expression darken warningly. He made a sharp motion, gesturing
to the door, and Rhys' jaw tightened before he obeyed, following his father outside. "Hey," she said, vanishing her
water bottle from her bag and sighing facetiously. "I forgot water. I should go get some."

"Hm? Oh, yeah," Oliver said, having caught the eye of Marcus Flint by then. The two seemed more uncomfortable
lately then they had been before, Daisy noted, but that wasn't her current mystery to solve. She slipped outside
without hesitation, disillusioning herself and carefully shutting the door behind her so as not to disturb the arguing
father and son.

" - thought you were getting your act together, Rhys, what on earth have you been doing - "

"I've done everything you asked, Dad! Which is more than I can say for you - and what are you even doing here?
Are you crazy? Do you know what kind of people come here every night?"

"Ah, so you aren't a total fool," Ifan snapped. "I was worried I was going to have to point out that having my son
frequent these places is a complete hindrance to my reputation, but seeing as you clearly already know - "

"You can't blame me for wanting something for myself, Dad. All I do is show up at your Ministry events! I'm at
your beck and call, and all I get in return are a whole lot of empty promises about Cadell-"

"Enough," Ifan snapped. "Enough about your brother. His absence pains me too, Rhys, but you've scarcely scratched
the surface of what I've asked. What about befriending Hermione Granger? Do you know anything about her
involvement with the Club yet?"

Daisy held her breath, feeling her own eyes widen.

"No, Dad, I don't, and I haven't seen her in - I don't know, weeks - "

He sounded genuinely upset about it, Daisy noted. She frowned, wondering if she shouldn't speak to Hermione
again.

"I don't want to do this right now. This stops tonight," Ifan said firmly. "I don't want to hear about you showing up
here again. I'll see you tomorrow," he added with a scoff, "at that ridiculous engagement party - "

"Wait, but what were you even doing here? Dad - Dad, what are you - "

At the crack of apparation. Daisy grimaced, catching the pained expression on Rhys' face as his father disappeared.
She turned, planning to sneak quietly back into the Underground, but stopped as she heard Rhys' voice ring out in
the night again.

" -sus Christ, Cadell, you have to stop this - "

"I told you you couldn't trust Dad," said a slightly deeper, more certain voice, and Daisy turned as quietly as her feet
would allow, catching sight of an older, slimmer, slightly taller version of Rhys - or, alternatively, a younger version
of Ifan. "He's not going to help, Rhys, and listen, I don't think it's a great sign that he was here tonight."

"How long have you been there? You could get caught, Cadell! Are you trying to get thrown in Azkaban?!"

Mentally, Daisy tucked away the name Cadell Hawkworth, reminding herself to look it up later.

"Look, Cadell, just - just go back to my flat, okay? I have to - I have to grab my stuff, and I'll - " Rhys sighed,
cradling his face in one hand. "Fuck, I'll just meet you there. Okay?"

Daisy watched Cadell reach out, settling a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Cadell said flatly. "I'm sorry he's not the man you think he is."

"Just go, please," Rhys exhaled, and Cadell nodded, disapparating with another crack.

Daisy turned to leave again, ready to head inside, but she watched Rhys lower himself to the curb, sitting down with
a sigh and letting his chin drop to his chest. She grimaced, glancing back at the door, and sighed inwardly, opening it
and disillusioning herself in the same moment as if she were exiting, not re-entering.

Rhys looked up, startled.

"So sorry," Daisy said blithely, as if she'd stumbled on him by surprise. "I, um - sorry, I was just coming out to get
some fresh air, and - "

She took a few steps towards him. "Is everything okay?"

Rhys forced a smile that was very, very unpromising. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"Convincing," Daisy remarked drily, taking a seat beside him. She pondered what to say next, careful not to reveal
anything, or push too hard. "So. That was your dad in there, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Rhys fidgeted. "Didn't go well."

"Well, I know what it's like to have an overbearing parent," Daisy said. "I like to think they mean well, though. Even
if they're sort of ruthless about it."

Rhys permitted something of a grimace. "Yeah. My dad's sort of ruthless in general, I guess."

"Well, something has to make us fighters, right?" Daisy asked, gesturing to the Underground. "Pretty sure normal
people don't do this. Or at least aren't this good at it."
Rhys smiled wanly. "I'm good, but I'm not that good."

"Maybe your dad isn't overbearing enough, then," Daisy joked. "My mom once checked me into a hospital to force
me to get some sleep, and look at me - I'm excellent."

At that, Rhys laughed. He really was troublingly handsome. "Sounds like you've got your own problems, I think."

"Eh, maybe," Daisy permitted. "So," she allowed, after another moment or so of silence. "You coming back in?"

"I really shouldn't," Rhys remarked grimly, his gaze cutting to where his brother had been. "I have somewhere else
to be."

"Like where?"

"Pretty much anywhere else."

"Oh," Daisy said, laughing. "Right."

Rhys turned to look at her. "American?"

"Yes. New York. English?"

"Welsh, actually."

"Ah. Ladies in lakes?"

"Yes, we have those. And other things."

"Ah."

More silence.

"You should come back inside," Daisy suggested. "Might make you feel better to hit something."

"I really shouldn't," Rhys muttered.

"Oh," Daisy countered, tutting softly. "But you really should."

At that, his gaze changed slightly, as if he were considering her more closely. She waited, careful not to lean away,
and eventually he sighed.

"I'm - " Rhys hesitated. "I'm not sure I'm exactly, um." More fidgeting. "Available, you know what I mean?"

"Oh, no, don't worry," Daisy assured him. "I'm not propositioning you. It's just way more fun in there," she reminded
him, gesturing inside. "And wherever else you need to be, I think it can wait."

She rose to her feet, holding out a hand. "You coming?" she prompted, because for all that she'd done in her life, she
had never been a quitter. She'd never really had friends, either, but there was still time to change that, and besides,
Rhys Hawkworth was clearly a piece of the puzzle. Ludo Bagman, Hermione Granger, Ifan Hawkworth, and now
the mysterious Cadell - there was a lot to unravel when it came to the Warlock's youngest son, and Daisy Carnegie
was nothing if not entirely on the case.

Rhys let out a breath, permitting a nod.

"Yeah," he said, letting her pull him to his feet. "Alright. Let's go inside."

Vasilikos Peninsula
Island of Zakynthos, Greece
October 17, 2003
6:15 a.m.

Antioch apparated in just moments after Ignotus did.

Cad, however, had been there for at least an hour, lounging invisibly in the trees as he casually sipped a mimosa.

The other two were so predictable.

"Well," Antioch said, folding his arms over his chest as Ignotus straightened, glaring at him. "So much for
destroying all the horcruxes, right, brother?"

"I could say the same for you, you know," Ignotus said irritably. "You obviously knew about this one."

"Of course I did. I was there when he made it. How did you know?"

Ignotus gritted his teeth. "How do you think I knew?"

"So we both could have destroyed him, then." Antioch's voice was both mocking and grim. "We both could have,
and we both didn't."

"What do you mean both? I know what you did," Ignotus accused gruffly, prompting Antioch to scowl impatiently
at him.

"What are you talking about?"

"Obviously it was you," Ignotus said, scowling. "That debacle at the Ministry yesterday? That had you and Cadmus
written all over it."

"Whereas the poisonings have you and Cadmus all over them," Antioch snapped. "Why on earth would I be stupid
enough to bring our dead brother back?"

"Well, if you didn't do it before, you're clearly trying to now - "

"No." Antioch's voice was harsh and sharp and prickly that time. "I had suspicions, Ignotus. I wanted to confirm."

"As did I," Ignotus returned, a little too defensively. "I assumed it was simply one more thing among the many that
you've kept from me."

"Like what?" Antioch snapped. "What are these supposed secrets I'm keeping?"

Cad watched curiously as Ignotus curled his fingers to a fist.

"Dionisia," Ignotus said simply, and Cad frowned.

"Ah." Antioch didn't look ashamed, but he didn't look innocent, either. "Her. Yes. She'd begun to talk, Ignotus. She
had to be dealt with."

At that, Ignotus was abruptly furious. "That's not what I'm talking about!" he snarled, in a surprising burst of
emotion from him, Cad considered privately. Clearly, this Dionisia person had meant much more to him than
anyone else had while Cad had known him. "You - you kept her from me - you convinced me she was already dead,
but you left her alive?" Ignotus' voice was pained. "She was alive this whole time, and I - you let me just - "

"Ignotus," Antioch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please. Contain yourself."

"How dare you?" Ignotus demanded. "And what were you going to do if you found Cadmus' horcrux? Were you
going to bring him back?"

"I hadn't decided," Antioch replied stiffly. "But obviously, seeing as one of my brothers can no longer be trusted, I
may very well have to make do with the other - "

"You took her from me!"

"Lady Revel was never yours to begin with," Antioch snapped, and Cad hummed curiously to himself, postulating
what the two might actually be arguing about. "She never chose you, Ignotus. She limited you, she weakened you,
and she was an obstacle to the Club - to the empire we built together - "

Ugh, Cad thought internally, rolling his eyes. Very nice, Antioch, just steal my words, then.

"I'll never forgive you, Antioch," Ignotus told him bitterly. "However long my eternity is, I will spend it hating you
for this."

"Well, how very fucking dramatic," Antioch replied drily, shaking his head. "Ignotus, be sensible. Our brother is on
the loose again, brought back by someone else. What if it's the person responsible for all that's befallen the Club this
year? Your hatred is wasted on me," he added patronizingly. "It won't bring Lady Revel back."

"I don't care," Ignotus snapped. "Wasted or not, I loathe you, brother. I'm tired of your oppressive reign, I'm sick of
your arrogance, and your insuppressible need to control me - "

"Fine. Then oppose me," Antioch invited, baring his chest. "Oppose me, Ignotus. Fight me if you wish. Take me
head on, but do it after we find Cadmus." He paused, tilting his head. "Or did it not occur to you that the only person
who will protect you from Cadmus will be me?"

"You? Protect me?" Ignotus scoffed. "It's you he hates."

"Does he?" Antioch asked, stepping closer and lowering his voice. "Does he, truly? Are you willing to stake your
life on it, Ignotus?"

Cad leaned forward, waiting for Ignotus' response, and still, he almost missed it.

"No," Ignotus said, and Antioch clapped a hand around his shoulder, nodding firmly.

"We'll talk about this later. In the meantime - "

There was a loud crack, and then both brothers turned at the appearance of Nicholas Flamel.

"Oh, um - Antioch," Nico said awkwardly. "Ignotus, I was just - I was - "

"You told him about this?" Antioch demanded of Ignotus, who glared back.

"You told Herpo, didn't you?"

"Again, Herpo was there," Antioch snapped, "but it's rather like you to be unwilling to sort out the subtleties. And as
for you, you're a little late, Nico," Antioch warned, shaking his head. "But well done proving your loyalty. I won't
forget it."

"Antioch, I - "

A crack, and then Antioch was gone.

"Ignotus," Nico attempted, "I was just trying to - to stop you. To keep you safe - "

"Cadmus is alive," Ignotus said dully. "I'm not safe. I'll never be safe again." He turned, sliding his gaze to Nico's. "I
hope I can rely on you, Nico," he exhaled, reaching out to grip his arm, "because if it isn't one brother who destroys
me, then the other will certainly try."

"I won't let anything happen to you," Nico promised, as Cad held back a noise of revulsion at the utter saccharinity
of his (obviously still-unrequited) devotion. "I promise, Ignotus, I will stand by you."
Gross, thought Cad.

"Come on," Ignotus said. "Let's go. We'll have to sort out who might have brought Cadmus back, and besides, I'm
almost positive Antioch is up to something. He seems much too calm. Luckily, I have a thought -"

Nico nodded, placing a hand on Ignotus' forearm, and the two of them disapparated.

Shortly after, Cad followed suit, though he had a slightly different stop to make.

"What the fuck," said Blaise Zabini, pulling open the door to his flat and rubbing blearily at his eyes. "What are you
doing here? How did you even know I live here? I'm obviously going to have a talk with Draco - "

"Tracking spell," Cad informed him blithely. "Though I'd rather not speak to you, no offense. Is the Lady Divinist
in?"

"What? Patil? But she - "

"Oh, hush," the divinist said, nudging Blaise aside. "Cadmus Peverell, right? Parvati Patil."

"Lovely," Cad said. "My friends call me Cad."

"Well, people call you Cad," Parvati replied easily. "But are they really your friends?"

"Maybe not," he permitted. "So how do the secrets work?"

"Excuse me," Blaise cut in brusquely, "I really don't think - "

"The same way all magic works," Parvati replied, ignoring him.

"I guess nobody's listening to me, then," Blaise sighed, which Cad also ignored in favor of turning his attention
exclusively to Parvati.

"How many secrets did Lady Revel have?"

"A lot."

"Anyone important?"

"Yes."

"Would you tell me whose?"

"Depends."

"On?"

She shrugged. "Whether I know the answer. Or whether I want to tell you. Or whether it does you any good to
know."

"You think you know what I need to know?"

"Yes. Obviously."

"Fine." He paused. "Did Lady Revel have any secrets belonging to my brother?"

Parvati didn't blink. "Which one?" she asked neutrally.

Slowly, Cad smiled.

"Excellent," he determined. "I think we're going to be very useful friends."

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
October 17, 2003
7:37 a.m.

Draco wished it were possible for sex with Hermione to be somehow less -

Less everything. Less appealing? Less tempting? Less good would be ideal, so that maybe he wouldn't be thinking
about it now, watching her breath rise and fall as she slept. Less memorable, certainly, so that he could manage to
forget even one aspect of it. If he could just let go of the way her skin felt under his lips, or manage to disregard how
she'd slipped and said his first name, letting it float off her tongue and into his ear in a way that he knew was an
accident - something she hadn't meant to say, but couldn't fight - then maybe he might be able to loosen the knot that
had tightened in his chest.

He wished they were something slightly less than what they were, really. Something less consuming of his time and
his effort and his bodily well-being. Something less consuming of his energy, too, as it might have been if she were
not both his partner and his occasional bedfellow, and were instead something reasonable, like simply a person he'd
once known from a long time ago. He wished he hated her, or that she hated him, or at least felt something with such
little effort that he could think about the prospect of binding his life to hers and feel nothing, laugh it off.

It would mean nothing to her. It should mean nothing to him.

After all, neither of them chose it.

Eventually, Hermione stirred, turning to face him.

"Can we talk now?" she asked.

He nodded slowly. "I wasn't with Katie yesterday," he said. "I was with Pansy."

Hermione's brow arched, and he hurried to amend the implications.

"Someone attacked Percy Weasley," he explained. "Pansy saved his life, and Theo and I got rid of the body."

Hermione frowned. "What body?"

"The killer's body."

"Who was the killer?"

"I don't know."

"Then why did you get rid of the body?"

"I - " Draco grimaced. "I thought I knew. I thought it was Ludo Bagman - "

"Ludo Bagman?" Hermione echoed, sitting upright in confusion. "Why would he - "

"I don't know. But then Pansy saw him afterwards, so he's still alive."

"What? But how - "

"Well, someone must have used polyjuice. Either the person who tried to kill Weasley or, if that was really him, then
the person who's playing him now. No way of knowing."

"Did Theo know?" Hermione asked suspiciously, and Draco frowned.

"Why would you ask that? Why would Theo have anything to do with it?"

Hermione arched a brow. "Come on, Malfoy. That voice at the Ministry? Completely his style. Besides, he's the
reconnaissance specialist in your company, isn't he?"

"You're not supposed to know that," Draco grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose, but she wasn't listening.

"It's completely within his set of skills," Hermione continued, "especially if Cad did the enchantments, since Harry
already told me they spend a lot of time together. So obviously this was him, but - " she frowned. "You really didn't
know anything about it? You have no idea why he did it?"

"I don't," Draco sighed, shaking his head. "He won't tell me. I have no idea what it's about."

She chewed her lip, thinking. "And if it wasn't Ludo Bagman - "

"He's coming tonight, isn't he?" Draco reminded her. "We can scope it out then. I can ask Potter to talk to him, if
you want."

She nodded slowly. "Tonight's going to be a mess," she sighed after a few seconds of contemplation, falling back
against the pillows. "It's going to be awful." She turned her head, looking at him. "Ron will be there," she grumbled.

"Mel, too," Draco reminded her.

"Ugh." She groaned. "And Rhys."

He returned her glance with a grimace. "And Katie."

It might have been a mistake to bring her up. Hermione cleared her throat, suddenly uncomfortable again, and
immediately Draco wished he'd said nothing.

"Malfoy, if this ritual is going to be difficult for you," she attempted slowly. "I mean, if it's - if you can't, then - "

"If you can, I can," Draco returned briskly. "Unless you don't think you can do it? Because if you don't, well." He
fidgeted. "I mean, if doing it in front of Hawkworth is - "

"No." She fidgeted, too. "No, it's not that."

"So it is something, then?" he prompted, and her mouth tightened. "Granger, if you can't do it, just say so. If you
don't want to do the ritual, we won't do it."

"It's not like I don't want to," she countered briskly. "Malfoy, it's just - you're the one worrying about your ex, so if
you don't want to - "

"Me? You're the one who may or may not be dating someone else!" he retorted. "If anyone's not going to be able to
do it, it's obviously you."

"I never said anything of the sort!" Hermione returned hotly. "I'm perfectly fine with it, Malfoy. It won't be a
problem for me whatsoever."

"Won't be a problem for you? It won't be a problem for me!" Draco snapped. "What makes you think I have any
feelings about it, if you don't?"

"I never said you did! I'm just saying that I, personally, am fully okay with it, seeing as both of us know it's not real -
"

"I never said it was real! We both know it's not, Granger, because if it meant something, that would indicate one or
both of us was dangerously unhinged - "

"And it means nothing!" Hermione half-shouted, glaring at him. In her fury, the tank top she'd slept in had slipped
from her shoulder, draping against her chest, and he fought to keep his attention from slipping with it. "None of this
means anything, Malfoy. You're absolutely right."

"I'm right?" he echoed, incensed. "You started it!"

"Well, I don't want to confuse you," she seethed, "seeing as you're the one who asked me to come to bed with you
last night - "

"Oh, sure, and you hated it so much," Draco snapped, twisting around in the sheets to glare at her. "Right, because I
might have somehow been confused by how much you obviously enjoy having my head between your legs - "

"Oh, don't even," Hermione growled. "So now this is about what I enjoy? Because last I checked, you didn't have a
problem with - with my - " She threw her hands up. "Fellating you, so - "

"Well, your fellatio was obviously nothing, and so was my cunnilungus!" Draco flung at her. "I told you, it was - we
just - it doesn't mean it means anything - "

Her arms shot out to her sides, both fists clenched. "Oh, go fellate yourself, Malfoy - "

"Oh HILARIOUS, yes," he snapped. "Just go cunniling yourself then, Granger!"

"I hate you," she snarled at him, her hair messy and her shirt twisted, her shoulders toned and tan and gleaming in
the morning sun that poured in through the windows. "I hate you," she repeated, breathing hard, and he stared at her,
both of them face-to-face on their knees as she reached out, resting her fists against his bare chest.

"I hate you," she whispered, and he slid his hands over her arms, sweeping her hair back from her shoulders.

"I hate you," he agreed, and bent his head, kissing the bitterness right off her lips and letting her continue to mutter
lies into his mouth.

"I hate you," she said again, her fingers dipping under the band of his underwear.

"I know," he agreed, twisting around to lay her back on the bed and sliding her shorts down her legs, followed by
her knickers. "I know you do. I hate you too," he promised, settling himself between her legs and dropping his lips
to the curves of her breasts, to the lines of her stomach. "I hate you so fucking much, Granger - "

"God, I hate you," she moaned, digging her nails into his ribs and drawing him up towards her, her teeth scraping
against the side of his neck. "I hate you, I loathe you, I-" A sharp inhale, a breathy gasp. "I fucking abhor you,
Malfoy, I fucking - "

He caught the rest of her words from her tongue, letting it devolve to a groan as he slid inside her, his fingers tangled
in her hair. She tipped her head back, letting her eyes float shut, and he wished, once again, that he felt something -
something less.

Nothing, in fact.

But holding her in his arms, he knew it wasn't nothing.

The moment she swept the breath from his lungs, he knew it wasn't nothing at all.

a/n: Some people mentioned they didn't get an email for Modern Romance, so a reminder that that has updated.
Dedications for lissymar, vutleine, swangranger!
 28. The Masquerade'll Kill Your Dating Life

Chapter 28: The Masquerade Will Kill Your Dating Life

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
October 17, 2003
7:27 p.m.

"You're looking relatively normal," Mel remarked, fussing briefly with Ron's tie before sparing him a less-than-
furtive smile of amusement. "I think you even managed to say hello to Draco without commencing your usual
imitation of a furious tomato."

"I like to think I manage something slightly more dignified than that," Ron sighed, leaning in as Mel swept up on
her toes to kiss his cheek. "Aren't I at least some sort of protective jungle cat?"

"Not even remotely," Mel assured him, "but it's nice that you're so confident." She shifted to stand beside him,
plucking two glasses of champagne from a floating tray and handing one to him. "Are you going to talk to
Hermione?" she prompted neutrally, passing him a suggestive sidelong glance, and Ron sighed, catching sight of
where Hermione stood in the center of the room, smiling politely at some member of the Wizengamot. She was
wearing an off-white colored gown made of slinky, silky material that slid effortlessly to the floor, a white flower
tucked into the twist her hair had been pulled into, and Ron had to admit, she looked pretty good.

More importantly, she looked happy, which wasn't something Ron particularly wanted to disrupt.

"I can't decide if I should," he admitted, having also thought about it for several days beforehand and continuously
arriving at the conclusion that every plausible scenario came up problematic. "I don't know if you've noticed, Mel,
but she sort of brings out the worst in me, even when I have good intentions."

"That's not true," Mel corrected. "She makes you self-righteous and temperamental, certainly, but those are hardly
your worst qualities." She took a sip of champagne, half-smiling. "I mean, you're a truly terrible singer, and not
particularly skilled with levitation charms, either."

"Thank you so much, Melibea," Ron sighed, shaking his head, "but still. You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do, but I think it's worth attempting," Mel informed him, gesturing again to where Hermione had parted from
the Warlock's side, turning to check on a platter of hors d'oeuvres. "Don't you?" she prompted knowingly, and Ron
groaned.

"Mel, I - "

"Do it and I'll blow you in the bathroom," Mel suggested, without even the requisite dignity to lower her voice.
"Bonus: if you can manage to tell her you're happy for her, I might even consider upping the offer to sex." She
shrugged innocently, batting her lashes at him as he sighed. "I don't know. We'll see."

"Mel, do you really think this is - "

"Hermione!" Mel called out to her, her entire countenance flooded with warmth. "That dress, it's absolutely stunning
on you!"

Hermione rolled her eyes, redirecting a path towards them and permitting Ron a hesitant smile. "Thanks again for
sending it over," she said, leaning in to give Mel a warm embrace. "I've had so much to think about that having any
one thing off my plate was a welcome change, and I love the design."

"Well, I love a good custom, and you can wear anything," Mel remarked approvingly, just before turning her head to
give Ron a meaningful (and troubling) glance. "Just have to run to the bathroom - Ron, doesn't Hermione look
nice?"
Ron and Hermione exchanged a skeptical glance (Sorry, he mouthed, and Hermione shrugged in silent resignation)
before Mel slipped out with a wink, leaving the two of them alone.

"She's right, you know," he conceded, taking a step towards Hermione. "You do look really nice, Mione."

"Well, I'm just relieved she went with ivory," Hermione remarked, sipping quietly at her wine. "I think pretending at
virginity would be a step too far."

Ron chuckled. "The flower's nice, too," he commented, gesturing to where it was tucked into her hair. "What's it
for?"

She reached a hand up, securing it vacantly. "Oh, it's some pureblood tradition or something. Some engagement
ceremony with flowers and, I don't know, restraints - "

"Ah, a binding ritual," Ron said, and Hermione turned towards him, surprised. "What? Bill and Fleur did one. My
mum and dad did one, too. I know what they are."

"You never asked me to do one," Hermione noted, and Ron shrugged.

"Good thing, too," he joked, but at her raised brow, he sobered slightly, eyeing his glass. "And I don't know. It just
didn't really seem like something you'd want to do."

"Well, it isn't exactly something I expected I'd ever do," Hermione agreed, "but - "

She waved a hand ambiguously, gesturing evasively to the ballroom they were standing in - and most likely, Ron
thought, to the fiancé that stood in the corner as well, his grey gaze falling on Hermione's from afar every couple of
minutes.

"Remember our engagement party?" Ron asked after a moment, feeling that a bit of nostalgia wasn't altogether
unwelcome. "It wasn't quite as grand as this one, but it was a pretty good night."

"Of course I remember," Hermione replied. "Your mum made me wear your Aunt Muriel's gown."

"Ah, yes," Ron agreed, "same."

Hermione laughed. "Those robes weren't so bad," she reminded him, turning to spare him a smile. "Your Yule Ball
robes were much, much worse."

"God, I'm so glad Mel never saw those robes," he recalled with a shudder. "She already thinks most of my ties 'lack
refinement,' so I can't even imagine what she'd do with those bloody things."

"You might be the least refined person I've ever met," Hermione assured him, shaking her head, "and frankly, I find
it comforting." Her gaze traveled out into the crowd, drawing her glass up to her lips again. "Not like him," she
murmured, gesturing to Draco as he turned to speak to one of the other guests, nodding to her momentarily from
afar. She nodded back, sparing him a small wave, and then glanced at Ron. "He practically oozes refinement."

"Ooze is right," Ron agreed. "You know, like a cut. Or a scab."

She laughed. "You know, honestly, you'd be surprised what he's really like," she remarked, now watching Draco
pretend to listen to something some foreign Auror was saying. "He's actually kind of a mess." She took a sip, half-
smiling. "Actually, he's a gigantic, flailing mess, honestly. I think you two would have a lot more in common than
you think."

"Oh, Mione, you wound," Ron joked, and she turned her smile on him, the warmth of it reflecting something like
affection between them. "Though I'm not sure he'd appreciate that comparison either, so I guess it's not all bad."

"He's just - " Hermione tilted her head. "Different, you know? Different than he was, or than I thought he was." She
inhaled sharply, casting the realization from her shoulders, and then turned back to Ron, who couldn't prevent a grin.
"What?" she demanded, and his smile broadened. "Ronald, seriously, what are you sniggering about -"

"You really love him, don't you?" he prompted, and Hermione faltered, her hand rising helplessly to her mouth. "I
mean, you're marrying him, so I assumed you did, but I don't think I really believed it until now." He raised his
champagne flute to his lips, shaking his head. "You fell in love with Draco Malfoy," he murmured, still unable to
grasp it. "I wish I had a time turner. I'd love to be the one informing your fourteen-year-old self. Hilarious." He
glanced at her, noticing her brows were furrowed warily. "What?"

"If you had one," Hermione said slowly. "A time turner, I mean. Would you use it? To, um. To tell us not to - " she
inhaled sharply, gesturing between them. "You know. So we wouldn't get hurt like we did?"

"Are you asking if I would un-date you?" Ron asked, amused, and Hermione's cheeks flushed.

"Well, I just - "

"I wouldn't trade it, Mione. Not a second of it. I'm glad it went the way it did, actually," he assured her, watching her
exhale slowly, "because I don't think I could be with Mel if I hadn't learned how to love you first. If that makes
sense." She nodded, looking marginally relieved. "And I had some really good years with you, Mione. I loved you,
and you loved me. Things just change, that's all."

"Yeah, I guess I just - " She touched the flower in her hair carefully, letting out a sigh. "I guess it's just a strange
night; a bit like I've hosted a dinner party for everyone I've ever kissed. And everyone he's ever kissed, too." She
rolled her eyes, taking another sip of wine. "I mean, Pansy's here somewhere, and Katie too, I assume - "

"Katie Bell?" Ron asked, bemused. "I haven't seen her. She's here?"

"Well, she was invited, so -"

"Oh, hey - Alicia," Ron called, catching sight of her and waving her over as she crossed paths with them, apparently
heading towards Harry. "Hey, is Katie with you?"

"Hm? No," Alicia said absently, turning to Hermione. "By the way, Hermione, great party, and you look beau-"

"Wait, where is she?" Hermione interrupted, which Ron thought was fairly rude, even for someone with Hermione's
limited social skills. "You're her roommate, right?"

"Well, yeah, but I haven't seen her since before she left for work yesterday," Alicia said, frowning. "I thought maybe
she stayed with her new boyfriend or something. Why, have you not - "

"Oh, hey babe," Mel said, reappearing breathlessly and sliding an arm around Ron's waist. "So, did you two have a
nice ch-"

"I have to go," Hermione blurted suddenly, abruptly turning on her heels and half-stomping away.

"Did I offend her?" Mel asked, as Alicia shrugged, equally bemused. "Did you offend her?" Mel amended, turning
back to Ron and smacking his shoulder. "Ronald Bilius Weasley, all I asked you to do was talk to her - "

"It wasn't me!" Ron insisted. "I swear, we were having a nice talk, and then she -" he broke off, distracted, as
something caught his eye from afar. "Is that - is that Percy?"

"Ron, you're positively hopeless," Mel sighed, shaking her head and exchanging conspiratorial glances with Alicia.

7:27 p.m.

"Wow," Pansy remarked, glancing approvingly around the house. "You know, I considered marrying Draco for his
money several times, but even I didn't think he had this many extravagant ballrooms. I'm beginning to think I
gravely miscalculated."
"Oh, please," Daphne scoffed into her wine. "You're hardly destitute, Pans. You could buy yourself just as many
ballrooms if you wanted to."

"Still, it's the principle of the thing," Pansy insisted, and glanced sideways at Daphne, narrowing her eyes. "And
you're clearly in a mood, aren't you?"

"She is," Marcus confirmed, his gaze warily traveling to where Oliver stood in the corner, talking to Rhys
Hawkworth. "Though I think we both are, in fairness."

Pansy arched a brow, glancing at Daphne for clarification, and she sighed.

"My mother," Daphne explained. "And Marcus' mother, actually. They want us to do our own binding ritual soon."
She sipped her wine. "And by soon, I do mean three weeks ago."

"They're becoming vaguely nightmarish about it," Marcus supplied for them both, grimacing. "I never realized such
delicate ladies could be so militant, but they very nearly locked us in a room to force us into it just before we left."

"Ah," Pansy said, sparing Daphne a sympathetic glance. "So what are you two going to do about it, then?"

"Be bound, I guess," Daphne muttered, exchanging a resigned glance with Marcus this time. "After all, it's not like
anything's technically stopping us."

"Wood certainly hasn't said anything," Marcus agreed, draining his glass and eyeing it sourly. "Fuck. Need more?"
he prompted to Daphne, who proceeded to tip her own glass against her lips before placing it gruffly in his hand.
"Great. Be right back."

He slipped into the crowd, aiming directly for Oliver.

"Well," Pansy exhaled. "That looks extremely health-"

"Miss Parkinson," came a quiet voice, and Daphne and Pansy both turned to find Percy Weasley in a pristinely cut
set of black-and-white dress robes, two glasses in his hands. "Would you like a glass of champagne? Oh, and Miss
Greengrass," he added politely to Daphne, though she knew perfectly well that she wasn't the one he was there to
speak to. "Lovely to see you, and my sincere gratitude for your inimitable work on the Ministry conference. I'd be
happy to recommend you for all future events."

"Oh really, would you?" Pansy cut in before Daphne could reply, accepting the glasses on behalf of both of them.
"By the way," Pansy added, gesturing to the champagne as she handed one to Daphne, "I hope these aren't poisoned.
You have some terrible luck, Warlock Weasley."

"You know, I've actually started testing them," Percy replied blithely. "So I can assure you, Miss Parkinson, that
these are both safe."

"Well, it's thoughtful of you to go the extra mile, Weasley," Pansy informed him, as Daphne fought a sigh, glancing
around the room again. "Are you always so fastidious with your work?"

"Oh, always," Percy confirmed, reaching for his own glass as the trays came around again. "Actually, I find that I'm
most satisfied when I've paid attention to the details."

"Is that so?" Pansy asked neutrally. "And which details would those be?"

"Well, perhaps it would be hubris to claim all relevant details, but certainly the important ones," Percy replied. "I
find that the prep work is really where I like to take my time. Pay sufficient attention, luxuriate in anticipation, et
cetera."

"Anticipation," Pansy echoed. "So it's not the task itself you find rewarding?"

"Subtle," Daphne muttered, rolling her eyes, and Pansy elbowed her sharply in the ribs.
"Ah, well, I like to earn my end result," Percy assured them both, unfazed. "What benefit would there be to rushing
the denouement?"

"True," Pansy said, smirking outrageously. "I mean really, why chance fumbling the climax -"

"There you are," Daphne called, exasperatedly shoving her champagne into Pansy's hand and storming over to Cad
as he entered the ballroom. "Where have you been?"

"Hello," Cad said, blinking in surprise as Daphne grabbed his arm, pulling him into the corridor and then shoving
him against the wall, her hands falling to his hips. "Well, this is an unusual greeting. Not that I'm displeased," he
amended, letting her kiss him swiftly, "but, you know, I simply assumed you'd be here with Mars - "

"I was. I am." Daphne kissed him again, smiling approvingly as his hands tightened on her waist. "Where were
you?" she breathed, and Cad gave her a look that was part apology, but considerably more parts smug.

"Well, I'm very sorry I'm late, Daphne, but I had a bit of a situation -"

"God, I missed you," Daphne exhaled, closing her eyes as Cad's lips slid obligingly along her neck, his teeth closing
lightly around the lobe of her ear. "You've been so busy, you stupid bastard, and I'm going to have to start managing
my needs on my own-"

"No, don't say that," Cad admonished gruffly, pulling back to look at her. "Or I'll simply have to sweep you off your
feet here and now, and then I might foolishly confuse us both into thinking I'm some sort of white knight - "

The irony of the suggestion wasn't lost on her.

"Take me away from here," Daphne whispered, holding tightly to his collar. "Please, Cad, I just - " she exhaled. "I
need to get out, and - "

"Daphne." He slid his hands over her wrists, gently enclosing them with his fingers. "Is this about the party, or is
there perhaps something else on your mind?"

"I - " She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. "I just can't do this," she whispered to him, refusing to look him in the
eye. "I thought I could. I thought I could do what I was told, that maybe this could be - that this could mean nothing,
but - "

"Daphne." His voice called for her attention, but she refused, and he tipped her chin up slowly, locking his blue eyes
on hers. "Daphne Greengrass," he murmured, looking so handsome and terribly, terribly soft she wanted to scream,
"are you, perhaps, in crisis?"

What a question, she thought.

What a stupid, horrible, heart-wrenching question.

"Ask me," she said, shivering, and he frowned. "Please, Cad. If you want me, then ask me not to marry him."

He blinked. "Daphne, I -"

"Ask me to be with you, Cad, please," she begged. "If you ask me, I'll say yes, but if you never ask - if you never try
to convince me - "

"It's not my job to convince you," Cad warned quietly, brushing his fingers across her lips. "If something is pushing
you away from your engagement, Daphne, then that's something you should honor, but I don't wish to be the thing
that pulls."

"But you are!" she pleaded, stepping away from him. "You know you are - you knew I would fall in love with you,
you made me do it - "
"Daphne, no one on earth has ever made you do something you didn't want to," Cad reminded her, and then paused.
"With perhaps the exception of your mother," he conceded, "though even then, I was under the presumption that it
was your wish to marry Mars."

"You know I don't love Marcus," Daphne insisted, but Cad shook his head.

"No, I know you don't, and you know that he will never love you, and still you chose it," Cad reminded her. "You
chose honor, duty. Didn't you?" She closed her eyes, fighting a sob. "I wouldn't wish you to unchoose those things
unless you wished to for yourself," he told her, stroking his thumb softly along her cheek. "Do not escape to me,
Daphne. If you find yourself a damsel in distress, then I assure you, you are capable of rescuing yourself. You don't
need me to do it for you."

"Does that mean you don't want me?" Daphne asked fearfully, suddenly frozen, and Cad shook his head firmly.

"Of course not. That's not it at all. But Daphne, I - "

"Cad," someone interrupted, and Daphne took several steps away, half-wobbling as she stared at the floor. "Sorry to
interrupt," Hermione ventured, gingerly taking a couple of steps forward, "but I, um - need your help with
something. Are you - " she hesitated, glancing first at Daphne and then warily at Cad. "Are you available?"

"Am I?" Cad echoed drily. "This is your party, isn't it? I was under the impression you had a binding ritual to
complete sometime in the next - " He glanced down at his watch. "Oh, hour or so, but - "

"Don't worry about it. Please?" Hermione asked, and glanced again at Daphne, who couldn't speak. "Please. It's
really very important, and I wouldn't ask if I didn't - "

"Yes, okay, fine," Cad exhaled, nodding once before turning back to Daphne. "Daphne, are you - can we - "

"We can talk later," Daphne assured him, clearing her throat. "It's not important."

Cad's brow furrowed. "Daphne, I - "

"Just go," she said, waving a hand. "Now. Please." He blinked. "Go," she repeated, a little more harshly this time,
and he nodded slowly.

"I'll be back," he promised her, following Hermione down the corridor while Daphne stood in place, shivering
slightly.

It was cold here, she thought, frozen in a place of indecision.

Eventually she walked back into the party, finding Marcus standing against the wall with his head bent, wearily
eyeing his shoes. Daphne nudged him, holding a hand out expectantly, and he scooted over, making a place for her
beside him.

"Saw you leave with Cad," Marcus commented, handing her his glass of champagne. "Did he ask you to choose
him?"

She closed her eyes briefly, suffering for a moment.

"No," Daphne managed, and accepted the glass. "Did he?" she asked, gesturing to where Oliver stood across the
room.

Marcus grimaced, taking another sip. "No."

They stood in silence, contemplating their respective places of solitude.

"Who would have thought we'd be the loneliest people in this ballroom tonight?" Marcus asked drily, sparing her a
humorless glance. "Seems like a real fucking shame."
Daphne shrugged. "At least the champagne is good," she conceded, tapping the lip of her glass against his.

"Yep," Marcus agreed, draining his. "Which is good, because I think we're going to need a lot of it."

7:27 p.m.

Alexander Poliakoff hated the entire United Kingdom.

It was nothing personal, really, minus all the ways that British wizards had so unapologetically ruined his personal
life each time he'd set foot on any of their stupid islands. It was more that whenever anything British was involved,
Alexander was almost certainly going to be cast into problems he was neither desirous of nor even remotely
interested in. There had been the year at Hogwarts, for example, which had been an unmitigated disaster. Alexander
hadn't even been selected as champion and yet he'd still been forced to spend an entire year there, missing his home
and putting up with Karkaroff's showboating only for the whole experience to end with the consummately
irresponsible return of a homicidal (British) racist.

There had been his brief quidditch career in the UK as well, which was also largely a flop. He hadn't quite been
talented enough for the Norwegian teams, and instead had been forced to play for a small, mostly rubbish team in
southern England. He'd borne the emasculating logo of an adorable mustard-colored wasp and the sad, unremarkable
career of a mediocre chaser until he finally gave up and retired early, taking advantage of an offer to return to his
home Ministry as an Auror.

Alexander didn't return to Britain often; mostly because he hated the entire country, but also because the last British
gala he'd been invited to - that inane Witch Weekly benefit - had featured Harry Potter's rather unobscured suspicion
of his involvement in the Wizengamot assassin case. As for this social carnival (an engagement party for two people
he barely knew and scarcely cared for), it was hardly going to change his mind. After all, he'd already nearly died
the day prior at the British Ministry - which was once again irresponsibly unprotected, just as it always was.

Plus, he thought miserably, being there meant watching Ludo Bagman continue to drink and carry on from afar, as if
he had not once required such a dismantling of Alexander's own moral fortitude.

"Poliakoff," offered Bastien Janvier, interrupting his thoughts and nodding to him.

"Janvier," Alexander returned, grimacing. "Spoken to Ludo this evening?"

"Trying not to," Janvier replied, his gaze darting nervously around the house. "I wouldn't have come, frankly, if I
had not heard Melibea Warbeck was going to be in attendance."

Alexander glanced over at where she stood with her boyfriend, a gangly, forgettable redhead he half-remembered
from a humiliating bout of transfixion by a Beauxbatons part-veela witch. "She is certainly quite beautiful, though
hardly reason enough to chance any of Ludo's particular… unsubtleties."

"What?" Janvier asked, and then conspicuously lowered his voice. "Be quiet about that, Poliakoff. I told you that in
confidence."

"No," Alexander corrected, "I told you that." He sipped coolly at his champagne, glancing over at the hostess and
abruptly recalling Viktor Krum's prior fascination with her. She wore a formal ivory gown, a gardenia twisted
delicately into her hair, and looked positively frantic, hurrying over to Harry Potter's side. "You know," Alexander
said, covertly switching to French, "I wonder what Ludo has on that Warlock Hawkworth. And on Potter, for that
matter."

"What do you mean?" Janvier asked, frowning, as he replied in French.

"Well, with us, it's quidditch. You had the drugs; I took the bribe to land on a team." Alexander took another sip,
disguising the distaste from the statement with the dryness of the champagne. "He bought our silence with our own
mistakes. But what could he have on Potter?"
"Potter won the Triwizard Tournament," Janvier guessed. "Maybe Ludo helped him."

"I doubt it," Alexander said, and frowned. "Though perhaps Potter is not as upstanding as he seems."

"Well, we clearly aren't," Janvier said with a scowl. "So why should he be any different?"

"Oh, excuse me," interrupted a woman with obscenely sleek platinum hair, adjusting the feathers on her stark white
gown and resolutely planting herself between them. "What is it we're discussing, gentlemen? And in my native
tongue, no less. Oh, Janvier," she sang musically, "I didn't even see you there."

"Hortense," muttered Janvier, shuddering slightly as he said her name. "I see you're here, also."

"Yes, of course," the woman trilled in reply, sparing an elaborate wink at Alexander. "So, what's the delightful
gossip between two such muscled men? Is it the quality of the wine? The finery of the decorations? Is someone
going to die tonight?"

"What?" Alexander asked, alarmed, and Hortense gave a low, tinkling laugh.

"Lovely to see you, Janvy," she said, brushing her red lips against Janvier's cheek as he made a face, "and as for you,
handsome, come fetch me if you find your hands unattended. I'd be happy to fill them with something exquisite.
What do you do for a living?"

"I'm an Auror," Alexander replied, dazed.

"Ah, then you're perfectly well-equipped for heavy lifting," she replied, "and candidly, I'll need someone to carry the
bags."

"I'm sorry," Alexander said. "Is this a metaphor, or—?"

"You're very sweet. And don't worry, I won't say a word about your private matters of corruption until it suits me,
which most likely won't be tonight. Ah, no, no, Janvy," she sighed, catching Janvier's hand twitching towards his
wand and giving his wrist a brisk, impatient smack. "There'll be no more obliviations from you. It's getting very
rude, and it took Thibaut ages last time to restore my memory of your particular bedroom festivities. He'll be so very
cross with me if he has to do it again, and you know how sullen he gets when he's overworked." She winked. "You
do know quite well, don't you?"

"Hortense," Janvier growled in warning, and she offered him a curtsy, blowing him a kiss.

"I'll leave you to it then, gentlemen," she replied, turning over her shoulder and picking up two glasses from a
floating tray, casually making her way to the still-frantic bride-to-be.

"Will she be a problem?" Alexander asked, frowning, and Janvier shook his head.

"No," he said. "She's not spiteful. Just eternally longing to be entertained."

"Did you sleep with her, or with her brother?" Alexander asked, confused.

"Yes," Janvier replied dully, draining his champagne flute and shuddering. "So, is this enough of an appearance, do
you think?"

"I certainly hope so," Alexander muttered. "The British Ministry is almost surely going to descend into chaos, and
the sooner we can avoid being caught in its self-absorbed, imperialistic web, the b-"

He stopped, groaning, as the lights suddenly went out, a series of gasps echoing around the room.

"Fuck, I hate England," Alexander said, and beside him, Janvier muttered his agreement.

7:27 p.m.
"You shouldn't have told Cad about the secrets," Blaise said, handing Parvati a glass as he took one of his own,
taking a long sip of distress. "That can't possibly have been a good idea."

"Oh, are you the psychic now?" Parvati asked drily, accepting the glass without drinking it. "Apologies, I never
realized you had the gift, too."

"Very funny," Blaise said, pursing his lips with displeasure. "What else did you two talk about?"

She opened her mouth, considering an answer, and abruptly changed her mind. "You're smothering me, Zabini," she
replied coolly. "Please stop."

"I can't stop," Blaise growled. "This concerns me too, Patil. You're the one who made a criminal of me - "

"Ha," Parvati scoffed.

" - fine, made more of a criminal of me, and I have a stake in this too, you know - "

"Zabini, this is extremely tiresome," Parvati reminded him, glancing vacantly around the room. "There's a reason I
didn't want you around for my conversation with Cad, and it's because you're terribly overprotective."

"That," Blaise said, taking a brief, angry sip of his champagne, "is patently untrue." He swallowed, grimacing. "I just
- this is about business, Patil. I know business, and - "

"Not really. You work for your mother," Parvati reminded him, and he scowled, glancing at the still-full glass in her
hand.

"Have a drink," he advised, nudging the glass towards her. "You're being incredibly rude."

"Actually, I'm just being incredibly honest. And in a similar vein, I really don't like to drink," Parvati told him,
eyeing the glass with suspicion. "It just makes this - " she gestured to her head. "Worse. Well, not worse," she
amended. "Just - blurrier."

"Ah yes," Blaise said skeptically, taking a sip. She glanced up at him, torn somewhere between irritation and fury at
his persisting doubt.

"For someone who tries so hard to protect me, you clearly still put no stock in what I can do," Parvati informed him,
and he shrugged.

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," he remarked obnoxiously. "Either way, it just seems like your time would be better
spent doing other things."

"Like what?" she prompted.

Blaise's expression didn't change. "Sex, for one thing."

Parvati met his eye, shaking her head.

"Subtle," she said, and his clever smirk tilted upwards at the corners. "And anyway, I haven't - " she hesitated, her
fingers tightening around the glass in her hand. "I just haven't," she admitted, not wishing to say more.

Blaise clearly heard the intent; his brows rose, his eyes widening slightly, but he at least had the decency not to
make too terrible a fuss. They merely glanced around the room, watching the many eccentric people in it - one
woman who looked like she might be Draco Malfoy's relative had glaringly opted to wear a dress that was a brighter
shade of white than the one belonging to the impending bride herself - before Blaise spoke again, clearly still
indulging a healthy dose of skepticism.

"So, these visions you have," he mused eventually. "Do you enjoy them?"

"No," Parvati said, fighting a mirthless laugh. "I hate them, actually." She shut her eyes. "I hate what I can hear
more, though. But if it's going to happen - " Her eyes fluttered back open, and she shrugged. "I'd at least prefer to be
able to understand them."

Blaise eyed the golden liquid in her glass again.

"Have a drink," he suggested again, gesturing to it.

Parvati sighed.

Then she took a small sip, making a face as the liquid touched her lips, and Blaise chuckled.

"Isn't there something about oracles being virgins?" he posed neutrally. "Maybe you should consider losing your
virginity, if you're so opposed to the visions and sounds."

Parvati froze, swallowing something tentative that was less a response to the alcohol on her tongue and far more a
reaction to what Blaise Zabini had just suggested. It certainly wasn't an accurate assessment, by any means; Padma
hadn't been a virgin, after all, and her visions - well, the sounds, Parvati supposed - had still plagued her, so there
wasn't any truth to Blaise's theory.

Still, it was an intriguing thing to remark.

"Is that an offer?" Parvati asked boldly, her gaze sliding up to his.

She'd meant to intimidate him, but Blaise didn't look away.

"It can be," he said.

"Well," Parvati said, tightening her grip on her glass, "you're not the person I lose my virginity to, and it's certainly
not now," she added, gesturing drily around the room. "I've already seen myself lose my virginity, actually, and it
isn't here."

"You don't really believe that, do you?" Blaise prompted, leaning towards her. "That you've seen it, I mean."

"Of course I do," Parvati returned. "Everything I've ever seen has eventually come to pass."

"So what do you see, then?" Blaise asked, and she paused, thinking about it.

"Well, I can't see his face," she admitted. "There's something gold in the way; I think it's sun coming in from the
window, and there's something blue in the background, like the ocean, and - " she broke off, feeling stupid. "It's just
not here," she clarified, gesturing to the enchanted night sky above them, "and it's not you. I'd know if it were you."

"Why?" Blaise asked, amused. "Because you've seen me before?"

"I've already told you that," Parvati reminded him, steadfastly refusing to be mocked for it. "And you, as you might
recall, don't believe me."

"Well no, I don't," Blaise agreed, "but you do."

"Of course," she said impatiently.

He paused for a second, considering something, and then he took another sip from his glass.

"You know," he said, not looking at her. "I think we should test fate."

She blinked.

"What?" she asked bluntly, staring at him.

"Come on," he said, rolling his eyes. "I know you like me. And you should really take a break from all that divining
you're always doing," he advised wryly, passing her an arrogant smirk. "Can't be good for you to just live inside
your head like that. Seems unhealthy, really."

"Are you really suggesting that having sex with you would be more healthy?" Parvati asked in disbelief. "That's
ridiculous."

"Isn't it just as ridiculous to wait for a vision to come to pass?" Blaise countered. "Is that even living, or is it just - I
don't know." He shrugged. "Existing?"

Parvati bristled. "Why would you even want to sleep with me?" she demanded, and Blaise laughed, a laugh that
sparkled and popped like the glass of champagne in her hand.

"Because," he said, turning his arched brow on her, "I want to."

Parvati stared at him.

And stared.

And then abruptly looked away.

"I can't see his face," she muttered, slowly, carefully, "but I can feel that he wants me. Not just sexually," she added
brusquely, as though Blaise had dared to suggest otherwise. "But I can just - " She exhaled. "I can feel the way he
feels about me, and it isn't - it doesn't feel like -" Another moment of hesitation. "Like nothing."

To her surprise, Blaise seemed to visibly flinch.

"Is that what you think?" he asked quietly. "That I would be nothing?"

Parvati hesitated.

"I just think that - "

She stopped as the lights in the ballroom suddenly went out, leaving them in darkness.

"What's going on?" she asked, and felt Blaise shrug beside her.

"Don't know, obviously," he said, as a series of murmurs and gasps broke out around them. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, but - "

"MY SISTER!" wailed a male voice, his platinum blond hair abruptly gleaming as the lights flickered back into
being. "SHE'S DEAD! HORTENSE, HORTENSE, WAKE UP!"

The entire room convulsed in panic.

"Everyone stay calm," came another voice; Draco's this time. "I'm sure this is - Jesus, Thibaut, please don't do that, I
really don't think this is the time for nudit- oh for the love of god, where's Granger -"

"Well," Parvati said, blinking. "I'll admit, I didn't see that coming."

She turned to Blaise, who was watching her with a strange, unsettled look on his face.

"Maybe you don't see anything at all, Patil," he told her, his voice hard and sharp and mean, and then he pivoted
away, divesting himself of his empty glass and heading towards Draco.

7:27 p.m.

"Nott," Harry sighed, reaching out to grab his arm. "I need to talk to you. Where the fuck have you been?"
"Not now," Theo muttered, pulling his arm from Harry's reach. "Seriously, Potter, not now. Have you seen Draco?"

"Nott," Harry hissed, stepping in front of him. "I know it was you. I know this is what you were up to, and what am I
supposed to do now? I have some goddamn professional ethics, Theo, for fuck's sake, I can't exactly let this go - "

"Then don't," Theo replied shortly, his voice clipped. "Try to prove it was me. In fact, I promise," he drawled, "I did
you and your ethics a favor; you won't be able to prove shit. And like I said, we'll talk later, I just need to - "

"Theo," Harry growled, reaching out again and rooting Theo in place this time. "The last thing you need is to look
frantic in front of the same Ministry members and Warlocks who'll be expecting me to produce a suspect. Do
yourself a favor," Harry warned, "and take a deep breath. I'm not letting you leave, so you might as well not look
suspicious."

Theo glared at him. "You're protecting me now? I thought you were busy scolding me."

"Believe me, I can do both, Nott."

"Harry," Theo warned under his breath, "let go of me. I told you, I can't talk about this with you. Not right now. If
you really want to have a conversation about the things we both know I'm only going to refuse to tell you, I promise,
it can wait until lat-"

"Do you really think I've never done something stupid in advance of someone stopping me? Nott. Don't be an idiot.
If anyone's going to listen to you, to trust your judgment, it's going to be me."

Harry loosened his grip, waiting until Theo's posture relaxed slightly.

"Why?" Harry asked quietly, glancing around to be sure their conversation appeared like nothing more than casual
small talk. "That's all I want, Theo. I know you did it for a reason; I know that."

"Yes," Theo confirmed bitterly, "and it's not over yet, so I'm not at liberty to discuss it."

"Are you in trouble?" Harry pressed. "Is something wrong?"

"No." Theo glanced at him, his brow furrowing. "What about you?" he asked suspiciously. "Did you speak to
Ignotus?"

"No," Harry lied. "I had other things to do, Nott," he added defensively. "You know, like clean up a certain mess
involving the entire wizarding government - "

"Harry," Hermione exhaled frantically, suddenly appearing at his side. "Nott," she added, giving him a wary stare,
and Theo said nothing. "Harry, I think we have a problem," she said, turning back to him. "Katie's not here."

"So?" Theo interrupted briskly. "Why would she want to be here? I mean, as much as we're all thrilled you're so
deeply in love with Draco," he conceded facetiously, "I somehow doubt his ex is lining up to witness the disastrous
collision of your lives."

Hermione glared at him before dropping her voice. "Her roommate hasn't seen her since the attack at the Ministry,"
she said, giving Harry a meaningful glance. "And Malf- Draco told me he warned Katie about Ignotus yesterday.
What if he did something to her?"

"He couldn't have," Harry replied without thinking. "He was with m-"

He stopped, realizing what he'd just confessed to, and Theo's expression immediately contorted.

"Nice, Potter," Theo seethed under his breath, pivoting on the spot and walking away.

"Nott, hold on a minute - "

"Harry," Hermione pressed urgently, holding him back. "We have to find her. If something happened to her - " She
glanced around the room, panicked. "It would destroy Malfoy, Harry. She could be hurt, she could be dead, and he -
"

"Well, we'll have to find her, then," Harry absently agreed, watching Theo wind through the crowd. "But I have no
idea where to even look. Did you ask Alicia, or Ron?" he prompted, and Hermione nodded, chewing her lip. "I only
ever see Katie at work, or at games - "

"I'll just have to - " Hermione's eyes widened. "Track her." She turned abruptly, waving a hand. "I have to go ask
Hortense for a favor, and then I have to find- you know what, this is, it's fine, you just - "

She wandered away, flapping a hand absently, and Harry turned as soon as she left, heading in the direction Theo
had gone.

"Ah, Auror Potter, so nice to see you - "

"Yes, yes, sorry," Harry offered to one of the Warlocks. "Just, um, looking for someone - "

"Mr Potter," a slightly tipsy Ludo Bagman interrupted, sliding into his path. "A pleasure. You remember me, I'm
sure, from my support of your -"

"I remember," Harry cut in harshly, glaring briefly at Ludo before continuing to line the perimeter of the room,
heading into the corridor and pausing. Behind him, the lights went out, and he turned, startled. "Nott," he called,
frowning, to no response, and then he removed his wand, flicking a silent Lumos and making his way down the
corridors.

Draco and Hermione's house was enormous; a larger version of Grimmauld Place, and it had been magically
expanded for the party. It was a long, somewhat fruitless walk, but eventually the lights came back on, and a curious
series of shouts along with them.

Harry groaned, turning back the way he'd come. "Nott, for fuck's sake," he muttered under his breath, "if that was
you, too -"

He broke off, startled, as someone materialized in his path, the faintly scarred face of a man a few years older
suddenly halting him in the corridor.

"Harry Potter?" the man asked, and Harry nodded warily, figuring denial was probably useless. "I'm Nicholas
Flamel."

"No, you aren't," Harry retorted, and the man sighed irritably.

"I am," he corrected, "and your immediate attention is required. I presume you're familiar with Ignotus Peverell?"

"Uh," said Harry.

"It'll only take a couple of hours," the man assured him, grabbing his arm and promptly apparating them away.

7:45 p.m.

"You know, I've been in the bedroom of an engaged woman before," Cad said as Hermione shut the door behind her,
"but usually she gives me a slightly more obvious hint about what she's planning to do, or is generally wearing fewer
clothes."

"I need you to track someone for me," Hermione said. "There's someone missing, and I need to find her before this -
" She waved a hand towards the ballroom, fidgeting again with the gardenia in her hair. "Binding ceremony, so - "

"This is quite a commitment to a facade," Cad informed her, in what was an extremely unwelcome reminder of the
obvious. "You know, I was around when those binding ceremonies were first implemented, Granger, and let me tell
you, the consequences for breaking them is something you do not want to witness - "

"That's not important," Hermione insisted. "Look, I don't want Malfoy to know she's missing - it'll only worry him,
and - "

"Ah," Cad said slowly, a knowing smirk spreading over his lips. "Who's missing, then? An ex-girlfriend, I take it?
And you're worried he might feel compelled to save her?"

"I just need to find her," Hermione growled, wishing that any one of the Peverell brothers were not their own
specific version of unbearable. "You've got that tracking spell you use, right?" He nodded. "So will you do it?"

"What about your party?" Cad prompted in response, pretending to scrutinize her bedroom. "You're kind of an
important facet to this whole engagement charade, don't you think? And if you don't even plan to tell your fiancé
where you've gone, then - "

"Hortense is taking care of it," Hermione cut in briskly. "And stop wasting time, Cad. If you just use the spell," she
reminded him, "then Malfoy won't even have to notice I've left. So will you help me?"

"Well, I don't know," Cad replied spiritedly. "There's a price for my services, obviously. Some sort of favor,
perhaps, or a token, maybe a benediction, or - "

There was a loud crack, cutting him off, and Hermione spun, facing the doorway in time to see Antioch Peverell
dusting off his robes, clearing his throat.

"Antioch," she exhaled, alarmed. "What the - "

"Talking to someone?" Antioch asked drily, glancing around the room. Cad, she noted, had disappeared; likely
disillusioned. "What's that?" Antioch asked, gesturing to the glow coming from her engagement ring. "Is someone
else here?" he guessed, his fingers tightening around his wand, and Hermione shook her head, quickly tucking her
hand behind her back.

"No, I was - just having some time alone. It's - beauty charms, you know," she explained, gesturing to her face.
"This - hair, you know? Only magic can tame this level of humidity in the air. It's well above fourteen percent, and -
"

"Good lord," Antioch exhaled, rubbing briefly at his temple. "You're lying, but fine. I need you to come with me."

"For wh-"

Remember that price I wanted for my services? Hermione heard - or felt - in her mind, an echo of Cad's voice that
must have been legilimency. I think I just figured out what it is.

"Sorry," Hermione said, clearing her throat. "Um, for what, again?"

Antioch frowned at her. "You wanted to be in the Club, didn't you?"

Oh, for fuck's sake. Tell me you didn't.

"Yes," she sighed, "but this is - I mean, it's my engagement party, so - "

Who are you doing this for? Cad mused in her head. Surely not yourself; you don't strike me as the type.

"So, I, um - "

Antioch arched a brow, waiting.

Ah, Cad concluded unhelpfully, it must somehow be for Draco Malfoy, hm? Well, I'll say nothing if you will.

"Right," Hermione exhaled. "Well, anyway, it's not great timing," she offered to Antioch, "but if it has to be now,
then -"

"It does," Antioch confirmed. "So, shall we?" he said, offering her his arm. "We have one stop to make before we
go."

"We do?" she asked, dizzied.

Play along. I'll see you soon, she heard, and then Antioch disapparated them both, reappearing in a corridor in front
of a startled, lanky figure whose mouth tightened angrily at the sight of her.

"Theo," Antioch ventured coolly. "Your presence is required."

But Theo wasn't looking at Antioch.

"You," Theo said gruffly, glaring at Hermione. "You're going to break his fucking heart, you know that?"

She dug her heels in, refusing to suffer the ache in her chest. "I could say the same to you," she shot back.

"Ah, be nice, children," Antioch warned. "You're playing for the same team, after all."

They both grimaced, and Antioch held out his hand, beckoning to Theo.

"Shall we?" Antioch prompted.

Then, at the promise of wary acceptance from Theo, the three of them disappeared from the corridor with a loud,
world-altering crack.

7:45 p.m.

"Hold on a minute," Ludo said blearily, squinting as he looked up from the cup the woman had handed him. "I
thought that other guy was just yelling that you were dead."

"Who, me?" the blonde woman asked, adjusting the feathers on her obnoxiously white gown. "Dead? That's
ridiculous. I'll never die. You know, unless it comes into fashion. But even then, I'd lend it some serious
consideration first. I'm not really much for commitments."

"Commitments to what, death?" Ludo echoed, letting her shove him down onto the bed as he spilled some of the
bubblegum-flavored wine onto his shirt. "Who are you? Are you in the Club?"

"What club?" she asked, and then frowned. "Oh, you mean that Infinity Club? No, boring. Why, are you?"

Ludo blinked. "Did you just say it was - boring?"

She considered him, her pale blonde brow furrowing slightly.

"Yes," she said slowly, her French accent thickening just a touch. "Yes, boring. Because I'm in it."

"Are you?" Ludo asked, sitting up straighter. The room spun slightly and he blinked, steadying himself. "So you
know Hawkworth, then?"

"Oh, who doesn't?" the woman replied. "That's the, um. The, person. Who is a -"

"Warlock," Ludo supplied.

"Ah, right," the woman said. "Yes, Warlock. Of the - ?"

"Wizardgamun- no. Wixen-" Ludo paused, suddenly stumbling over the word. "Wi-zen-ga-mot," he pronounced
slowly, and the woman nodded.
"Ah, yes," she murmured. "Right, of course. And he is - also in the Club? That I am in. Definitely in. Deeply in."

"SO SAYS THE KING," announced a portrait, startling Ludo into falling off the bed just as the door opened.

"I can't find her," someone said in French. "How long did she ask you to stall, exactly? They definitely think you're
actually dead, by the way. Draco's not very pleased."

"Why not?" the woman returned, pouting. "Everyone likes murder mystery parties."

"Oh, absolutely, I agree. He's just fussing about the surprise aspect, I suspect."

"But how is it even fun if the murder is announced in advance? The terror's hardly even genuine."

"That's precisely what I said. Who's this, by the way?" the man asked, gesturing to where Ludo struggled to sit up
from the floor. "I thought for sure you'd have Janvier tied up in here again."

"Shh, shh," the woman warned. "Janvier and that delicious Norwegian tart he was talking to said something very
interesting about this one, but - he looks a little too alert, doesn't he?" She switched to English, glancing down at
Ludo and nudging him with her foot. "Do you speak French?"

Ludo opened his mouth, hiccuping, and then nodded. "Spent some time in Paris," he said, frowning slightly as his
words slurred again. "What did you give me?"

"Oh, nothing much," the woman said, glancing meaningfully at the man beside her. "Just a couple of sedatives, some
mild muscle relaxants, and a, um - "

Ludo looked down, abruptly noticing his erection.

"You know," the woman said innocently. "Just in case the evening went that way, I didn't want to hinder your
performance."

"Hortense," the man sighed in French. "Was this for me or for you?"

"Well, it depended how interesting he was," the woman replied slowly. "And he is very interesting, I suspect," she
said emphatically. "Isn't he, Uncle Armand?"

"HE'S SPILLING SECRETS LEFT AND RIGHT," the portrait shouted. "HIS LIPS ARE LOOSER THAN MY
MORALS."

"Or your sexuality," the man suggested.

"NO, THAT PART'S FAIRLY IRONCLAD," the portrait replied.

Ludo's head spun. He blinked, swatting at fireflies, and carefully set himself beneath a couple of clouds, regrettably
finding them occupied by a blurry, half-familiar face.

"Hello, Ludo," said an image of Dolores, batting her lashes at him from inside one of the clouds.

"Shut up, Dolores," he muttered, kicking vacantly into the air. "Just let me sleep."

"Dolores," the blonde woman echoed, her face suddenly floating into Ludo's cloud palace. "Do you want to be
Dolores, Thibaut, or should I?"

"No, don't touch me," Ludo mumbled, curling up in a ball. "Gross," he added, swiping a hand through Dolores' face.
"Looks like a toad."

"Dolores, toad, Paris," the woman said thoughtfully. "Did you get all that, Thibaut?"

"Yes, though I can't make heads or tails of it," the man replied. "Grape?"
"You know those are poisonous for dogs, right?" the woman said.

"You know you're not a dog, right?" the man countered.

Ludo reached out, brushing his fingers against a velvety, tactile rainbow.

"Pretty," he whispered to it, just before it turned into a fish, scuttling away.

"Put the grapes down, Thibaut. You'll need to do this person's obliviation, and then we have to go downstairs and
apparently announce that I'm not dead."

"Oh, unfortunately they know. Draco already ruined it."

"I don't know where he got that from."

"What, the party-killing quality?"

Ludo plucked at a strawberry, squishing it between his fingers and laughing with delight.

"Yes, that. Must be a Black family trait, as it's certainly not very Malfoy."

"Well, fine, I'll do the obliviation. You take notes."

"Take notes?"

"Oh, yes, because apparently that Infinity Club is real. Isn't that a riot?"

"What, that? I knew that. I'm in it."

"You are?"

"No, wait, sorry. I thought you meant the other club."

"Sanguinity Club?"

"Yes, that's the one."

"Ooh, is that one fun?"

Ludo buried himself in a treasure chest, squawking fearfully at carnivorous seagulls and wrapping himself in
sequins.

"Well, it's, you know. Mostly very messy? Anyway, back to this thing you brought in -"

"Ah yes, right, let's do it - "

"Dolores, don't touch my penis," Ludo cautioned shrilly, ducking away from her as the blond man's face swam
before his hands.

"Jesus, Hortense," the man muttered, holding his wand. "Could have used a slightly weaker concoction, don't you
think?"

"Not at all," the woman said sweetly, and Ludo blinked, both their faces gradually floating away on a foamy ocean
wave.

The League of Eternality

Unplottable Location
8:01 p.m.
"This isn't fair," Ignotus was saying. "You can't have two candidates, Antioch! You know we don't initiate more than
one at a time -"

"Funny that you'd bring up fair, Ignotus, considering you planned to initiate your little descendant in secret,"
Antioch retorted. "It's only because Nico is such a spineless little twat that I even managed to collect my candidates
in the first place, and you'll notice, Ignotus, that I'm not trying to keep it from you."

"There are still rules, Antioch," Ignotus snapped. "You don't get to initiate both!"

Cad, still concealed in the shadows, fought a delirious smile of delight, stepping into the light and clearing his throat.

"Not to worry," he announced gleefully, and relished the sight of his brothers' eyes widening, their heads obviously
incapable of turning as they bristled in desperate, paralyzing fear. "Antioch doesn't have two candidates, Ignotus. I
have one."

Cad stepped forward, catching the glances from around the room and categorizing them one by one.

From Theo: curiosity, which was nice.

From Harry: severe mistrust, which was deeply ironic.

From Hermione: wary apprehension, which was fairly in character.

From Ignotus: dumbstruck muteness, which was marvelous.

From Antioch, though: a strange, placid stillness, which was admittedly not what Cad had expected.

"How -" Ignotus sputtered. "What are you - "

"What do you mean," Antioch ventured slowly, his gaze finally cutting to Cad's, "you have one?"

"Well, there are three worthy candidates, and three brothers capable of initiating them," Cad reminded him. "I think
you both might recall that there are three sons of Peverell, don't you? And I'm sure neither of you would deny me
entry to the league I helped you build," he mused cheerfully. "Would you?"

Ignotus blinked. "Cadmus -"

"Actually, my friends call me Cad these days," he corrected spiritedly. "I find it delightfully apt, and I assume you
two would, too, if either of you possessed any conceivable humor. You don't, but I'm willing to overlook it, seeing
as we have such official Club business to attend to. Don't we?" he prompted, and fell into the seat at the head of the
table, which he knew perfectly well belonged to Antioch. "Surely," Cad warned, leaning forward, "you would not
deny me that, brothers. Would you?"

Ignotus and Antioch were both silent.

Harry, Hermione, and Theo, meanwhile, were each refusing to look the others in the eye.

All in all, Cad thought blissfully, it was everything he could have wished for and more.

"So. Shall we?" Cad beckoned, resting his feet on the table. "The initiation rituals take some time, as I recall, so we
should probably start now, before it gets too late."

"Who is - " Ignotus grimaced, and Antioch's mouth tightened. "Which candidate is yours, then?"

Cad looked up, half-smiling.

"She knows who she is," he mused, letting his gaze slide to Hermione's. "Doesn't she?"

Harry's mouth tightened. Antioch's jaw twitched. Ignotus scowled. Theo's eyes widened.
Hermione, however, merely stepped towards him, and it took everything in Cad's power not to laugh, and laugh and
laugh and laugh until his brothers fell to their knees in defeat, which was a prospect that was close enough to taste.

"Cadmus," Antioch began, turning his keen-eyed gaze on him. "Even you cannot possibly think that we - "

"That you what?" Cad beckoned sharply, rising to his feet and resting his palms against the table. "That you have
somehow forgotten what you owe me? That you both murdered me, brothers, three times, and yet now, ironically, I
am necessary to you both? I can walk out of here," Cad reminded them, in what was more a fact than a threat. "I
could walk out, and you would never know what what I was doing. You'd never know what I was planning, or who
my allies were, and therefore neither of you would ever sleep safe at night again. That, or you could simply give me
my right as your brother. You could return my place at the table," he clarified for them, gesturing to where he stood,
"which is as deservedly mine as it has ever been either of yours. The choice is yours, Ignotus," he said, addressing
his younger brother first, and then his elder one. "Antioch. Feel free to decide. And do take your time," he beckoned,
and fell back into the chair again, resting his hands behind his head. "I'll wait."

Hermione, who'd come to stand beside him, exhaled slowly, her fingers curling surreptitiously into fists.

Cad fought a furtive smile at the thought.

"Well then," Antioch said tightly. "I guess we should begin."

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
8:57 p.m.

Draco heard the footsteps behind him but didn't turn, opting instead to stare at the green sash Hortense had placed on
top of the Malfoy family's book of rituals.

"I thought I'd say goodbye," came Rhys Hawkworth's voice. "Though, um. I didn't actually see Hermione, so - "

Draco shut his eyes. "Well. I don't know where she is."

"Oh." Rhys swallowed, shifting to stand beside Draco. "Do you, um. Do you want help finding her, or - "

"Help? From you?" Draco scoffed. "No." He turned to glance at Rhys, who lowered his head uncomfortably. "At
least she's not with you, honestly," Draco muttered. "That thought had crossed my mind."

"What?" Rhys asked, his brow furrowing. "Why?"

"She left her first wedding," Draco said, jerking his head to reference wherever Ron Weasley was outside the room.
"She left, and then she ran into me. I talked to her that night." He looked up, clearing his throat. "She likes to run. I
assumed she'd run to you."

Rhys stood still, silent for a long moment. "She's with you," he managed eventually, which only delivered Draco to
unspeakable frustration.

"Come on," he said, turning to glare at him. "You know she isn't, Hawkworth."

Rhys opened his mouth, hesitating, and then grimaced, letting out a sigh.

"I know I don't know her like you do," Rhys informed Draco slowly, "but what I do know about her is that every
time there's been a choice between me and you, it's always been you. The Arsonist," he supplied, ambiguously
waving a hand. "The Underground. That time at my flat - "

"It was never me she chose," Draco growled. "It was - the job." He shrugged. "That, or her unforgivable sense of
moral superiority, which is basically the same thing."
Rhys shook his head. "Look, in my experience, people tend to show you what's important to them," he said.
"Hermione Granger clearly thinks you're the most important thing in her life, or she'd make vastly different choices.
And hey, listen, I hate to lose," Rhys added, pointedly raising his hands in the air, "but I know when to tap out. This
fight's not mine to win."

Draco grimaced. "You don't know what you're talking about," he warned tightly.

"Maybe not," Rhys permitted, shrugging. "But I know what I see."

"Well I see a vacancy where Granger should be," Draco snapped, pivoting sharply. "So what's all your muscle-y
wisdom got to say about that?"

To Draco's dismay, Rhys only chuckled. "You know, you could have muscles of your own, Malfoy," he said,
smacking the back of his hand against Draco's torso before turning away, aiming himself towards the door. "And
you could have Hermione too," he added, "if you just told her how you felt."

Draco rolled his eyes, saying nothing, and gradually he heard Rhys' footsteps fading, finally leaving him alone.

Though it wasn't for long, unfortunately.

"Well, turns out surprise murder mysteries don't get very high marks," Hortense said, rustling in with Thibaut at her
side, casually sipping a mai tai. "Unfortunately, I think we're going to have to put this party in the 'disaster'
category."

"I look nice, though," Thibaut contributed, "so it manages to skirt 'travesty,' I think - "

"It's not your fault," Draco reminded them wearily, which was admittedly a surprise to him to be saying out loud. "I
think the missing fiancée is the slightly more pressing issue, even though it was exceedingly strange for you to fake
a murder."

"Well, I was asked to distract people," Hortense insisted. "So as a special favor to the bride, I naturally assumed
faking my death was the only conceivable option."

Draco shut his eyes, shaking his head.

"I knew she wouldn't go through with it," he muttered. "I knew she wouldn't be able to do it. I just thought - " he
exhaled. "I thought she would, I don't know. Tell me, or -" He let his eyes float open. "Actually, no. I'm fucking
lying. I really thought she was going to do it," he admitted bitterly, and Hortense rested a hand on his shoulder,
sighing.

"Oh, Draco, I know how you love to drown a room in melancholia, but I really think this is just a
misunderstanding," Hortense said. "Hermione assured me she was coming back. She just needed a temporary
distraction to obscure her absence while she - " She looked up at Thibaut. "What was it again?"

"Defenestration," Thibaut guessed.

"No. No, not that. It was - oh, what was it - "

"Ah, yes, the missing girl," Thibaut said, snapping his fingers. "You know, the one she didn't want Draco to find out
about?"

"Oh yes," Hortense groaned. "Right, that's it - "

"Hold on," Draco said, rounding on them. "What missing girl?"

"Oh, I'm sure it's fine, Draco," Hortense offered soothingly. "I'm sure she wasn't murdered, and if she was, I doubt
Hermione's going to get murdered too - I mean, that would be quite an unlikely coincidence, right? How often do
people really get murdered -"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Draco snapped, tearing from the room and storming back into the ballroom, abruptly colliding
with Ron. "Fuck me - "

"What's going on?" Ron asked, disentangling his lapel from Draco's and frowning. "Malfoy, is everything ok-"

"Where's Potter?" Draco demanded. "Or Theo. Have you seen them?"

"No," Ron said slowly. "Where's Hermione?"

Draco flinched, determinedly not answering. "What about Katie - have you seen her?"

"Katie? No," Ron said, frowning. "Actually, you know, it's weird, Hermione was just concerned about her earlier
this ev-"

"Fuck," Draco swore under his breath, glancing around the nearly-emptied ballroom. "Are you really the only person
I've got?"

"Uh," said Ron.

"FUCK," Draco yelled into nothing.

Then he sighed, grabbing Ron's shoulder and dragging him towards the Floo.

a/n: Dedicated to Linwe Falassion, the guest who wanted dramione to play chicken until they're married, and
rcgvnseyiii. If you want more nottpott (Theo x Harry), I went a bit overboard with a one-shot that got entirely too
long; I've been updating Lethal Combination every day and will be posting chapter 4 right after this. I'm a little in
love with the story, not going to lie, so come join me if you wish!
 29. Level-Up at Intimacy 5

Chapter 29: Level-Up at Intimacy 5

Katie Bell's flat

Diagon Alley
October 17, 2003
9:45 p.m.

"Katie?" Ron called, waiting for an answer. "Alicia, are you home?"

"For fuck's sake, is that really how an Auror announces himself?" Draco demanded peevishly, half-shoving Ron out
of the way and pressing his ear to the door. "I thought it was fairly obvious, Weasley, when I said there was a
missing person that I was going to need the arm of the motherfucking law, not your best brunch-with-your-mother
voice - "

"Obviously you haven't met my mother, Malfoy," Ron began irritably, wondering for the fifth time that minute what
had possibly gone wrong to make him agree to this, "and secondly, shut up." He knocked again, waiting. "Alicia?
Katie?"

At an impatient glare from Draco, Ron sighed, pulling out his Auror badge.

"Auror Ron Weasley, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Please stand back from the door," he called, and
flicked his wand, blasting the door back and waiting for the dust (a significant portion of which seemed to have
settled directly into Draco's lungs, much to Ron's immense pleasure) to clear before stepping into the flat. "Katie?"
Ron called, to no answer. He shrugged, turning to Draco, who rolled his eyes and pushed further in, heading to one
of the bedrooms.

"She's obviously not here, seeing as I said she's gone," Draco muttered under his breath as Ron followed warily.
"And Gr- Hermione is too, so-"

The rest of whatever Draco was mumbling to himself was lost the moment he began searching Katie's bedroom,
rifling somewhat carelessly through her things. Ron paused in the doorway, suddenly understanding how he
probably looked to other people.

"You know," Ron said slowly, "for the record, I do grasp the irony of me saying this, but I'm pretty sure Hermione
can take care of herself, Malfoy. She did fight a war without your help, as I recall - "

In response, Draco merely tossed a book at his face, which Ron gratifyingly retained the presence of mind to catch.

"Yes, okay, well, let me again emphasize that this type of lunacy is not unfamiliar to me," Ron sighed, reaching
forward to take hold of Draco's shoulder and wrestling him back before he began digging through more of Katie's
things, "but just so you know, this isn't exactly within the purview of legality. It's pretty solidly a warrantless search,
Malfoy," he clarified, "so if you want me to approve it, you're going to need to explain what's actually going on -"

"Katie's missing," Draco snarled, ripping out of Ron's hold and rounding on him with a scowl. "What is standard
Auror procedure, twenty-four hours? It's been that, Weasley, so I would think you'd manage to be a little more
concerned - "

"Hey," Ron snapped, irritated. "I am concerned, but I can't help you unless I know where to look. Where could she
be, and why would you be this worried? She's an adult woman, Malfoy, and as far as I can see, she'd have no reason
to explain to either you or her roommate why she might feel the need to disappear for a bit - I mean, did you even
try Floo-calling her first? Did you do anything at all," he grumbled, "before dragging me over here to break into her
flat and invade her privacy?"

"I - " Draco grimaced. "It's complicated. You wouldn't understand."

"Ah, yes," Ron mused facetiously. "Because nothing in my life is ever complicated, I say, to my ex-fiancée's current
fiancé - "

"Look, believe me, if anyone else had been left at that party, I wouldn't have taken you," Draco snapped. "But
considering I've got a fucking Dark Mark and a reputation for criminal activity, it's not exactly smart to run around
breaking in places by myself."

"Well, I'm glad you see it, too," Ron pointed out, shrugging. "And I'm certainly pleased you recognize that I lend
you some legitimacy, Malfoy, but I can't actually help you if you don't tell me what the bloody hell you're all
worked up about. I mean believe me, I grasp the impulse to inadvisably stalk Hermione," he conceded. "She's not
exactly great at explaining what's going on inside her head -"

"I'm not stalking her," Draco growled, rounding on him. "I told you, Katie's fucking missing - "

"Yes, sure, but it's Hermione you've been muttering to yourself about the whole way over here," Ron reminded him.
"As far as I can tell, Hermione's been missing for about what, one hour? Two?" He waited, but Draco only blinked,
staring into nothing. "I'm just not sure which woman we're chasing at the moment, Malfoy."

"It's - " Draco shut his eyes. "Katie's the one that's missing, okay? But Granger went after her. All I know is that
Katie might be in danger, and if she is, then Granger's - "

He trailed off, helpless, and Ron sighed.

"Look, I'm willing to keep looking," Ron assured him. "If you say Hermione might be in danger, then I believe you,
okay? I believe you. But you've got to tell me a little bit more than this, Malfoy, or I just don't know where to start.
We can check the quidditch pitch for Katie, or the Ministry, maybe her new boyfriend's flat, if you know where that
is - "

"I don't," Draco said tightly. "And I really don't think she's playing quidditch right now, Weasley," he added, with
the extra dose of spite that always seemed to slide effortlessly through his gritted teeth.

"How do you do that?" Ron asked, somewhere between irritated and impressed.

Draco looked up, glaring. "Do what?"

"Say my name like it's a curse," Ron replied flatly, and Draco glowered at him. "It's almost like if you say it
forcefully enough, I might just spontaneously collapse in a pile of ash or something."

Ron waited for a snippy comeback, having come to expect them after enough years of schooling, but to his surprise,
Draco merely withered, staring down at his hands.

"I don't usually have to do this alone," Draco remarked sourly, falling back against Katie's bedpost. "Normally I
have Granger, but she's god knows where. Or I'd have Theo, but I don't even know if I can trust him right now, or if
he even trusts me. Meanwhile, Potter can't stop banging down my door when I want nothing to do with him, but of
course now that I actually need him, he's nowhere to be found. I was worried this night would be ruined by a fucking
surprise murder party," he spat, "but no, instead it's ruined because nobody tells me anything - "

"Relatable," Ron murmured, and Draco looked up, grimacing again.

"Look, if anything happens to her," Draco said eventually, flinching as he spoke. "If she gets hurt because of me - "

This time, Ron didn't have to ask which woman they were talking about.

"Come on," Ron sighed, shaking his head and gesturing for Draco to follow. "Let's try the Ministry."

The League of Eternality

Unplottable Location
9:45 p.m.

"This is taking too long," Hermione muttered, pacing back and forth in the tiny room she'd been assigned to wait. "I
should have been back hours ago - "

"What did you think this was, some sort of welcome home cocktail party?" Cad asked, conjuring a chair and leaning
back in it, resting his head against his hands. "If you could relax for one tiny second, Miss Granger, I might actually
be able to prepare you for the initiation trials."

"Trials?" Hermione echoed, whirling in place to glare suspiciously at him. "What trials?"

"Well, it's one trial," Cad corrected himself. "It's a duel, actually."

"Against whom?" Hermione demanded. "Harry? Theo?"

"Neither," Cad said neutrally. "Someone much worse, in fact. But I wouldn't worry about it at the moment."

"I thought you said you were prepar-"

"Yes, I will, but one thing first," Cad said, landing all four feet of the chair against the floor and leaning towards her.
"Why'd you agree to side with me?"

Hermione sighed impatiently. "You told me I owed you something," she reminded him. "It's pretty clear what that
thing was. And I expect you to follow through," she added, brandishing an accusatory finger at him. "As soon as this
is over, you're helping me track Katie."

"Right, sure," Cad permitted dubiously, "but even you must realize you don't actually need that tracking spell. You
could have sided with Antioch," he reminded her. "You could have done any number of things, but you didn't. So,"
he exhaled, leaning back again. "Why me?"

Hermione grimaced, about to persist that she'd already explained herself, but bit her tongue at the sight of Cad's
unfailing smirk. "You're really not going to let me get away with not answering, are you?"

"Nope," Cad said, grinning at her. "Good on you for noticing."

"Fine." She folded her arms over her chest, leaning against the far wall. "The truth is I don't particularly want
anything to do with Ignotus or Antioch, and I certainly don't want to be in this Club. I just want to be done with all
of this." She paused, waiting for a reaction, but when she received none, she sighed. "Look, I know perfectly well
you're gunning to destroy them both," she said, and to that, Cad spared her a satisfied smirk, looking positively
gleeful. "And honestly, much as I hate to admit it, you're one of the better wizards I've ever met. So if I want this
over with quickly - and I do," she clarified emphatically, "then you're actually my best bet, whether I came to
Antioch first or not."

"Ah," Cad said, rising to his feet. "Well, I do love it when a plan comes together. Best of luck, then," he added,
closing a hand around her shoulder. "You'll need it."

"What about helping me?" she demanded, pausing him before he strode through the door. "Aren't you going to tell
me who my opponent is?"

"You know, I would, but I'm starting to think it's better that you don't know," Cad told her. "From what I know about
you, you'll simply overcompensate with worry - so just relax, you'll be fine," he said, in a way that did not sound in
any way relaxing, or even remotely fine. "It's someone I'm positive you can beat, if you can just get out of your own
way."

"Comforting," Hermione sighed. "And if I lose?"

"Well, you die," Cad assured her spiritedly. "But isn't that the fun of it?"
Hermione opened her mouth, about to retort, but Cad gave a warning shake of his head.

"Better not," he advised ambiguously. "And better that you get your mind off Draco Malfoy, too. If you can avoid
any sort of emotional spiraling, that would probably be best."

"Who says I was thinking about him?" she prompted irritably, and Cad shrugged.

"Say whatever you want to me, but I wouldn't lie to yourself right now," he warned, pulling the door open. "I
promise, that'll just make everything harder."

9:45 p.m.

"So it's Lady Revel's secrets you came to barter with, then," Antioch echoed slowly. "Do you know how they work?"

"I grasp the basic concept," Theo replied. "I don't have any secrets within her network, if that's what you're asking,
so it's not exactly self-sacrificing to offer them to you. But I want them gone, and I suspect the Club will have a
better use for them than I will."

"Does Cadmus know about them?" Antioch asked.

Theo toyed with the truth, considering the value of discarding it.

"Yes," he admitted eventually, "though I doubt he knows how to use them."

"What about Hermione? Or Harry?" Antioch pressed. "Do either of them know about the secrets?"

"They know something was stolen from Lady Revel, but they don't know what."

"And how do you know all these things that they don't?"

Theo shrugged. "Smarter, I guess."

Antioch arched a brow. "I don't doubt it, but I'd appreciate something a little more truthful."

"Yeah, well, if I were a more truthful person, I wouldn't be here, would I?" Theo retorted, and Antioch shrugged in
return, conceding. "I notice you haven't actually asked me why I wanted to join."

"I don't have to ask," Antioch replied easily. "I run the most powerful secret society in the world. I offer you
immortality, wealth, power beyond your imaginings. It's hardly a stretch to consider why someone might want to be
a part of it." He paused, opening his mouth, and then closed it. "Truthfully, though, I'm surprised you aren't Cadmus'
choice. You seem well within his same vein of chaos."

Theo bit back his own truth, which was that he had been equally surprised.

"I'm my own chaos," Theo said instead. "Don't confuse me for your brother, Antioch. I won't make the same choices
he did. I'm also not your blood," he warned, "so if you betray me, I won't be nearly so quick to forgive."

"Cadmus forgives nothing," Antioch said with a scoff, "no matter what he says, and I'm not a fool, Theo. You've
never loved anyone of your blood and you never will. You do not love very freely at all, do you?" he prompted, and
Theo said nothing, hardening his jaw. "In that, I expect, you and I are more similar than you think."

"Doubtful," Theo said irritably. "You obviously love your brother, or you would have destroyed his horcrux from
the start. Clearly, you would rather destroy yourself than him," he added boldly, "and if anything, that's your
weakness, Antioch, because he knows it. He knows it, and so do you."

Antioch paused for a moment, about to answer, and instead stepped towards the door, resting his hand on the knob.

"Like I said, Theo," Antioch murmured without turning around, "you and I are much more similar than you think."
9:45 p.m.

"There's a trial," Ignotus explained. "It's a duel, and if you win, you'll be initiated into the Club."

"Who do I duel?" Harry asked, frowning. "Hermione? Nott?"

"No. Worse," Ignotus sighed. "I'm afraid this particular initiation trial is of Cadmus' invention. Unfortunately, we
continued using it long after his death."

"'Unfortunately' because it's challenging?" Harry guessed.

"Well, yes, and it's still the best one we have, but more importantly, 'unfortunately' because he's probably far too
pleased with himself over it," Ignotus muttered. "But this is, of course, the problem that Antioch and I perpetually
had, because Cadmus was always valuable. He was always so valuable, in fact," Ignotus sighed weightily, "that he
consistently walked the line of being dangerous, and even after he crossed it, we couldn't quite sever the man from
what he'd done. There remains no better initiation trial than this one."

Harry nodded slowly. "Well, I'm an Auror. And something of a war hero." He gave a grim sort of half-smile. "I'm
somewhat equipped to duel, I think."

"Mm? Oh, yes," Ignotus said, nodding. "Yes, of course."

"You're distracted," Harry noted, watching Ignotus glance towards the door. "I can't decide if it's a good thing or a
bad thing."

"Ah, well, my brother did just apparently resurface from the dead," Ignotus replied drily, shaking his head. "So even
if he's being sincere, which he almost certainly isn't, it's still something of a shock."

Harry nodded, watching Ignotus fidget and abruptly recalling something he'd yet to address.

"Katie," he said, as Ignotus blinked, dragging himself out of a current of thoughts. "She's missing. Have you seen
her?"

"She's missing?" Ignotus echoed hollowly, his expression somewhat blank. "Since when?"

"Since yesterday," Harry said. "After the, you know. The attack at the Ministry."

"Oh. Yes." Ignotus blinked again, and then snapped his gaze up to Harry's. "Antioch must have done something to
her."

"What?" Harry asked, frowning. "Why?"

"Antioch rarely sees people as people. Only as obstacles, or threats," Ignotus said, eyeing his hands. "He killed the
woman I loved. Took her from me, actually, and killed her later. If he thought Katie was another distraction, he
might have - " he trailed off, hesitant. "He might have killed her, too. Or, I don't know. Done something to get rid of
her. He's done it many times before."

"But why Katie?" Harry pressed. "Was it - was it serious, or - "

"There is no telling why Antioch does what he does," Ignotus interrupted sharply, his expression stiffening. "He
behaves only for his own personal gain, Harry. He has no concept of family, you know. He's never had one - not like
me, or even Cadmus. He loves nothing and no one but himself." He looked gravely at Harry, shaking his head. "I am
very sorry if that's the case," he added mournfully. "I never intended to put her in danger, but things being what they
are - "

"No, I - " Harry cleared his throat. "I understand, I suppose. I just - " He grimaced. "I thought I was done with men
like him. You know. Evil overlords, et cetera." He swallowed, remembering for the thirtieth time that Theo was
likely on the other side of this wall somewhere, putting the two of them on opposite sides once again. "I thought I'd
never have to fight another Voldemort as long as I lived, but now - "

"Try not to think about it," Ignotus assured him, placing a soothing hand on Harry's shoulder. "Not now. Not before
this duel, anyway."

"Right," Harry exhaled. "Right, you're right. And sorry, but who did you say I'm dueling again?" he asked, glancing
up at Ignotus, whose grimace tightened.

"Yourself," Ignotus replied simply, and before Harry could ask more questions, he'd already stepped through the
door, letting it fall shut behind him.

Ministry of Magic
Muggle Artefacts, Katie Bell's Office
10:05 p.m.

"Well," Ron sighed, stepping back from Katie's desk. "I've got nothing. No letters, nothing in her diary - she
definitely intended to go to your engagement party, but she didn't come into work after the attack on the Ministry,
and she didn't write anything the entire morning, so - " he exhaled again. "You're right. She's definitely missing."

"Yes, thank you," Draco muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. "How astounding, Weasley, that I was right.
Almost as if I know what I'm doing," he grumbled irritably, fishing around in his pocket for thing Hermione always
called a 'remote,' though it looked to Draco like nothing more than a plain black rectangle.

Meanwhile, Ron began putting things back where he found them, meticulously cleaning up after himself. "I'm going
to need to write up a report for why I was here after hours," Ron sighed, shaking his head. "Not to mention the
missing person file, so I should probably owl Mel - and Harry, actually, though who knows where he is - "

"No need," Draco said, waving his wand over the remote. "British Ministry," he murmured to it, tucking it back into
his pocket as Ron looked up, frowning. "Don't worry about it," Draco said coolly, glancing around. "Though,
honestly, now that I think about it, there is someone else whose help I could use."

"Okay," Ron said uncertainly. "Well, how do we find them?"

"Typically? He finds me," Draco said. "Usually I say something about how happy I am that he's not here, and th-"

"What are you doing?" demanded a voice from the doorway, and Ron nearly fell over himself, pivoting so sharply
with his wand outstretched that Draco had to duck out of the way. "And who's this?" Nico added, gesturing lazily to
Ron. "He seems a little more unsteady than your usual partner, Malfoy."

"He's not my partner of choice," Draco assured him, reaching over to forcibly lower Ron's wand arm. "Leave it," he
muttered to Ron. "We need him."

"Yes, you do," Nico agreed. "I'll alter the surveillance charms, but I need an explanation first. What are you doing
here?"

"Katie Bell is missing," Draco said, and Nico's expression wrenched slightly, clearly registering familiarity with the
name. "I take it you recall who she is?"

Nico nodded unhappily. "She's missing?"

"Yes," Draco said. "And Granger, too."

"Ah," Nico said uncomfortably. "No, she - well, nevermind. I take it you want help finding Katie?"

"Among other things," Draco confirmed. "Like, for example, a guess at who might want her gone, Nico. Any
ideas?"
"He wouldn't," Nico said at once, and Ron opened his mouth (obviously about to ask a thousand stupid questions)
but Draco elbowed him into silence. "I don't know what happened to her, but he - Ignotus wouldn't have - "

"Are you sure?" Draco prompted skeptically, stepping towards Nico. "Are you really sure he wouldn't? He tried to
have Granger and me killed," he pointed out. "Have you forgotten? If he's already gotten to Potter, then he doesn't
need Katie anymore, and what do you think he was planning to do to her?"

"But he wouldn't need to do anything but disappear," Nico protested. "She didn't know who he was, so he wouldn't
have to - "

He trailed off as Draco winced, recognition dawning at once.

"Ah," Nico acknowledged again, grimacing. "So you told her, I take it."

Draco flinched guiltily. "I didn't know I was putting her in danger. I told her to wait until I explained everything - "

"Yes, because that's something people usually do," Nico scoffed. "Wait for more information? Such a normal human
impulse."

"Blame this on me if you want to, Nico. Fine by me," Draco snapped. "But if something happened to her, it still
wasn't my wand that did it, so I can only take some of the credit. And if Granger's with her, then - "

"I'll find Katie," Nico interrupted. "Just - " he waved a hand towards the door. "Get out of here, okay? Let me deal
with the surveillance charms and just - go home, Malfoy, and stay there. Are we clear?"

"Fine," Draco muttered, glancing over his shoulder at Ron. "Weasley, we're leaving," he barked, his voice clipped,
and though Ron looked as though he wished vehemently to argue, he simply rolled his eyes, following Draco to the
door. "Oh, but Nico," Draco said, pausing just before passing through the frame. "I really fucking hope this sheds
some light on who Ignotus really is."

Nico opened his mouth, flinching, and closed it.

Then he said, "She's not dead. He wouldn't do that. I know he wouldn't."

But both of them could feel the undercurrent of an optimistic lie.

"Prove it, then," Draco beckoned, and gestured Ron through the door behind him, heading into the corridor.

"Who was that?" Ron asked at loud whisper, hurrying doggedly after Draco. "He obviously doesn't work at the
Ministry - "

"You really want to know?" Draco prompted. "Because I doubt it would do you much good."

Ron scoffed. "Well, obviously I want to know - "

"That," Draco informed him, stepping briskly towards the Floo, "was Nicholas Flamel, a member of a secret society
called the Infinity Club, which is largely dedicated to messing with politics and living forever."

Ron paused, irritated, and then grabbed at Draco's arm, glaring at him. "Bloody hell, Malfoy, I'm trying to help you -
"

"And I'm telling you the truth," Draco said, tearing his arm from Ron's grip before heading back through the Floo.
"But remind me in the future that it does very little to my benefit, on the off chance I forget again."

"Hey," Ron snapped, having apparently followed him back into his house, "just stop, okay?"

Unhappily, Draco did stop on request, largely from lack of a better option or alternative location. He certainly wasn't
going to his bedroom, which he suspected was empty. Instead he stared around his living room, turning to where
Armand's portrait had been replaced above the mantle.
"Has she been home?" he attempted, and the portrait shrugged.

"PERHAPS SHE IS FELLATING THE KING," Armand supplied helpfully. "ONE CANNOT ASPIRE TO
ANYTHING HIGHER."

"Higher than a blow job?" Ron echoed, dubious.

"DID I SAY HIGHER?" Armand asked. "I MEANT MORE ERECT."

"You asked for that," Draco muttered to Ron, about to go sort out whatever mess was in the ballroom before a hand
shot out again, pausing him mid-step.

"She's coming back," Ron said, and Draco pulled away, but Ron held firm. "She's pretty good at it, okay? Coming
back. She can take care of herself, and she wouldn't leave you. She wouldn't want to. She wouldn't have done all this
if she didn't c-"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Draco said gruffly, yanking his arm free. "You have no idea at all,
Weasley, per usual - "

"Look, do you honestly think that I'm here because I like you?" Ron protested, giving him a shove. "Do you think I
want to help you? Maybe Mel doesn't understand why I hate you and maybe Harry and Hermione can forget, but I
know you bloody can't. I know you know what you did to me - I know you know exactly what your family cost mine
over the years - so I know you know I wouldn't be here out of some kind of misguided attempt at friendship. I don't
want to be your friend," Ron snapped. "I just want to tell you the truth the way I see it, so if you're upset, don't take
this out on me."

He turned, storming back towards the Floo, and passed through it without another word.

"HE SEEMS RATHER ANGRY," Armand remarked. "DO YOU THINK THAT'S WHY HIS HAIR IS LIKE
THAT?"

In response, Draco merely pinched the bridge of his nose, heading back into the ballroom.

The League of Eternality

Unplottable Location
10:15 p.m.

"Well," Hermione said, clearing her throat as she looked down at the stadium below where Harry was taking his
place at the center of a raised platform. "You might have mentioned a few more details about who exactly I was
going to be dueling."

"I didn't really think it was necessary," Cad replied cheerily. "I mean really, why worry you in advance?"

Hermione grimaced as she watched Harry bow to an identical version of himself, which was distinct from the real
Harry only in that one of them, the copy of him, wore black dueling robes while Harry himself wore white.

"What can his opponent do?" Hermione asked nervously, watching the two Harrys proceed to opposite ends of the
platform.

"Everything he can do," Cad supplied simply. "It's an exact copy of Harry himself, complete with his own magically
replicated thoughts and memories. It knows all the spells he knows. It is exactly as adept at magic as he is." He
turned, sparing Hermione a quick, searching glance. "Yours will know as much about anatomy as you do, too.
Something to bear in mind."

"How am I supposed to beat myself?" Hermione demanded, watching Harry open with an Expelliarmus that the
other Harry easily met. "It doesn't make sense."
"Well, it's an exact copy of you, sure, but it doesn't have your precise capacity for intellect," Cad informed her. "It
doesn't have the exact range of your own cognizance. You know your own weaknesses, don't you?" he prompted,
and she made a face. "You should be able to defeat yourself fairly easily, if you're able to part with your own
delusions. You've studied other opponents, I'm sure. This is no different."

"Sure it isn't," Hermione sighed, as Harry tried to muscle his way towards his identical opponent, recklessly forging
ahead in a way that the other mirrored almost exactly. "Whoever thought of this was extremely sadistic. And
incredibly clever."

"I'm sure they already know," Cad replied smoothly, glancing at her. "By the way, I've lent some more thought to
your little missing person debacle. If you win this duel, I'll find her for you. I'll just need you to let me do it my
way," he added, which was discomfiting, but not entirely the worst.

"Assuming she isn't dead, that is," Hermione countered, and Cad shrugged.

"I don't think she is," he replied easily. "Granted, it would almost certainly be smarter if she were, but I have my
guesses. I'll find her," he repeated, "if you let me do it on my own. I promise no harm will come to her." He paused.
"No further harm, anyway."

Hermione hesitated, but ultimately conceded. "Fine," she exhaled, and looked up, finding Theo watching her from
his seat with Antioch on the opposite side. "You don't happen to know why Theo's so angry with me, do you? Since
you seem to know everything else," she muttered, and Cad chuckled under his breath.

"You don't have much experience with brothers, do you?" he asked, and Hermione frowned, bemused. "They don't
take it well when they're betrayed, which is something I happen to know a little about from experience."

"But Theo's an only child," Hermione said, and Cad shook his head.

"Biologically, sure. But he has a brother in all but name," Cad informed her, glancing sideways at her. "Surely you
realize Draco Malfoy had a family before you came along, don't you? People who filled the role, anyway. People he
would not have lied to, and who would not have imagined a need to lie to him."

"I - " She blinked, unsure where to direct her many misgivings. "I'm not Draco's family."

"Well, I'm not sure Theo feels the same way," Cad remarked, as below them, Harry threw a wild blasting curse as
some sort of distraction, sending him successfully face-to-face with his opponent until they both paused, staring
helplessly at each other. "Anyway, that's just a guess. This, though, is interesting," he commented, gesturing down
below as again, both Harrys aimed disarming spells at each other. "I don't know Harry Potter well, but I hadn't
realized this would be his weakness."

"What is?" Hermione asked. "The overuse of Expelliarmus? I mean, it's predictable, but it's not as if it's not an
effective maneuver - "

"No. He lacks a killer instinct," Cad noted thoughtfully. "An interesting quality, considering he's a war hero and an
Auror."

"What? He doesn't," Hermione insisted. "Harry's extremely resourceful. He's quick and adaptable, and - "

"And excessively merciful," Cad interrupted, gesturing below as Harry aimed a leg-locking curse that was instantly
met with a shield charm. "He doesn't particularly want to hurt his opponent, does he?"

"Is that so bad?" Hermione prompted, somewhat annoyed. "I mean, that's what makes him a hero. He managed to
defeat Voldemort by virtue of - "

"His understanding of human nature?" Cad cut in knowingly, smirking at her. "Yes, well, that won't do him much
good in this particular duel, will it? At least there's one thing you can sort out from this," he determined. "Harry
Potter entertains a fairly surprising lack of self-loathing, which is more important information than you might think.
People who hate themselves are always a little bit weaker than they seem," he informed her. "A useful thing to keep
in mind."

"How can you tell if someone hates themselves?" Hermione asked brusquely. "Even with an exercise like this one, I
doubt that would be inherently obvious."

Cad looked up, eyeing the box where Theo sat with Antioch.

"I suspect we're going to find out," he told her wryly, before returning his attention to the duel down below.

10:25 p.m.

"Fuck," Harry swore under his breath, aiming another blasting curse near the ankles of his opponent, who seemed to
have seen it coming. The other Harry rolled away, half-hidden behind a piece of the now-broken platform, and
Harry swore again, throwing up a shield charm in preparation for the disarming spell he'd been (rightfully) certain
the other Harry would cast. He turned over his shoulder, levitating some of the larger pieces of broken platform into
a series of steps, and leapt up them one by one like a staircase ascending from the floor, unsteadily landing above
and taking advantage of the position from higher ground to aim another blasting curse below.

Fucking messy, he imagined Theo commenting in his head, picturing the shake of his head as the other Harry dove
out of the way. For fuck's sake, Potter, why are you always making such a mess -

Harry let out a growl as another spell flew upwards, nearly causing him to fall off the levitating platform before he
jumped down below, casting a quick spell to cushion his landing. He glanced around, coughing, and saw a flash of
something; a glint from a pair of glasses.

"Expelliarmus!" he shouted, countering the same spell from his opponent. "Double fuck," he swore, tired now, his
muscles aching from running around the platform. He swiped at his forehead, glancing up, and caught Theo
watching from above, his hand curled warily around his mouth.

Christ, Potter, you're so fucking soft, he imagined in Theo's dry voice, and Harry flinched, curling a hand into a fist
before launching himself directly upwards, trading momentum with a falling beam and determinedly sending a
single curse at the flash of raven hair down below.

"Sectumsempra!" he shouted, catching the telling impact of the spell from the shout of anguish down below, and
then he landed with his hands out, rolling forward and forcing himself up to his feet.

He climbed through the wreckage, half-running, half-stumbling, and knelt at his opponent's side, his clone's wand
fallen to the floor as the other Harry coughed with misery, a broad slash visible across the front of his black dueling
robes. Harry held his wand out, aiming it at the wide gash on his opponent's chest, and began manically reciting the
countercurse.

"Vulnera Sanentur," he mumbled, as song-like as he could manage; the most important spell he had ever forced
himself to learn. "Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur - "

"That's enough," came Ignotus' voice, as the other Harry abruptly disappeared, leaving Harry himself bent over
nothing. "It isn't real, Harry. It never was. Come on now," he urged, as Harry stood blinking over the spot his
bloodied self had been. "Come on. You passed, and it's Hermione's turn. Come on."

Harry let himself be pulled numbly to his feet, the platform magically restored before he even managed to blink. He
followed Ignotus, still feeling the slickness of blood against his now-clean hands, and then paused to look over his
shoulder, glancing up at where Theo sat in his box.

Theo stared down at him, his expression unreadable, and Harry blinked, unsure what he'd expected.

"Come now, Harry," Ignotus said again, beckoning for him to follow, and Harry turned, nodding mutely before
following Ignotus back up to their box.
10:35 p.m.

Just as Harry's opponent had, Hermione's opponent wore a black version of her own white dueling robes. Hermione
bowed, her hand twitching around her wand, and looked up to find her own wide brown eyes staring uncertainly
back at her.

At least I know we're both going to hate this, she thought with displeasure, and turned over her shoulder, walking to
the opposite side as she replayed her conversation with Cad, hoping to take something from it.

What are your weaknesses? Cad had asked, and Hermione had taken a sharp breath, flinching.

I hesitate, she'd replied, and now, on Cad's signal to start, she turned sharply, flinging a disarming spell at her
opponent on little more than instinct alone.

Of course, she should have known that any version of her was a competent enough witch to cast a wordless shield
charm vast enough to prevent the impact; the Expelliarmus ricocheted back towards her, prompting her to leap out
of the way. She groaned, forcing herself back onto her hands and knees, and ducked as her opponent sent another
disarming charm that whizzed passed her head.

"Okay, new plan," Hermione muttered to herself, rising to her feet and running towards the other version of herself,
flinging a few silent charms as distractions and watching as the other Hermione cast them aside without effort,
dispelling them with little more than a few flicks of her wand. This, clearly, was going to be the most difficult
opponent she ever faced; she was going to have to do things differently, to come up with a new plan, to take
everything she knew about dueling and turn it completely on its head -

Or not, Hermione thought, something suddenly occurring to her as she ducked another spell, throwing up a Protego
as she watched her opponent come to a halt, waiting expectantly.

There was one thing Hermione Granger had always been, and it was an excellent student. She stared at herself,
reading her own reflection like a textbook, and ran through the things she knew about herself in her head,
cataloguing them quickly - weak upper back, too many years carrying heavy books; high propensity to twist ankles,
balance notably worse on left side; smaller opponent, unlikely to take a direct power shot to the abdomen or chest
when a targeted shot to a more vital organ would do - and then, after dispelling her own shield charm, aiming a fist
directly into the other Hermione's face.

Her opponent stumbled back, startled, but didn't release her wand; Hermione feigned a blow to the right, sending her
opponent stumbling left, and then cast another Expelliarmus, the impact of it only just prevented as the other
Hermione hastily regained her balance, aiming a blasting curse at Hermione's left foot. She stumbled, just missing
the impact and nearly falling backwards, and barely managed to counter the other Hermione's right hook with her
left elbow, the blow radiating through her bones with a painful, crushing impact as she struggled to maintain her grip
on her wand.

She stumbled backwards, crying out in pain, and her opponent raised her wand, ready to finish her off, until
Hermione spat out the first thing that came to her mind.

"Is it really so terrifying that you might actually love him?" she demanded of herself, and in the brief window of
pause as the other Hermione blinked, startled into hesitation, Hermione slammed her right shoulder into the base of
her opponent's sternum, aiming for the widest target she felt certain she could hit even through the blinding pain in
her left arm.

The other Hermione went flying backwards, the wind knocked from her lungs and the wand falling from her hand as
Hermione stood, panting, and watched her other self go down. The other Hermione let out a coughed up mewl,
clearly unable to breathe, but was vanished in nearly the same moment, Cad's footsteps resonating behind her as his
hand met her shoulder.

"Careful," he warned, and Hermione cried out again as he held his wand to her left arm, diminishing the throbbing.
"Fractured; bruised too, I'm sure, but not too bad. You'll be fine, just hold it still."
"She's a bitch," Hermione hissed through her teeth, and Cad chuckled, shaking his head.

"Yes, she is that, but you passed. Come on," he said, beckoning her back into their box, and she nodded, following
him up a levitating set of stairs.

10:45 p.m.

What would you do to your opponent? Theo had asked Antioch, watching Hermione throw a glance at him over her
shoulder at him. Across from their box, Harry sat stonily, watching Theo descend the stairs.

Kill him, Antioch had said simply, his expression unchanged as he gestured Theo to the center of the platform.

Theo bowed to his other self, eyeing the dark circles under his own eyes and the blistering sense of loathing that was
set in his own jaw, and turned over his shoulder, heading back to his side of the platform. It was interesting, he
thought, how the other two had beaten each other. Harry had danced around the longest, not wanting to cause any
damage, and then fallen back on the one memory Theo knew had haunted him for years. Hermione, meanwhile, had
distracted herself with the one truth she knew she couldn't face.

If Theo knew one thing about himself, though, it was that he wasn't above either damage or truth.

Are there any rules about what I can do? he'd asked Antioch, whose mouth had twitched knowingly.

No, he'd said firmly, and Theo planted his feet with certainty, waiting for his opponent to make the first move.

A wordless curse zinged by his head; his opponent, unlike Harry's or Hermione's, wasn't fucking around. Theo threw
up a shield charm, looking up, and then cast a silent blasting curse; not at his opponent, but directly at the box where
Harry sat with Ignotus, the two of them leaping back as the glass exploded against them.

"HEY," the other Theo shouted, glaring at him across the platform. "What the fuck do you think you're doing - "

Theo merely conjured a set of ropes that extended from his wand, wrapping around Harry and yanking him free
from the box, the wand flying from Harry's hand as Theo levitated him down to the platform and set him at his feet.

"Nott," Harry seethed, twitching as the ropes around him bound themselves tighter. "What the honest-to-god fuck do
you think you're doing - "

"Drop the wand," Theo called to his opponent, who glared at him from across the platform. "Drop it now."

"Or what?" the other Theo demanded, striding forward and aiming his wand directly at Theo's head.

"Or I'll kill him," Theo supplied, his own wand still aimed at where Harry lay captive at his feet. "Obviously."

"ANTIOCH!" Ignotus shouted from his shattered box. "ANTIOCH, YOU BASTARD, THIS ISN'T FAIR -"

"Quiet, Ignotus," Antioch replied lazily. "There's a duel going on."

"I know you," Theo called to his opponent, who'd skidded to a halt as Theo's wand pulsed warningly, leaving the
other version of himself to stare helplessly down at Harry. "I know you'd rather die yourself than see any harm come
to him. It's simple," Theo pronounced flatly, not looking down as he felt Harry suddenly fall still, finally ceasing his
struggle against the ropes. "You drop the wand and this is over. This duel is over. He'll be safe. But if you don't - "

He crouched down, aiming his wand at Harry's forehead, and saw the other Theo's eyes widen.

"No," his opponent said hoarsely, the wand instantly falling from his hand and dropping to the platform. "No, don't
touch him - don't fucking touch him - "

Obligingly, Theo flicked his wand, removing the ropes that had bound Harry in place and stepping back, holding his
hands in the air. The other Theo stepped forward - half-haunted, as if he might have reached for Harry - but before
he could take another step, he disappeared, flickering briefly in the air before dissipating into nothing.

Antioch reappeared in the center of the stadium as the platform itself vanished, leaving a stunned Harry on the
ground as Hermione hurriedly rushed towards them, eyes wide with disbelief as she held her injured arm
protectively against her side.

"Antioch," Ignotus snarled, propelling himself down from his box. "You can't possibly tell me that counts as passing
the trial! He - he cheated - "

"Well, if we're being accurate, he couldn't actually cheat," Cad interrupted, sparing Theo something of a smugly
approving glance. "Seeing as there's no rules, cheating is technically impossible."

"How did you - " Hermione was staring between Theo and Harry, dumbfounded. "Why - why did you - "

"Don't tell anyone," Theo remarked with a mirthless laugh, not looking at her, as Harry rose numbly to his feet.

"Nott," Harry croaked. "Nott, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry I lied to y-"

"Well," Cad interrupted spiritedly, stepping between them. "Should we proceed to the initiation ritual, then?" He
glanced sharply at Theo; obviously it was a warning not to say anything, though Theo couldn't imagine what he
could have possibly said. "Now that we know all the candidates are worthy, that is - and all on the same side," he
added pointedly, "as we three are, aren't we?"

At that, the brothers eyed each other carefully, each staring ruthlessly at the other.

"Fine," Ignotus said tightly. "Initiate all three."

Herpo the Foul had a keen sense of danger. It was the sort of thing developed after having lived for so many
centuries, and in so many countries across so much of the world. After having witnessed so much throughout place
and time, Herpo had developed the impulses of a predator, but with the particular instincts of prey. He knew when a
situation possessed a number of thorns, and whether it was worth pursuing. He knew, too, when a person could not
be trusted; could feel it on the wind, as certain as a storm.

Unfortunately, he had never developed a keen enough sense to know what to make of Cadmus Peverell.

"You like my brother," the young Cadmus had noted when they'd first met, drunk on a beach in Zakynthos sometime
around the twelfth century. "If I were to hazard a guess, I'd even say he likes you, which is unfortunate."

"Why's that?" Herpo had asked, because admittedly, Antioch Peverell was an attractive, relentless sort of man, all
power and persuasion and an excellent head of hair set above shoulders that looked like they did not know what it
was to flinch. "I suppose you might find that sort of liaison off-putting."

"Nonsense," Cadmus replied. "What do I care who my brother fucks? I worry more who he loves. Who he trusts. I'm
not generally fool enough to bother with those things," he mused. "And neither is Antioch, usually, but it seems he
can't resist an immortal."

"Immortality, you mean," Herpo corrected, and Cadmus shrugged.

"That, too," he agreed. "Anyway - tell me, Herpo the Foul," Cadmus ventured, staring out at where Antioch was
standing in the sea, his chin tilted up towards the moonlight. "Do you think my brother will be a great man, or a
terrible one?"

"Both, I think," Herpo replied deliriously, and Cadmus smiled.

"I think," Cadmus murmured, "that Antioch is the greatest man I will ever know, just as he is the most terrible. I
think that somewhere in the depths of my soul, I want to be him just as much as I want to see him falter. Do you
think that makes me a wise man," he posed smoothly, "or a cruel one?"
Herpo held his breath, frowning into nothing.

"Don't you have a younger brother, too?" he asked tangentially.

"Yes," Cadmus supplied, smacking his lips together and rising to his feet only to stumble back into the sand, half-
chuckling at his own misfortune. "Yes, Ignotus. One of my brothers is a warrior," he said, raising his right hand in
the air, and then his left, "and the other is a genius. And what am I, do you think?" he mused, staring between his
hands before curling them into fists, letting them fall to his sides. "What am I, Herpo the Foul?" Cadmus asked, and
hiccuped, falling backwards into the sand and letting his eyes fall shut.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Herpo had told him then, and now, as he presided over the initiation rituals of Harry
Potter, Theo Nott, and Hermione Granger, he found himself staring over at the newly resurrected Cadmus Peverell,
wondering once again if he would ever know for sure.

Cadmus looked up then, feeling Herpo's eyes on him, and let his lips quirk up in a smirk. Miss me? he mouthed, and
Herpo waited - for an ominous shadow, or a gust of wind; possibly the sputtering of a candle flame, or even a
wrenching in his gut; something - but no amount of certainty arrived.

Welcome back, Herpo returned simply, because the truth was that he had never hated Cadmus; had never loved him,
either.

Had never known what to do with him, even through so many years, and certainly didn't know now.

In response, Cadmus, who had Antioch's eyes and Ignotus' brow, spared Herpo a fleeting smile, leaving him to
wonder once more whether or not he had foolishly permitted danger into his midst the day he'd taught Cadmus
Peverell how to live forever.

"Antioch," Herpo said the moment they were alone, pulling him aside. "Are you sure about this? This - this Theo
Nott, why him?"

"He has the secrets," Antioch said simply, shrugging. "Lady Revel's secrets. Better to have him on our side, Herpo,"
he added absently, threading through the corridors to his rooms as Herpo followed, wondering whether it were even
possible to make Antioch see sense. "He's talented, resourceful, cunning - "

Just what they needed, Herpo thought miserably, another wizard just like -

"Cadmus," Herpo said, and Antioch came to a halt just outside his door, paused by the sound of his brother's name.
"How did you find him?"

Antioch grimaced. "I didn't," he said, his voice clipped. "He found me."

"And you don't think that's slightly problematic?" Herpo hissed. "Don't tell me it hasn't occurred to you that he could
have - oh, I don't know," he mused facetiously, "his usual underhanded motives - "

"Underhanded? Herpo, and here I thought we were friends," Cadmus interrupted jubilantly, manifesting from the
darkened corridor. "And Antioch, brother, naturally I assumed you'd missed me - "

"What do you want, Cadmus?" Antioch posed sourly, glaring at him. "Why return now? Has all of this - " He waved
a hand, grimacing. "Have all these assassinations been you?"

"Now does that really seem my style?" Cadmus countered, tutting disapprovingly. "Of course not. But obviously
you need my help," he noted, "and while Theo is very similar to me, which - good on you for noticing, Herpo," he
added irreverently, prompting Herpo to shift in agitation, "he isn't me, is he?"

"What are you saying?" Antioch grumbled impatiently, and Herpo opened his mouth to say something - to deliver a
warning, perhaps, though he hadn't yet decided what - but Cadmus gave a clever shrug, once again drawing
Antioch's attention away.
"I know something," Cadmus said gleefully. "Well, many things, but specifically, I know that Ignotus' relationship
with his descendant hangs by a very, very delicate thread. If Harry Potter finds out what Ignotus did to Katie Bell - "

"Who?" Antioch asked, exchanging a bewildered glance with Herpo, who shrugged, uncertain.

"If Harry finds out what Ignotus has done, he'll turn on him," Cadmus said. "He won't be able to forgive it once he
finds out."

"Well, then I'll simply tell him," Antioch countered. "What is it that's been done?"

"Ah, see, tell me if this sounds familiar," Cadmus beckoned, in a way that made Herpo's stomach twist. "A woman
who means a great deal to someone else is hidden away, presumed dead, but actually left alive to be done away with
at a more opportune time. Does that, perhaps, have a ring of similarity to something else? Perhaps like something
someone - like say, you," he mused delightedly, "might have done once?"

Antioch exchanged another glance with Herpo; guilt this time.

"If Ignotus blames you, which I'm sure he already has, Harry will believe him, regardless of what you say," Cadmus
supplied knowingly. "But I can lead him to the correct conclusion, Antioch, if you wish it. Or more aptly," he
mused, "Hermione can."

"In exchange for what?" Antioch demanded. "What do you want from me, Cadmus?"

"I want my brother back," Cadmus replied, shrugging. "Your Club is a mess without me, Antioch, and you need me.
In truth, I want you to need me," he qualified slyly. "I want you to need me the way you once did, because it is no
less than what I am owed."

Antioch - rightly, in Herpo's opinion - remained unconvinced.

"Why oppose Ignotus?" Antioch asked gruffly.

"Because he's an idiot," Cadmus replied easily. "And you know as well as I do that his betrayal of me was worse. So
give me back my place at your side," he beckoned, "and I swear, brother, we'll take him down together."

Antioch stared at him, frowning, and then glanced at Herpo, who remained still; uncertain, as always, whether
Cadmus were telling the truth.

"I'll think about it," Antioch determined brusquely, and then shoved open the door to his room, disappearing into it.

"Well," Cadmus said gleefully, "that went well. Good to see you, Herpo," he added with a wink, heading back down
the corridor. "I have things to do, obviously, so we'll have to catch up another time, but I presume I already know
your general story - fucking my brother," he guessed, wandering away, "fucking over my brother, fucking with
politics, more fucking my brother - "

"I'm watching you," Herpo cut in sharply, and Cadmus paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm watching
you, Cadmus," Herpo repeated, sharpening it like a threat this time.

At that, Cadmus' mouth twitched blithely. "Good," he said. "Watch closely, Herpo. After all, I wouldn't want you to
miss anything," he mused, and then disappeared down the corridor, whistling as he went.

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
October 18, 2003
12:05 a.m.

Draco stirred as the flames turned furiously emerald in the fireplace, Hermione's white dress finally emerging from
within them as he leapt gracelessly to his feet. He tripped, stumbling directly into the coffee table, and swore
incoherently under his breath before looking up to glare at her.

"WHERE THE FUCK," he began immediately, pausing only to hold his stinging shin before straightening in utter
vehemence, "HAVE YOU BEEN?!"

"Malfoy," Hermione exhaled, rubbing wearily at her eyes. "Look, I'm - I'm so sorry, but - "

"YOU DIDN'T THINK IT WAS WORTH IT TO TELL ME KATIE WAS MISSING?!" he demanded, and
Hermione looked down, guiltily casting her gaze to the floor.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about her," she exhaled morosely. "Really, I thought - I just didn't want you to worry," she
mumbled, "and I wanted to take care of it for you, but - "

"YOU THINK THIS IS ABOUT KATIE? I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!" Draco shouted, and Hermione
glanced up, obviously startled. "I THOUGHT I WAS DEAD! IS THAT A SLING?" he demanded, identifying the
accessory with which she was gingerly holding her arm against her torso. "ARE YOU HURT? HAVE YOU LOST
YOUR FUCKING MIND? YOU SAID NOTHING," he informed her, in the event that it had slipped her mind.
"AND NOW YOU'RE HURT, DO YOU NEED ANYTH-"

"Malfoy, please stop shouting," Hermione begged, reaching forward with her good arm and trying to reach for one
of his flailing arms as she shushed him. "Part of the bone is being regrown but it's fine, I was - I had to do
something, and it took a bit longer than I thought - "

"OH, YOU HAD TO DO SOMETHING?" Draco demanded. "THAT'S A VERY INTERESTING THING TO SAY,
GRANGER, AS LAST I CHECKED, THE ONLY THING YOU HAD TO DO WAS NOT INJURE YOURSELF
AND JUST -" he waved his hands around. "BE AT A GODDAMN PARTY! WAS THAT SO HARD? WAS THAT
HONESTLY TOO DIFFICULT? DID I ASK TOO MUCH? IS THIS MY FAULT FOR MISTAKENLY
BELIEVING YOU COULD MANAGE THAT? DO YOU SIMPLY NOT KNOW HOW TO ATTEND A PARTY
UNLESS SOMEONE ATTENDING SAID PARTY GETS ABDUCTED?"

She, to his utter disbelief, gave a small hiccup of a laugh. "I mean, I guess now that you mention it - "

"DON'T BE CLEVER WITH ME HERMIONE GRANGER," he shouted. "I AM THISCLOSE TO LOSING MY

FUCKING MIND -"

"I suspect you're a little closer than you think, actually - "

"IF SOMEONE GOES MISSING, IT IS NOT YOUR JOB TO LIE TO ME AND THEN RUN AFTER THEM BY
YOURSELF," Draco informed her maniacally. "WHAT DID YOU THINK I WOULD HAVE DONE? STOP
YOU? SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST?! DID YOU REALLY NOT TRUST ME TO BEHAVE LIKE A
RATIONAL HUMAN PERSON?"

"Well," Hermione sighed. "I wonder where I might have gotten that impression - "

"YOU DON'T GET TO LEAVE WITHOUT EXPLANATION," Draco admonished her wildly, suddenly suspecting
he may have begun sweating profusely. "YOU SAID YOU WEREN'T GOING TO LEAVE!" he added, feeling
much more stupid than usual and falling back, colliding with the sofa. "You said - you said you were my partner," he
accused flatly, his voice strained and hoarse, "and that you weren't going to leave - "

He sank back against the cushions, somewhere between devastated and mortified, and heard Hermione's sigh as he
covered his face with his hands, her white dress shifting blearily from his periphery as she joined him on the sofa,
settling lightly beside him. Her hand reached out, tentative, and lingered in the air between them for a moment
before settling itself on his knee, the tips of her fingers spreading carefully over the bone of it.

"You're right," she said quietly. "I did promise you that, didn't I?"

He counted to five before he answered, figuring she deserved the delay.

"It doesn't matter," he huffed eventually, resolutely avoiding eye contact. "This party was a mess."

"You left me once," she reminded him, and he scoffed.

"That was hardly the same thing - "

"You're right," she agreed. "It wasn't, and I'm sorry. I'm really very sorry, Draco," she said, leaning her cheek against
his shoulder, "and I promise, I won't do it again."

He blinked, startled.

"You're being very agreeable," he noted grumpily, turning to look at her. "What did you do?"

"Really?" she protested, pulling away to glare at him. "I'm being nice to you, and you immediately assume I've done
something wrong?"

"Yes, obviously," Draco informed her. "How do I even know it's you? Prove it," he demanded stiffly. "What's
something only Hermione Granger would know?"

She tilted her head, considering it. "You wear reading glasses."

"Oh yes, because that's such private information," Draco scoffed. "You do realize someone had to give me the
prescription in order to get the glasses, right? Is that you, Healer Brown?" he accused. "Have you come to take back
what's rightfully yours?"

"Ugh, Malfoy, stop," Hermione grumbled, giving him a shove. "Fine, I, um - I know where you keep your potions."

"Oh really, Blaise Zabini? Theo Nott? Pansy Parkins-"

"Well, that, and I know you changed my life," Hermione cut in, and Draco paused, startled. "Really, you did," she
continued firmly, as if he'd tried to challenge her on it; rather than the reality, which consisted of muted staring and
consummate incredulity. "I think I could have gone decades exactly as I was, never changing at all, until the day you
came back into my life. And now everything is different." She paused, chewing her lip. "The way I think is different.
The way I look at the world, at my life, at everything. It's all different now, and all because I had to spend much,
much too much time with you." She turned to look at him, smiling wryly. "Though I suppose that doesn't really
prove anything, does it? Considering you didn't know that."

Draco cleared his throat, searching helplessly for words. "No, I - " He paused. "No, I knew that. I think."

"Really?" Hermione leaned ever-so-slightly closer, her gaze rising slowly to meet his with something like paralyzed
wonder; something equal parts hopeful fascination and wary disbelief. "Did I say it in my sleep?"

"No, I just - " He swallowed. "I know it, because I - "

He could feel his heart pounding relentlessly, echoing in the space between them.

"Because you what?" she murmured, her lips so very temptingly close to his now. "Because you feel that way, too?"

"I," Draco began, and slid his tongue over his lips, marveling at how dry they were. He eyed a curl that fell
delicately against her cheek, pausing, and considered for a moment how beatifically smooth her skin would feel
beneath his fingers if he were to just reach out; to twine it gently around his finger; to reverently brush it away.
"Hermione, I just - "

"Oh good, you're finally here," Hortense interrupted as Thibaut trotted into the room after her, the two of them each
holding half-empty bottles of champagne as Hermione and Draco leapt apart. "Thibaut, quick, before she runs away
again! By the way, Hermione, the distraction went terribly," Hortense added, perching herself across from them and
gesturing for Thibaut to follow. "Your friends are horribly stiff, you should have warned me. Lovely new jewelry by
the way, very fetching way to wear a necklace," she added, gesturing to Hermione's arm sling, "And - oh, Uncle
Armand, are you here?"

"YOU RUINED IT," Armand informed her grumpily, startling Draco into remembering the portrait's presence on
the wall. "I WANTED TO SEE SOMETHING EXCITING."

"I thought you only cared what the king got up to?" Hermione asked him.

"Yes," Draco contributed irritably, "and I, meanwhile, was under the impression you understood that it was
extremely off-putting to creepily watch things from your portrait."

"THERE'S A FINE LINE BETWEEN VOYEURISM AND OBSERVATION," Armand replied, shrugging. "I'M
PERMITTED INTEREST IN BOTH."

"That sounds right," Thibaut permitted lazily, conjuring the green sash as Hortense cheerily held up the leather book
marked with their family crest. "So, are we ready for this? Might as well do it now, as we have business to attend to
back home."

"Yes, so true," Hortense lamented. "I hate to think Lucius has been left unattended for this long. No one will have
been torturing him while we've been away, and that just seems reprehensibly irresponsible - "

"Now?" Hermione asked, glancing at Draco. "Are you sure? I mean, it's the middle of the night - "

"Time is a construct, you willful little monster," Thibaut informed her. "And anyway, it's hardly the middle of the
night. More like the tip of the night," he suggested brightly.

"JUST THE TIP," Armand agreed, followed by a not-unpredictable, "SO SAYS THE KING."

"Well, um - " Hermione glanced at Draco. "I - I suppose we could, I guess - "

"You do?" Draco asked suspiciously.

"Well, um. They make a very good time-related point," Hermione said, folding her arms uncomfortably over her
chest. "Not the construct thing, I mean it's definitely very real, but - I suppose if we're going to," she exhaled
carefully, "then now is as good a time as any - "

"Assuming you want to at all," Draco reminded her. "Which you… do?" he asked curiously, as Hortense and
Thibaut leaned in, expectant.

"Well, I do if you do," Hermione said, her cheeks flaming scarlet. "Which, um. If you want to, then of course I want
to, so - "

"So it's settled, then," Thibaut said firmly. "Because you do wish your portion of the Malfoy inheritance, I presume -
the houses, the money, the seal permitting your marriage, our continued care for your weak and elderly father - "

"Aren't you fairly close to his age?" Draco asked, which Thibaut willfully ignored in favor of conjuring a thick
branch of grapes.

"Listen, Thibaut is right. This ritual is necessary for the engagement," Hortense reminded them. "So if you're
planning to stay engaged…"

She trailed off pointedly, and Draco glanced at Hermione.

"You're sure?" he asked quietly.

She looked nervous, but nodded. "Yes," she said, and Hortense clapped her hands together, festively delighted.

"Excellent. Thibaut?" she prompted, and he ushered Hermione to her feet. "Here, just give me your left -"

"Ouch," Hermione said, wincing as her arm was jostled. "No, it'll have to be my right arm - "
"But - " Draco swallowed, reflexively coiling the fingers of his left hand. "That arm is - are you sure you can - "

Hermione slid her right hand down, brushing her thumb over his Dark Mark.

"It's fine," she murmured, reassuring him briefly as Thibaut flicked his wand, prompting the green silk to wrap once,
gently, around the base of their wrists.

"Okay, here we are, let's see," Hortense mumbled to herself, prompting the book of rituals open and charming it to
levitate beside them. "Ready?"

Draco glanced askance at Hermione, arching a brow. You sure?

Hermione shrugged, half-smiling. Why not?

"Will you each willingly bind your life to the other?" Hortense prompted, as over her shoulder, Thibaut obtrusively
mouthed, I will.

"I will," Hermione murmured, and Draco cleared his throat.

"I will," he confirmed, nodding, as Thibaut flicked his wand again, wrapping the sash once more around their wrists.

"Will you ever seek to do the other harm?" Hortense asked, to which Thibaut made a violent striking motion across
his throat.

"I will not," Hermione and Draco replied, glancing at each other as the tie crossed over their hands once again.

"And if harm is done," Hortense prompted, "will you seek to repair it?"

"I will," Hermione and Draco replied, her fingers tightening briefly around his.

"And will you seek to be honest with each other in all things?"

Another pulse of pressure. "I will."

"Will you hold each other sturdily in positions of severe physical str- no, oops, sorry, poor translation," Hortense
amended, clearing her throat. "Will you support each other in times of distress?"

"I will," they replied, somewhat quizzically.

"SHE MEANT SEXUALLY, BUT GO ON," said Armand.

"Will you temper your words and actions with kindness," Hortense asked, glancing between them, "and each be
mindful of what you are to the other?"

Hermione turned her head, and Draco met her gaze.

"Yes," he said, as her lips quirked.

"I will," she corrected.

"Oh, right," he agreed, nodding stiffly. "I will."

The last of the sash wrapped itself around their wrists, tightening briefly, and Hortense stepped back, pleased.

"Thibaut?" she prompted, and Thibaut stepped forward, skimming the levitating text.

"Let's see, blah blah blah - ah, here," he said. "And now you are bound, one to the other, with a bond not easy to
break, with the hands that will hold yours in times of sadness, fear, hm hm hmm yes something about holding babies
and families, totally irrelevant nonsense and - ah, here we go," he determined, turning back to them. "And thus, may
your lives be joined as one, and - "

He stepped back, flicking his wand again, and with that, the green silk transformed into a brilliant, golden thread,
blinding them both momentarily before disappearing from sight, sinking somehow into their respective veins.

"There," Thibaut said smugly. "Nailed it. Champagne now?"

"Ooh, yes," Hortense agreed, beckoning for some glasses and handing one each to Hermione and Draco as they both
exhaled heavily, having ostensibly held them throughout the entire ritual. "That was lovely. Totally sensational."

"One of my better binding rituals," Thibaut agreed. "Granted, the last thing I tried to bind was Lucius to one of his
peacocks, so that was rather swiftly interrupted, but - "

"You know, it was actually sort of nice," Hermione permitted, glancing at Draco. "I guess?"

"Something like that," Draco agreed, shaking his head before tapping his glass against hers. "Cheers," he offered,
raising it to his lips, and the two of them exchanged tiny, hesitant smiles, each taking a sip of their champagne.

They'd deal with the fallout later, Draco determined, letting the sweetness fizzle warmly on his tongue as Hermione
smiled absently, holding the glass to her lips. He took another, longer sip, permitting himself nothing else but the
ease of the moment, and the memory of her touch against his.

"By the way," Hortense said tangentially, pursing her lips in thought. "What's a Dolores?"

"What?" Draco and Hermione asked in unison, each promptly choking on their champagne.

The League of Eternality

Unplottable location
1:14 a.m.

"Did you find her yet?"

Nico jumped from where he stood over his cauldron, pressing the heel of his hand to his pounding heart.

"You," he snapped, looking up at the sound of Cadmus Peverell's voice. "What are you doing here? What are you
even doing alive?"

"Ah-ah-ah, answer my question first," Cadmus replied, standing next to him. "You know, I suspected you'd take the
'lost things' potion route to find her," he mused, "but really, my tracking spell would be much faster."

"I don't - " know how to use it, Nico didn't want to say, and bit his tongue. "I don't need you, Cadmus."

"Actually, you do," Cadmus corrected him blithely. "Because you wouldn't want Harry Potter finding out what
Ignotus really did to Katie Bell, would you? Imagine if he found out," Cadmus lamented, tutting. "What if he stood
against Ignotus, sided with Antioch? Disastrous, surely - "

"What do you want?" Nico demanded. "And how do you even know about her?"

"Ah, Nicholas, you dumb stupid idiot," Cadmus sighed wistfully, leaning back against Nico's workspace. "I always
know more than I should, don't I? But in this case, I'm willing to keep it to myself. You and I both know that
Antioch's turning on Ignotus already," he warned, and Nico stiffened, not wanting to agree. "And no one knows
better than you, I suspect, that my brothers no longer trust each other."

"So what, then?" Nico snapped. "Ignotus is supposed to trust you, Cadmus?"

"No, not at all," Cadmus laughed. "No, Ignotus would never trust me, that's a given. But you'd do anything for him,
wouldn't you, Nicholas?" he posed, and Nico froze, his throat suddenly dry. "So obviously, there's a way in here. I
mean, I see it, anyway, even if you don't - "

"What do you want?" Nico growled.

"Easy." Cadmus leaned in, chuckling quietly. "Nico, You and I both know that Ignotus would never have sided with
Antioch against me if he'd known back then what Antioch was really like, what he was willing to do. Aren't you
tired of him?" he prompted knowingly. "You're smart, Nico, and we both know Ignotus is a genius. Why do either of
you need Antioch Peverell? For his greed, or his arrogance? No. He's dangerous, Nico," Cadmus said softly. "And
you and I both know Ignotus needs my help."

Nico inhaled sharply; then exhaled, pained, with a grimace.

"So what do you want from me, then?" he asked gruffly.

"Why, it's funny you should ask," Cadmus replied, sparing him a brilliant smile.

a/n: Lethal Combination, the Nottpott story I mentioned last chapter, is now complete. This chapter dedicated to
LaurelKing, beviant, paigemarie!
 30. Strangled by the Red String

Chapter 30: Strangled by the Red String

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
October 18, 2003
6:45 a.m.

"Okay, so," Draco exhaled. "One more time, and try to make it make sense this time."

"I can't," Hermione muttered, half-groaning as she covered her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I physically can't.
We've been up all night, and honestly, I think my brain is broken - "

"Don't whine, Granger, it's unbecoming. Let's just list the facts, shall we?" He turned his head experimentally,
waiting for a sign that he should continue, but she merely let out a wordless moan, indicating her disinterest. "Right,
okay, so. Fact one: Ludo Bagman is alive," Draco postured. "Right? That seems factual. I think we can call that a
fact, can't we? Which means that fact two is that someone was trying to frame him for murder."

"Fine," Hermione grumbled, turning her head. "If we're going to play this game, then fact three: if Hortense
accurately heard the words 'Paris,' 'toad,' and 'don't touch my penis, Dolores,' then - "

"Dolores Umbridge was in Paris," Draco agreed, "and evidently fucking Ludo Bagman."

At that, they both made equally disturbing faces of revulsion, retching quietly on either side of the bed.

"Which means that fact four is what, that this could be some sort of appalling lover's quarrel?" Hermione postured
when they'd come close to recovering. "God, I'm going to be sick - "

"Or not," Draco attempted optimistically. "I mean, he did specify not to touch his penis, according to Thibaut, which
is quite possibly the most relatable that Ludo Bagman has ever been - "

"Well, and hold on, there's also fact five," Hermione interrupted. "Which is that Warlock Hawkworth might be part
of the Club."

Draco blinked, vacantly dizzied by the information they'd already compiled, and then recalled something else as he
turned his head to look at her. "There's also fact six," he ventured, "which is that you still haven't told me where you
were last night."

He caught the motion of her chest stiffening beside him, her shallow inhalation briefly suspended.

"Yes," she permitted slowly. "That's definitely a true fact."

"And fact seven," Draco contributed, "which is that you literally bound yourself to telling me the truth last night.
Not that these things are particularly urgent or anything," he added, playing at nonchalance. "They are just also
facts."

"Okay, well, the list of facts is getting a little bit cumbersome," Hermione grumbled, turning her head to squint at
him. "Could we just, um - talk about the other things a bit later, maybe?"

"How much later?" Draco asked neutrally. "At our false wedding? Sometime during the first of your fake
pregnancies? I can see us faking it all the way to imaginary twins," he mused, and Hermione groaned, dragging
herself upright.

"Right, fine, we need to talk," she permitted, as if anything else on earth had ever been more obvious. "But can we
just - can we sort of take the day," she exhaled, "just so I can, um, mentally clear some things up, and - "
"Right, right," Draco muttered, rubbing his temple. "I suppose I have some things to take care of that I'd rather not
discuss yet, either." He sat up, reaching for the shirt he'd left draped across his nightstand, and paused to glance over
his shoulder. "One more day of secrets, and then we put all our nonsense to bed?" he suggested, and Hermione
nodded, glancing over her shoulder at him.

"One more day," she said, and then, quieter, "I promise."

It seemed about as much as either of them were going to get out of the other, so Draco nodded in concession, opting
to rise to his feet. "So," he exhaled. "Sleep's obviously not happening. Where are you going?"

"Not sure yet," Hermione said without looking at him, apparently concentrating her efforts on stretching upwards to
test her newly rejuvenated arm. "You?"

"Nowhere important," Draco replied, shrugging.

For a moment, they both turned to stare at the other, expectant. The distinct possibility of mutual confession hung in
the air, precariously balanced on the tips of their tongues.

"Okay then," Hermione determined briskly. "So. See you tonight?"

"Yep," Draco confirmed, fighting a withered sigh. "See you tonight."

12 Grimmauld Place
7:30 a.m.

"Good morning," Daisy offered as Harry walked into the kitchen, smothering his hand around a broad, helpless
yawn. "You look - " She paused, slowly taking in the geography of his appearance. His hair, always relatively
unruly, presently stood on end, raked back artlessly, while a pair of shadows lurked beneath his eyes, not even
concealed by the frames of his glasses. "Well, you're not winning beauty pageants," she conceded, "but I suppose
there's more to life."

"Thanks," Harry croaked drily, as a two-legged pile of towels that appeared to be Kreacher carrying folded laundry
reached up, handing him a cup of coffee. "Ah, this is perfect. Thank you," he offered to the towels, which then
proceeded to scuttle up the stairs, briefly colliding with Ron's knee as he entered.

"Whoa, Kreacher," Ron said, steadying the towels. "Mate, slow down. Morning," he added to Daisy, before turning
to Harry. "Where were you last night? You disappeared, and let me tell you, it turned out to be one of your shittier
moves."

"Worse than following the spiders?" Harry asked, sipping at his coffee.

"No," Ron replied. "Somewhere between the spiders and the Romilda Vane poisoning."

"That wasn't my fault," Harry reminded him, rolling his eyes as Daisy was left to wonder what, exactly, they could
possibly be talking about. "That was - "

"Mine," came a haughty voice near the door, as Draco Malfoy ducked his pale blond head into the kitchen and
glanced around, sparing a moment for his usual expression of mild disdain for his surroundings. "Though, truthfully,
if I'm made to apologize for all my prior wrongdoings we could be here all day, and I haven't the time."

"Malfoy," Harry acknowledged, blinking smudgily. "To what do we owe the, er - "

"Inconvenience, perhaps?" Ron supplied for him, plopping down in the seat beside Daisy and pointedly ignoring
Draco's presence. "Displeasure? Or was the word you were looking for something closer to 'annoyance,' or
'thankless pool of misery' - "

"You're getting quicker on your feet, Weasley, well done," Draco remarked facetiously, as Harry sighed, rubbing
wearily at his eyes beneath his glasses.

"Come on," he beckoned, gesturing for Draco to come with him to his study. "Daisy has something interesting to tell
you, by the way, so it's a good thing you're here - "

"Oh, should I come with you, then?" Daisy asked, rising abruptly to her feet and nearly spilling the cup of coffee at
her elbow that Ron had poured for himself. "Yes, I just - hold on, I have notes around here somewhere - "

"Right, I'll just be here," Ron announced irritably. "Sitting alone, uninformed, as per us-"

"You can stay," Draco interrupted, prompting Harry to stare blankly at him. "We can talk here, Potter, so long as
Weasley manages not to ask too many stupid questions. Am I understood?" he prompted, fixing his grey gaze on
where Ron said beside Daisy.

Ron glanced quizzically between Draco and Harry, openly bemused, and Daisy tensed, unsure what to do about the
shift in environment.

"Yeeees," Ron promised uncertainly, and Draco spared a single nod, taking the seat across from Daisy and gesturing
for Harry to follow to the table.

(It took a minute, Daisy noted, but eventually Harry managed to close his mouth, slinking into the seat beside Draco
and staring at him as if he'd grown gills.)

"Right, so," Draco began, clearing his throat. "Someone tried to frame Ludo Bagman for murder, and then, as it
turns out, there's a possibility that Bagman knows about the Club." Ron opened his mouth, clearly about to ask a
question, and Draco held up a hand, pausing him. "Not my problem, Weasley. Potter can explain it to you later."

"Right, well, we already suspected Bagman of being disingenuous," Harry acknowledged, and then he scratched at
the stubble around his jaw, poorly concealing another broad yawn. "Is it possible the poisonings are his doing?"

"If they are, then Warlock Hawkworth knows something about it," Daisy offered, turning to Draco. "He came to the
Underground the other night to speak to Bagman. He seemed angry about something, but I hardly know what."

"Well, that's another thing," Draco permitted. "According to my cousin Hortense - "

"Is that the one who died last night? Pretended to, I mean," Daisy amended hurriedly, and Draco fixed his
expressionless grey eyes on her.

"Listen, like all the members of my family, Hortense isn't the most reputable person alive, but she's not an idiot,"
Draco informed her. "She's a gossipy, maniacal loon who should probably be in some sort of prison for something,
but even she doesn't have the requisite imagination to make the details of this up."

"'The details' being…?" Harry prompted.

"Apparently Bagman either thinks or knows that Warlock Hawkworth is a member of the Club," Draco said, and at
that, Daisy and Harry exchanged glances, the pieces of what she'd heard beginning to fit together. "So I suppose it's
possible that Bagman and Hawkworth are colluding on th- what?" he interrupted himself as Harry gestured to Daisy,
wordlessly nudging for her to speak. "What is this? Is this code? I don't like it. What's happening?"

"Warlock Hawkworth," Daisy supplied. "I did a little digging on his sons."

"Who, Rhys?" Draco asked instantly. "Why?"

"Well, yes," Daisy acknowledged carefully, "but also Cadell, his oldest son."

Draco frowned. "I'm not familiar with the name."

"Right, well, you all had other things going on at the time," Daisy said, and then added hastily, "I mean, not to rub
salt in the wound or anything - "

"Please don't babble," Draco requested drily, as Harry elbowed him sharply, exasperated. "Fuck, ouch, Potter - "

"Cadell Hawkworth killed a snatcher during the second Voldemort war - about five or so years ago," Daisy supplied.
"From what I can tell, his wife was being taken for the Ministry's creature registry when it happened. Rhys was
there," she added. "The wife was killed, though obviously nothing happened to the Snatchers who did it - "

"So wait, the oldest Hawkworth is in Azkaban?" Draco echoed, clearly surprised. "That's - that doesn't make sense,
I've never heard that - "

"He fled," Daisy clarified. "He's still wanted for murder."

"Did his father protect him?" Draco asked, frowning. "Is that why he wasn't arrested?"

"No," Ron interrupted, startling all three of them as he cleared his throat. "No, I have the Cadell Hawkworth file in
one of my open Auror cases. It's not a priority, obviously, since the Snatcher he killed was hardly a boon to society,"
he added slowly, shrugging, "but last I heard, he'd been spotted out of the country and is still presumed missing.
Warlock Hawkworth is one of the main reasons his case is even still open, actually. He openly condemned Cadell
for the murder - before he tried to quash the whole bloody thing to keep his career afloat."

"Huh," Draco remarked, tapping his mouth. "Amazing."

Ron blinked. "What is?"

"Nothing, really. I just assumed you were useless," Draco commented, flippantly waving a hand, and while Daisy
and Harry both braced themselves for an outburst, Ron merely rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "Okay, so
Cadell Hawkworth is a criminal. What else?"

"He's also in London," Daisy said, as Ron sat up again, alarmed. "Rhys is hiding him, though I don't know why he'd
come back here. Seems needlessly dangerous."

"Well, we could potentially get Granger to find out," Draco said, though the thought seemed to fester uncomfortably
in his stomach. He shifted, burying his expression of unease beneath a scowl of displeasure. "They're - " A pause.
"Friends," he grumbled under his breath, "I suppose - "

"Actually, I could do it," Daisy chimed in, firmly avoiding Harry's eye contact as he turned towards her, somewhat
amused. "I mean, I'm at the Underground all the time, so it's really no trouble. And we chatted for a bit at the party
last night, so we sort of have a rapport going," she added, immediately deciding to become very fascinated by the
grains of the wooden table as Harry's brow arched a little too knowingly.

"Fine by me," Draco pronounced, shaking his head. "Meanwhile, we have one other problem. Or, well, possible
problem."

"Which is?" Harry prompted.

"Umbridge," Draco said, and though Daisy didn't recognize the name, she registered the immediate repulsion on
both Harry and Ron's faces and tucked it away for future reference. "It's possible she was in Paris when Bagman
was. He said something cryptic about her to my cousin."

"What'd she say?" Ron asked.

"'Don't touch my penis,'" Draco supplied flatly, which prompted another wave of horror among those who were
evidently familiar.

"I can have Kreacher investigate," Harry offered once he'd recovered. "It'd be fairly easy for him to see if there's any
connection. It does seem like something shifty was going on in Paris at some point," he added, and Daisy nodded
her agreement. "Especially if Ludo Bagman and Ifan Hawkworth are working together. It would explain his
bizarrely warm welcome back into the British Ministry, and if Umbridge is behind any of this, too, then - "

"You'd have to be certain," Ron cautioned. "You can't get Ludo Bagman or Ifan Hawkworth on anything less than
concrete proof of guilt. Bagman alone's been suspected of crimes for decades, but nobody will ever speak against
him." He shrugged. "Too much leverage, I expect."

"Ah, and spoken by a bonafide professional, I'm sure," Draco said, leaning back to glance wryly at Ron. "Tell me,
do they pay you overtime each time you form a cohesive sentence?"

Daisy froze, anxious.

"Ah, good one. How'd the rest of your night go, Malfoy?" Ron countered. "Found your runaway fiancée, then, I take
it?"

At that, Harry and Daisy exchanged equally wide-eyed glances, mutually holding their breaths.

"Found yours, even," Draco replied airily. "Turns out she was just hiding from you the whole time, actually, but she
did say to thank you again for the opportunity to upgrade."

"Uh," said Harry, glancing at Ron, who sat very still for a moment.

Then, to their immense relief, he permitted something of a smile, his lips twitching up at the corners.

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Ron determined, raising his cup of coffee to his lips as Draco passed him something of a
benign smirk, shrugging.

"Right, so, speaking of Hermione," Harry exhaled, turning to Draco once the threat of danger had passed. "Did she,
um. Discuss what she was doing last night?" he asked innocently.

"We haven't discussed it yet," Draco said warily, arching a brow. "Why?"

Harry blinked, becoming somehow even smudgier.

"No reason," he said, as Daisy tucked that reaction away, slipping it into her mental file folder and suppressing an
unexpected thrill of anticipation at seeing (investigating, she reminded herself mentally, surreptitiously
investigating) Rhys Hawkworth later that evening.

Nott Manor
7:35 a.m.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Theo growled, walking into his living room. "Seriously?"

"Nice to see you, too, Nott," Hermione offered, rising to her feet.

"I'm extremely not in the mood, Granger," Theo informed her stiffly, turning back towards his bedroom. "You can
let yourself out the way you came, which I assume was on some sort of contraption powered by lies and deceit - "

"Oh, that's hysterical," Hermione snapped. "Coming from you, really? Are you serious?"

Theo waved a hand in disinterest, padding up the stairs and resolutely ignoring her until he felt himself come to a
halt, his feet frozen mid-stride.

"Goddamnit," he swore under his breath, turning over his shoulder to glare at her. "Seriously? You're going to hex
me in my own house?"

She lowered her wand, folding her arms over her chest. "I wouldn't have to," she said snottily, "if you'd just talk to
me, like a normal, reasonable, and dare I say civilized pers-"
"Sorry to disappoint you, Granger, but I'm not Draco or Potter," Theo informed her. "I have no interest in talking to
you, and I certainly possess no misguided attraction to you, so unless you're here to explain why the fuck you're
lying to my best friend and going behind his back, then - "

"You're right," Hermione interrupted, and Theo forced himself not to be startled, considering with displeasure that
revealing such a thing would put him at a severely unwelcome disadvantage. "Let's not talk, then, Nott. Let's try
something else, shall we?""

"Gross," Theo muttered, and Hermione scowled.

"I meant let's fucking fight, Nott," she snapped, and that, he had to admit, was an intriguing proposition. "Look,
you're clearly angry at me - not to mention you're also clearly hiding something about your relationship with my best
friend," she snapped, "so if the only way to settle this is to settle it, then let's do this." She flicked her wand again,
freeing Theo's feet as he stumbled mid-pivot, grabbing onto the railing for stability. "Are you in?" she prompted,
setting her hands on her hips.

He paused, considering it.

"Fine," he said, descending the stairs with as much airy disinterest as he could conjure. "I'm not afraid to hit you,
Granger."

"Good," she agreed, stepping back to remove her jacket and then flicking her wand, gathering her wild curls into a
set of labyrinthine plaits as Theo rolled his sleeves up, pushing them past his elbows. "Frankly, I think you could
stand to be taken down a peg, Nott."

"You realize I'm not just some over-inflated ego shoved into an elegant pair of trousers, right?" Theo prompted,
clearing the furniture from the room with a single wave of his wand. "If you think you're going to beat me purely by
virtue of me underestimating you, you're extremely incorrect. Your left elbow is only newly healed," he reminded
her. "Still hurts a bit, I'd wager?"

"I still guarantee I'm stronger than you, Nott," Hermione retorted. "You're essentially a series of wires held together
by sarcasm and conceit."

"You know, I bet you think you're good at this because you study people," Theo replied, circling her. "Still the same
swot you always were, aren't you, Granger? You're not the only one," he reminded her. "I know where to look for
weakness too."

"I actually know precisely how good you are at recon," she informed him. "After all, I was the one who told Antioch
you were responsible for the attack at the Ministry," she added, her attention traveling without concealment to the
shape his torso, the posture of his shoulders, the placement of his knees. "I've heard enough about you to know that
only you could have figured out the plans to that level of detail. Plus, the voice - " She rolled her eyes. "I've heard
you talk enough times to know what you sound like, even when you don't sound like you."

"You what? I - " Theo paused, blinking. "I assumed Draco told you it was me."

"Well, as they say, never assume," Hermione replied, just before aiming a blow directly at his chest - or, at least,
where his chest would have been, had he not been the sort of person who was long accustomed to cheap shots.

Theo slipped the jab, letting Hermione's blow resonate with considerably less power somewhere around his shoulder
before proceeding to throw his momentum in the opposite direction, sending her careening back. She countered with
a right uppercut to his sternum and he twisted, going in for the left cross the moment her chest was open. She took
the blow, coughing out the impact, and then stepped viciously with her heel onto his left foot, hitting him hard in the
obliques as he stumbled, cursing.

"I knew Draco was keeping something from me," he managed after a second, jabbing right to make her counter with
her left arm and forcing her to absorb the blow with a wince. "I knew it was something. I was trying to keep him out
of it, keep him safe - " He dodged her right hook, countering with a cross to her shoulder that she slipped. "So what
the fuck's your excuse?"
Hermione grimaced, hastily wiping sweat from her forehead. "I just want this over with," she growled, as Theo just
barely missed what appeared to be an aimless kick near his shins. "These secrets, these lies, I'm sick of it. I want out,
and if the only way out is in, then - "

"Out of what?" Theo demanded, pausing, and Hermione narrowed her eyes, raising her fists defensively around her
face. "Seriously," he said. "Out of what?"

"Antioch didn't tell you?" she asked, and then jabbed experimentally, which Theo again avoided with a quick dodge
to the right. "I assumed he would."

"Tell me what?" Theo snapped with a wary cross to her left shoulder, which she blocked.

"We work for him," Hermione supplied, shifting her feet. "One-two, slip, right cross, left jab, right hook," she
suggested, running through it quickly aloud, and Theo shrugged, beckoning for her to proceed. "In New York," she
clarified, aiming the jab-cross as he swatted her hands away and gave the requested slow jab, "Antioch told us we
had to keep investigating the poisonings. He's got us on retainer, Nott, and it's why we can't break up. It's why we're
- " She grimaced, finishing with the right-left-right as Theo countered the blows. "It's why we're bonded now, which
isn't at all terrifying, of course - "

"So wait, let me get this straight," Theo interrupted flatl, as Hermione raised her hands, ready for his quick jabs.
"You joined the Club so that you could - stop working for the Club?" he asked, as she threw a slow jab that he
ducked, returning with the prescribed three punches. "You realize how backwards that sounds, don't you?"

"Well, it was be a Club minion or actually be in the Club," Hermione returned, "and I didn't think Draco was going
to be on board. For reasons that are now extremely obvious," she muttered, "but which seemed like a good idea at
the time."

"Christ." Theo shook his head. "So did you tell him?"

"Of course not," Hermione retorted, wiping sweat from her brow and re-setting her stance. "I can't, can I? How
would that sound?"

"Fucking terrible," Theo agreed, signaling for her to hit first. "And now you're bound to him? Fuck."

"Yeah, I mean - " She sighed. "It's - that part's, you know. Whatever. But I hate lying to him, and I don't know how
to explain where I've been, and - "

"And neither of us can tell him unless we both tell him," Theo reminded her, "which defeats the purpose of me
trying to keep him out of it. And Potter," he muttered under his breath, as she straightened, eyeing him curiously.

"Are you in love with Harry?" she asked, which was not normally the sort of direct question he appreciated. He
shrugged, and she blinked, shaking her head. "How long?"

"Ask him, not me," Theo grunted. "He's supposedly your best friend, isn't he?"

"Yes, but to be honest, he used to be a lot easier to read than he's been lately," Hermione sighed. "So you've
contributed something to him, at least." She shrugged, wiping a trickle of sweat from her forehead. "He does seem to
have acquired some subtlety."

"Yes," Theo added morosely. "Enough to side with Ignotus Peverell without telling either of us, as it turns out."

"I don't like it," Hermione informed him. "I don't trust Ignotus."

"Neither do I," Theo retorted, scowling, as Hermione glanced up, evidently surprised. "What?" he demanded. "Of
course I don't. You and I both know Potter's only ever wanted a family. So of course, Ignotus shows up and offers it
to him, and it's the one thing that'll sway him - because he wants to believe it means something, but - " Theo
grimaced. "I can see why it's working," he admitted bitterly, "but I hate it. I don't trust it. And I can't - "
"Can't stand to see him hurt," Hermione finished for him, looking wistful. "You do love him, don't you?"

Theo did everything in his power not to flinch; or worse, to revisit the thoughts that had kept him awake the entire
previous night as he'd lain alone, contemplating (to no viable conclusion) whether he were more sorry or angry.

"I care about very, very few people," Theo admitted eventually. "Only two, really, and you and I are somehow
poised to ruin both of them." He glanced up, meeting her gaze. "So you can see why I'd really prefer to hate you,
then."

"Right," she sighed, reaching up to rub her temple. "And honestly, you're not wrong to be angry with me. I don't
know how I'm going to tell Malfoy - or if I even can tell him, because you're right about that too." She glanced up.
"If I tell him where I was, I have to tell him where you were. And where Harry was."

Theo nodded slowly.

"So," he said. "What are you going to do about it?"

She scrubbed briefly at her cheeks, sighing, and then reset her stance.

"Right hook, left jab, right hook, slip right, slip left, right uppercut, left cross, right jab. Got it?" she prompted,
running through it quickly, and Theo nodded, taking his stance across from her. "How'd you learn to fight, anyway?"

"I didn't," Theo said, which was true. "Not in any formal way. People just regularly try to hit me."

She rolled her eyes. "Can't imagine why," she determined, and then aimed the right hook, nodding approvingly as he
slipped deftly out of the way.

Blaise Zabini's flat

Diagon Alley
10:15 a.m.

"You're angry with me," Parvati noted quietly, pausing by the fire as Blaise stared straight ahead. He'd poured
himself coffee and put on pants, but had clearly bothered with nothing else; she, meanwhile, had dressed for the day,
running mournfully through her morning routine while being perfectly, horribly aware of the silence coming from
the living room.

"Saw that in a vision, did you?" Blaise returned drily, not looking at her.

She sighed, stepping towards him. "Listen, I didn't mean to hurt your feel-"

"You didn't hurt my feelings, Patil," Blaise snapped, still glaring into nothing. "I'm not a child. My feelings are
perfectly intact."

"Are you sure you're not a child?" she countered dubiously. "Because it seems a bit like you're sulking."

"At best, I'm angsting," Blaise muttered, gesturing pointedly to his glass of whisky. "Which is extremely fucking
adult."

"You're drinking at ten in the morning," Parvati pointed out, finding herself very much in possession of the
argument's upper hand, but when Blaise didn't answer, she sighed. "Fine," she exhaled, sitting at the edge of his
coffee table and shifting his feet over, making room for herself. "Well, would it help if I said I was sorry again?"

This time, he managed to aim his sullen glare in her direction. "No, it wouldn't," Blaise retorted. "I don't need an
apology, Patil, because I'm not upset. And even if I were," he added brusquely, "an apology in this instance would
be like slapping a pocket square on an already ill-fitted jacket. Totally useless," he sniffed, "and fully unrefined."

"My god, Zabini," Parvati muttered under her breath, shaking her head. "Even for you, this is a whole new level of
unreasonable."

He glowered ruthlessly in her direction, and she rolled her eyes.

"I understand you're not used to rejection," Parvati ventured, "being that you are, you know." She waved a hand. "A
princeling and all that, but - "

He scoffed. "It's not the rejection I'm upset about - "

"So you are upset," Parvati noted sagely, and again, Blaise's eyes narrowed.

"Do you honestly think I'm somehow happy about this?" he demanded, and for a moment, Parvati had absolutely no
idea what he was talking about. "Do you think I wanted any of this, Patil? I keep telling myself it must be some sort
of insane psychological experiment - that you told me I was going to fall in love with you, and now, obviously," he
half-snarled, "every time I look at you, I can't help thinking about it, so - "

"I never said you were going to fall in love with me," Parvati interrupted, staring at him. "I definitely never said
that."

"Who else am I going to fucking fall in love with, Patil?" Blaise demanded, sitting upright. "Do you think I let other
people into my home? Into my life?" He leaned forward, flinging the words at her. "Do you think I let other women,
ever, convince me to do insane things out of some wild, mismanaged need to make sure they don't get hurt, or - or
sad, or - "

"Zabini," Parvati attempted, startled, but he continued ranting.

"Part of me is convinced you did this to me on purpose," Blaise growled. "That you showed up with your seeings
and your mystery and your latent sense of tragedy" - this he said while flailing his hands wide, as if she had possibly
managed to be any of those things on purpose - "and just by virtue of being different from everyone I've ever known,
you knew this would happen to me, and now you just - you can sit there," he accused furiously, "and tell me that it
means nothing, that you've had these visions about me all your life and I'm right here, I'm right fucking here, and
you won't - you fucking won't, because of whatever it is you've seen or heard or fucking, I don't kn-"

She surprised both of them when she kissed him; she hadn't really been expecting it to happen. She hadn't even
noticed she'd left her spot on the coffee table until after he'd taken her in his arms; until he'd pulled her close to him
and wrapped her legs around his waist, kissing her cheeks, her nose, her lips, her neck, trailing down to her breasts
as she leaned her head back, sighing. She hadn't noticed how helplessly she was pressing herself against him, how
tightly her thighs were wound around him, how wild and unsteady her breath had become (sanity slipping out from
under her, madness collapsing overhead) until he picked her up, stumbling with her into his bedroom.

She didn't know it could feel like this. She didn't know it could be like this, that she could feel so safe and secure and
yet so fully out of her element, her arms snaked around his neck until he set her back on his bed, sliding her hands
over her head. She didn't know she could feel so certain and so powerless all at once, with nothing in her mind but
the way his lips felt against her skin, his tongue sliding over her nipple as his hands shifted down, tugging her skirt
up around her waist. He slid his thumb against her - was she really that wet, was it really that easy to touch her, to
slide against her like that? - and repeated the motion, circling his touch between her thighs and up and down and
back and forth and faster, faster, faster until she was convulsing and worn out and wrecked, gasping for breath as his
lips met hers again.

"Please," he whispered to her, "please," and she nodded, her eyes closed.

It wasn't near the ocean; it wasn't the stranger she'd thought she'd seen; it wasn't at all as she'd thought she would
live it, with the sun glowing in her eyes; but it was him, and how many times since she'd recognized Blaise Zabini -
his face, his voice, his presence in her mind - had she wondered? Hoped, even? And now she was -

"Yes," she exhaled firmly. "Yes, I want to, I want to, visions be damned - "

He chuckled at that, smugly satisfied, and the sound of it vibrated against her cheek as his lips slid over her jaw.
Helpless to the lure of him, she opened her eyes, taking a sharp, deep breath.

That was when she realized she'd never actually been in his bedroom before.

Certainly not from this angle, here on the bed where he slept, but now she could see everything the way he saw it;
the way it must look when he opened his eyes here each morning, and let his gaze fall on the painting, the blue
painting on the opposite wall, framed in gold -

She gasped as a stray ray of sun from the window hit the frame, obscuring his face for the tiniest fraction of a
second, and then all she could see was the ocean; the gleam that refracted from the gold and blinded her for a
second, delivering her again to a vision she'd had so many times. This is it, she thought, panicked, and heard his
voice - this isn't nothing, this isn't nothing, I swear to fucking god Parvati this is everything - and wanted to scream,
to shriek, to sob.

Everything she'd ever seen had always come to pass, even at the moment she thought she'd bested fate, and that
meant that somehow, somewhere, someone was going to destroy him.

"Are you okay?" Blaise asked, his teeth gritted with restraint as he moved slowly, delicately inside her, filling her up
and catching her mewl of surprise with his lips, kissing it away. "Is this okay?" he murmured, stroking her hair back
from her face, and how terrible it was to know what it felt to be touched like this by him. How cruel, Parvati
thought, and how singularly wonderful, to be the person he looked at like that, when she had seen it herself that
someone, someday, would ruin him; how painful to be held like this by him, when she was the only one who knew
that someone he trusted would one day bring him harm.

"Don't stop," she whispered to him, shivering a little, and he held her closer, burying his lips against the side of her
neck and whispering to her: I swear, I swear, this is everything.

The moment she closed her eyes, lost to him, she saw it again; the man, the stranger, the shape of someone whose
very spine spelled danger and betrayal, and she felt the vision of it swirl and take shape, molded beneath the palms
of Blaise's hands. She saw it again, the vision of Blaise losing everything; of Blaise, unwisely trusting someone she
knew perfectly well that he shouldn't. She waited for the man in her vision to turn around, to reveal himself, certain
this time she would protect him, would fight him - whoever it was - and then holding her breath when she finally
saw him.

When she saw, finally, that it wasn't a him at all, but a her.

Herself, in fact.

Or someone who looked very much like her.

No, Parvati thought desperately, no, this isn't right - it was a man, I know it was a man -

It was a man, she heard the vision before her agree, finding herself gripped with fear when she registered the near-
identical presence of her sister Padma, reaching a hand out. Perhaps there were a number of men he might have put
his trust in until you changed the course of his life, but now it will be you, won't it? Now you are the one who will
destroy him, Parvati.

Padma, Parvati wanted to cry out, Padma, please, don't go -

Are you happy now? Padma asked, her expression stony and cold. Are you pleased with what you've done with our
gift? she asked cruelly, and that was when Parvati realized that she had been both very right and distressingly,
dangerously wrong.

The future as she saw it always came to pass, yes.

But that didn't mean she couldn't yet change what she saw.
Cadell Hawkworth defined his life by a series of infinitesimally small moments; moments, in fact, that had each
lasted even shorter than a breath, and were gone quicker than the blink of an eye. It was funny, he often thought,
how easily plans could change, or how quickly decisions can be made, and yet how lasting the effects would be. For
example, he'd spent the first seventeen years of his life thinking he'd marry a witch he met at Hogwarts; a pureblood
if he could manage it, as his father had long cautioned him about what it meant to have a muggleborn mother, but
certainly someone normal. Perhaps someone pretty and kind, or perhaps with a large family, like his own; some
sweet English rose, or a cheery Scottish lass.

At no point when he imagined his life did he see himself marrying a half-fae maniac who'd punched him in the face
the first time they met each other.

"Why," he'd growled through his teeth when he'd met Gwen le Fay, trying unsuccessfully to reason with her outside
the unlicensed boxing arena. "You do realize you just assaulted a Ministry employee, don't you?"

"Yes, and I'll assault him again if he continues being an arse," she'd retorted crossly, and that's when Cadell knew he
loved her. He had to love her, he reasoned, because otherwise the disastrous feeling in his chest was something
terrible that he'd inevitably die from, and that seemed an equally discomfiting thought. "So," she beckoned stiffly.
"Are you going to arrest me?"

"Do you want me to arrest you?" he asked, dazed, and she shrugged.

"Captivity notwithstanding," she replied neutrally, "I could definitely see myself tied up with you."

He blinked, stunned.

And then she'd smiled, and in the first of many influential moments in Cadell Hawkworth's life, he'd known there
was no going back.

There weren't a lot of women like Gwen. None, in fact, and it very quickly offset the importance of living his life the
way his father, Warlock Ifan Hawkworth, had prescribed for him. True, once Gwen had confessed to Cadell the
nature of her blood he'd recognized that it might be a problem, but surely they lived in more reasonable times, he
thought to himself. Lord Voldemort had disappeared, and the trouble that plagued his parents was at an end, wasn't
it?

It might have been, anyway; but then, of course, Voldemort had come back.

"They're going to come for me," Gwen warned Cadell, her toes slid under him as they sat together quietly on the
sofa, the Daily Prophet spread out in front of them. "There've been creature registries before, but there's no hiding
from them now. Not after I've so foolishly married a rising Ministry star," she teased, brushing his hair back and
smiling at him even while he wished he could sink beneath the floors, having somehow already failed to protect her.
"They'll come for me, Cadell, and when they do - "

"They might take her wand," Ifan had said, pacing his office the day Cadell had come in to ask him what the
Wizengamot planned to do about the rise of the Dark Lord once again. "Your mother's, I mean," he added, having
not stopped his incessant fidgeting long enough to even question why Cadell had come. "The muggleborn registry is
- it's just the first step to arrests, and then who knows what will happen from there - "

Cadell hadn't had to ask what was going to happen to Gwen, whose fae blood made her an even more prominent
target. Creatures were considered dangerous, and the fae in particular had generations of bad blood with the
Ministry.

"You have to stop doing the tournaments," Cadell told Gwen grimly, watching her stiffen in dismay. "You'll have to,
I don't know - get a Ministry job. Something. So they can't accuse you of anything beyond what's in your blood," he
pleaded, even as she turned away. "So they have no reason to come for you, Gwen, please - "

"Right," she'd said quietly, even though it had been the first moment he'd let her down, and they'd both known that
things would never be the same. "Right. Okay."
"I'm sorry," Cadell had attempted hoarsely. "I'm sorry, Gwen, I love you - I love you so much, I just want to keep
you safe - "

But she'd pulled away, unable to look at him.

Rhys coming home beaten half to death was, strangely, a blessing in disguise. Having his younger brother around
gave Gwen something to cling to of her past, and Cadell was relieved to find things settling into normality, or at
least something like it. Having Rhys around also meant that Gwen's mind was occupied with other things. Cadell,
meanwhile, warned by his father's own paranoia, barely slept at night, his hand twitching towards his wand at every
sound as he waited - for what? He didn't know, but he knew it was coming. By then, Gwen had been released from
her Ministry employment without cause; the first sign of trouble, according to Ifan. She didn't take to hiding in the
house, as Cadell had always known (and loved) about her, and eventually he didn't know what would come first; the
Snatchers, or Gwen's inevitable descent into melancholia.

"I can't do this," she'd whispered, sinking into a corner of the kitchen and staring blankly at the floor. "I can't hide in
the house like your mother does, Cadell, I can't just sit here and wait for them to come for me, like some kind of
lamb for slaughter - "

"I can't let you go," Cadell pleaded, prostrate on the floor in front of her, as if begging from his knees could really
make her stay. "Please, Gwen, if you love me at all - "

"Of course I love you," she said dully. "I love you, I love Rhys, I don't want to go, but this - " She exhaled. "Cadell, I
can't live like this." She'd crept forward, taking her face in his hands. "I miss freedom," she whispered to him, her
voice like a song on a breeze, and that was the moment he'd finally understood that she wasn't really human; not like
he was, and not like he was asking her to be. "I miss the lake, too, and the way it looks at sunset. The way it smells
after it rains. I miss the stillness of the water," she murmured, "because it's not like a river, you know? You can't be
in the same river twice, the water's always changing - not like people, I guess. People are mostly lakes, aren't they?
You're a lake, but I'm a river." She smiled weakly up at him. "And if I can't find stillness soon, Cadell, I think I
might just go mad."

He felt his heart break apart and scatter itself over the floor as he nodded, his neck managing the motion by muscle
memory alone.

"Will you say goodbye before you leave," he croaked, "and will you come back someday, when this is over?"

Gwen slid her thumb over his lips with a beatific smile. "Probably not the first," she said, drawing him closer for her
kiss, "but super definitely the second."

He'd woken up the following morning with her still naked in his arms, and he'd stupidly considered it a blessing;
he'd foolishly tightened his legs where they were intertwined with hers without a second thought, as if doing so
would keep them there together. She hadn't left, and he'd considered it a miracle, holding her tightly and praying
she'd changed her mind.

But within hours, he wished, he wished, he wished that she had gone.

"Go," Rhys had said when it happened, his eyes wild with terror after he'd seen what Cadell had done; after the
Snatcher fell heavily to the floor. "GO, CADELL, GO!"

Another moment, quick as lightning, where everything had changed.

"What do you mean," Ifan said, "you killed a Snatcher?"

Cadell stared at his hands. "They were going to take her," he said hoarsely. "She would have died, Dad. She was
barely surviving at home, and if they'd taken her - "

"That wasn't your decision to make," Ifan spat, pivoting sharply in the dim light of his study. "I could have done
something if you'd just let her go, Cadell. I could have expedited her hearing; I could have gotten her house arrest, at
least!"
"They still would have taken her wand," Cadell replied dully. "She still would have been trapped. She wouldn't have
survived it, Dad. I couldn't let them take her. I had to do something. I had to do something." He rocked forward,
burying his face in his hands. "I couldn't let them take her, and besides," he said, feeling something inside him
suddenly grow colder, snapping cleanly in two. "They deserved it, didn't they? This war, it's making monsters out of
men. It turns men into monsters and yet it's my wife they called a creature - "

He stopped, something shifting in his periphery, and looked up to find his father's wand trained on the center of his
forehead.

"Dad," Cadell said, blinking, and Ifan's mouth tightened.

"Do you think I don't know how wrong this war is?" Ifan asked bluntly. "Do you really think I can live with myself
knowing what kind of government I serve? But I can't just let you go. This war will pass, as all evil things pass, and
in the meantime, good men can't bend. I can't bend my principles now, Cadell."

"So you'll turn me in, then?" Cadell asked, disbelieving. "You're going to put me in Azkaban?"

Ifan shrugged. "I'll have to," he said. "That's the law. It's the law I'm sworn to uphold, isn't it?"

"They'll kill me," Cadell reminded him, disbelieving. "Worse, actually. I probably won't get a hearing. It'll be a trial
by Death Eaters and they'll happily be rid of me, and then the muggleborn registry will come for Mum, and then
what will you have? Your pride?" Cadell demanded, rising to his feet. "Your reputation? What makes a good man,
Dad, if he does nothing but wait for evil to pass?"

Ifan's mouth tightened, his wand now pointed at Cadell's chest.

"Run, then," he determined, not meeting Cadell's eyes. "Run, and don't come back. Don't you dare come back."

Cadell blinked. "But Dad - "

"You have three seconds, and then I'm taking you in," Ifan informed him. "Rhys is already being held and I need to
get him out. Three seconds," he said again, and then hardened. "One," he began, and Cadell's breath suspended.

"Dad, what do you mean don't come b-"

"Two," Ifan said, his fingers tightening around his wand.

Cadell exhaled, shutting his eyes.

Ifan swallowed. "Thr-"

Cadell apparated away.

It was fairly clear right from the start that his father was no longer an avenue for him, nor were most of his brothers.
In fact, nearly all of the Hawkworths seemed to go on with their lives without interruption, continuing to work at
their various jobs as their father continued to gain dominance in the political sphere. After the war ended, it seemed
there was no ceiling to Ifan Hawkworth's rise; he was, after all, the most consistent voice on the Wizengamot, and
many admired him for the way he made no exceptions in his rulings. He had a conscience that couldn't be swayed by
money, by blood, by status; it made him the hero of a government looking to rebuild, and all of the Hawkworths
seemed to benefit from it.

All, that is, except Rhys.

Rhys was the only one who seemed to be suffering from not only Cadell's loss, but Gwen's, too. Cadell had always
been fond of his youngest brother - true, they were decently separate in age, being about a decade apart - but it was
from keeping his distance that he learned what Rhys was really like. Loyal, steadfast, honorable; everything their
father pretended to be.
Everything, in fact, that their father was lying about being.

"There's some Club," a drunk man named Morrison (wanted by goblins and wizards alike, and therefore the only
sort of man Cadell could ever safely reveal himself to) had said, his speech long past slurred and well into the realm
of incomprehensible. "Some Infininin- no, Infantr- no, infinitine - "

"Infinity?" Cadell guessed, sipping at his ale, and Morrison nodded vigorously.

"Infinity Club," he agreed, waving a hand. "Secret society. Isn't that - " A retching cough. "Wild?"

"Can't be global, then," Cadell mused, "or else you'd think they'd've stepped in when a genocidal lord tried to take
over the country, right?"

"No, no, nooooo," Morrison argued incoherently. "Huge. Worldwide." A hiccup. "According to my" - another
hiccup - "friend." He stumbled to his feet, grinning vacantly into nothing before letting his gaze slide to Cadell's.
"I'm - I'm nevergonnadie," he mumbled matter-of-factly, before plummeting facedown into the floor.

Cadell sipped his ale again, rolling his eyes. "Right. Sure you aren't."

Still, the prospect of some sort of international secret society was an interesting one. It was mostly regarded as
legend, but within some circles - coincidentally, the only circles Cadell could conceivably frequent - the Club
seemed to be a known entity, responsible for any number of quiet crimes. Soon, Cadell had learned that the reports
of poisonings in the newspapers included mysterious accounts of scribbled infinity symbols pinned to the chests of
Wizengamot members, which seemed to him something highly concerning.

"You could be in danger," he informed his father, and Ifan jumped, holding his hand to his chest.

"What? Jesus, Cadell," Ifan snapped, and then blinked. "Cadell, what the - how did you even get in here - "

"This Infinity Club," Cadell insisted, brandishing the newspaper in front of his father's face. "They're killing
Wizengamot members, Dad. Are you aware of this? You haven't increased your security at all, which is frankly
insane, given everything - "

"Cadell," Ifan growled, "I warned you not to come back. What are you doing here?"

"This Club," Cadell pressed. "Do you know anything about it? And Dad, I - "

He paused, startled, as Ifan's wand rose to his chest, a perfect portrait of what had happened between them half a
decade earlier.

"Dad, the war's over," Cadell said slowly, raising his hands in the air. "It's - I could have a fair trial now, you know.
It doesn't have to be like this - "

"The Club can't know about you," Ifan replied. "Do you realize what it took just to become a member? I can't have
you coming back, Cadell," his father said, shaking his head. "Different times or not, you killed a man. You're a
murderer, and I can't have you disrupting the progress I've made, especially with regard to the Club - "

"You're in it," Cadell registered, blinking. "You're in the secret society that sat by and did nothing while Voldemort
murdered hundreds of people? While his Snatchers killed my wife, and hunted yours?" he demanded.

"The Club amounts to something much bigger than one man's wife, or any one country's war," Ifan said neutrally.
"They can't get involved with everything, Cadell. And as for you," he murmured, taking a step forward as he
steadied his wand, "I really can't have you showing up right now unless I finally take you in."

That, Cadell registered, was the moment (much too late) when he realized his father was not even slightly the man
he'd thought he was. Luckily, whatever his father had planned for him, he'd managed enough quick escapes by then
to disapparate without another word, using the wand he always kept concealed in the sleeve of his worn robes.
He'd disappeared with a crack, and the world as he'd known it had gone with it.

He'd known there was only one person he could go to; his brother Rhys, who seemed no less able to sort out his life
than he had been when Cadell had first disappeared. Rhys, though, was unlikely to believe the truth about their
father's nature, and so Cadell had regrettably set him off on a quest for help that the younger Hawkworth didn't seem
to realize wasn't going to come to fruition any time soon.

"Dad's going to help you," Rhys insisted, even as Cadell sat on his sofa repeatedly suggesting otherwise. "He loves
you, Cadell, I know he does - "

"Dad," Cadell interrupted, "is a cog in a machine so large it can't be bothered when a few muggleborns and creatures
get abducted or tortured or slaughtered. He's part of an organization that looked the other way when my wife was
killed." At that, Rhys had the decency to flinch. "Rhys," Cadell sighed, "it's time to give up on Dad helping. He's not
going to help, and you following orders isn't helping, either."

"Then why did you ask me to do it?" Rhys demanded. "What have I been doing, Cadell, if none of it is going to help
you? This is ju-"

He broke off, glancing and grimacing over his shoulder as someone knocked on his door.

"Probably just someone from the Underground," he muttered, giving Cadell a warning glance. "Just - disappear for a
second, please?"

Cadell nodded, casting a disillusionment charm as Rhys headed to the door, managing only a crack of distance
before someone pushed inside the room, speaking at a rapid, hurried pace.

"So sorry to bother you, and I know this is probably terribly American of me to be so pushy, but I just needed to ask
you something," said a very blonde woman, her ponytail bobbing with each motion as she trotted inside Rhys' flat.
"Listen, I haven't been totally honest with you, but I'd like to be. I mean, I guess I should explain - I know about
your brother," she announced, as Rhys' gaze cut warningly to where Cadell stood in the corner.

"Which one?" Rhys asked guardedly. "I have six."

"The missing one. Cadell," the girl said, and Rhys' expression stiffened.

"Look, Daisy, I don't really have time t-"

"Okay, so, cards on the table, I'm not really a, um. Visiting American," the girl called Daisy explained. "I mean yes,
I definitely am, but I'm an Auror. Former Auror." She blinked, clearly frustrated with her own lack of clarification.
"It's a long story, but I'm here to, um. Investigate something. Many things. A Club, mainly," she exhaled, and again,
Rhys glanced questioningly at Cadell, who flickered into being only long enough to gesture for Rhys to keep her
talking.

"Listen, I don't think your father is the man he says he is," Daisy continued, without any prompting from Rhys. "In
fact, I'm quite certain that he's not, and I think you might be starting to realize that too, maybe? And look, I get it, I
know you have no reason to trust me, but I have a really bad feeling about him," she added, "and if he's involved
with Ludo Bagman now, then he might be responsible for the deaths of Wizengamot members around the world.
Which I realize is difficult to hear, but - "

"So what are you going to do about it?" Cadell asked, dispelling his disillusionment charm and stepping out of the
shadows. "Something smart, I hope," he warned gruffly, as Rhys' eyes widened, alarmed.

"This is, um," Rhys offered hurriedly, leaping to explain Cadell's appearance. "This is just my, uh - "

"Your brother Cadell," Daisy acknowledged triumphantly, sparing him a smile as Rhys visibly tensed, waiting for
her reaction. "Do you really want to know?" she asked, glancing at Cadell, and he nodded warily, sensing another
moment that was about to change the course of his life.
"Well," Daisy said cheerily. "Truth be told, I think we should probably take him down."

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
9:45 p.m.

First, Hermione told herself she would tell Draco the truth at dinner. Better that he not be suffering from any sort of
blood sugar deficiency, she reasoned, which would hopefully prevent any shouting. Of course, that plan was quickly
derailed by the need to sort out their back-talking silverware, which seemed to be repeatedly suggesting in rapid
French that Draco get a haircut "if he knew what was good for him," which was both ominous and annoying.

"Granger, if this butter knife tries to stab me to death over my hair, don't you dare bring it up in my eulogy," he
threatened grumpily. "I'll find a way to haunt you if you do, and I will not," he clarified emphatically, "be dignified
about it."

"Why am I giving your eulogy?" she countered, rolling her eyes. "What would that even sound like? 'We are
gathered today in our mutual toleration of Draco Malfoy,'" she began facetiously, "'who might have liked us, but we
would never really know for certain, which is really just another fun, spirited addition to his already highly
questionable personality' - "

"You realize your salad fork has opinions about your hair, too," he sniffed, "but I, unlike you, am a person of
reasonable manners, and have very politely kept them to myself."

After dinner, then, Hermione told herself, settling on an alternate opportunity as she stifled a laugh at Draco's
expense, watching him begin to reason in stilted French with another of his utensils. She would obviously tell him
once they'd cleared the plates and recalcitrant silverware, she determined mentally - only then the spells that had
been required to manage it had left them sprawled on the kitchen floor, exhausted.

"The teaspoons speak English now," Draco said, tossing her one, "and I regret it immensely."

"You people are barbarians," the spoon informed Hermione.

"I take it you managed to change the language and not the personality, then," she determined, and Draco let out a
loud, mangled groan.

"Listen, Thibaut may be an utter twat, but he's an extremely talented monster," Draco grumbled. "It's one of the
worst things about him. That, and his damned soft hair, like a fucking baby angel - "

"Do you have any grapes?" asked the spoon, as Hermione promptly tossed it into the pile of silverware that she'd so
far only managed to coax into something of a collective coma. One of the steak knives snored loudly, while beside
it, a serving spoon made a soft wheezing sound.

She told herself she'd tell him later, once they'd both readied themselves for bed. She wandered into the bathroom,
preparing to brush her teeth and rehearsing the conversation in her mind. So, I'm in the Club now, she imagined
saying, and tensed slightly, picturing his response.

Granger, you'd better explain before I DEFENESTRATE MYSELF, imaginary Draco replied unhelpfully.

She immediately collided with a very toweled, very real Draco, who had evidently been about to take a shower.

"Oh, god, sorry," she said, instantly covering her eyes. "I was, um. I didn't know you were - "

"Granger, for fuck's sake, you've seen me naked," he reminded her, swatting her hands away from her eyes as she
ducked away from him. "Besides, there are plenty of other bathrooms, if you want me to use one of those, or - I
guess technically I can just move into the guest room now," he added, his voice transitioning to something gruff and
guarded. "I mean, that's - I can do that, I guess," he mumbled, "so - "
"I thought you said I had to take the guest room," Hermione countered, forgetting entirely that she'd been trying not
to look at him and now openly staring at him instead. "Didn't you?"

"Yeah, well, it doesn't seem fair," he said stubbornly. "You did the bonding ritual, so I suppose I owe you for that,
and - "

"You think I - " Hermione paused, clearing her throat. "You think I did that for you?"

Draco blinked. "Yes, obviously," he said. "It was for my family, wasn't it? And my inheritance. You didn't have to,"
he reminded her awkwardly. "But you did, and I'm - I don't know, I'm grateful I guess, so - "

He held up his hands helplessly, shifting to pass her in the doorway, and Hermione stepped sideways without
thinking, colliding with him.

"You told me yourself that we promised to be honest with each other," Hermione accused, artlessly flinging it at
him. "That was one of the vows, I mean," she clarified. "And I'm told there's a possibility of loss of limb if we're not,
so - "

She faltered abruptly, chewing her lip, and Draco sighed.

"Fine," he said, swallowing. "Fine."

She wanted to know what that meant, but was mildly afraid to ask.

Still, something had to be done.

"How about this," Hermione attempted. "We tell each other the truth at the same time. On three," she suggested, and
took a deep breath. "One, t-"

"On three or after three?" Draco interrupted. "Like - one, two, three, truth, or one, two, truth - "

"I don't care," she growled. "Just - pick one - "

"I mean, you said on three, but typically people mean after three, so - "

"Oh hell, Malfoy!" Hermione snapped. "Just - one, two, thr-"

"I don't want to change rooms," he said, at the same moment she said, "I'm in the Club."

"What?" they said in unison.

"What do you mean you don't want to change rooms?" she asked, in the same moment he said, "What do you mean
you're in the Club?"

"I like sleeping with you," he said, just as she replied, "I got initiated last night."

"Initiated?" he demanded, as she half-whispered, "You do?"

"I was trying to get Cad to help me find Katie," she said, just as he grumpily replied, "Obviously I do, Granger, what
do you mean I - "

"What?" they demanded.

"Oh, and Theo's in it too," Hermione said with a wince, just as Draco said, "I'm probably fucking in love with you,
Granger, so of course I - "

"WHAT?!" they demanded.

"No, you first," they snapped.

"I THINK IT'S PRETTY OBVIOUS THAT YOU SHOULD GO FIRST," they accused in unison.

"Are you really going to sit there and tell me my thing was more important?" they asked.

"Seriously," they said at the same time, "I think it's obvious that I - stop talking, you - "

"STOP!" they shouted, and then both groaned.

"You first," they said.

"Fucking Christ," remarked Draco, which was a nice break from monotony, so Hermione relented. "Granger, if you
don't tell me what the fuck is going on, I swear - "

"Theo, Harry, and I were initiated into the Infinity Club last night by Antioch, Ignotus, and Cad," she let out on a
breath, the words so haphazardly strung together she was amazed he could understand them. "It's - I wanted it to be
over, Malfoy, I just wanted it to end, so - " She stepped forward, waving a hand in front of Draco's suddenly blank
expression. "Malfoy?" she asked tentatively. "Are you, um - are you breathing, or - "

"I can't decide who I want to kill first," he trumpeted brusquely, snapping back to wild animation. "Theo's a
possibility, he's certainly had it coming for decades - but then again so has fucking Potter, who I just spoke to this
morning, and - " He broke off, shifting stiffly to stare at her. "And frankly, Granger, as for you - "

She startled them both with something of a wild outburst.

"In case you somehow missed it, I actually bound myself to you last night," she found herself ranting, uncertain
where to go from there and also, traumatically, how to stop. "And I - I wanted to, too, which is the really insane part,
but I'm tired of being someone else's pawn and I just want this to be over, and at least now that I'm officially in the
Club something might actually happen and we won't just be sitting around waiting for someone to tell us what's
going to come next, and yes, I know, I should have told you - I should have told you everything - about this, and
about the moment I knew I felt something and about, I don't know, feelings in general, but I - it just mostly feels
very stupid," she wailed, covering her face with her hands again. "And now I'm - and now I just - "

"Maybe we should just list all our secrets," Draco interrupted, and Hermione blinked at him, startled. "We said only
one more day of secrets, right? And now said day is over, so -" They both grimaced. "This is terrible, Granger,"
Draco conceded, making a face. "It's awful, and more than a small part of me wants to fling myself down the stairs
instead, but - let's just do this, okay? Because I'm going mad. I'm going certifiably unhinged, and - and okay, here's
one," he announced. "I really enjoy living with you. Your hair products smell nice," he accused forcefully. "You're
very respectful of my things. It's quite frankly a miraculous change of pace, and I'm not willing to part with it." He
paused, giving her something of a haughty, testing stare, and then shifted. "Now you," he beckoned, and Hermione
grimaced.

"I like your glasses," she managed, hurling out the first thing that came to her mind, and he tilted his head, smugly
pleased. "They're - " She winced. "They're very attractive. You, I mean. You look - " Her cheeks burned. "It's a good
look," she forced out, and he shrugged, preening outrageously.

"They all are," he said airily, and she made a face, glaring at him. "Fine," he conceded, rolling his eyes. "I knew
Theo was responsible for the attack on the Ministry. I didn't tell you because I trust him - I trust his judgment even
when it's insane," he admitted with a sigh, "but I didn't think that you'd agree with me."

"You were right to think that," she permitted. "I didn't trust him, and I knew it was him, too." Another grim pause.
"Actually, I'm the one who told Antioch it was him."

Thankfully, Draco didn't shout. He let the statement linger in the air for a moment and then let out a breath,
continuing.

"I sent Nico to find Katie," Draco confessed, and she nodded.

"I asked Cad to do the same," she agreed. "Have you heard anything?"
Draco shook his head. "Not yet. You?"

"No." She shifted, feeling trapped and uncertain. "I once had a very weird sex dream about Harry," she attempted,
hoping to lighten the mood, and to her surprise, Draco shrugged.

"Who hasn't had that dream," he postured, and Hermione opened her mouth, about to ask one thousand more
questions until he cut her off. "I thought you left me last night," he admitted, his voice quieting slightly. "I was
positive you'd left, and I - "

"I wouldn't do that," Hermione told him firmly, and then held her breath when he looked up, meeting her gaze with
his. "I thought maybe you still had feelings for Katie. I thought you'd be upset, so I - " She looked down, folding her
hands together tightly. "I wanted to spare you. I wanted to help you, but I also thought I - " An exhale. "I didn't think
I could take it if I had to watch you go after her, so I did it myself, which was - stupid. Selfish. I should have - "
Another swallow. "I should have just told you what I was doing. And how I felt. How I - " A terrible, quaking pause.
"How I feel."

She felt Draco take a step closer, his bare feet coming into view as she stared at the floor.

"I said that stupid thing about you doing my eulogy," he offered tangentially, "because I no longer see a version of
my life that doesn't have you in it. I really don't know if that's love," he added, shaking his head. "I honestly don't.
I'm pretty sure feelings aren't something I'm good at, and it's nothing I can really diagnose, but I know that in every
possible outcome of my life, you're there. Not just there - you're it, actually. And I just - " A pause. "I don't see any
way around it, so." A sigh. "I don't know what that means, exactly, but I know that's the truth. That's all of it."

She looked up, staring at him, as he seemed to belatedly register their circumstances; the parts of himself he'd just
laid bare at her feet.

"I suddenly wish I'd said all that while I had more clothes on," he mused.

"I don't," she replied, surprising them both.

He blinked, bemused, and she reached forward, nudging carefully at the towel around his waist until it slithered
heavily to the floor, pooling around his ankles.

Draco looked down, verifying his state of undress, and then glanced back up, slightly dizzied.

"I also think," he said, clearing his throat, "that Ifan Hawkworth might be - "

"No," Hermione cut in sharply, stepping forward to place her hands delicately on his hips. "Later," she clarified.
"Secret-sharing time is hereby suspended."

"Oh? In favor of what?" he prompted, and she lowered herself to her knees, pointedly looking up at him as he
sucked in a sharp breath, fitting it between clenched teeth.

"Oh," he said, and then, gutturally, "oh - "

She knew what he meant, she decided, about not knowing how to diagnose his feelings. Did she feel something?
Yes, with certainty, but it didn't necessarily feel important to give it a name, or to supply it with any characteristics.

Really, she barely knew whether it was a truth or a fact or a secret; but then again (in the moment, at least) she knew
precisely one thing.

"Hermione," Draco groaned, his fingers tightening in her hair, and she felt a tingle of euphoria, determining with
certainty that the only thing she wanted was to hear him say her name like that as many times as she could before
either of them faced reality again.

a/n: Dedicated to jadebianca, lowkeydivine, and yourdadcallsmeAeds. Hoping to get another Modern Romance
chapter done this weekend… fingers crossed? Candidly, March is a weird time. My mental state is very sensitive to
the spring equinox (that's actual science, I promise) so thank you v much for the comfort of knowing you're
continuing to read this monstrosity!
 31. The Gentlemen and the Scoundrels

Chapter 31: The Gentlemen and the Scoundrels

Nott Manor
Spare Bedroom
October 19, 2003
1:17 a.m.

"What are you doing?"

The girl jumped at the sound of his voice, turning to suck in a breath as she searched in the shadows for him. Even
in the dark, the iridescent quality of her bright white hair shone from the light that filtered in through the newly-
opened window. He waited, trying and failing to place her, before finally stepping into view.

"You," she exhaled sharply, and then, abruptly, he understood.

"Ah," he acknowledged. "You're Lady Revel's divinist."

"And you're the man," she replied, frowning. "The one whose secret she kept for all those years. Aren't you?"

It was funny, really, that everything could eventually be diminished down to that; not that he felt much like
laughing. "Seems she didn't keep it very well, if you know about it," he replied, and the divinist shrugged.

"I know a lot of things I shouldn't," she lamented drily, and he nodded, grasping that particular sensation quite well.

"If you're here for her secrets, you're too late," he noted, and she gestured vaguely around the now-empty room.

"I see that," she agreed. "But since you're here, maybe not. Why are you here, by the way?"

"Why are you here?" he countered, and she rolled her lovely dark eyes.

"I needed to do something," she said coolly. "Steal something, specifically. Though, since my timing is off, perhaps
I can offer you a deal instead, if you're amenable."

"I do love deals," he permitted. "What are you offering?"

"I want someone's secret removed from the network. Blaise Zabini," she clarified. "I want his secret gone."

"The Princeling?" he prompted, and her expression soured; clearly she'd hoped the name would be met without
recognition. "I told you I knew a lot of things," he reminded her knowingly, "didn't I?"

"A lot of things, maybe, but not everything. For example, did you know that Dionisia's network of secrets revolves
around a linchpin?" she asked him, and he carefully concealed an apprehensive frown, uncertain. "The secret
holding everything together is what sustains the power the rest of them create. Dionisia herself used to be the
linchpin; now that she's dead, though, the secrets are feeding off the one at the center. The one she considered most
valuable."

"Which is?" he prompted, bracing himself.

"Yours," she replied, and he grimaced.

"I thought as much," he muttered, rubbing wearily at the back of his neck, and the divinist shrugged.

"That's where the deal comes in," she offered, and stepped forward, surreptitiously crafting an ambience of
conspiracy. "Remove Princeling's secret from the network and I give you my permission to replace your secret with
mine. The secrets don't die," she added, "only the owner does. So if mine is the one at the center - provided nothing
else happens to the network itself - you can sustain it forever. For the rest of time."

A tempting offer, certainly.

"There's a catch," he noted, and she nodded.

"Only for me. If anything happens to the network," she said slowly, "or if, for example, one of the secrets gets
corrupted, it will destroy me from the inside out. I'll die," she clarified brusquely, and again, he hid a breath of
uncertainty. "Being the linchpin is uniquely dangerous. It's why Dionisia never put any secrets of her own in her
network."

"I see," he permitted slowly. "And you're willing to put yourself in danger because…?"

She raised her chin, saying nothing.

"Ah," he acknowledged. "Okay then." He paused, clearing his throat. "Are you certain your secret is enough to
power the network on its own?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "Dionisia once told me so herself. It's a terrible secret," she admitted, looking as though she
were once again suffering its effects. "It would lose its power if I told you anything about it, but believe me. It's a
terrible, potent thing to cling to such an awful truth, and there's a lot of power in that, good or bad."

A fair point, he thought; perhaps even a wise one.

"The truth is, in my opinion, generally awful," he conceded, and then paused. "Is this Princeling really worth dying
for, though, should it come to that?"

"Believe me," she told him stiffly, "whether he is or he isn't, it would be what I deserve."

He turned her response over in his mind, resigning himself with a nod. "Consider it done, then," he determined, and
turned to leave, only to catch her taking a quick step towards him.

"Tell me one thing before you go," she beckoned softly, and he paused, waiting, without turning over his shoulder.
"There's one thing I don't know. Dionisia didn't love you," she mused, which he'd known well enough. It wasn't like
that. "You didn't love her," she guessed, and he tilted his head, confirming. "So why is your secret the one she
considered the most valuable?"

Antioch closed his eyes.

"I don't know," he lied, and then he stepped away, briskly disapparating with a crack.

Greengrass Estate
Daphne Greengrass' bedroom
1:37 a.m.

Daphne had been sitting at her vanity, sleepless, when she heard footsteps resonate behind her, a familiar hand
closing gently around her shoulder.

"Took you long enough," she murmured, watching the reflection of Cad's torso come into view in the mirror.
"Where've you been?"

"Well, vengeance is a highly consuming activity," Cad replied. "Much to my dismay, it cost me a night I might have
spent in your bed, and obviously I came to beg your pardon."

Daphne sighed, biting her tongue on the obvious; really, to beg, Cad?

"Cad," she exhaled softly, and he took her hand, pulling her out of her chair. "What is your plan, exactly?"
"I can't say I really have one," he admitted. "It's a bit more of a makeshift situation. Trial and error, et cetera." He
slipped a finger under her chin, drawing it up towards him. "You said you loved me last night," he noted, and she
winced. "Did you mean it?"

"I - " She swallowed uncomfortably. "I may have."

"Ah, I see." Cad slid his hand around her cheek, brushing his thumb over her lips as she leaned into his touch. "A
pity," he told her, shaking his head, "as I would wish a much better man for you."

"You could just be a better man," she informed him, trying not to be too sulky. "That would suit us both equally, I
think."

He sighed, leaning down to speak in her ear. "I can't make promises, Daphne. I wish I could, I know you would
prefer it, but the fact of the matter is that I'm nothing to build a future on. Do I want you? Of course," he
acknowledged, with such a bare starkness of truth she wanted to wrap her fingers around it and keep it somewhere,
tucked in a locket or buried under stone. "If I could promise you that at the end of all this, I could be the man you're
looking for - the partner that you might want at your side," he clarified, "then believe me, I would happily smother
Mars in his sleep and take you for myself. But as much as he is not the answer for you, Daphne, I'm not the answer
either." He brushed her hair back, smoothing it behind her ear. "I'm not the solution to your problems. I'm just
another problem, however much I may feel for you."

"But you feel something, at least," Daphne whispered, resting her cheek against his chest. "It's not just me?"

She felt his hollow chuckle beneath her lips. "No," he promised. "No, and in fact, if I'd met you seven hundred years
ago, Daphne, I'd have thrown everything away for you. I'd have made very different choices." His grip on her
tightened for the briefest moment. "But now, unhelpfully, I'm a resurrected criminal with more enemies and grudges
than I can count, and there's no running away from what I've done. Or," he murmured, "what I have yet to do."

"And in the meantime, what am I supposed to do?" Daphne asked him, and he shrugged.

"That's so like life, isn't it?" he mused, which was both not remotely an answer and yet, in the same breath, a very
telling one. "Waiting for timing, or else fighting pointlessly to force timing come to you." He met her gaze again,
unwavering. "I would very much like to be the result of your choices, Daphne Greengrass, but I cannot be the
subject of them. Do you understand?"

She sighed, sparing a nod. "I think I grasp the point," she permitted as he laced his fingers with hers, "but still. I
think I'd like some assurance that - "

"That you won't be alone?" Cad guessed, and Daphne winced, not wanting to confirm it. "Yes, well, we all would, I
think, but still; I can't have you basing the rest of your life on me."

"Because it would require you to choose me?" she prompted, and though she might have preferred him to flinch, he
merely shrugged.

"I'm not in a position to choose you," he reminded her. "I can't devote myself to you right now the way I should; the
way any man with the privilege of loving you should. In fact," he clarified, "the closer I get to you, the more
problematic I am for you. I am deep in the throes of destroying my brothers, who unfortunately each have a habit of
targeting people the others care about. If they knew how I felt about you - "

"Which is?" Daphne prompted.

Cad meticulously cleared his throat.

"Inadvisable," he eventually said.

She arched a brow.

"Impossible, then," he amended, and shifted to sit on her bed, pulling her towards him. "You know, it's very
interesting, Daphne Greengrass, that you choose to surround yourself with men who keep themselves from you in
one way or another. You'll never have all of Mars," he reminded her. "With me, you'd have, what, passion? Sex?
Love, yes, without a doubt, but do you really see yourself having a family with me? A marriage? A future?" She
blinked, uncertain. "Daphne," Cad murmured, "I'm a centuries-old wizard with an appalling vendetta, two immortal
brothers, and a vast network of political conspiracy. In what way am I a suitable match for you?"

"I - " She hesitated. "That's - I wasn't - "

"No matter how important to me you are, Daphne," he sighed, resting his forehead lightly against the rise and fall of
her chest, "this will always be about my brothers first. It was purely about finding them before, and now that I have
them in my grasp - " He trailed off, and she felt his grip tighten. "As much as I feel for you," he amended, "there is
no denying that someone else might still love you better. Might love you more fully and more devotedly than I can,
at least while my brothers are still alive. This, as we are - as I am - is it really the love story you want?" he asked,
glancing up at her. "Because at the moment, I can't fall at your feet the way I should, nor can I ask you to wait until I
can do so; so until then, if you make the choice to turn your back on your family's wishes, you'll have to do it for
you, not me."

Daphne slid her hands around Cad's face, smoothing her thumb over his jaw and toying with something between
recognition and disappointment. There wasn't much left to say; he'd said enough, and he wasn't wrong.

Still, it was late, and she couldn't sleep.

So, the situation being what it was, she decided she didn't plan to.

"What happens after you've destroyed them?" she asked in her most appealing voice, shifting to run her fingers over
his lips. "What happens once you've made your brothers pay?"

"I hadn't thought about it," he replied, tugging her into his lap with a fiercely persuasive look of approval, "though
now that I consider the possibility, I imagine my hands would be freed up, don't you think? I can't imagine how I'd
make use of them," he pondered facetiously, sliding them over her hips to her waist, "once silly, useless things like
revenge have been checked off on my list."

"Perhaps I could think of something for you," Daphne suggested, and reached up, sliding the straps of her dress from
her shoulders to let the material drape against her breasts, drawing his attention down with it. "Something," she
mused, kissing him softly beside his ear, "or another, I suspect?"

She shoved him backwards as he landed against the duvet with an oof, pulling her down with him. He rolled over
her, kissing her bare shoulder, and murmured something like agreement as he slid a hand over her thigh.

"You know, maybe I could take up a hobby," Daphne ventured, idly running her fingers through his hair while he
touched her. "Something with a viable set of skills, I suppose, that could serve useful to you in the future."

"What, useful for keeping my hands busy?" he asked wryly, chuckling. "I should think that hobby decisively
mastered on your part."

"Well, for that, or vengeance," she assured him. "Right?"

He smiled his approval into the span of her shoulder.

"Right," he confirmed, slipping his hand under her nightgown.

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Wizengamot Chambers, Office of Ifan Hawkworth
11:23 a.m.

Rhys was beginning to wonder if anything in his life was ever going to be simple again. If, perhaps, he might
actually meet a girl who possessed normal qualities - someone smart and reasonably pretty, maybe, or even just
someone with whom he shared some interests - but also generally available and not, for example, engaged to another
man, or investigating his father's connection to some sort of criminal conspiracy. It would be helpful, too, if his
brother were not slightly on the verge of madness - but it seemed some things were not to be.

Dad's not what you think, Cadell had insisted. No matter what he promises, Rhys, you can't rely on him, he's lying to
you -

He's our father, Rhys argued in response. We know him, we know what he's like -

Well, shouldn't you just find proof either way? Daisy suggested innocently as both brothers swiveled in place,
bemused. There must be a way to prove his involvement - or lack thereof, don't you think?

Which, Rhys supposed, was how he got to where he was now, sneaking around his father's office at the Ministry.

"I told him I'd meet him for lunch," Rhys said in a hushed voice, permitting Daisy into the office behind him, "but
we only have half an hour while he's in a meeting. And honestly, I don't even know what you and Cadell are looking
for, or what you're expecting to find - "

"Maybe nothing," Daisy replied, shrugging, "or maybe something. Never know until you try, right?" she prompted,
turning to smile at him over her shoulder.

Rhys hesitated. He'd thought she was interested in him - had caught her looking at places he very much wanted her
to look, not to indulge unwisely in conceit - but now, unfortunately, he was more than a little bit wary of her
intentions. The last 'interesting' girl he'd gotten involved with had been…

Well, there was no looking too deep into Hermione's situation. It wasn't as if he could make any sense of it, even
now.

"Sure, I guess," Rhys permitted, as Daisy wandered over to his father's desk, opening some drawers and rifling
through papers. "For the record, though, I'm not sure how right Cadell is. He's been gone for a long time; he's angry,
he's - " He grimaced. "Practically unrecognizable from what he was - "

"Well," Daisy exhaled, straightening for a moment. "Do you think there's any reason your brother would lie to you?"

Rhys grimaced. "No," he conceded. "No, I don't."

Daisy gave him an innocent shrug. "Then you'll just have to trust his judgment, I suppose, until you can prove
otherwise," she determined, resuming her search. "Besides, it's not like your father isn't keeping something from
you. How nefarious it might be, I don't know, obviously. Maybe it's nothing. But Ludo Bagman is definitely up to
something, and if your father's connected to him somehow…"

She trailed off pointedly, and Rhys sighed, folding his arms over his chest.

"Fine," he grumbled. "For Cadell's sake, I will permit this, but still, I hardly think - "

"Oh, Rhys," he heard behind him as the door opened; Daisy's eyes widened just before she flickered out of sight,
pressing her finger warningly to her lips in a hasty, fully unnecessary shushing motion. "Ah, you're early. Just got
out of a meeting, apologies - "

Rhys watched, horrified, as his father moved swiftly to his desk, not even looking up from a pile of papers he was
sorting through.

"- right, well, I'm glad you're here," Ifan continued, as Rhys watched the motion of the carpet beneath his feet and
then felt a light shove against his back, indicating that Daisy had moved elsewhere in the room. "I'm going to need a
favor from you, actually - "

"What favor?" Rhys asked, noticing a drawer out of place and flicking his wand, abruptly closing it. Ifan looked up,
catching the sound, but shrugged, seating himself behind his desk and rifling through the file in front of him.
"This mandatory minimums policy is getting out of hand," Ifan muttered to himself. "Percy Weasley and his pet
projects - "

"Dad?" Rhys asked, clearing his throat. "The favor?"

"Hm? Ah, yes," Ifan said, looking up and beckoning for Rhys to sit. "Listen, about our conversation the other night -
I was a bit too hasty, I think. If you want to continue your appearances at that Underground club, you're free to."

"I - really?" Rhys asked, blinking. He felt Daisy stiffen; her knuckles dug into his back, nudging him to press for
details. "Why?"

"Ah, well, what business is it of mine? You're obviously discreet," Ifan permitted, shrugging. "So long as it doesn't
interfere with your career" - privately, Rhys wasn't sure he had a career to speak of, but it didn't seem worth it to
argue - "then I don't see why it shouldn't continue, if you enjoy it. Heaven knows I'd like something for myself from
time to time."

"Oh," Rhys said, surprised. "Well, thanks, Dad. Thank you."

Perhaps Cadell was wrong about their father after all. Maybe Ifan merely needed time to come around to a more
reasonable decision.

Ifan waved Rhys' gratitude away, tapping his wand over a half-full coffee mug and then testing it, satisfied, before
leaning back in his chair. "Coffee?" Ifan prompted, and Rhys nodded.

"Sure," he agreed, easing back into his chair.

Perhaps things were simple, actually.

(Minus the invisible American girl whose hand was still tightened warningly around his shoulder.)

"So," Ifan mused, charming coffee into a spare mug and levitating it over to Rhys, "tell me about this Underground.
Any interesting characters there?"

"Lots," Rhys confirmed, taking a sip and determining it satisfactory. "Though we don't really get into each other's
backstories. Strangely, that's not really the point of going."

"Right, right, of course," Ifan said, leaning back with a chuckle. "So, tell me," he mused, as Rhys took another long
sip, "does Ludo Bagman go there often?"

At that, the clawed discomfort of Daisy's grip prompted Rhys to choke on his coffee, sputtering in both pain and
opposition.

"Dad, I - you - why does - "

"I'm just curious, of course," Ifan assured him. "Do you talk much? Not about anything specific, I'm sure, but - the
man does have an affinity for gambling, and drinking, so I suppose it's a bit of a vulnerable situation - "

"Dad," Rhys coughed up, swiping water from his eyes. "Please tell me you're not involved in some sort of - some
plot with Ludo Bagman - "

"What? No, no, of course not," Ifan protested, in a tone that Rhys had known since childhood to indicate absolute
honesty, which he felt was a massive relief. "No, Ludo Bagman is an idiot. It's astounding he's gotten as far as he has
- friends in high places, I imagine. I'd had higher hopes for him, but - " Ifan grimaced, briskly changing the subject.
"No, I'm not plotting with him."

"Oh, good," Rhys exhaled, finally calming enough to take another sip of his coffee and swatting Daisy's hand away
as she tried to prod him again, pressing the conversation further. "Thank god, Dad, honestly, because - "
"I'm going to use him," Ifan noted thoughtfully, as Rhys choked again, spitting half the coffee back into the mug
while he inhaled the rest directly into his lungs. "I know he's responsible for these assassinations somehow; so
obviously, if I could sort out how, then I could pin this entire thing on him - "

Rhys coughed more violently, his windpipe and sensibilities brusquely assaulted.

"Actually, if I could replicate whatever potion he created, that would be an excellent start," Ifan mused to himself.
"He was positively sloshed the last time I saw him - surely it would be easy enough to get the ingredients out of him,
so - my goodness, Rhys, are you ill?" Ifan prompted, leaning over his desk to glance down at where Rhys was
doubled over in the chair. "If you're not feeling well, perhaps we should cancel lunch. We can discuss this later,
obviously. Have you heard anything new from Miss Granger? She's been behaving mysteriously; not too often a
woman disappears from her own engagement party, I imagine - "

"Hold on," Rhys wheezed, holding up a hand. "What - why," he amended forcefully, "would you want to use Ludo
Bagman?"

Ifan sighed testily. "Don't you see, Rhys?" he prompted, though Rhys felt it obvious that he didn't. "The Club is
looking for the perpetrator of the assassinations - granted, Ludo surely didn't do it alone, but still - they'd be in my
debt if I could prove it. Or perhaps more than that," he mused, curling a hand thoughtfully around his mouth. "If I
play it right, this might be enough to take the entire current leadership of the Club down. And if I could reveal all of
the Club's activities to the Ministry - " He trailed off, abruptly discarding the thought. "In any case, it's doubly
rewarding. If I can prove Ludo's involvement to the Club, then surely they'll help Cadell in return. That's what you
wanted, isn't it?" Ifan prompted knowingly.

Rhys blinked, stunned.

"You're doing this for Cadell?" he echoed skeptically.

"Of course," Ifan assured him, not even batting an eye. "You know I want to help him, Rhys. Why else would I do
any of this if not to help my son?"

"I - " Suddenly, Rhys couldn't quite summon the effort to speak, and Daisy's pressure on his shoulder softened,
becoming an apologetic brush against the back of his neck. "You know," Rhys said to Ifan, glancing down at his
hands, "I actually think you're right, Dad. I'm feeling sort of unwell. Maybe we should reschedule."

"Not a problem," Ifan assured him, unfazed. "Best that you stay in good health if you're going to continue fighting
all those miscreants at the Underground. Do tell me, though, if you hear anything," he added pointedly. "Anything
you can give me is one more thing you can do for your brother, Rhys."

Rhys rose slowly to his feet, feeling slightly numb.

"Yeah," he said, "sure."

He turned to the door, opening it slightly and pausing to let Daisy slip by him.

"Oh, but Dad?" he asked, turning back to his father, who glanced up. "Just out of curiosity - what would you do if
you proved it?" Ifan blinked, bemused. "If you revealed who was responsible, if the Ministry hailed you as a hero -
what then?" Rhys prompted, and Ifan considered it.

"I suppose a run at Minister of Magic wouldn't be out of the question," Ifan posited fancifully. "Shacklebolt's surely
on his way out, what with all that's happened this year. Not to get ahead of myself, of course," he added, sparing
Rhys a wry smirk. "But then we'd really have to get you a respectable Ministry position, wouldn't we?"

In a blink, Rhys felt as if all his worst suspicions had been effortlessly confirmed.

"Wouldn't it be sort of challenging to your campaign if Cadell were to suddenly resurface?" Rhys asked grimly,
recognition sinking in with a low, unpleasant rumble in his intestines. "If you were planning a run at Minister, I
mean. You wouldn't really want that to come up, would you?"
At that, Ifan's smirk twisted slightly. "Well, I wouldn't worry about that just yet," he permitted. "One thing at a time
- after all, we still have to prove who's behind all this, don't we?"

"Right," Rhys exhaled, noting the presumptive 'we' and forcing a nod. "Right. Of course we do," he murmured to
himself, and then, after a muttered goodbye to his father, he exited the office, letting out a breath on the other side of
the door.

He forgot for a moment about Daisy's presence until she slipped her fingers delicately against his palm, letting them
settle there for the briefest, quietest touch before pulling away.

He glanced at her, watching her ripple back into view, and waited expectantly; she was a babbling, rambling sort of
person, after all, and he assumed she'd have a lot of thoughts. He stared at her, bracing himself, and she glanced up
at him.

"Nothing's ever really simple, is it?" she said eventually, and that was all.

He nodded, swallowing hard.

"Thanks," he murmured, and she smiled.

"No problem," she replied, nudging him towards the lifts.

Montague the house elf had belonged in some general respect to the League of Eternality for several centuries,
beginning with his employ in the household of Nicholas Flamel. The wizards involved in the Club were, not
surprisingly, creatures of habit, and so rather than chance the horrifying necessity of teaching another house elf how
to see to their specific eccentricities, they'd permitted Montague his own immortality; in fact, they'd encouraged it. It
was unlikely that Montague was ever going to die, which meant that he was likely going to spend the next several
centuries watching the Peverell brothers continue to have the same monotonous problems at constant intervals of
repetition.

Consider, for example, that day, when Montague happened to be intently refreshing the tapestries in the room where
Nico had pulled Ignotus aside, muttering quietly to him.

"I saw something today on the British Ministry surveillance charms," Nico said, as Montague used a muted
refreshing spell on a spot where someone had irresponsibly permitted direct sunlight from the window. As ever, it
was going to be quite an involved task to fix. "We have a problem with that British warlock," Nico continued, his
voice hushed and nervous. "I'm going to tell Antioch about it, but - "

"No, no, don't tell Antioch," Ignotus countered hastily, chewing his lip. "I'll keep an eye on it. Where's the footage?"

By then, of course, Montague had moved on, having successfully shifted the tapestry slightly higher on the wall in a
way that was both aesthetically pleasing and successfully free from the window's harmful rays. The dining room was
always a much more daunting task, particularly on the days when the Club's logos needed to be polished on all the
silver. That, Montague thought, would require his full concentration.

"The Warlock?" asked the second brother, Cadmus. He had been dead for some time, Montague vaguely recalled,
but unlike the other Peverells, he'd been dead before, so his reappearance was hardly worth noting. "Why would you
come to me about that?"

"Because I know Antioch isn't going to tell you," Ignotus informed him, as Montague scrubbed briefly at a spot on
one of the salad forks. "The Club's in trouble, Cadmus. It's been in trouble for a while, and Antioch's still pretending
everything's fine. If some low-ranking Warlock is plotting something against the Club, then this is no ordinary
disturbance - it's a mutiny."

"Well, I am familiar with mutiny," Cadmus permitted drily, folding his arms over his chest. "You really called me
over here just to tell me about this? And here I thought you considered me a nuisance, Ignotus."
"I'm not an idiot," Ignotus countered, which Montague wasn't sure about. Of the three brothers, Ignotus was least
likely to remember to use a coaster, and therefore the most likely to leave rings on the irreplaceable wooden tables.
"I don't know what you're doing back here, Cadmus, but I know this Club matters to you."

"Why," Cadmus drawled, "because it was literally the death of me?"

"No," Ignotus argued, ruffled. "Because you built it. Because you crafted it. Because everything you are is in
everything this Club does, and you wouldn't permit it to falter. Not like this."

"Big words," Cadmus replied, as Montague replaced the silverware and fixed some fraying on one of the curtains,
toddling into the living room and noticing a new scrape against the floor. Likely Herpo's doing, he thought. Herpo
was a larger wizard, well over twice Montague's height, and always getting up too abruptly. Still, Montague liked
him well enough, he supposed.

Mostly because he wasn't around very often.

By the time Montague finished with dinner, delivering it (as typically requested) to Nico's workspace and then
wandering back to the kitchen, he caught sight of a cloak needing mending, the ripped lining of it thrown carelessly
across the arm of the sofa. He wandered over to it, recognizing the initials, and repaired it quickly, opting to
apparate directly into its owner's study.

" - and you came to me," Antioch noted skeptically, as the dead brother, Cadmus, faced him in the dimly lit room,
both of them speaking quietly. "Why?"

"Because we built this Club together, Antioch," Cadmus replied, and Montague cleared his throat, delicately
announcing his presence. "Because I know you know about this, too. Ignotus might be fool enough to believe that
anything happens in this Club without your knowledge, but I know you're more careful than that. What are you
planning to do about it?"

Again, Montague cleared his throat; louder this time.

"Cadmus, I - oh, Montague," Antioch acknowledged, glancing briskly at him. "Did you - "

"Cloak is fixed, Master Antioch," Montague croaked regally, and Antioch nodded.

"Thank you, Montague, you can leave it there - and Cadmus, I don't know what you expect me to do about it,"
Antioch continued, as Montague wandered over to replace the cloak on Antioch's coat stand. "You want me to what,
preempt it? I don't know what he's planning, and besides, he's still a Warlock. He can't be gotten rid of quietly, at
least not now - not while Warlocks around the world have ostensibly been assassinated at our hands, as you might
recall. You know risking exposure isn't my modus operandi, and - ah, yes, Montague, that one too," Antioch called
to him as the elf glanced skeptically over a frayed hem, disapproving. "Would you mind?"

"Montague is not minding," Montague assured Antioch gravely, picking up the spare robe and attempting to charm
the loose threads into submission as Antioch turned back to Cadmus.

"Well, as a reminder, brother, you and I don't function the same way," Cadmus remarked drily, and Antioch
grimaced.

"Yes, I'm aware," Antioch replied. "And at the risk of excessive nostalgia, it would be a relief, Cadmus, if we could
do something your way for once."

Cadmus looked surprised, though privately, Montague agreed with the sentiment. Cadmus had always been
somewhat fastidious about his clothes; even now, Montague noted, the middle brother had every hair in place, with a
starch, pleasant fold in his trousers. He rarely needed any particular help from Montague, which the elf had always
appreciated. In general, doing things Cadmus' way seemed like a much neater way to handle things.

"I can take care of it," Cadmus agreed slowly. "If you want me to."
"I do," Antioch confirmed. "I have rather a lot on my mind."

Cadmus arched a brow. "Do you?" he prompted, though Montague thought it rather obvious. Clearly Antioch's mind
was always elsewhere, or else he'd snag his clothing on far fewer things.

"Yes, I - "

"Done, Master Antioch," Montague informed him, charming the robe back onto its hook and turning to him for
approval.

"Yes, thank you, Montague," Antioch said hastily, giving the robe a brisk, approving glance, "and Cadmus, I didn't
mean it like that. Don't - don't do that. I just - it would be a relief to me, if you would simpl-"

Montague, wearied by the day's activity, disapparated, making his way back to the kitchen. By then, Nico's dinner
plates had manifested in the sink, and Montague set to work cleaning them, planning to do one last sweep of the
house before retiring for the evening. Inevitably there would be one or two more things out of place, though some of
it could wait until morning. Immortal or not, a hard day's work was a hard day's work, and he'd surely be at it again
tomorrow. Not that it bothered him; it was in his nature to seek out meaningful work, and he was relatively fond of
his masters, despite how dull and mindless their lives seemed to be compared to his.

At least he'd never be out of a job, Montague thought.

After all, if there was one thing that remained consistent through all of time, it was that the Peverell brothers were
certain to continually make a mess of things.

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
October 20, 2003
5:13 a.m.

Hermione woke to something she couldn't quite identify; as if she were still in a dream, and the feather of a thought
had tickled the inside of her ear. Something, somewhere, had been whispering to her; hey, wake up, she imagined in
her head, and she slowly opened her eyes, abruptly registering a face sitting expectantly at the end of her nose.

She sat up, alarmed, as Cad's hand clapped over her mouth, his free hand rising to shush her. "Quiet," he whispered,
gesturing to where Draco was still sleeping beside her, and she nodded, giving him the quietest possible shove
(ideally, one that still managed to be appropriately disapproving) and gesturing for him to move into the corridor,
tiptoeing after him as discreetly as possible.

"What?" she shouted at a whisper, and Cad waved his wand, placing both of them inside a muffled bubble of
conversation.

"I have to show you something," he said, and glanced down. "Obviously," he amended, "as I'm certainly not here for
the appreciation of your pajamas."

"I - " Hermione glanced down. "What's wrong with these? I like gingham."

" … Said no man ever, but so be it," Cad permitted without conviction, making a face before appearing to recall
what he was doing there. "Can you spare a few minutes without him noticing?"

She considered it, glancing over her shoulder, and then shrugged.

"I sometimes go for a run in the mornings, so yes," she permitted, stifling a yawn and transfiguring her pajamas
(admittedly, not what she had worn to bed until after a particularly vigorous episode of debauchery, because Cad
wasn't entirely wrong about gingham) into her usual running clothes. "Though I hope it's nothing too secretive, as
I'm sort of trying this new thing where I don't keep things from Malfoy."
Cad grimaced. "Well, we'll see," he said, and beckoned for her to put a hand on his arm, disapparating them
elsewhere.

Wherever it was, it was far brighter than the darkened corridor they'd just left; Hermione raised her free hand to her
eyes, half-blinded by the sun overhead and the gleam from somewhere just beside them.

"Is that the ocean?" she asked, realizing too late that there was now excessive sand in her trainers as Cad tugged her
towards a lone, unremarkable tent. "You might have advised me as to the proper footwear, Cad, or I might have - "

"Oh, hello," called a voice a few feet away, and Hermione froze, startled, as Katie Bell looked up from where she
was holding an impossibly tiny paintbrush, kneeling studiously over something in the sand. "You're back," Katie
offered pleasantly to Cad, who nodded.

"Yes, and I brought a friend," Cad informed her, gesturing to Hermione. "Do you mind if we chat for a moment?"

Hermione gaped at him. "But she's - "

She broke off, choking, as Cad elbowed her hard in the sternum.

"Oh, of course," Katie said warmly, rising to her feet and striding towards them. "I don't have long, of course - I'm
an archaeologist, and I have a very important paper due soon," she explained apologetically to Hermione. "I take it
the Professor already told you that?"

"Professor?" Hermione asked, dazed, and Cad shrugged, nudging a pair of tortoiseshell glasses that Hermione hadn't
noticed higher onto the bridge of his nose. "Right, yes, of course, I'm his - I'm his research assistant, Her-"

"Hera," Cad corrected, mouthing 'just in case' over Katie's shoulder as she offered her hand to Hermione. "My
research assistant, Hera."

"Oh, wonderful," Katie said, giving Hermione a vacant smile. "I'm Isabel."

"Isabel?" Hermione echoed, glancing up at Cad. "As in - "

"Isabel Lewin," Cad supplied for Hermione, grimacing. "Yes, you heard correctly."

"Oh, well, I'd love to chat more about this," Katie told Hermione, "but as I'm sure the Professor has told you, I'm
really quite busy. Perhaps another time?" she suggested, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Tomorrow, perhaps,
or - ah, no, I can't," she determined evasively, frowning. "Well, just send me a note and I'll get something in my
diary, okay? Have a lovely morning," she informed them, heading back to what was apparently her dig site and
leaving Cad to take hold of Hermione's arm, brusquely dragging her away.

"What the - "

"Don't," Cad warned quietly, waiting until they were out of Katie's earshot to pause her, shaking his head. "She's
pretty addled; from what I can tell, it's a really strong obliviation. She doesn't know her name, doesn't know she's a
witch, is convinced she's constantly busy, only I doubt there's anyone else near here - "

"Where are we?" Hermione asked, scanning the beach. "Is this - is this an island?"

"Yes, in Greece," Cad informed her. "Not far from where Antioch and I met Herpo. Delightfully," he added, with a
lethal dose of sarcasm, "Ignotus clearly stole quite a few details from our lives, including Ibb's name. I imagine he
was feeling uncreative, and therefore needlessly sentimental," he remarked, unimpressed. "But, in fairness,
inadequate time to prepare can do that to a person."

"We have to bring her back!" Hermione insisted. "We can't just - we can't just leave her there, she's - she's clearly
trapped in some kind of delusion!"

"Yes, exactly that," Cad agreed sagely. "She's currently living inside of a very powerful delusion. A loop of some
kind, if I were to guess. She seems to remember some things," he conceded, gesturing to himself and his professorial
glasses, "which is why I didn't want her to have your real name. I get the feeling, though, that Ignotus only designed
enough of her altered persona to last a single day, which is why she can't consider the possibility of a tomorrow. If
you take her back without fixing the obliviation, she'll probably find it extremely distressing and try to come back
here."

"So what do we do, then?" Hermione asked, and then, frantically, "and how do we tell Draco? And Harry? Surely
Harry will be furious if he finds out Ignotus has done this - "

"Yes," Cad confirmed, "which is why he can't know."

"I- wait, what?" Hermione asked, bewildered. "But - but this is what you wanted, isn't it? This would turn Harry
away from Ignotus, it would be further proof he's acting wildly and - and I don't know, irrationally, and - "

"Antioch did this to him once," Cad reminded her. "Well, a worse version of this. Hiding the woman he loved from
him for years."

"But that's - " Hermione blinked. "Katie didn't have anything to do with that, so - "

"No, she didn't, and as much as I would love to eventually use what Ignotus did to make an utter wreckage of him, I
can't at the moment," Cad said, and paused. "Do you know much about Ifan Hawkworth?"

"I know he's in the Club," Hermione permitted gruffly, and stiffened. "Why?"

"Well, more accurately, he's plotting against the Club," Cad informed her, and she blinked, surprised. "He's plotting
something that could, if played well, expose the Club, actually. Which isn't something I want to see happen," Cad
muttered, "and which could most definitely be worse if Harry Potter were to find out what Ignotus has done."

"I don't understand," Hermione countered, frowning. "You want the Club destroyed, don't you? You've said so,
unambiguously, on a number of occasions, so why would y-"

"I still helped build this Club," Cad reminded her. "I want it destroyed, yes, but not gracelessly stripped for public
consumption. If it's going to fall, it'll fall on my terms, not on the terms of some power-hungry Warlock. This can't
come out yet," he insisted emphatically, "and we can't help Katie - not until the external threats against the Club
have been dealt with. In sum, you can't say anything about this," he clarified, gesturing to the general scenario in
which they stood, "until all of that has been dealt with."

"Oh no," Hermione said, instantly backing away. "No, no, no - I have to tell Draco, I can't keep this from him.
Seriously, I can't - "

"Then tell him if you have to," Cad said, shrugging, "but you'll have to find a way to be sure he doesn't do anything
about it. She's safe here, for now, but if Ignotus knows that we know where she is - "

"He'll kill her," Hermione guessed weakly, and Cad nodded.

"Meanwhile, if Harry finds out and turns on Ignotus - "

"You lose the cohesion of the Club's leadership," Hermione muttered, "and risk being exposed, even prosecuted,
arrested, hunted - "

"See? You've got it," Cad said cheerily. "And to think, I thought this might be difficult to explain. Really, you're a
gem - "

"So what do you want me to do, then?" Hermione demanded brusquely. "Just sit back and wait for you to sort this
out amongst yourselves? That's clearly not happening -"

"Sit and wait? No, of course not," Cad assured her. "I want much, much more from you than that."
"Oh no," Hermione groaned, rubbing her temple. "What is it that you want?"

Cad, to her supreme displeasure, spared her a smile. "Oh, only the usual, of course."

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
8:25 a.m.

"No," Draco replied flatly.

"Yes," Hermione corrected, rolling her eyes. "I don't need your permission, Malfoy. Seriously, I don't."

"How are you going to afford it?" Draco demanded, but she only shrugged.

"I'm sure Hortense will bankroll me," Hermione replied, which immediately made him want to shake her - and also,
somehow, to shake himself so firmly he dragged them both several weeks into the past, wherein such an option
would never have occurred to her. "Actually, Hortense would love this. Maybe I'll just go Floo her right n-"

"Don't you dare," Draco snapped, lunging in front of her. "Have you lost your mind? Did that injury to your arm
spread to your brain? Do you need to be committed to some sort of safe space with padded walls? No. No, I'm not
letting you do this, no matter what you say - "

"Well, that's very charming, Malfoy, but it's not up to you, is it?" she retorted. "Listen, I told you the truth about
Katie - "

"WHICH, SIDEBAR, I'M NOT THRILLED ABOUT," Draco reminded her. "Delusion or no delusion, you can't just
leave her there, I can't just - "

" - and I'm telling you the truth about this, too - but aside from advanced warning, I'm not sure I owe you much else.
Now, you're welcome to help me, if you want," she told him. "You know, if you're in a position to want me to
succeed, that is - "

"Of course I'm not in that position," Draco retorted. "I'm nowhere near that position. I'm ten miles away from that
position, in fact, throwing myself in front of a bus with a note blaming you in my pocket - "

" - and naturally, having your assistance would be extremely beneficial," Hermione continued, "especially if you
want to actually help Katie, but it's hardly a necessity. And anyway, be sure to make up your mind with a sense of
urgency, Malfoy, because I'd really like to get this taken care of sooner rather than later. I have people to see, things
to do - "

"You will see no one and do nothing!" Draco flung at her, immediately growling with unwilling contrition as she
looked up, tartly arching a brow. "Okay, that's - that's not what I meant. I'm just saying, Granger, that I can't let you -
I won't - "

"Look, I know it's not ideal," Hermione assured him, which didn't help. "I get that, really. All of this is a lot to take
in, and I know it's frustrating that I've asked you to, you know, not be your usual self about all of this - "

"It is an EGREGIOUS REQUEST, yes," Draco confirmed.

" - but considering everything, I'm not required to listen to your squawks of disapproval. Are we clear, Malfoy?" she
added, taking a challenging step closer as his eyes narrowed, registering the word squawk with immense displeasure.
"I don't know what's happening between us, but this - " She waved a hand, evasively gesturing between them.
"Whatever this is, it seemed to work for an astonishing full day, so if you want it to keep working - "

"Are you threatening me?" Draco snapped, and she rolled her eyes.

"It's just a statement of fact, Malfoy, honestly - "

"Oh, don't talk to me about facts, Granger," he retorted. "I have some facts! Fact one, this is ridiculous, and everyone
agrees with me."

"Oh, everyone? Really?" she prompted dubiously. "And who have you consulted in the last oh, ten minutes - "

"Granger, for fuck's sake, you know what I'm saying - "

"Do I?" she mocked. "Because I never know what you're saying, least of all now - "

"Don't test me, Granger," he growled, "or I'll be forced to do something drastic - "

"Like what?" she scoffed. "Stop shouting? Behave reasonably?"

"I'M NOT SHOUTING," he returned. "WOULD YOU PREFER ME TO SHOUT?"

"OH, SO THIS IS YOU NOT SHOUTING? BECAUSE - "

She broke off as he kissed her, suddenly finding the absence of her mouth on his to be extremely offensive, and also
considering that one of the benefits of their newly attempted honesty was that this was a thing they'd agreed they
could do now. She pulled away, looking as though she wished to heartily slap him, but ultimately judged a groan to
be more appropriate, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his lips back to hers.

"I'm furious with you," she informed him, and he nodded, kicking off his shoes and pulling away to tear his shirt
over his head. "Do not mistake my current actions as any sort of indication about how I'm feeling towards you,
because I would much rather - " She broke off, struggling to pull her sports bra over her shoulders and then tossing it
on the floor. "I'd much rather punch you in the face - "

"Yes, I get it, Granger, you're a terrifying bundle of rage," he assured her, shoving her hands away from his trousers
and unzipping them himself, gesturing pointedly to the running tights she was still wearing and motioning
unambiguously for them to be removed with haste. "Remind me later to reiterate that what you're suggesting is
objectively insane - "

"Oh god, shut up," she snarled, lunging at him in something that was distressingly close to a full-bodied tackle until
he picked her up, carrying her towards the sofa and gracelessly letting her fall backwards onto it. "I'm still not
convinced I don't hate you," she informed him as he dropped to kiss her torso, shoving her legs over his shoulders.
"Honestly, I think we've spent too much time together - this has to be some sort of psychological malfunction - "

"If anything, this is some sort of episode of mania," he agreed, stroking his thumb against her as she wriggled lower
on the cushions. "We should really both see some sort of medical professionals - "

"Yes, good," she gasped, yanking him towards her. "Right, I'll make an appointment this afternoon right after I go
see Nott - "

"Go see Nott?" Draco echoed, pausing, and she groaned. "I thought we agreed you weren't doing that!"

"I'm definitely still doing it," she informed him, pulling at his hips. "I'm just doing you first - "

"Oh no," Draco informed her, pulling away. "No, no, no - that's not how it works, Granger. This has a very clear set
of steps: first, you listen to my reasonable opposition," he suggested, "then proceed to agree that I am, per usual, one
thousand percent correct, and then we have sex - "

"Are you serious right now?" she demanded, sitting upright. "Draco - "

"Don't you 'Draco' me," he said impatiently, rising to his feet and folding his arms over his chest. "This is officially a
standoff, Granger. We're in a fight. I'm no longer interested in this or any other sexual endeavor with you, thank you.
Goodb-"

"Malfoy, your dick is right in front of me," Hermione informed him. "I can see precisely how interested you are."
"This? This is purely related to blood flow," he replied airily. "My penis and my brain will join forces at any
moment, I assure you - "

"Fine," she snapped, falling back on the sofa. "I'll just take care of it myself, then."

"You wouldn't da- what are you doing?" he demanded, as she closed her eyes, sliding her hand down her torso and
lasciviously chewing her lip. "Stop it. Stop. Stop it, this is - you can't do that, it's cheating. Stop. Stop - "

"You're welcome to stop me, Malfoy," she informed him. "Or you can just admit that I'm going to do whatever I
want, and you're going to go along with it."

"I would literally rather die," he informed her, and she shrugged, continuing her display of rebellion and utter
fucking temptation as his eyes widened, equally dismayed and aroused.

"Die, then," she invited him, and he glanced down at his traitorous penis.

"Goddamnit," he growled under his breath, and sighed. "Fine. I'll owl Theo myself."

"That's nice," Hermione said, eyes still closed. "Mm, well, I'm all good here, unless you want t-"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Draco said, shoving her hand away and resuming his position above her. "This won't work
every time, you know," he accused, brandishing a finger at her. "This is a single instance - a one time occasion, so
don't go thinking you can -"

"Shhhh," she groaned, arching her hips up beneath him. "Stop talking. You have an owl to write."

He sighed.

"Fine," he muttered, as his mind (lost as it was in other things) immediately went blank.

Nott Manor
Living Room
11:20 a.m.

Theo was sitting on the sofa, waiting expectantly, when Draco came through the Floo.

"Oh good," Draco exhaled, falling beside him. "You're here."

"Yes, in my house, even," Theo agreed. "A miracle if there ever was one."

"Well, I was hoping to catch you early," Draco clarified, turning to look at him. "Before the others got here, I mean."

"Yes, and speaking of," Theo opened warily. "What, pray tell, is all this about?"

Draco raised a brow. "Aren't there a few things you'd like to tell me, Nott?"

"Ah," Theo acknowledged stiffly. "So Granger told you, then."

"Yes," Draco confirmed. "She did."

"It was just the one time," Theo assured him. "It didn't mean anything."

"I - what? No. Stop," Draco said impatiently, glaring at him. "That's - shut up."

Theo chuckled. "I had you for a second though, didn't I?"

"You didn't, I just - Stop," Draco grumbled. "Look, you could have just - "
"Told you?" Theo prompted skeptically. "Like you could have just told me you were unwillingly involved with the
Club?"

"I - " Draco grimaced. "Point taken. But still."

"Fine," Theo said, shrugging. "Next time I try to hold a Ministry hostage to gain entry to a league of corrupt
immortals, I'll check in with you first. So we're good?"

"Fuck, I hate you," Draco sighed, which meant, conclusively, that they were. "But I still want to know why you
wanted to do this in the first pl-"

"Oh good, you're both here," Blaise interrupted, waltzing in through the Floo with Pansy at his heels before heading
directly for Theo's liquor cabinet.

"What's this about?" Pansy prompted, pausing in front of Draco and Theo with her hands on her hips. "Are we going
to finally address the whole Weasley assassination thing?"

"Ah, right, I knew I was forgetting something," Blaise noted, pouring himself a drink and taking the chair beside the
sofa. "What happened with that again?"

"Someone tried to murder Weasley," Pansy said impatiently. "Someone who wasn't Ludo Bagman, but - "

"Look, we're working on it," Draco cut in, and Pansy's gaze slid to his, narrowing with suspicion.

"Who's we?" she demanded, as Daphne materialized in the Floo.

"What's going on?" she prompted, and eyed Blaise, who was sipping quietly at his whisky. "Zabini, it's like, eleven
in the morning."

"I own a watch, Greengrass," he retorted, as Daphne rolled her eyes, perching on the arm of Pansy's chair.

"Didn't know you were actually going to come, Daph," Theo noted, surprised. Usually she required considerably
more persuasion. "You want to work this case?"

"Actually, y-"

"Case?" Blaise cut in, leaning forward. "What case? Are we back to work?"

"Well, what else are we going to do?" Theo prompted. "Our contract with the Ministry ended, so event planning is
out," he drawled, as Draco shrugged his agreement. "I mean what, are we all just supposed to work on Draco's
wedding now?"

"Actually," Pansy ventured, "I do have a lot of expertise in the area now."

"New company name," Theo suggested. "Weddings, Weddings, Weddings, Wed-"

"No," Draco growled, glaring at him. Theo smirked, pleased.

"Strange Bedfellows, Inc," he suggested alternatively.

"Stop," Draco said.

"Improbable Unions and Co," Daphne chimed in.

"I'm going to kill all of you," Draco informed them.

"Love Among the Ruined," Pansy ventured, and Draco groaned.

"Will you animals desist for one minute?" he demanded. "I'm not the one who brought you here."
"You're not?" Pansy asked, surprised. "But Nott said - "

"I said Draco had a client," Theo clarified. "But I still don't know what the case is."

"Right," Draco exhaled. "Well, about that - "

"It's not Malfoy's case," a voice interrupted from the Floo, and they all looked up, startled, as Hermione walked in,
pausing in front of them. "It's mine."

Her captive audience paused, exchanging wary glances, as Draco held his hands up, plainly defeated.

"It wasn't my idea," he informed them briskly, and Pansy raised a hand.

"Okay, look," she opened, her sharp voice clipped, "I'm going to want to hear your thoughts on the color palette
before I agree to anything, Granger, because no offense, but I really don't trust your taste - "

"It's not about the wedding," Hermione cut in before pausing to glance at Pansy, souring with displeasure. "And
also, excuse me?"

"I said no offense," Pansy reminded her lazily.

"What's it about, then?" Blaise asked, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Need someone killed or something, Granger?"
he joked, and she turned her head sharply, fixing her gaze on his in the sort of way Theo was coming to understand
was her distinct (and highly effective) tool for silence.

"Yes, actually," she replied, stone-faced, as Pansy and Daphne exchanged wary glances, utterly bemused. "I'm hiring
you because there's someone I need help murdering."

"That's not actually what we do," Blaise lied carefully, as again, Hermione fixed him with a dubious look of
impatience.

"Yes, it is," she reminded him, and he glared at Draco, who shrugged.

"Hold on," Pansy began. "Granger, since when did y-"

"Who is it?" Theo cut in, leaning forward to leap to the crux of the matter. Everything else, he reasoned, could wait.
"The person you want us to target. Who?"

Hermione opened her mouth, pausing to glance at Draco, who merely waved a hand; go ahead, he seemed to say,
clearly worn to resignation, and Theo frowned, making note of it before turning back to her.

Hermione, meanwhile, spared the rest of them an expectant half-smile.

"I want you to assassinate Warlock Percy Weasley," she supplied flatly, and in a single, collective breath, the entire
room fell silent.

a/n: Dedications for brewglory, crystal koneko, and orchid rollo!

 32. Caught the Heart on His Sleeve

Chapter 32: Caught the Heart on His Sleeve

Nott Manor
Living Room
October 20, 2003
11:35 a.m.

It was Pansy who spoke first; or rather, it was Pansy who moved first, lunging from her chair towards Hermione
until she was dragged backwards by Daphne, who had ruthlessly (and with surprise efficiency) tackled her to the
ground.

"WHAT - DO YOU THINK - YOU'RE DOING - SHE SAID SHE WANTS - TO KILL - WEASLEY - WHO I
JUST. FUCKING. SAVED - "

"Sorry, Granger, go on," Daphne forced out breathlessly, wrenching Pansy's arms behind her back and dodging what
appeared to be an attempted bite. "I know that can't possibly be what you meant - right?" she added warningly,
looking uncomfortably beautiful even as she struggled with Pansy's flailing limbs. "I know you didn't just suggest
we murder Percy Weasley, because that would be insane. RIGHT?" Daphne prompted again, and Pansy elbowed her
hard, aiming directly for what looked like Daphne's left breast and subjecting her to a smothered cry of pain.

"Well, no, I definitely mean it," Hermione demurred carefully, as Pansy let out another strangled yelp of opposition.
"But, to clarify, he doesn't have to die. He just needs to be assassinated in the exact same way the other Wizengamot
Warlocks were murdered, down to the tiniest detail."

"Quick question," Blaise interrupted, daintily holding up a finger. "How exactly is it murder if he doesn't die?"

"Okay, again," Hermione repeated, sighing, "it just has to look like murder. The details are, of course, entirely up to
you. I don't pretend to be an expert."

"Neither do we," Blaise assured her. "Allegedly."

"Oh, give it up, Zabini," Theo scoffed, rising to his feet and waltzing over to his tray of liqueurs. "And as for you,
Granger," he continued, unfazed except for the idle pouring of an overflowing glass of whisky, "is there any
particular reason you'd like us to do this?"

"Yes," Hermione replied. "I want Percy assassinated exactly the same way the others were, because I need a way to
unambiguously frame Warlock Ifan Hawkworth and Ludo Bagman for the murder and be rid of them for good. I
need it to be loud," she added, "which is why it can't just be an attempt, or a narrow escape. I need him to die, or at
least appear to die, so that there's no evading punishment the way the previous two attempts on Percy's life have
gone. I can't let the Ministry bury it, and I can't let Bagman or Hawkworth pass the blame to someone else. They
have to be caught red-handed and then held responsible for Percy's death."

Daphne let out a high-pitched yelp, having finally been successfully bitten by Pansy, and then Pansy struggled to her
feet, brandishing a finger in Hermione's face.

"You will not," she huffed, her face scarlet with effort, "hurt him."

"Okay, sure," Hermione agreed. "Fine by me. The important thing here is that I need the rest of the world to think
he's been severely, inescapably murdered."

"Ah, okay," Pansy said, abruptly taking a step back and composing herself. "Well, that's fine, then."

"Seriously?" Daphne gasped from the floor, still nursing one of her hands. "That's it?"

"Yes," Pansy confirmed, flouncing back into her chair. "So wait, why can't we just kill Hawkworth instead? Or
Bagman?"

"You could," Hermione agreed, "but them being dead would only solve half the problem. The Club needs the whole
thing to go away, which means no loose ends."

"What Club?" Blaise asked innocently.

"Shove it, Zabini," Theo muttered, his voice muffled by his glass.

"Also," Hermione continued, "even if they were killed, nobody would know why they were dead, which would just
mean more crime, more investigations, and more problems. And besides, they're both too important to the Ministry -
the real stories would be covered up, and they'd just be regarded as tragedies."

"Not if we found a way to inform everyone what they've done," Pansy suggested darkly. "Right? We could expose
them ourselves when we'd killed them, couldn't we?"

"Ah yes, anonymous exposure from the midst of targeted murders," Blaise said. "That's only… oh, I don't know.
Terrorism?"

"Barely," Theo scoffed into his glass, emptying the remaining liquid into his mouth.

"So," Hermione said loudly. "What do you think?"

"I think you're being awfully cavalier about this whole thing, Granger," Daphne remarked from where she remained
on the floor. "Since when do you run around trying to kill people?"

"Well, I sort of assumed you wouldn't actually do it," Hermione replied. "I mean, I know killing people is your
entire job - "

"Allegedly," Blaise inserted, toasting her with his glass.

" - but I had a feeling this particular request would be met with opposition. I guess I could have explained myself
better to start with," she amended thoughtfully, "but, you know. The point stands."

"And what about you?" Theo asked, nudging Draco's shoulder. "You've been suspiciously quiet."

"Well, as you might have guessed, I don't like it at all," Draco returned sourly. "Unfortunately, I've recently been
informed that my opinions on the matter are somewhat inconsequential."

"That checks out," Pansy agreed.

"I also have some further unanswered questions," Draco continued tightly, glancing up at Hermione, "about what's
going to happen on the unbelievably slim off-chance that this gamble actually works out as planned. Even if we do
manage to perfectly imitate the previous assassinations, and even if we succeed in framing Hawkworth and Bagman
for the crime, and even if they do rightfully see punishment for it - what then?" he prompted. "What exactly is your
responsibility to the Club once you've successfully done their dirty work for them?"

Hermione opened her mouth, glancing at Theo, who shrugged, clearly unwilling to contribute.

"That's not the problem right now," Hermione replied slowly, not wanting to openly admit that she knew perfectly
well what came next; she would save the Club's reputation on Cad's behalf, and then he would almost certainly
proceed to immediately destroy it. "For now, we just have t-"

"What will you do, Granger, when you've proven to them you can be trusted? When they ask for more help after
this?" Draco pressed, rising to his feet. "What will you do when you become part of it, and a necessary piece, at
that? Because let me tell you something, I've been drawn in by powerful wizards before, and it was no easy thing to
leave," he added, his left hand tightening reflexively. At the motion, she could almost see the outline of his Dark
Mark burning through his sleeve. "They promise you everything, Granger. They promise you exactly what you want
to hear. It seems reasonable at first, too - it seems to everyone's benefit, it seems to satisfy exactly what you want, it
ties up the pieces so nicely - and then it isn't what you thought anymore, and you don't have a choice, and then it's
too late, and you can't leave - "

"This is different," Hermione snapped, loathing the comparison. "I'm not an idiot, Malfoy, and this isn't Voldemort.
This is different, and I know the difference between right and wrong."

Abruptly, the air in the room went cold, and even Theo, who typically failed to register any particular response to
anything, blinked with dismay.

Hermione stiffened, recognizing the misstep. "I just meant - "

"We know what you meant," Draco assured her coolly, aiming himself at the Floo. "I know exactly what you
meant," he said in a low voice, and then he kept walking, taking a handful of emerald powder and not looking back.

"Malfoy," Hermione exhaled, groaning. "Draco, come on, I didn't mean - "

He said nothing, passing through the Floo and leaving her to face the others: Pansy, who was leaning with her
elbows on her knees, contemplating the grains of the floor in silence; Daphne, who was still sprawled on the ground,
staring blankly at her hands; Theo, whose mouth had tightened while he looked out over nothing; and Blaise, who,
eerily, continued looking directly at Hermione, his fingers tight around his glass.

"I wasn't - " she began, and stopped. "I'm sorry."

A few beats of silence passed.

"We know we fucked up, Granger," Pansy informed her eventually, sitting upright. "We all know it, and nobody
more than Draco. Nobody." She paused, her expression souring. "I would have thought you'd understand that about
him by now."

Hermione, who had never anticipated the prospect of being so firmly put in her place by Pansy Parkinson, promptly
flinched. "I do understand," she insisted. "I just wasn't thinking, and I didn't mean to - "

"You're supposed to be smart," Pansy interrupted, rising to her feet. "You should really try thinking before you
speak once in a while," she sniffed tartly, "or people are going to get confused."

Hermione sighed, having been unpleasantly lectured enough. "Fine. So does that mean you're not going to do it?"

"No, we're definitely going to do it," Theo supplied for her, as Pansy nodded her agreement, waving a hand over her
shoulder to reference agreement with what Theo had said. "You want a perfect crime, Granger? That's our specialty.
It's what we fucking do. You're hiring us for the perfect murder? Then so be it. We're hired."

She glanced at Blaise, waiting for opposition, but he didn't argue. He merely continued watching her, like she were
some sort of ongoing disaster he couldn't tear his eyes from.

"I really am sorry," Hermione repeated slowly. "I do think this is the best thing, and I know he makes a good point, I
just - "

"Don't worry about it," Pansy informed her without pause, shrugging. "We're used to people saying things like that
to us. Everyone else does," she added drily, "so why not you, right? You've at least earned the right to."

Hermione grimaced, saying nothing.

"Well then," Blaise announced, clapping his hands against his thighs and rising to his feet, "I'd say that's a meeting
fairly well concluded. We'll be in touch, Granger," he added, patting her shoulder with something like wry
amusement. "Have a few logistical steps to work out privately. You know," he added, "prior to our very first murder
case."
"For fuck's sake," Theo muttered, pouring himself another glass.

"Okay," Hermione replied tentatively. "I, um. Thanks, I guess."

"No problem," Daphne said from the floor. "This is what we live for."

Hermione wasn't sure if she was being sarcastic.

But rather than stop to think about it, she merely exited through the Floo, determining she'd already put her foot in
her mouth enough for one morning.

The Ministry of Magic

Department of Magical Law Enforcement
1:05 p.m.

Harry heard the door open, but didn't look up. He did pause, rubbing the lids of his eyes beneath his glasses and
scrubbing a hand over the stubble that had gotten extremely mismanaged over the last couple of days, but he
certainly didn't have the time to look up.

"Not now, please," he said, stifling a yawn. He'd gotten to the office at seven that morning, and still the paperwork
on his desk following the Ministry attack hadn't gotten any smaller, nor had the Aurors in the bullpen gotten any less
insistent on his attention. "Thank you," he muttered as he heard the door shut, assuming whoever it was had gone.
"Whatever it is, I might be able to get to it by Thursday," he added to himself, before realizing his chair had been
yanked out from under him with a jolt, depositing him roughly on the floor. "What the - "

"Hi," came Theo's voice, his face swimming into view as Harry blearily stared up at him. "I needed to talk to you."

"Nott," Harry sighed. "I can't, not now. I have t-"

He stopped, startled, as he registered Theo dropping to all fours above him, the familiar smell of him suddenly
invading all of Harry's senses along with a hint of something else; whisky, he registered. Not firewhisky, either,
which meant this was no casual visit. Something else had gone wrong.

"Theo," Harry murmured, but then Theo's mouth was on his, warm and distracting and inviting, and he let his head
fall back, his hand twisting into Theo's hair. "I really do" - (another kiss) - "have a lot of" - (again, again, and a gasp)
- "work to do, so - "

"Potter, you fucking scar-faced fool," Theo exhaled into his mouth, as Harry swallowed the bitter spice of it. "Where
have you been?"

"I thought you were - " Harry broke off, permitting Theo to pin his shoulders to the ground in what was a very, very
poor show of self-defense for the Ministry's head Auror. "I thought you were angry, I thought you'd want - I thought
you'd - "

"Stop thinking," Theo said. "You've never been good at it. You almost never do it."

"True, I'm out of practice," Harry agreed dizzily, as Theo's hands curled around his jaw. "Still, I thought we were, I
don't know. In a fight."

"We are," Theo said. "That doesn't mean I don't want you. That doesn't mean you get to disappear," he added
gruffly, dropping his chin to kiss Harry again. "It certainly doesn't mean you don't have to be here to actually have
the fight - "

Harry blinked, surprised. "I always thought I'd be the one saying things like that to you."

"Well, you're an idiot," Theo replied lazily. "We both knew that going in."
"True," Harry said, tightening his grip on Theo's hips. "So, are we going to fight, then?"

"Yes." Theo sat up, still straddling Harry on the floor. "Yes, we're fighting, because you lied to me, you fucker. You
motherfucker," he elaborated fiercely, abruptly clueing Harry into what the whisky had likely been about. "You lied
-"

"You lied, too," Harry reminded him, propping himself on his elbows. "You didn't tell me what you were planning,
and you didn't tell me why, and you didn't tell m-"

"Lies of omission," Theo cut in sharply, "are different than outright fucking falsehoods."

Harry sighed wearily. "You wouldn't have understood."

"Oh yeah? Try me," Theo challenged, his fists tightening against Harry's chest. "Let me try, Potter. Is it because you
wanted a family? Because no matter what, no matter how the rest of your life goes, you'll always spend it trying to
compulsively reconstruct the family you never had? And then there's someone who offers it to you," Theo
murmured, knowingly, as if he could dangle it above Harry's head. "Someone who wraps it up in a nice, pretty little
package and tells you he's as good as family, that you're the only family he has - and you like the underdog, Harry
Potter, don't you? You always like an underdog, because you are one, aren't you? So you want to side with him. You
want to, because he's lonely and looking for the same thing you are and it's tempting, isn't it?"

Harry held his breath, unsure he could ever manage an answer.

"But you know it's a bad idea," Theo continued. "You know it, and because you know it, you know I won't like it -
but you don't want to upset me. You don't want me to misinterpret your intentions, and you don't think I'll listen,
because I never listen." Harry swallowed, remaining silent. "Because somehow," Theo managed roughly, looking as
if the words were cutting at his throat, "I failed to prove to you that I will come back after every fight. After every
fight." His mouth twisted. "Because you don't trust me to love you without running away."

"No, that's not - " Harry inhaled sharply, unaware he was going to speak until he already had. "No, that's - no," he
said again. "I just - all of that is right, except the last bit. It wasn't your fault. It was my fault. I should have known
better." He swallowed. "I should have known."

Theo spread the planes of his hand flat against Harry's chest, staring at the space between his fingers.

"Blaise stole Lady Revel's secrets," Theo told him quietly, and Harry frowned, confused. "I wanted to get rid of
them. They're dangerous, and - you can tell. Just being near them, you can just tell. They feel dark, somehow. They
feel dangerous." He shuddered, successfully proving the point. "I wanted them gone, so I joined the Club. I offered
them to Antioch. They're gone now, and they're out of my hands. I don't know where they are anymore."

"Nott," Harry attempted, blinking, but Theo continued.

"I know how much your morality matters to you, Potter. Your code." Theo gave a grim chuckle, or some other
throaty vibration. "I knew it would bother you if you knew about it and still had to go about your work. I didn't want
to cost you your conscience."

"Nott, I - "

"I know I put you in a terrible position, and I'm acting like what you did and what I did were somehow two very
different things, but they aren't. I know that." Theo bent his head, his voice suddenly shaky. "I was worse, actually,
but I just wanted to protect you - and you wanted to protect me. That's it, isn't it?" He sounded like he was choking
on it. "That's it. That's why we're fighting, and that's why you're not - that's why we aren't -"

Abruptly, Harry recalled Theo's face when he'd so bitterly won his Club duel and swallowed hard, suddenly hating
that he hadn't been the one to close the distance first.

"Theo," Harry exhaled, struggling to sit up and taking Theo's face between his hands. "Stop. We're not fighting
anymore."
Theo let out an unsteady breath, his eyes gratefully floating shut.

"Good," he said hoarsely. "Because Granger wants me to do something, and I'm going to need your help. Well, not
your help, exactly," he amended, shaking his head. "Not like that. But I don't want to keep it from you this time. Not
this time." A heavy swallow. "Not again."

"What is it?" Harry asked, stroking his thumb along the sharp bone of Theo's cheek. He was always so unexpectedly
soft, Harry thought, under all those violent edges. "What does she need?"

"She wants to kill Percy Weasley," Theo replied dully, and Harry blinked, startled. "Well, she wants it to look like
Percy Weasley's been killed the same way the other Warlocks were killed, and she wants to frame Hawkworth and
Bagman for it. I think Cad put her up to it."

"Ah," Harry said, running through the relevant details in his head. "Well, that sounds right, I guess, only I have bad
news. Dolores Umbridge is almost certainly the person who designed the potion," he said grimly, "and according to
Kreacher, she's missing now. I have a hunch that she's the one who tried to kill Percy at the Ministry last week -
probably trying to do the exact same thing you are. Frame Bagman," he clarified, and Theo nodded, "though that
obviously didn't quite work out."

"Oh," Theo acknowledged, with a matching grimace. "Well, that's shitty."

"A bit," Harry agreed. "But Kreacher can tell you where she was staying. Plus, I know a company that has a
reconnaissance specialist," he added innocently, as the corner of Theo's mouth gave an almost imperceptible twitch
upwards. "I'm sure he could sort out what materials she had and how she got ahold of them. Don't you think?"

"Well, I can have my people owl his people," Theo permitted facetiously, falling forward again to brace himself
against Harry's wrists. "What's the name of his company?"

"Nottpott Incorporated," Harry suggested.

"Christ, you're terrible at this," Theo informed him, shaking his head. "Nottpott, really, out of all the clever
portmanteaus available to you? The-Otter," he suggested, releasing one of Harry's wrists to wave a hand, "Theo-Ry,
or even the obvious Tharry, though that's hardly anything worth pursuing - "

"Nott," Harry growled, using his free hand to tug Theo's head towards him. "Stop babbling. I really do have a lot of
work to do."

"Ah, very well, I'll leave you to it, th-"

He stopped, Harry's lips colliding with his clever smirk, and let Harry roll him onto his back, the two of them
switching places on the floor.

"You're not going anywhere," Harry warned gruffly, and Theo gave a dry, princely chuckle.

"No," he agreed, pulling Harry down to him. "I'm really fucking not."

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Wizengamot Chambers, Office of Percy Weasley
2:45 p.m.

"Hi," Pansy attempted, stepping briskly through the Floo as Percy looked up from his usual tornado of paperwork.
Unsurprisingly, he had his tortoiseshell glasses slipped halfway down his nose. "Are you busy?"

"Yes," Percy replied, in a tone she had since learned meant he was, in fact, busy, but would more than likely stop
what he was doing for her. "Do you need something, Miss Parkinson?"

She bit her lip, internally shaking her head at the continued formality.
"Just a quick thing," she assured him, ducking an incoming paper airplane and seating herself in the chair across
from his desk. "I sort of need you to get murdered."

If he was bothered, he didn't show it.

"By whom?" Percy asked thoughtfully. "You?"

"Yes, actually," Pansy confirmed. "If you don't mind."

"How dead would I be, exactly?" he asked, dipping his quill in ink. "I'd like to finish my current legislation first, I
think, absent any sort of time pressure. I could conceivably stand to die in approximately four to six months,
depending."

Pansy gaped at him. "I - you know I'm not actually going to kill you, right?" she prompted, and he fixed his studious
gaze on her, looking entirely neutral. "Just clarifying. I'd never kill you, Weasley. You know that," she added
exasperatedly, "yes?"

"Well, I certainly hope you wouldn't," he replied, "but I imagine if you did, you'd have a good reason." He looked
down, scribbling a signature on what looked to be an important scroll, and then replaced his quill in the inkpot.
"How exactly would you like me to die?"

Internally, she felt her intestines twisting. "It's more like I need to use you," she clarified. "As a mark. To frame two
actual murderers. Or, well, one murderer, plus someone who's definitely corrupt, at the very least."

"Warlock Hawkworth," Percy guessed, and Pansy blinked.

"Yes, actually." She frowned. "Was that just some sort of surprisingly solid intuitive guess, or do you actually - "

"I don't particularly trust him," Percy remarked unhappily. "I don't think he has the Ministry's best interests in mind.
I also wouldn't be surprised if he wanted me dead," he added matter-of-factly. "He seems to find me irritating. More
irritating, I should say," he clarified, "than the average person. A base level of irritation with me is, of course, to be
expected." He smiled at her, and distressingly, Pansy suddenly wanted very badly to stab everyone who'd ever made
him feel that way. "Apologies, as you were saying," Percy went on, gesturing to her as he leaned back in his chair.
"You want me to die?"

"Stop - stop saying it like that," Pansy protested, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I don't want you to die."

"But you explicitly said you'd like me to be murdered," Percy reminded her, and she groaned.

"Not really," she snapped. "I don't want you dead. I don't - " She shut her eyes briefly. "Don't make me think about
you dying. I don't like it."

She watched his mouth twitch, a smile buried somewhere under layers of careful observation.

"I'd prefer not to," Percy agreed. "I could think of one or two preferable activities to death, but I suppose I am in
your debt. So, simply tell me what you need from me, Miss Parkinson," he informed her, already distracted again by
the pile of paperwork on his desk, "and I'll do it."

"Pansy," she corrected, sighing, and his gaze drew itself back up, fixing on hers.

"Pansy," he agreed, murmuring it precisely the same way he might have said it while sliding her knickers down her
legs, and she shivered, momentarily lost for words.

"Weasley, I - "

"You should come over this evening," he advised her casually, the idea seeming to have suddenly resolved itself in
his head. "Unless you prefer to be wined and dined, in which case I understand the Arsonist continues to be
something of a happening place. Though," he amended, his expression unchanging, "I do know how reluctant you
are to be involved with me."

"What?" she asked, frowning.

"Well, I believe you specifically said many times you'd never seriously consider someone from my family, didn't
you?" he prompted, and Pansy found herself stunned, unaware he'd actually been listening during the many times
she had, in fact, said so. "Still, it seems foolish not to at least ask."

"I - " She blinked, uncertain how to reply. "I have to kill you, Weasley," she said slowly. "I probably shouldn't be
seen being 'wined and dined' by you, don't you think? It'll make me a suspect."

"Ah, yes, apologies, this is my first murder," Percy assured her. "I'm a bit fuzzy on the proceedings, but I'll do a bit
of research and then we can reconvene."

"No, don't - " she sighed. "Don't do research, Weasley. That's - it's evidence, you know? You can't do that, or else -
"

His mouth twitched again, and she realized he was teasing her.

"You giant prick," she grumbled under her breath, and he let out one of his rare laughs, leaning back in his chair
again and gesturing for her to come closer, beckoning her towards him with a tiny crook of his slender finger.

"Pansy, I trust you. Whatever you want me to do," he said again, "I'll do."

Part of her wanted to sigh at that, determining he was fool, albeit a stupidly appealing one.

The rest of her, though, simply felt it necessary to reward him.

She rose to her feet, about to step around to his chair before abruptly changing her mind, instead flicking her wand
to charm his paperwork into a neat, orderly pile and then climbing with her usual elegance onto his desk, pausing
there on her knees and slowly undoing the buttons of her blouse.

"Warlock Weasley," she murmured, "what if I say I have something else in mind for my visit, aside from your
gruesome assassination?"

"Well," Percy replied, watching the silk of her blouse fall from her fingers as he leaned forward, resting his hands on
her now-bare waist. "I suppose it depends. I do have a very trying afternoon."

"You certainly will. And a trying evening, too," she added carefully, "if the invitation still stands. Privately, of
course," she amended, "seeing as there's still murder afoot, but I would like to join you. If you still find yourself
unoccupied," she postured innocently.

A trace of surprise flickered momentarily between his brows and then disappeared just as quickly, replaced with
gratification as he leaned forward, brushing his lips against her skin.

"Miss Parkinson," Percy hummed into the line of her clavicle, pressing a kiss to the delicate bone. "Are you by
chance seducing me?"

Pansy permitted her lips a smile before putting them to good use. "And here I thought you'd never notice," she
replied, indiscreetly satisfied.

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Wizengamot Chambers, Office of Ifan Hawkworth
8:45 p.m.

Ludo had never been particularly thrilled to be ordered around. His evenings were, by then, pleasantly predictable;
he ate a late dinner, ending with a round of drinks at one of his former haunts, and then headed over to the Arsonist,
where he inevitably bet against whoever Wood or Flint was fighting. The best of the Underground's offerings was
probably the unnaturally quick man they called Cad (though he hadn't been around in recent nights), but Flint or
Wood were usually just as safe, being as ill-tempered as they generally were. Ludo found that if he pulled Wood
aside and passed him news regarding keeper tryouts for the Wasps, Flint in particular was far more likely to pummel
his opponent to the ground.

Frankly, Ludo hated to miss the spectacle, and found himself relentlessly peeved the moment he stepped through the
Floo to Ifan's office.

"You could have come to Diagon, you know," Ludo opened flatly, and Ifan glanced up, quickly obscuring a look of
distaste at Ludo's arrival that he clearly hoped Ludo hadn't seen. "It's hardly discreet for me to chance being seen at
the Ministry after hours."

"You are far more likely to be at the Ministry than I am to be at that blasted fight club," Ifan said through his teeth,
arching a brow and then obviously recognizing that his voice was too harsh, softening it. "But still, this won't take
long. I've been thinking," Ifan suggested, placing his hands behind his head in a perfect imitation of spontaneity,
"that the best way to bring down the Club is to expose it. Don't you think?"

"Bring down the Club?" Ludo echoed, blinking with surprise. "I thought you wanted to take over it."

"Right, of course, yes. But to undermine the current leadership, we'd have to expose the Peverell brothers," Ifan said,
slowly, as though such a thing were blatantly obvious. Ludo bristled, displeased by the tone. (He wasn't an idiot,
after all. Men who were idiots didn't manage to murder three Warlocks in three countries without getting caught, nor
did they manage to be welcomed with open arms back into the Ministry.) "So, I think you should carry out one final
assassination. With my help, we can successfully expose the Club," Ifan clarified, "and then I would make you a
member. A partner," he amended, and smiled a liar's smile. "My partner, of course."

"You want me to kill a Warlock," Ludo echoed, toying with the suggestion. "Which one?"

"Percy Weasley," Ifan replied without pause. "He fits the modus operandi you established; he's the newest Warlock
on the Wizengamot."

"But I aimed for Percy Weasley once before," Ludo said slowly, recalling Morrison's previous failure. "Perhaps he's
too well-protected now. Isn't there someone else?"

"Not anyone who could make it convincing. And besides, you don't understand just how uniquely killable Percy
Weasley is," Ifan added, grumbling it under his breath. "The man's an utter nuisance."

Ludo grimaced, not entirely sold.

"The assassinations were intended to draw the Club out, and they did not," he remarked. "Why would I succeed in
doing so now?"

"Well, clearly you didn't have me before," Ifan reminded him, a bit too cheerfully. "If you kill Weasley the same
way you killed the others, then I can set a trap for the Peverells on our behalf."

At that, Ludo opened his mouth to protest, or else to laugh - you certainly can't believe I'm this stupid, there's no
way I would carry out a murder purely on the imbecilic hope you won't eventually turn on me - but then he stopped,
recognizing a glimmer of opportunity.

It was exceedingly obvious that Ifan Hawkworth clearly intended to betray him. Why wouldn't he, after all?
Gagnon's case was becoming weaker by the day, and more and more evidence was pointing to a false confession.
Another murder would mean another investigation, another suspect, a chance for Ifan to be the hero that Ludo had
been - especially if he could prove what Ludo had done.

Ifan Hawkworth officially knew too much, Ludo decided.

Ifan Hawkworth, then, would have to go.

"That sounds perfect," Ludo determined firmly. "A brilliant idea, Ifan, well done."

Ifan relaxed slightly, nodding. "So you'll make the potion one more time, then?" he prompted, and for a second,
Ludo froze, blinking. It was a perfect plan, and one easily turned on Ifan, except for one thing.

He hadn't been the one to make the potion.

Ah, well. He could always sort that out later.

"Yes," Ludo confirmed briskly, eyeing his watch and sighing with relief that he would still make it to the
Underground with plenty of time to taunt Flint into victory. "Yes, of course, Ifan. Leave all of that to me."

Being a thief had always been Mundungus Fletcher's primary business. From the start, it had seemed the sort of
thing that would come naturally to him, seeing how he was exceptionally light-fingered and resourceful; and true,
perhaps it wouldn't be any kind of honest work, but it certainly wasn't unrequiring of skill. For one thing, to be a
successful thief, it was fairly obvious from the outset that one had to be a master of deals. It wasn't easy to be a thief
and a friend at the same time, and so a thief was always carefully watch his own back, vigilantly avoiding anyone
greedier than himself (or at least, anyone greedier who was also cleverer, because greed is a thief's primary
customer).

Which was very firmly not to say Mundungus was any sort of successful thief, because he definitely, definitely
wasn't. In his experience, it was really more of a calling than a skill, and to date, he'd already made two horribly bad
deals that had since cost him most of the fun of thievery. He was miles from a success.

In fairness, neither deal had seemed particularly bad at the time; which was, he supposed, the nature of bad deals.
Suffice it to say a toad-faced witch had caught onto Mundungus' penchant for skullduggery during a period when he
wasn't particularly well-liked in the wizarding world, and in a weak moment, he'd agreed to place himself on
retainer. Whatever she needed procured, he agreed to exclusively procure it - so long as he was paid handsomely,
which he was. She was terrible, and a constant plague to his existence, but he took pleasure, at least, in knowing that
every time he brought her the materials she requested, she paid him richly from the pockets of torn and battered
robes, her face more toadish than ever.

Mundungus had never liked Dolores Umbridge, and had certainly never wished her well. He was relieved she'd
disappeared, even temporarily, until he discovered that it had something to do with his second terrible deal.

He wasn't really sure whether the second deal actually even counted as a deal. He'd never really understood creatures
too well (never figured out their rules, or whether they even had them, which it seemed like they didn't) and he
hadn't been totally sure what the house elf had done to him until it was entirely too late. The elf regularly found him
without much effort, always somehow able to compel Mundungus without much cause, and if the elf was needing
something in particular, Mundungus found he was unable to refuse.

Ironically, he supposed, it was a deal not dissimilar to being a house elf.

Luckily, Mundungus didn't see the elf often - thankfully - but when he did, it was always horrifyingly memorable.
The moment he'd heard the foreboding crack behind him (the second or third in two years, and the fifth time total)
he'd let out a loud groan, not even bothering to turn around.

"What is it now?" he demanded, and the elf cleared its throat.

"Kreacher is wanting the thief for another task," the elf announced gravely. "Master is needing something that
Master cannot easily get."

"Fine," Mundungus grumbled. "Just don't put me back in the - "

The elf snapped its fingers.

" - kitchen," Mundungus concluded with a sigh, once again trapped in the elf's tiny living space. "How am I
supposed to get whatever your master needs from down here, you bleedin' elf?"

"The thief will go when Master has told Kreacher he wants the somethings," the elf said matter-of-factly, as though
that were in any way reasonable. "Until then, Kreacher will be keeping his eyes on the thief."

Mundungus tried to shift, finding himself predictably unable to move inside the cramped, uncomfortable space. "Elf,
wait," he called, as Kreacher toddled away. "I just - can't we - CAN'T WE AT LEAST TALK ABOUT THIS," he
bellowed, sighing. "I'M GOIN' TO NEED FOOD THIS TIME, ELF - "

He stopped, startled, as a wing smacked into his face, an owl apparently having flown in from somewhere at a
normal human eye-level.

"Ouch," Mundungus muttered, growling his disapproval. "I can't read it, you know," he informed the owl, who gave
a low hoot of disinterest. The bird waited, expecting a treat, and when it didn't receive one, it smacked Mundungus
again, taking off to another part of the house. "Elf," Mundungus grunted. "ELF, I'M TRYIN' T-"

"His name is Kreacher," came a cheerful, too-familiar voice as Harry Potter once again ducked his head into the elf's
tiny abode. "You really should learn it, you know, all things considered."

"I know his name," Mundungus muttered. "I'll just use it when I'm not longer being shoved into places."

"Ah, well, that's a stalemate if I've ever heard one," Harry contributed sagely, reaching for the letter the owl had left.
"Hey, look at this - "

"I can't," Mundungus reminded him irritably. "I can't move - "

"Yes, well, I'm hardly talking to you," Harry said, and rose to his feet, handing the letter to someone who stood
beside him in an elegant pair of leather oxfords. "Check the signature."

"Ludo Bagman," came the low, drawling voice. "Well, that's very interesting, isn't it?"

"I thought so, anyway. So," Harry ventured, ducking back down to speak to Mundungus. "What'd you do this time,
Dung?"

"What do you mean what did I do?" Mundungus demanded. "It's your bloody elf that keeps takin' me!"

"True, he's gotten very proactive lately," Harry agreed. "I have to say, this is a step above expectations. I'd offer him
a raise, only I'm positive he'd take it as an insult. I'm sure there's something he wants, though," he amended
thoughtfully. "Surprisingly, he's been very keen on having one of those robotic muggle vacuums - "

"Can you get on with it?" Mundungus growled. "Have him let me go, Potter, and I'll be on my way - "

"Potter, look at this," the drawling voice came again, and Harry's face disappeared, replaced by a view of his ankles.
From there, Mundungus could see nothing but the golden snitches on his socks. "Looks like your thief here knows
where Umbridge got her potion materials."

Umbridge, Mundungus heard, and withered.

Of course this was happening again.

"Ah, well, in that case," Harry sighed, ducking back down. "Sorry, can't let you go yet, Dung. I need you to dig
some things up for me."

Mundungus gave a low, piteous groan.

"How," he demanded, "have you not been arrested? With all the laws you break, Potter, you ought to have Aurors
comin' after you at all hours."

"Huh, dunno," Harry replied spiritedly. "It's a mystery, I guess."

"Oh, is that Kreacher?" came another voice. "Tell him the towels in the bathroom aren't the fluffy kind, and - Nott,
what on earth are you doing here?"

"Weasley," came the drawling voice. "A pleasure to see you, as ever."

"It's not Kreacher, Ron," Harry called, turning to speak over his shoulder. "Dung's here."

"Ah, excellent," came Ron's voice, the red hair coming briefly into view as he bent down. "Hey, Dung, long time no
see, eh?"

"Fuck off," Mundungus replied moodily.

"I love our little talks," Ron replied, rising to his feet. "Well, I'm off to Mel's. Best of luck with whatever this is."

"Ah, it's work. You know how it is. Say hi to Mel for me."

"I will. Oh, and if you see Kreacher - "

"The towels, yes, got it. Bye, then."

"Yes, perfect, bye - "

Mundungus sighed, wishing he could rub his temples, or more ideally, just disappear. He wished he'd never robbed
this blasted house in the first place; then he'd have never met Dolores Umbridge, and never would have become
vulnerable to her sneaky tricks. He also never would have been kidnapped by an elf that, however happily domestic
he seemed at present, belonged to a family of maniacal purebloods regarded most famously for war crimes. And if
the elf weren't terrible enough, then there was Harry Potter, the most absurdly questionable war hero who'd ever
lived. It all seemed hopeless, and for such a small thing; all because of a stupid, ugly locket Mundungus had once
had the inexplicable compulsion to take.

But, then again, Mundungus supposed that's what he got. After all, he'd never been a particularly successful thief.

The Underground
Diagon Alley
10:18 p.m.

Daisy sidled up to Rhys, who was removing what looked like still-unused wraps from around his knuckles.

"Have you talked to him?" she asked in a low voice, gesturing discreetly to Ludo Bagman. "He looks like he's
celebrating something, doesn't he?"

"He bet on Flint again," Rhys supplied, glancing at where Marcus' opponent was painfully regrowing his patella. "I'd
be celebrating too, I imagine, if I'd placed that bet."

Daisy grimaced in agreement. "Any news from your dad?" she asked casually - or trying to be casual, anyway,
though she seemed to have failed. The more questions she asked, the more distant Rhys got; she figured she
understood why, but still, old habits were hard to kill. "Sorry," she offered before he answered. "I didn't mean to -
I'm just sorry." She passed him a wan smile. "I know you've got a lot on your plate."

"Yeah, well, I know why you're asking," he assured her, though she noted he seemed gratified by the apology. "I get
it." He glanced up, eyeing Ludo again. "And to answer your question, I think Bagman had a meeting with my father
tonight."

Daisy frowned. "But I thought he'd all but turned on Bagman."

"From what I can tell, he'd like to, but he can't," Rhys supplied. "I'm guessing my father doesn't actually trust me to
get the ingredients for the potion from Bagman," he grumbled under his breath, "so he needs Bagman to do it
himself."

"Bagman can't possibly be that stupid, though," Daisy protested. "Can he?"

Rhys shrugged. "Don't know," he replied, somewhat clipped. "I think my father's depending on it, though. I've been
keeping out of the ring just in case things go sour between them," he added, gesturing to the board where his name
was absent. "I hardly need him realizing who I am. I was going to talk Flint into going a couple rounds instead, but -
" he glanced at the broken kneecap beside them again, wincing. "I think maybe not tonight."

"I'll fight you," Daisy offered. "If you want." Rhys glanced up, surprised, and she shrugged. "I mean, you're better
than I am," she assured him, "so it probably won't be that fun, but you should probably get to punch something,
right? You've got a lot going on." She tried another shrug, in case the casual vibe she was aiming for wasn't
translating. "If I can help, I will."

He considered her a moment, and then nodded. "Thanks," he said slowly, clearly edging towards refusal, "but I think
I'm going to go home. Kind of stifling in here," he remarked wryly, "plus, you know. I'm sort of harboring a
dangerous fugitive, and he makes a lovely meat pie I'd rather not miss."

"Right," Daisy said, permitting a measured laugh. "Well, I'll keep an eye on Bagman, then. Have a good night," she
told him, obscuring her disappointment, and turned to approach Ludo, only to be stopped by a small sound from
Rhys' throat; nothing consequential at all, really, only it served to effectively root her in place.

"Want to walk with me?" he asked quietly. "It's not far. It's nice outside, too."

She pivoted slowly. "Well, if you're nervous about walking alone at night," she offered, "I'm pretty handy in a fight."

His tentative smile broadened. "I'd feel safer, yeah," he agreed, and gestured to the door, propping it open until she
passed through it, waiting to synchronize her stride with his. "Sorry you're caught up in all this," he remarked after a
few moments of silence, the two of them walking down the mostly empty alley. "Didn't really mean to drag you into
my family drama."

"Well, I have some of my own," Daisy admitted. "I guess I haven't mentioned that I'm here because I've been falsely
accused of murdering my father."

"What?" Rhys asked, suddenly jerking to a halt. "Why would you - "

"The Club framed me," she explained. "They were protecting - " she paused, careful not to reveal the truth, which
was that they'd set her up for the fall to preserve Draco and Hermione's cover. "Someone. Someone else. They
wanted me gone, and they got what they wanted."

"You should have said something earlier," Rhys exhaled, disbelieving. "You have to want the Club destroyed then,
don't you? Same as Cadell. And instead you've been listening to me go on about my father, who's one of them - "

"You're allowed to love someone who has faults," Daisy assured him, shrugging. "I loved my father, even though he
almost got me killed. I would have been, actually, if not for - " Another pause. Draco and Hermione's role in
everything had been difficult to keep to herself even when she'd been willing to lie for them, but it seemed somehow
much more problematic to keep from Rhys. "In any case, I would have been killed," she concluded firmly. "So no,
I'm no friend to the Club, and I may still have some anger issues I haven't quite worked out," she added with a
strained half-smile, "but that doesn't mean I can't understand what you're going through."

"Oh." After a couple moments of silence, Rhys turned, thoughtfully continuing the path to his flat. "You know," he
mused, lifting his chin as he slid his hands into his pockets, "part of me wants to trust you. A big part of me. But I
always trust too easily." His gaze slid to hers, and she implored herself not to stare at him too obviously. "It's hard
not to be uncomfortably aware that you have an agenda I'm fairly useful for."

It didn't seem worth denying. "You're not not-useful," Daisy conceded. "But I'd like you to trust me. I'd like to trust
you." She toyed with it, removing a few words. "I like you," she offered, "and I have a score to settle, yes. Both true.
But if you can accept that both things are equally true, then I think we could be - " she hesitated. "Friends. If you
wanted."

He stopped then, turning to face her, and she held her breath, wondering how he'd respond.

Worst case? That was obvious. Best case, she supposed he'd simply agree. Unless there was a better case, of course,
in which he'd suggest instead that they -

"We're here," he explained, gesturing over his shoulder, and she blinked.

"What?"

"We're here," he said again. "I told you it wasn't a long walk."

"Oh," she agreed, wishing that she'd timed her offering better, or possibly said nothing. "Okay, well, like I said, have
a good night, and - "

"You could come upstairs," he suggested, and foolishly, Daisy felt her cheeks heat. She was already much too
invested for wherever that suggestion was going.

"Nah," she said, forcing a shrug. "You're harboring a fugitive up there. And, you know, I have - " She gestured over
her shoulder. "I have a corrupt politician to keep an eye on. Possibly some more broken kneecaps to mend."

"Right," Rhys confirmed, chuckling. "Well, maybe I'll see you tomorrow, then," he said, and turned, about to head
into his building before he stopped, pausing. "I'll owl you if I hear anything more from my dad," he added, which
seemed to be an offering. Daisy exhaled in relief.

"Thanks," she returned, and he nodded, heading inside.

Daisy watched him go, playing with the end of her french braids, and wished she'd picked a better word than 'friend.'
A more pleasing word, at least. Maybe some sort of more satisfying word, or perhaps a string of satisfying words,
like possibly 'yes, I'd love to come upstairs, thank you ever so much for asking, and by the way over-the-pants stuff
will be fine, considering,' only that seemed highly inappropriate, and probably not helpful for purposes of bringing
down Ifan Hawkworth and the rest of the Infinity Club.

She had a job to do, didn't she?

She exhaled firmly, turning in place.

Thank goodness, really, that some things were forever constant. Even in the presence of Rhys Hawkworth, at least
she still managed to recall how to put work first.

(... barely.)

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
11:57 p.m.

"Are you really going to ignore me all night?"

"I'm not ignoring you," Draco returned, though he would have much preferred not to answer. Unfortunately, he
suspected that doing so would unwisely prove her right, and that was very obviously the more intolerable option.
"I'm working, Granger. On the thing you insisted on, too - against my sage advisement, if you might recall."

She stepped into the room, sighing. "I thought we weren't going to do this anymore," she remarked, which inflamed
him slightly, as if this were simply another sullen episode of his creation. "You know I didn't mean it."

"You know, you keep saying that," Draco retorted, "and it continues to fix nothing. Because, for one thing, you did
mean it," he growled, brandishing an herb at her, "and sure, maybe you didn't mean for me to be upset about it, but
those are two different things. And also, I'm not even upset," he added hastily, abruptly crushing the asphodel root
he held between his fingers. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, as Hermione arched a brow.

Thankfully, though, she didn't comment. She sidled in closer, eyeing the potion in the cauldron.

"How hard is this going to be?" she asked, and Draco gave an irritable shrug.

"Don't know," he said, though he did know. It was going to be immensely difficult. It was going to be enormously
difficult, in fact, and the last thing he wanted was for Hermione Granger, witch extraordinaire, to intercede with his
process, or to express any doubt, or to identify any errors, or even to make the tiny 'hm' sound that indicated she
might have suspected an error. "I have an incomplete list of ingredients and no idea what the end potion is supposed
to look like, so somewhere between 'herculean' and 'impossible' is probably about right."

"You know, Hortense said Janvier and Poliakoff looked to be conspiring about something," Hermione commented,
as Draco fervently wished once again that the two women had not obtrusively bonded, and further, that Hermione
wouldn't stand so perilously close to him while he was resolutely trying to avoid thinking about her. "Both their
Ministries claimed to have destroyed the evidence in testing, but what if they didn't? I'm sure she and Thibaut could
find ou-"

"Stop," Draco exhaled, rounding on her. "Just stop - stop helping, okay? I'm not - this isn't - I don't need you to - "

"What, help?" Hermione prompted, looking infuriatingly expectant. "I didn't realize your ego was going to get in the
way, Malfoy. Though now that I say that out loud," she murmured under her breath, "I do feel exceptionally stupid
for having missed it - "

"It's not - it's not my fucking ego," he snapped, glaring at her. "Just - stop trying to fix this. You're always trying to
fix things, and I don't want it fixed right now. I just want to - "

"To be angry?" she asked, blinking. "Is that it?"

It was, on the one hand, completely unbelievable to Draco that she could resort to such a blatant oversimplification
of his feelings, but on the other, it was perfectly on brand.

"Angry? Christ, Granger, is that all you think I am?" he demanded, stepping away from the cauldron and folding his
arms over his chest. "Honestly, is that what you think happened? That you insulted me and I'm angry, and now I'm -
what, sulking?"

She blinked. "Well, yes," she replied, without even a tiny hint of shame. "Why, is there more?"

He gaped at her. "Is there m-"

He broke off, staring at her, and determined there was no further having of this conversation. He threw his hands in
the air, storming away, and groaned as he heard her footsteps coming after him, pacing doggedly at his heels.

"Malfoy, if you're upset, just tell me what's going on and I'll - "

"You'll what? Fix it?" he snapped, whirling on her again. "How good are you at pattern recognition, Granger,
because I'm starting to think the answer is extremely fucking poor - "

"So I fix things, Malfoy," Hermione retorted snottily. "So what? Somehow I think that's a little bit better than
running away from an argument, don't you think? I'm just trying to do something productive, but if you'd rather
fight, then - "

"No, I don't want to fight," Draco growled. "I don't want to fight, and do you know why? Because there is no fight I
can have where I'm not the one who wronged you," he spat bitterly, the mark on his left wrist stinging him again.
"There's no fucking fight I can have where I don't feel like absolute rubbish for what I've done, and being reminded
that you believe that about me is - "
"I don't believe that," she protested hotly, scowling, and for whatever reason, he was struck with dual blows of
unwilling amusement and a still-lingering need to argue. "I just - I don't like being made to feel stupid, Malfoy, and
you're - you - "

"How on earth have I made you feel stupid?" Draco ground out in response. "You practically called me a monster,
Granger! You reminded me that I'm the idiot, as if I could have possibly forgotten - as if it isn't tattooed on my arm -
"

"Oh, this isn't about that, and you know it!" Hermione flung at him, stomping her foot. "You know I forgave you for
that a long time ago, Malfoy - you know that, and you're just conveniently choosing to forget it - "

"Ah yes, SO CONVENIENT - "

" - and if anything, I really should be apologizing, because I was thoughtless and careless and I didn't want to admit
you'd made a good point, but you won't let me, so - "

"DON'T YOU DARE APOLOGIZE TO ME," he shouted, and then stopped. "Wait, what?" he asked, startled, and
she sighed.

"You win this one," she informed him, shaking her head as if it wearied her to say it. "You're right that I hadn't
considered what the consequences of doing this for the Club could be. Or, well, I had," she amended, "but I decided
they were worth pursuing without actually considering what you thought. I made a decision and moved forward
without you, and then I said something terrible, something I didn't even mean, and - " she sighed. "This one's on
me," she said quietly. "You can win this one, Malfoy. I'm just trying to fix it because I'm the one who broke it, that's
all."

A thousand still-unshouted things abruptly settled in his lungs, twisting perilously near his tonsils. He let them out
on a breath, aiming them somewhere into empty air.

"I'm still never not going to be sorry," he told her gruffly, uncertain what else to say, and she nodded.

"I know, and that's what was so stupid," she grumbled in agreement. "Because I know exactly how sorry you are,
and I said it anyway."

Internally, he felt that was a fair appropriation of blame, and determined (rather unselfishly, he thought with relish)
that he had no need to press the issue further.

"I do want your help," he conceded carefully, sorting through the complexities of admission. "This isn't a potion I'm
familiar with, and I'm working backwards, so - " he shrugged. "I'm good at potions, sure, but I want - I want your
ideas, really, I do. It's not my ego, I just - "

"Okay. Okay." Hermione swallowed, the tension in the room slowly flooding out of them, escaping through the
windows. "And as for this whole, um, nefarious plot thing - "

"Do you really trust Cad?" Draco prompted. "Because if this was his idea - "

"It wasn't," she assured him, shaking her head. "It was my idea, I just - I really do think it's our best move," she
clarified, "but whatever happens next, you might be right. I might be trapped, they might have used me, but - "

"You won't be," Draco said firmly. "You won't be trapped. I'm here, and I'll help you."

At that, her mouth quirked, and her lips parted.

"That," she exhaled, "is exactly what I was hoping for."

Draco blinked, uncertain how to respond, and was glad when Hermione stepped closer.

"We don't have to do stupid things alone," she told him. "This isn't like it was back then, I promise. We're not kids,
we're not alone. You have a choice, I have a choice, and we can make our choices together. You can choose to
support me or not support me, but for now, I'm happy that you do. I feel better because you do. And I want - " her
voice wobbled slightly. "I want you to feel that way, too. You know. Better, I guess, because of me."

She looked down, eyeing her feet, and then tentatively back up.

Draco, meanwhile, let out a groan, dragging a hand over his mouth and glaring at her.

"Fucking hell, Granger," he told her. "Don't - don't do that."

Her eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"You're making me feel very upsettingly soft," he grumbled. "I find the whole thing repulsive. I'm going to need to
break something. Or, I don't know - "

She kissed him. By now he knew what she looked like when she was about to; the entire line of her body changed,
her chin rising up in defiance. Whenever she kissed him, she always looked like she was daring him to refuse (her
jaw lined with cool, forged certainty, and her shoulders squared with his), but he couldn't imagine why he would. He
slid his arms around her waist and let her kiss him; firmly kissed her back. Given their many problems with words, it
seemed an apt form of communication.

Eventually Hermione sighed a little in his mouth, successfully tangled with his limbs, and then slid back to the
ground. "You're never going to be normal, are you?" she asked grumpily, and he shrugged.

"We're all very ill-adapted post-war," he informed her. "I'm sure that with less indecipherable trauma, you'd have
had a wonderful life with someone far more reasonable."

"That sounds right," she gravely agreed, and paused. "So are you going back to work, then?"

"What? No," Draco scoffed. "Clearly not, Granger, as we're very obviously going to have sex."

"I'm sorry, what?" Hermione asked, scowling up at him. "When did I agree to that?"

"Yes, right, my apologies, I'd forgotten the formal invitation," Draco drawled, taking a step back and dropping into
an ostentatious bow. "Granger, if you would be so kind," he announced, "would you do me the honor of stripping
you of your intimates, that I may first lower my lips to the apex of your thighs, followed by the tender insertion of
my hardened phallus into the depths of your - "

"Oh no," Hermione snapped, looking as if she wanted to strangle him. "Don't you dare keep going - "

" - whereupon I may gyrate my hips against yours," he continued, "amid the throes of deep, thrusting penetration - "

"STOP," she shouted, shoving him away and racing up the stairs as he followed majestically, continuing his deeply
romantic ode.

" - or, perhaps, weather and stamina permitting, you might descend to the object of my manhood: the conqueror of
your forbidden garden, and delighter of your flowering maidenhead - "

"MALFOY, I'M NOT JOKING - "

" - répondez, s'il vous plaît," he continued, waltzing onto the second floor landing and idly wandering the hall, "and
please indicate your choice of entree, be it mine own turgid, throbbing flesh, or else my - "

"Shut up," she gasped, catching his arm and yanking him into their bedroom, letting him hoist her in the air to wrap
her legs around his waist. "Seriously," she said breathlessly, dropping her lips to his, "never." Another kiss. "Do
that." A beguiling little bite against his lip. "Again."

"Well, will it be a yes or no, then, Granger?" he said into her mouth, fighting a laugh as she dug her nails into the
back of his neck, glowering fiercely with disapproval. "A poetic formal invitation requires a ceremonial answer - "

"We can have sex if we must, just please stop talking," she groaned, and he smirked, victorious.

"To your credit, though, you were at least right about one thing," he determined briskly, throwing her back onto the
bed and peeling his shirt over his shoulders. "I definitely win this one."

a/n: Sigh, I think I've been in a very Romance™ mood this week. If you enjoyed Nobility (or even if you didn't, I
suppose), feel free to check out the nottgrass prequel I posted last night in my Amortentia collection: chapter 98,
Things About You. This chapter dedicated to Alissie, monkeysuit, and darling draco. Thanks for reading!
 33. Heist Society

Chapter 33: Heist Society

The League of Eternality

Unplottable Location
October 21, 2003
8:45 p.m.

"I thought you'd be back," remarked Dionisia Trelawney from the doorway, and Antioch turned wearily at the sound
of her voice. She looked young still, was still beautiful, even though it had been some years since he'd first seen her.
"Does your presence here mean I can have him, then?" she asked neutrally; almost as if she were joking, though he
was astounded she would have been able to manage it under the circumstances. "Have you finally grown weary of
world domination," she suggested idly, "and so now I can keep him?"

For a moment, Antioch fidgeted, not wanting to answer.

"Have you heard of Tom Riddle?" he asked neutrally, and Lady Revel scoffed.

"Of course. Though I don't think that's what he's called now," she warned, wandering further into the room. "Nor do
I think it helps much to discuss him. He seems to be aiming for fame, so I'm loath to give it to him. Why," she added
wryly, "are you aspiring to add him to your numbers? Makes sense. He does seem to share your beliefs."

"He doesn't," Antioch said, his voice clipped, "and his fanatics certainly don't. Blood purity? Ridiculous, and a more
recent invention than you'd think." Dionisia arched a brow, and he shrugged. "When I was born, witches and
wizards were determined more by luck or mutation than by blood. My father wasn't a wizard," he informed her,
"and my mother wasn't a particularly talented witch, either. She had magic her entire life and never learned to use
it."

"Well, I only meant the living forever thing," Dionisia replied, parsing half a laugh, "though good to hear you can
draw a line somewhere."

He spared her a grimace. "How do you know that Riddle aspires to immortality?"

She shrugged. "Any fool can see what he's searching for," she remarked. "Well, any fool aside from those who are
too blinded by their precious morality to know about horcruxes. I bet Albus Dumbledore has no idea yet," she
added, arching a brow. "He'll pay for his ignorance, I'm sure."

"You sound like you want him to," Antioch noted, and Dionisia shrugged.

"Maybe I do," she permitted, "or, more likely, maybe I don't care either way. Regardless, that's not what you came
for," she pointed out. "You could have plenty of information about Tom Riddle without coming to me. So what's this
about?"

She fell daintily into a Victorian straight-backed chair, waiting, and Antioch sighed, grimly curling a hand around
his mouth.

"Did Ignotus tell you about our brother Cadmus?" he asked, and she nodded. "So you know we killed him, then."

"It's alright," Dionisia said humorlessly. "Sometimes I imagine killing my sister, too."

Antioch didn't doubt it. He reached for one of the posts of her outrageously elaborate bed, wrapping a hand around
it as he meandered through his thoughts.

"Ignotus is not the same," he admitted eventually, and only then did Dionisia blink, her facade jarring a fraction of a
degree. "I'm finding him difficult to advise."
"You mean control," Dionisia cut in sharply, and Antioch shrugged.

"Fine - control, then," he agreed, waving a hand. "But either way, he is not my brother anymore." He swallowed
heavily. "Somehow, I have murdered both my brothers," he remarked, and leaned against the mattress, letting it
carry his sagging weight.

Dionisia let the statement hang in the air for a moment before rising to her feet, slowly pacing a small, thoughtful
circle around the floor.

"You didn't come here merely to give me a confession," she guessed, and then paused, looking up at him. "You came
here to - what, exactly? To repent, so that I would beg for him back, and then you would give him to me and be
assuaged of your guilt?"

Antioch said nothing.

Dionisia sighed, her lovely mouth curling down slightly.

"I loved him," she said quietly, and then amended the statement, lifting her chin. "I love him," she corrected herself.
"Not a day goes by that I don't think of him and ache for him. And I hate you," she added matter-of-factly.
"Naturally. I hate you with a fierceness I can barely put into words. I hate you, and I want him, but even I'm not a
slave to delusion."

To Antioch's surprise, her smile quirked slightly, and she shook her head with a tiny, almost imperceptible degree of
motion.

"I don't want the Ignotus I would have if I begged you for him," she determined, and spun to face him. "I want the
Ignotus who whispers his secrets in my ear and gives himself to me completely. But that's not even who Ignotus
Peverell truly is, is he? He wants more than a normal life with a normal love. He is your brother, a Peverell at
heart. He doesn't know what it is to want to die for someone."

"Perhaps he does ," Antioch attempted, and Dionisia shook her head.

"He doesn't," she corrected. "And maybe it's your fault. I'd like to think it's more your fault than his, anyway; that
because of you, neither of your brothers ever really knew what love was. But I'm not that stupid." She gave him a
tender, flickering smile. "It's not your fault, Antioch, that Ignotus and I weren't meant for each other. He could have
chosen me from the start and he didn't."

"That's - " Antioch hesitated. "That's not entirely true. The Ignotus you knew would not have wanted to disappoint
me. He wouldn't have chosen you because I wouldn't have given him the freedom to."

She seemed to disagree. "Disappointing our families for love is something we learn to do as teenagers," Dionisia
remarked with a strikingly hollow laugh. "If Ignotus didn't learn to do it in the first eight hundred years of his life,
then my god, Antioch, he's never going to learn it."

"So what are you saying, then?" Antioch demanded, suddenly thundering to his feet in frustration. "So because I
kept Ignotus from you, he should suffer your absence for a lifetime? You would willingly continue to suffer it," he
spat at her, "simply because I once kept you apart?"

"Astoundingly, Antioch, this manages to not actually be about you," Dionisia returned, unfazed. "I love Ignotus, yes.
I will never love another the way I have loved him - nor do I wish to permit myself to," she clarified flatly, "because
loving him nearly made me abandon everything I'd ever built. Can't you, of all people, understand that much?" she
prompted, and he didn't answer. "Yes, Antioch, I love him, deeply, but I would hope neither you nor I are foolish
enough to think the past can be undone. I would still be disappointed by him," she said, swallowing hard, "just as he
would still recall what you took from him. No matter what, in the end, none of us would be satisfied."

"So what are you saying?" Antioch asked, not realizing until after the words left him that in reality, he was begging,
only moments from falling to his knees. "So you refuse, then? You wish me to tell my brother you won't have him?"
"No," Dionisia said, and abruptly, the line of her mouth hardened. "No, Antioch, I'm not selfless enough for that.
No, I wish for you to live with the consequences of what you've done, as you wished for me once, not too long ago.
You kept me alive to feel pain? So be it." He gaped at her. "Then suffer your pain and mine, and Ignotus', too, for as
long as you continue to live. After all," she remarked grimly, "it's only fair."

"Fair?" Antioch pressed feverishly. "You think this is what's fair?"

There was no bend to her then, and he watched her turn a slim vial over in her fingers, realizing what she had taken
from him.

"You cunning, monstrous bitch," he snarled, watching her encase their secret in glass, and to her credit, she didn't
smile. She didn't laugh. Not a trace of amusement crossed her lips.

She hadn't lied. He would suffer his pain and hers, and at least he would not be alone in that.

"What would ever be more fair than this, Antioch Peverell?" she asked quietly, and he stared at her, unable to
speak. "What else were you expecting, Antioch?"

"Antioch?"

Antioch pulled himself from the pensieve, blinking, and aimed his chin slowly over his shoulder, finding Theo
standing in the doorway.

"Just taking a casual trip down memory lane?" Theo prompted drily, and Antioch managed to suppress a grimace,
shutting the cupboard doors and turning to face his protégé.

"How did you get in?" Antioch asked gruffly, and Theo shrugged.

"Your house elf likes me," he replied. "That, or Cad told me how. Take your pick."

"Cadmus," Antioch muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Well, so be it, then. Better you than
any of the others, I suppose. What is it?" he asked expectantly, not looking up, and Theo strode in further, taking the
few steps necessary to make it more a conversation than a ceremonial announcement.

"The lower level members of the Club," Theo said, getting straight to the point. This, Antioch reminded himself,
was his favorite thing about Theo Nott, as well as the most distinctive quality separating him from Cadmus. "How
much do they know about what you control?"

"Very little," Antioch replied. "None of them have ever been here, certainly," he added, gesturing vaguely around
their headquarters.

"Do they know they're being watched?" Theo asked, and Antioch lifted a brow.

"No one is being watched," he corrected.

"Sure," Theo permitted facetiously. "So they don't know, then?"

Antioch sighed. "Fine. No one is actively being watched," he amended, "but yes, surveillance charms do capture
almost everything the Club members do. They initiates are chosen for their influence in Ministries, corporations, et
cetera," Antioch reminded Theo, who nodded. "So most of those places have surveillance enchantments regardless.
We don't go out of our way to watch what our Club members are doing."

"But you could," Theo said firmly. "If you wanted?"

Antioch fought a sigh. "Yes."

"Right, yes, excellent," Theo said. "That was all I needed to know, just for reference. The clubhouse is pretty nice,"
he added, gesturing around Antioch's room. "Where are we geographically?"
"I'm not going to tell you that, Theo," Antioch sighed impatiently, and the other man grinned.

"Fair enough. Well, that's all from me, so - "

"Wait," Antioch beckoned, pausing him with a hand, and then he turned, removing a vial from a locked drawer of
his desk. "Give this to the divinist," he instructed, holding the vial containing Blaise Zabini's secret out for Theo.
"It's up to her what she does with it, but I would strongly advise her to destroy it."

"What is it?" Theo asked, holding it up and eyeing it in the light. "One of Lady Revel's secrets?"

Antioch nodded. "Yes." He was relieved Theo wasn't the sort to ask too many questions; at least, none of the ones he
couldn't answer, like when did you make this agreement and why and what does she have over you - none of which
he felt like considering.

"How is she supposed to destroy it?" Theo prompted instead, which was a perfectly reasonable question, and
Antioch shrugged.

"I don't know," he replied. "It's not my magic. Though, how does anyone destroy any secret, I imagine?"

"By making it not a secret anymore," Theo guessed, and Antioch nodded.

"A respectable answer," he supplied, and returned to sit at his desk. "As good as any I'd come up with, anyway.
Thank you for delivering it for me."

Thoe nodded and turned to leave before pausing, standing warily before the door.

"If someone - not me, of course - wanted to cause any sort of threatening, incontrovertible psychological damage to
Ignotus," Theo ventured neutrally, "where would they start? Asking for a friend," he added casually, sparing
Antioch one of his most irritating smirks.

Antioch wanted to laugh.

He didn't.

"Nicholas Flamel," he suggested instead, and then waved Theo out the door, turning back to his work without
another word.

Nott Manor
Living room
October 22, 2003
12:23 p.m.

"Okay," Pansy opened, settling herself cross-legged on the floor. "Let's talk heist."

"I enjoy the phrase 'heist,' you know," Blaise remarked, falling onto the sofa. "It really just has a much more
whimsical air to it than 'assassination,' which is something I pride myself on."

"What, your whimsy?" Draco echoed, rolling his eyes. "If anyone is pridefully whimsical, I would think it would be
me."

"I'm devastated you're both overlooking the obvious choice," Theo drawled, seating himself on Draco's right.

"All of you, shut up," Pansy said, snapping her fingers for Daphne's attention. "Daph, are we agreed?"

"Hm? Yes, Theo's clearly the most whimsical," Daphne supplied, finishing a distracted skim of what looked like a
troublingly unpleasant book.

"I knew it," Theo trumpeted, absurdly pleased.

"I did not, at all, mean that," Pansy sighed, exasperated. "I meant that we should discuss the heist - "

"Right, heist," Blaise said, and paused. "Really, heist?"

"Well, Granger did ask for a brutally public slaughter," Theo pointed out. "So there's definitely a general element of
heist involved."

"We could Trojan Horse it," Daphne suggested, abandoning the almost-certainly cursed book and settling herself
delicately on the arm of Theo's chair.

"Not enough wood," Theo replied.

From Pansy: "Shut the fuck up, Nott - "

From Draco: "Christ, where did my life go wrong?"

From Blaise: "Birth, most likely."

"I meant," Daphne informed them brusquely, "that we could bring in something that is not what it appears to be. A
false Percy Weasley, perhaps?"

"Not a bad idea," Blaise agreed, pointing at her with approval. "We bring in a Percy Weasley who isn't the real
Percy Weasley and kill them. Done."

"You realize that person would really die," Draco reminded him, and Blaise shrugged.

"That does generally happen," he agreed, "being that it is our primary business."

"Allegedly," Pansy reminded him, and he rolled his eyes.

"Well hold on, we don't generally kill innocent people," Theo countered, and then paused. "Though I suppose we
could just as easily find a guilty one. There are, after all, so many of them."

"Let's not play God," Daphne commented hastily, grimacing. "Maybe let's not just randomly select someone for
murder, okay?"

"We could temporarily reanimate a corpse instead," Blaise suggested, and Pansy turned to him.

"What the honest fuck are you talking about?" she demanded.

From Draco: "What about something like a golem?"

From Blaise: "What, like a sex golem?"

From Daphne: "Please, please, do not explain what that means."

From Theo, smugly: "I like our brainstorming times. They really reveal so many unsettling things."

"Hold on," Draco interrupted. "Back up. Before we need a 'how' we need a 'when' and a 'where,' don't you think?"

"Right," Pansy agreed, snapping her fingers. "Also, we need a murder weapon. Where are you on the potion,
Malfoy?"

"Shut up," Draco retorted grandly.

"So nowhere, then, got it," Pansy confirmed. "Anyone have an idea for time and place?"

"Has to be public," Blaise mused. "The Ministry?"

"No," Theo contributed flatly. "Potter's got enough on his plate."

The others glanced at him.

"So?" Draco asked irreverently, clearly representing the opinions of everyone in the room.

"So," Theo replied, "he's not going to be very helpful if we cross him again. And we do sort of need his help, don't
you think?"

"We do fine without his help normally," Pansy sniffed, "but fine, I see your point. And besides, the Ministry will
most likely have doubled its security since the disaster at the Wizengamot conference, so it'd be too difficult to do
there anyway. What else?"

"We need a party," Daphne suggested, and then frowned. "Actually, not just a party," she amended, turning it over in
her mind. "An event. A society event, specifically. Something celebratory," she mused, "with a lot of press
coverage."

"Like what?" Draco asked, as every head in the room swiveled to him. "Oh no," he realized, and promptly blanched.
"Oh, fuck no."

"Well, seeing as a Sacred Twenty-Eight heir is engaged to a war hero," Theo announced on behalf of the room, "it
does follow that such a wedding would be something of a spectacle, doesn't it?"

"Well, hold on," Draco protested irritably. "Greengrass is also engaged! Why can't it be her wedding?"

"Politicians certainly aren't coming to my wedding - if, that is, it even happens at all," Daphne reminded Draco, as
Pansy looked up, questioning the phrasing. "Regardless, why would any Warlock, much less Percy Weasley, be on
the guest list for two known Voldemort sympathizers? It makes no sense."

"Me marrying Granger already makes no sense," Draco growled in opposition. "Since when did we decide now was
the time to venture back into rationality?"

"Well, as an apparently necessary reminder, you proposed to her," Blaise informed Draco. "You had an engagement
party? Remember that? And you narrowly escaped a binding ceremony - "

"Actually," Draco grumbled, clearly about to refute the statement until Blaise cut him off with a barking laugh and a
smirk.

"I knew it," he said with satisfaction, and Draco let out a loud, impatient sigh.

"So what you're all suggesting, then," he summarized unhappily, "is that you want me to host a large, ceremonial
wedding filled with significant political guests wherein there will be a decoy Percy Weasley, and then, at said
wedding, there will be a murder? Committed largely by me, the groom?"

"Yes," Pansy said succinctly, eyeing the dates in her diary. "By the way, how is next week?"

"NEXT WEEK?" Draco echoed, aghast. "What, is Granger pregnant?"

"I don't know," Pansy replied. "Is she?"

"DO NOT," Draco began hotly, and Theo rose to his feet.

"The wedding is the perfect opportunity," he remarked, brow furrowed in thought. "We'd be stupid not to take
advantage of it."

"Well yes, we're clearly stupid," Blaise permitted, "but also, I see your point." He paused, considering something. "I
wonder why Patil can't attend."

"I thought she was a divinist, not a telepath," Pansy remarked, frowning. "Did you just read her mind?"
"Oh, no, she's just already told us she couldn't attend Granger's wedding," Blaise said.

From Draco: "OH, AND SUDDENLY THAT'S A REAL THING?"

From Theo: "Frankly, I wouldn't go either if I didn't have to. Wait, do I have to?"

From Pansy: "Well if Theo's out, I call best man."

From Draco again, boisterously: "UNILATERALLY REJECTED."

"Back to decoy Weasley," Daphne suggested, daintily drawing their attention back to the heist at hand. "Do we have
any idea how we're going to do that?"

"No," Blaise said. "But we have a week to sort it out, don't we?"

"Can you even plan a wedding in one week?" Draco demanded. "I refuse to put my name on any sort of haphazard
calamity - "

"Aside from yourself, I take it?" Theo guessed, and Draco glared at him.

"We can definitely plan you a wedding in a week," Daphne cut in firmly, surprising Pansy once again. "Pansy's got
plenty of contacts now, and I have plenty of time. That bit's easy enough, don't you think?"

"Listen to me, Greengrass," Draco said, rising to his feet and brandishing a finger at her. "No wildflowers. Nothing
that could be mistaken for a weed. No overuse of red, crimson, or burgundy. Tasteful music selection only. I will
accept a string octet and nothing less. And if I hear even one fucking note of Wagner - "

From Theo: "What do you think we are, animals?"

From Blaise: "Pachelbel only, if you must be so predictable. And more importantly, no pastels. Seasonally
inappropriate."

From Draco: "With Granger's complexion? Don't make me laugh."

Theo again: "You know, I've never asked - where do we stand on Mendelssohn?"

Blaise again: "Outside, drunkenly stabbing the sheet music with knives."

From Pansy: "This I genuinely did not expect."

"Okay, all of this has been noted," Daphne exhaled, and then paused. "Well, if I'm being honest, only some of it has
been noted. The rest of it has been discarded to hopefully never be revisited again."

"Unacceptable," Draco informed her. "All of it or nothing."

"I can't believe I'm saying this," Pansy lamented, raising a hand, "but doesn't the bride get a say?"

"Hold on. Is there even going to be a wedding?" Theo asked, interrupting. "I mean, someone's going to die, aren't
they? So at what point in the program is the murder happening?"

"An excellent point," Blaise acknowledged generously, toasting Theo with a glass he seemed to have produced from
nothing. "Do we think murder is more suited an hors d'oeuvre, or to a digestif?"

"Cocktail hour," Pansy suggested. "Which would be, what - post-ceremony?"

"So there's a wedding, then," Theo said, glancing at Draco. "In which you would be wed."

"Oi," Draco announced, taking a physical step in retreat. "Hold on. I forgot a bit."
From Blaise: "What, the marriage bit?"

From Draco: "What? Yes, that, but also I desperately need new dress robes."

From Pansy, disbelievingly: "You and I have very different definitions of desperation."

"We could have the cocktail hour before the ceremony," Daphne suggested. "Couldn't we? It's not standard, per se,
but I would think we can all agree Draco isn't above milking the ceremonial aspect of any given occasion."

"She's not wrong," Theo agreed, as Draco sniffed his concession. "And a cocktail hour is an ideal time to murder
someone with, you know. Poison."

"My head hurts," Draco groaned. "Are we done? I still have to make the poison, you know."

"We're close enough to done," Daphne agreed. "You can go, anyway. Pansy and I can keep working on the rest of it
without you."

"We can?" Pansy asked, turning to face her. "You're surprisingly invested in this heist."

"Am I?" Daphne prompted innocently. "Seems normal to me."

"Parkinson's right, it's totally out of character - but given everything, I don't care," Draco said gruffly, glancing at his
watch. "At the moment, I'm about to be late for a standing appointment to repeatedly ask Potter what, if anything,
he's gotten out of Mundungus Fletcher."

"I'll come with you," Theo offered, rising to his feet, and Draco's expression stiffened.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because," Theo informed him, "I have to break in a new pair of shoes."

Draco squinted at his feet, gauging the truth of it.

"Fine," he ruled eventually. "Come on, then. Zabini?"

"My shoes, like any gentleman's shoes, came perfectly fitted," Blaise remarked, rising to his feet, "but I suppose I
haven't terrorized either of you in a while, so this seems as good an opportunity as any. Where's Granger, by the
way?"

"Asking a favor from Hortense," Draco replied, scowling. "Am I thrilled about it? No. Can I do anything to prevent
it? Nothing legal, apparently."

"I didn't realize legality was a concern of yours," Blaise said.

"It isn't," Draco sniffed. "I'm just making the technical distinction."

"Oh, just go," Daphne instructed them firmly, sparing Pansy a headshake. "The adults will get to work now, if you
don't mind."

"Well, just don't kill anyone while we're away. That means you, Parkinson," Theo said absently, patting the tops of
Pansy and Daphne's heads before disappearing through the Floo, followed by Draco and Blaise.

"Okay then," Pansy announced, turning her attention to Daphne once they were alone. "So, what's going on with
you? Spill it, Greengrass."

"Nothing to spill," Daphne replied, abruptly turning to the corridor and disappearing from sight. "LIBRARY," she
shouted informatively over her shoulder, and Pansy followed with a sigh, shaking her head.

"Daphne Elizabeth Greengrass - "

"What?" Daphne asked, pausing in the hall to give Pansy half a second to catch up. "My middle name isn't
Elizabeth."

"Well, it is now," Pansy sniffed. "What's going on with you? Last I checked, you weren't very interested in being
part of this company - and what was the other thing? Oh yes, you were very much engaged," she mused, noting the
other woman's careful avoidance of eye contact. "I take it you've suddenly decided you don't care much whether
your mother is displeased by your comings and goings?"

"I just - " Daphne hesitated. "It's just this case, specifically," she explained, toying with a lock of her hair. "I very
much want this case to go well, and then maybe after that I won't have the same, um - concerns," she finished, in a
way that made Pansy not remotely less suspicious.

"Concerns?" Pansy echoed, as Daphne took the narrow winding staircase up to Theo's father's more sinister books.

"Yes, concerns," Daphne agreed. "Like, for example, perhaps I wouldn't need to marry Marcus if I could have
someone else."

"Cad, I take it," Pansy guessed, frowning. "But isn't he - "

"Consumed with revenge? Yes," Daphne said, and picked up a book, rifling through the dusty pages. "I'm leaning
towards the golem idea, by the way. That makes sense, right? Something we can temporarily animate to have human
qualities?"

"Well, Weasley's mannerisms can be relatively golem-esque," Pansy agreed, and then frowned. "And hold on, wait a
minute - "

"The sooner Cad's brothers can be dealt with, the sooner he will no longer have them on the mind," Daphne replied,
with an innocent tone to her voice. "They can't be dealt with while there's still a threat to the Club, so yes. This case
is important."

Pansy blinked. "Daphne."

"Don't 'Daphne' me."

"Daphne Elizabeth."

"Again, my middle name isn't Elizabeth, Pansy - "

"Are you really doing this for him?" Pansy cut in, making a face. "You know I can't approve that."

"I didn't ask you to," Daphne reminded her. "And for the record, it's not really for him. Not entirely. I should have
some skills, don't you think?" she prompted, handing Pansy the book she'd been holding and picking up another one.
"If I'm not going to be some sort of wealthy pureblood wife, then - "

"Then what?" Pansy demanded. "You're going to be a murderess instead?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of entrepreneur," Daphne corrected, tapping her lips briefly before picking up
another book. "Shouldn't I be allowed some sort of file of marketable skills?"

"Well, what about Flint?" Pansy prompted. "Are you breaking things off with him?"

"No." Daphne continued rifling through the books, picking up one or two more to set in Pansy's arms. "Not at the
moment, anyway."

"Does Cad know you're doing this?"

"No." Another book, as Pansy struggled to balance them. "It's not really about him."

"Daphne," Pansy exhaled. "Is it possible you haven't really thought this through?"
Daphne turned, eyeing the pile of books in Pansy's arms, and placed three more in the stack, nearly sending Pansy to
the floor.

"He thinks I'm capable of more," Daphne remarked suddenly, almost startling Pansy into dropping the pile of books
altogether. "Nobody ever really told me that before. Do you know how many people have told me I'm beautiful?"
she prompted, and Pansy, who knew the answer was likely something hugely astronomical, determined the question
mostly rhetorical. "But that isn't any sort of talent. It's not a skill. I just want to prove him right." Daphne paused for
a second, glancing at her feet, and looked up. "I want to prove to myself that he was right."

Pansy blinked.

"Oh," she said, and then, "okay."

"Okay?" Daphne echoed.

"Yes. Okay." Pansy swallowed, nodding, and wobbled to set the books down on a table, clearing her hands of them
and joining Daphne at the shelves. "Okay," she said, as Daphne spared her a lovely, grateful smile. "Then let's get to
work."

Les Catacombes de Paris

Ministère de Magie, Office of Bastien Janvier
October 22, 2003
9:03 p.m.

"Working late, Bastien?"

Bastien looked up, fighting a groan, and caught the terrifyingly familiar shape of a pale blonde woman in the
doorway.

"Oh no," he exhaled, and Hortense gave a demonic little laugh.

"Oh yes," she corrected, smiling broadly. "It's me. Unless you'd prefer Thibaut?"

"I'd prefer nothing," Bastien pronounced feverishly.

"Pity," came Thibaut's voice as he loped in after Hortense. "Seeing as that wasn't an option, Janvier, you can hardly
expect to get what you want."

"He can have what we want, though," Hortense corrected thoughtfully, glancing at Thibaut. "Don't you think?"

"Seems inevitable," Thibaut remarked, his very white teeth flashing slightly as he and his sister both turned
invitingly to Bastien.

"We can't do this again," Bastien informed them stiffly. "It's - it's unbecoming."

"More or less unbecoming than you withholding evidence from the Ministry?" Hortense asked, which Bastien was
displeased to find was an unfortunately lucid statement for an otherwise baffling witch. "Oh yes, we know about
that, Bastien. You tampered with evidence, Janvy, didn't you?"

Bastien swallowed his many, many questions along with the sinking recognition that the Malfoys, whatever else
they were, had never particularly been idiots. "I did no such thing," he protested weakly, and they smiled their
strange, matching smiles.

"He said, lyingly," Thibaut drawled, and pouted. "Now come on, Janvier. Take off your pants."

"What exactly is your agenda?" Bastien demanded, rising defensively to his feet. "Are you trying to seduce me, or to
blackmail me?"
"Blackmail, really?" Hortense asked, aghast. "Do you honestly think so lowly of us?"

"Yes," Thibaut drawled on Bastien's behalf, "he clearly does, and not incorrectly."

"Well, really, however would we blackmail you, Janvy?" Hortense pressed with an innocence she did not possess,
suddenly producing an elaborate lace fan and waving it wildly in front of her face. "What do either of us really have
on you with which to begin such a vile process?"

"Aside from our own memories of your many sexual depravities, that is," Thibaut mused, sprawling across Bastien's
desk as Hortense tossed the fan, ostensibly only conjured to express one moment of dismay, into the fireplace.
"Stroke my hair, please," Thibaut instructed, and Bastien sighed, grudgingly brushing it back from Thibaut's
forehead.

"So you came here for - for this, then," Bastien grumbled, internally cursing whatever potions used or deals made
with demons had permitted Thibaut to produce such devilishly soft hair. "Is that all?"

"Well, that, and to ask some very, very innocent questions," Hortense told him, sitting Bastien roughly back in his
chair as she smoothed her hands over the planes of his shoulders. "So, about this evidence-tampering. How tampered
is the evidence, exactly?"

Bastien paused, letting his hand fall as he turned to face Hortense. "How do you know about that?"

"Keep stroking," Thibaut barked, startling Bastien as Hortense wrenched him back into place, facing forward. "And
also, it's written all over your face, Janvier."

"It's written on my face that I tampered with evidence?" Bastien echoed blankly, closing his eyes as Hortense began
working through one of the knots in his shoulders. She really did have a criminally pleasing touch; perhaps she was
the demon with which Thibaut had made the hair-related deal. "That seems specific in a highly unlikely way."

"The Wizengamot poisons, was it?" Thibaut asked, shifting to nip at the face of Bastien's palm, and Bastien's eyes
floated open.

"How do you two know about that?" Bastien growled. "Was it Malfoy and Granger?"

"What, our pointiest cousin and his silly bird-wife?" Hortense scoffed musically. "They wouldn't know a poison if it
danced on their toes and cursed their bloodlines."

"That's - " Bastien sighed. "That's not what poison does."

"Well, we wouldn't know," Thibaut remarked. "Having never poisoned anyone, that is."

"Yet," Hortense corrected. "Though it's on our - what's the word, again? The death list?"

"What, things to do before you die?" Bastien guessed.

"Of course not. Dying is just so blatantly obvious," Thibaut replied.

"Yes," Hortense agreed, making a face. "Oh, everyone does it? No, thank you - "

" - so no," Thibaut concluded, "but it definitely is on our lists of deaths we'll inevitably cause, so if there's a word for
that, then yes."

"I should probably arrest you both," Bastien determined, closing his eyes again as Hortense's hand slipped down the
collar of his shirt, her thumb brushing his clavicle. "And myself, too, just to be safe."

"Well, if you wanted handcuffs, Janvy - " He blinked, shifting forward just as two slim casts of iron wrapped around
his wrists, trapping him to the chair like gauntlets. "All you had to do was ask," Hortense murmured in his ear,
followed by a sigh of satisfaction.
"What - " Bastien yanked at the iron, finding himself very much trapped. "Hortense, please. Be reasonable - "

"I have never been reasonable in my life," Hortense declared, stepping in front of Bastien's chair as Thibaut sat up
from the desk, "and I certainly don't intend to start now."

"She's right about that," said a tired, English voice that flickered into being near the door. "Unfortunately, I might
add."

"Who are you?" Bastien demanded, reaching for his wand until he remembered that 1) his hands were trapped and 2)
Hortense was currently holding it up, vigorously triumphant. "What's going on? Hortense!"

"This is our worst and least favorite cousin, Lucy," Thibaut supplied for her, as the blond man who could have just
as easily been Thibaut's twin heaved an immensely regretful sigh.

"It's Lucius," he corrected in English, only to be immediately interrupted.

"Quiet, Lucy, the adults are talking," Thibaut sniffed, reaching forward and unbuttoning the entirety of Bastien's
shirt in a single, effortless motion.

"Was that magic?" Bastien asked, not having seen Thibaut reach for a wand, and Thibaut gave a horrifyingly
unstable laugh.

"No," Thibaut assured him melodically. "Just practice, practice, practice."

"Hm, but that's not enough," Hortense pouted, suddenly dropping between Bastien's knees and shoving them apart.
"I'll throw in the zipper, sure, but - is that really going to impress anyone?"

"What?" Bastien asked, eyes widening as Hortense's hand floated to the button of his trousers. "You - what are you
doing? You can't - "

"The average person hardly has your carnalities," Thibaut informed Hortense, and then frowned, leaning closer to
Bastien. "If we're aiming to showcase a scandal, then there's really only one thing they'll need to see."

"Which is what?" Hortense prompted impatiently. "Blood? Entrails?"

"Oh god," Bastien groaned, glancing up at the English cousin. "Can't you do something?"

"Do I look like I can do anything?" the other man said, eyeing his fingernails.

"No, Hortense, his cock," Thibaut informed his sister. "It's half-hard at best, and everyone knows that's not nearly
enough."

"That may have something to do with the terribly un-arousing ordeal you're putting me through," Bastien informed
him brusquely, but rather than profess any guilt, Thibaut merely shrugged.

"Well, he's not wrong. Move," he instructed Hortense, as she obliged, her grey-blue eyes wide as she peeked over
Thibaut's shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Bastien demanded for perhaps the thousandth time, and Thibaut looked up at him, using one
hand to slide over his shaft while capturing Bastien's gasp with the other.

"Magic," Thibaut assured him, and with a few carelessly skilled motions, he pulled back, smiling fondly at his
handiwork. "Now, Lucy, if you wouldn't mind?"

"What?" Bastien managed hoarsely, dazed.

"Are we smiling?" Hortense asked, pouting. "I look stupid when I smile."

"You look evil when you smile, actually," Thibaut corrected her, and turned, frowning. "And get those tits out,
would you?"

"Oh, happily," Hortense replied, tearing at her own bodice before gingerly draping herself against Bastien. "So," she
mused, murmuring in his ear as Thibaut stepped back, positioning himself lasciviously between Bastien's parted
knees. "About those poisons - "

"Smile," the Englishman drawled disinterestedly as a camera flashed, and Bastien was momentarily blinded.

"Where are they?" Hortense whispered, biting lightly on Bastien's ear, and he sighed.

"Now it's blackmail," Bastien registered unhappily, noticing that the gauntlets keeping him to the chair had been
obscured by Thibaut's careful maneuvering. There would be no other way to explain the picture's existence, and
even if he could explain it, a photograph would always be louder than any reasonable explanation.

"Now it's blackmail," Thibaut confirmed, winking up at him. "Thanks, Lucy," he called over his shoulder, nodding
to the man holding the camera.

"Yes, yes, whatever," the Englishman muttered as Bastien faced the Malfoy siblings, shaking his head.

"Are you trying to ruin me?" he asked them bluntly, and Thibaut laughed.

"Of course not, Janvier," he said neutrally. "If we were trying to do that, we'd have simply kept you tied to the bed
the last time you stayed over, wouldn't we? But apparently you'd rather be some sort of gainfully-employed slave to
capitalism, so - "

"Just humor us," Hortense requested blithely, tapping his nose, and Bastien sighed.

"I was instructed to destroy any evidence of it," he admitted eventually. "By Ludo Bagman."

"Mm," Hortense said, contentedly curling up like a kitten in his lap. "And did you?"

Bastien swallowed. "No," he confessed. "It's hardly anything, mind you, but it's - " He gestured to his locked desk
drawer. "In there."

Thibaut promptly drew his wand from his draping sleeve, blasting the drawer open.

"Careful!" Bastien groaned, but Thibaut was already on his feet, inspecting the contents of Bastien's private drawer.

"Here it is," Thibaut said, holding up a silver ring with a bezeled garnet that Bastien had procured specifically for
purposes of camouflaging what remained of the adrenaline potion. "Wonderful," he added, admiring it happily on
the tip of his finger before turning back to where Hortense remained in Bastien's lap. "Does this mean you'd like to
go first, then, Hortense?"

"No, you start," Hortense replied, vacating Bastien's chair and stepping back. "He's always so much more tired and
flexible once you're finished."

"What?" Bastien asked, bemused. "But I thought - but you - "

"What, that because we came on business we didn't also want pleasure?" Thibaut scoffed. "Don't be silly, Janvier,
it's such a thoroughly unoriginal look for you. Lucy," he called loudly, and the blond man stepped forward
unenthusiastically. "Take this, would you?" Thibaut beckoned, and the Englishman nodded, holding out a palm for
the poison ring and then disappearing with a crack, gone with both the evidence and the photograph. "Now," Thibaut
exhaled, waving a hand to rid Bastien's wrists of the restrictive gauntlets. "What's the magic word? You know how
important consent is to us, Janvier."

Bastien sighed again, flexing his wrists and glaring at the two Malfoys, each one languishing against the now-
splintered surface of his desk.
"You swear you won't get me in trouble?" Bastien attempted, and Thibaut and Hortense both shrugged.

"What good would you do us in prison, Janvy?" Hortense prompted knowingly, batting her lashes. "It'd make for a
fun romp once or twice, sure, but it's hardly practical in the long-term."

"Besides," Thibaut added, leaning forward to brace himself on Bastien's forearms. "Would you rather be used by us,
or by Ludo Bagman?"

Bastien groaned, shaking his head in utter disbelief.

"Fine," he conceded eventually. "Take my pants off, then. And be careful with my socks."

"That's a good boy," Hortense cooed approvingly, and Thibaut solemnly nodded his agreement, casting a silencing
spell before slowly dropping to Bastien's ankles, delicately replacing Melibea Warbeck's fine creations with his own
not-entirely-artless touch.

Isabel Lewin didn't know much, but she knew she had been an archaeologist with a very pressing deadline for as
long as she could remember. She'd been here, in fact, on a beach that made her head go fuzzy each time she tried to
recall its name, for as far back as she could process. Did it worry her? No, of course not. Not nearly as much as her
deadline, anyway, which was unfortunately always seeming to loom. She'd written twenty pages already today, and
couldn't seem to recall whether she were any closer to finishing her research.

Nor could she seem to find her research.

And actually, the interruptions weren't helping much.

"How are you?" asked the faintly-scarred man who visited most frequently. He wasn't as loud as the professor,
though he seemed much more useless. She couldn't quite sort out why he kept coming back; though, could she really
sort out anything these days?

No. Not while she had such a pressing deadline, anyway.

"I'm fine," she said, swiping tiredly at her forehead, "I just have a lot of work to finish before tom-" She paused,
blinking, her mind going fuzzy again as she tried once more to reason out her impending deadline. "Sorry, what's
your name again?"

The man looked inexplicably saddened. She supposed she was being rude. "It's Nico," he said quietly.

"Oh yes, right, sorry," Isabel said, forcing a smile. "It's only that I have so much work to do, Nico, so I should really
get back to it - "

"Are you really alright?" Nico pressed, which was a somewhat irritating question. He seemed very eager to know the
answer, though, so she paused to think about it.

"Yes," she determined after a moment or so. "Yes, I'm fine. Just very pressed for time," she reminded him, "so if you
don't mind, I just have to - "

She broke off, startled, as a slender, weedy sort of man suddenly appeared out of thin air, prompting her to gasp in
alarm.

"Are you - how did you? Is he a - "

"Oh shit," the skinny man remarked. "Are you Nicholas Flamel?"

"I'm Isabel Lewin," Isabel informed him stiffly, "and I have a very pressing deadl-"

"He means me," the other man she vaguely recalled being called Nico sighed, rising to his feet. "You're Theodore
Nott," he added, almost as an afterthought, and the other man blinked.

"Oh, Nico, right," the other man replied. "Well, I didn't make that connection at all, but that's fine. And also, don't
call me Theodore. It's Theo."

"What are you doing here?" Nico asked, sounding more fearful than angry, which made Isabel reflexively back up
slowly in the sand. She hadn't cared much for Nico's interruptions, sure, but he still seemed considerably less a threat
than whatever Theo was. "Did Cadmus send you?"

"Um. Sort of," the man called Theo replied. "No, actually, sorry," he amended, "the answer I was aiming for was
mostly no. I mean, it's 'sort of' in that I've learned how to use his tracking spell? And tracked you here."

Spells. Something in Isabel yearned, but she figured perhaps that was simply her deadline nagging at her again.

"Ah," Nico replied, still guarded. "And what do you need me for?"

"Well, I really had no idea, initially," Theo remarked, sounding impressed with himself. "But of course, now that I
can see you're here with Kat-"

"Don't," Nico cut in sharply, as Isabel leaned forward, sensing something familiar in whatever Theo had been about
to say. "You'll distress her."

"Do you suddenly care about her distress?" Theo drawled, waving a hand in Isabel's direction. "Seems pretty fucking
unlikely, doesn't it?"

"Are you talking about me?" Isabel asked bluntly. "Because if you are, I'll thank you to keep your voices down. I'm
supposed to be working."

Rather than trying to be helpful, though, Theo merely turned, eyeing her.

"What is this?" he asked Nico, gesturing to her. "Some sort of delusion?"

"Yes," Nico said grimly. "But again, don't."

"So this is what Ignotus has you doing, then," Theo mused. "Keeping an eye on her? Is that it?"

"No, I just - " Nico swallowed, dragging Theo away. Isabel, though, continued to strain to listen, curious now what
they were talking about that could feel so familiar while sounding so very, very strange. "Ignotus didn't ask me to do
anything. But she's alone," he said quietly. "I don't think she should be here alone, and her mind is extremely fragile,
so - "

"You realize it was Ignotus who did this to her," Theo remarked, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck. "It
wasn't an accident - you know that, right? I thought he'd killed her, actually. That was sort of what I was thinking
might have happened when Draco said she was gone."

Draco. Something in Isabel's chest tightened.

"I knew he wouldn't kill her," Nico said, though his voice sounded expressionless and vacant. It sounded, in Isabel's
opinion, like an empty box. "I knew he would never kill her, but - "

"You also didn't think he'd do something like this, I take it?" Theo guessed.

Nico grimaced. "This is worse than death," he said with certainty; with a voice full of nails. "Especially if she can't
be fixed."

"Ah, but Ignotus doesn't think there's anything worse than death, does he?" Theo retorted. "Neither do Cadmus or
Antioch, I'd guess. So to them, this must seem like a very reasonable solution."

"Right," Nico agreed vacantly. "Right, yes."

"But you know better," Theo noted, and Isabel watched with surprise as Nico's head jerked up slightly. "You know
there are worse things than death, don't you? How very fucking intriguing. I see why Antioch suggested I speak to
you."

Nico frowned. "Antioch did what?"

"Antioch clearly thinks you can be used," Theo noted. "He thinks you're some sort of key to Ignotus' undoing,
obviously, or he wouldn't have sent me to you. And he's not wrong, is he? Because you try to clean up Ignotus'
messes, or to hide them - but you're not fooling anyone, and someday it isn't going to work." Nico didn't answer, and
Theo stepped closer. "Is it possible that you're slightly more than Ignotus Peverell's human mop? Or that maybe you
don't have to just let the Peverell brothers use you as a tool?"

Nico stiffened. "They don't use me. Ignotus certainly doesn't."

"Well, no offense, but does this seem right to you?" Theo asked, jutting his chin towards Isabel's tent as she quickly
refocused on the sand beneath her knees, ducking Nico's subsequent glance. "You could stop this, you know.
Ignotus and Antioch aside, you could do something about this. And honestly, what would the Peverell brothers even
be without you? Dead is my guess."

Nico shook his head. "No, they're - they're brilliant, and - "

"Yes, brilliant, and completely incapable of not warring against each other," Theo remarked. "They both wanted
Cadmus back, didn't they - and what the fuck for?" he pressed knowingly. "So they could distract themselves with
how much they hate him again? So they could all destroy each other over time until only one of them is left
standing? Do you think," Theo pressed in a cruel, mean voice that made Isabel want to curl up in a ball, "that
Ignotus really cares what you've done for him? That if he's the only one left, he might magically wake up and love
you?" Nico flinched. "No, he won't. Because even if Ignotus destroys his brothers, it still won't be over, Nico.
They'll still be the ones taking up all the room in his heart."

"He hates his brothers," Nico insisted firmly. "You don't know him."

"I know better than most people that love and hate are separated by an upsettingly thin fucking line," Theo said
drily, and Nico grimaced, beginning to pace slightly in the sand.

"It doesn't matter," Nico argued, more to himself than to Theo. "Whatever Ignotus wants, and whether he chooses
me or not, it doesn't matter. I can protect him without needing anything in return. I'm not doing this to make him
love me, I'm just - " he hesitated, swallowing. "I'm just protecting him, no matter what."

Another long pause.

"That's fucked," Theo commented eventually. "You have to know that's really, very fucked."

"I know that," Nico snapped, and suddenly raised a narrow stick he'd been keeping in his sleeve, prompting Theo to
step back with his hands in the air. "And I know I can't have you saying anything to Harry. I can't let it happen, no
matter what I - " He glanced at Isabel again, who looked down, trying to process what he could mean and finding
her brain fuzzy once more. "No matter how wrong I think this is. I'm not going to let anything happen to him."

"So don't, then," Theo said, much too carelessly for a man with something vaguely dangerous poking into his chest.
"I won't tell Harry. In fact," he mused, "I wouldn't have anything to tell Harry at all, actually, if you fixed this
yourself, would I?"

Nico blinked. "What?"

"Well, Ignotus only needs her out of the way. There's a hundred ways to do that," Theo noted. "Is this really the best
one?"

Nico glanced towards Isabel again, who quickly buried her attention in the sand.
"Just promise me you'll fix it," Theo invited, "and I promise you Harry will never have to know what Ignotus did.
He won't like it if he knew," he warned. "Nobody would, Nico, and especially not Harry Potter."

Isabel blinked again, suffering another wave of familiarity before her thoughts settled to unpleasant buzzing, like a
fly that hovered near her ear.

"I did something behind Ignotus' back once," Nico said, swallowing hard. "I thought it was the right thing, but it
destroyed him. Nearly killed him. I can't do it again. I can't."

Nico wasn't looking, troubled as he was by his own thoughts, but Isabel saw Theo's mouth curve up in a furtive
smile. She reached out helplessly, wanting to warn Nico that he'd already said something terribly dangerous, but by
the time Nico raised his gaze to Theo's, the subtle smile was gone.

"What did you do, Nico?" Theo asked softly, and Isabel blinked.

No, wait, don't tell him, she started to say, finding Nico to be the weaker one in the conversation and wanting
desperately to protect him, but suddenly her thoughts blurred, abruptly white-hot with panic.

Her deadline. It was so soon, wasn't it? She had work to do.

She soothed, gradually calmed by the thought.

Isabel Lewin may not remember much, but she definitely always remembered the most important thing, and it was
that she needed to return immediately to her work.

The Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
October 23, 2003
4:45 a.m.

Hermione stumbled down to Draco's study-turned-potions workshop, staring blearily into the room before squinting
directly at his back.

"Did something just explode?" she asked neutrally, and he turned, his glasses slightly askew.

"No," he replied in a very obvious lie, and she yawned, wandering into the room behind him.

"Did you even come to bed?" she asked, throwing herself onto the sofa and stretching out, eyeing the silhouette of
his shoulders. "You said 'five minutes' at what, one in the morning?"

"I'm trying to restructure an impossible potion from a fragment small enough to fill the bevel of a tiny Victorian
ring, Granger, with only a list of potion items that an ineffectual thief half-remembers," he reminded her, instantly
dissolving to distraction. "So, unsurprisingly, it's not working particularly well. And I'm not tired," he added, waving
a hand to where his pre-existing vials sat on the corner of his workbench. "Obviously I have things to take care of
that."

"How dependent on potions are you?" Hermione asked him, and he shrugged.

"Not very," he said. "Or, I don't know, extremely. Depends, I guess."

"Not very healthy," she noted, and he scoffed.

"I have less than a week to figure this out, Granger," he reminded her, turning briefly over his shoulder to swipe a
hand through his hair in frustration. "I hardly think worrying about my mental health - "

"Lack thereof," she corrected.

" - is any fruitful activity," he sniffed, glaring at her as he adjusted his glasses. "Why are you here, anyway? Go back
to sleep."

"Well, I heard something explode," she reminded him, gesturing to the fire that had clearly been hastily put out in
the corner, "so that's why I'm here. But I might as well try to be useful, I imagine."

"And you think it's useful to lecture me?" Draco prompted, and paused. "Nevermind. I forgot who I was speaking to,
so that's on me - "

"Why would anyone want this sort of potion?" Hermione mused aloud. "Adrenaline seems an odd thing to invest
in."

"Well, Emmanuel Gagnon was a black market potioneer," Draco supplied absently, glancing down at a magically
enlarged drop of potion. "He made millions by providing illegal potions to quidditch players."

"But doesn't the Ministry test for that?" Hermione asked, sitting up. "Surely they would."

"Testing before games is standard, yes, but the benefit of adrenaline is mostly in training," Draco informed her,
eyeing a leaf of something that looked as if it would very much enjoy murdering someone. "People always think the
advantage of using performance-enhancing potions is during the actual competition, but that's not strictly true. If you
can perform better in training - if you can recover faster, and train harder and longer," he clarified, leaping back as
he nearly ignited a second explosive fire, "then you're more likely to win the actual game. Same as the benefit of
studying for an exam versus not studying, to put it in terms you'd understand."

"I can understand training, Malfoy," Hermione reminded him, rolling her eyes. "I've done some of it here and there,
as you might recall, and I get it. If you can do more drills than your opponents, then you'll be better in a fight."

"Exactly," Draco confirmed, nearly putting his wand in his cauldron and appearing to remember at the last second
that it was not, in fact, whatever vial he'd been looking for. "Granger, for fuck's sake. You're distracting me."

"Why can't you just buy a similar potion?" Hermione asked him, rising to her feet. "Surely the poison Umbridge and
Bagman used is just the adrenaline potion in a lethal dose, right? Just enough of it to stop the heart?"

"Well, that's the part I can't figure out," Draco admitted gruffly. "If it's too lethal, it's something the magical autopsy
would have shown. Besides, those adrenaline potions aren't easy to come by," he added, giving her a sharply pointed
glance. "Especially now that Gagnon's in prison."

"Why don't we just ask him, then?" Hermione suggested, and Draco paused, his spine appearing to abruptly rocket
upright.

"Ask him," he said slowly. "Just - just wander into French prison and ask him?"

Hermione hesitated. "Well, I just thought that - "

"Granger, that's brilliant," Draco announced, turning abruptly to face her. "Of course, we'll just go to French
Azkaban, locate Emmanuel Gagnon inside what is surely a veritable fortress, break into his cell, ask him to tell us
the secrets of his life's work, sneak back out - "

"Fine, fine," Hermione sighed. "I get it, there's no need to - "

"Get what?" Draco pressed briskly, nudging his glasses up on his nose. "Granger, I'm serious. I've broken into
prisons before," he added, as if this were possibly anything to be proud of. "It's really not as hard as it sounds to get
in, provided you're not trying to take anything out. You just have to know the layout, and whatever specific novelty
there is - "

"Novelty?" she echoed weakly.

"Yes," he confirmed. "Azkaban has dementors, obviously. Dvorets had enchanted bars that arbitrarily turn into
knives. Nurmengard has armed guards who are raised from birth to defend it - "

"Bloody hell," Hermione said, choosing an odd time to begin using Ron's favorite phrase, and Draco shrugged.

"Right, so, we just have to know what Narnia has, and - "

"Narnia?" Hermione echoed, and Draco nodded.

"It has a longer French name," he assured her, "but that's just what everyone calls it. Not sure why, really - "

"Does it have a lion, a witch, and a wardrobe?" Hermione asked faintly, and Draco tilted his head, considering it.

"I mean, it's certainly possible. That's an odd combination, but - "

"No, I meant - " Hermione fought a laugh. "No, it's just - there are muggle books about a place called Narnia," she
explained, as Draco frowned. "These, um. These four children pass through a wardrobe into a magical world, and,
well - "

"Yeah, well, odds are those books are vastly mistaken," Draco informed her. "But as to the details - " He paused,
groaning. "I suppose Potter would know what's in the prison."

"What?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Why would Harry know?"

"Because Potter's an Auror," Draco reminded her, with a subtle air of having expressed the obvious. "He'll have
studied every wizarding prison there is. It's required in training."

"How do you know that?" Hermione prompted, surprised, and Draco shrugged, not quite meeting her eye.

"I looked into it once," he mumbled, glancing at his watch. "Well, we'll just have to stop by his office, I suppose.
Better if we can go through the Ministry, anyway. Probably need his permission to apparate internationally, so - "

"We?" Hermione squeaked, realizing much too late that she was included in his mad plan. "You really think we're
going to break into a wizard prison, what - later today?"

Draco arched a brow. "Do you have other plans?" he prompted. "Don't tell me Pansy scheduled you a dress fitting
today."

She groaned. "Right, and also, about that - "

"Don't worry, the wedding is hugely fake," Draco reminded her. "There'll be a murder before we even get to the
ceremony, so don't bother fussing, we haven't the time. Any other reason we can't add this to our list of heists? Oh,
heist again," he chuckled inanely to himself, and Hermione blinked, utterly confounded.

"Are you stoned?" she asked him seriously, and he glanced up at her, rolling his eyes.

"You know, I thought you'd be pleased," he informed her, grabbing a dish towel and scrubbing his forearms with it.
"Didn't you just recently become enamored with criminality? And besides, there's an extremely high likelihood
you'll get to fight someone," he added, "and I know how you love any opportunity for an inelegant brawl - "

"Are you really not even concerned about this?" she asked bluntly, and he strode over to her, pausing beside her to
spare a lofty glance down his nose.

"Scared, Granger?" he murmured in her ear, his breath settling against the bare skin of her neck, and before she
could think to answer, he'd already disappeared, leaving her alone in the room with the strangest impression she'd
just been ruthlessly schooled.

a/n: Dedicated to jazzystclaire, devlintrue, and skyemoor!

 34. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobes

Chapter 34: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobes

(Or, alternatively, The Honey Trap)

The Ministry of Magic

Department of Magical Law Enforcement
October 23, 2003
9:05 a.m.

"I'm sorry," Harry said slowly, "did you two just say you wanted to break into Narnia?"

"Yes," Draco replied, his tone brisk and businesslike. "Though it should be noted that when I said it, I used bigger
words."

"I'll add it to the minutes, Malfoy," Harry replied drily, turning to Hermione. "I take it you agree with this?"

"Well…" She hesitated. "'Agree' is a strong word, but - "

"But you approve?"

"Well, no, not that either," she demurred. "But still, I think it was technically my idea, so - "

"Let me save you some time, Granger," Draco interrupted brusquely, turning to Harry. "Potter, we're doing it. It's
very simple. So," he announced, "are you going to help us or not?"

Harry paused, considering it.

"Fine," he conceded. "But I have two conditions."

"Unacceptable," Draco replied.

"Honestly, Malfoy," Hermione sighed, "pick your battles - "

"Well that's very thoughtful advice, Granger, but vastly unhelpful, seeing as I obviously picked all of them - "

"Condition one," Harry cut in, brushing his fingers thoughtfully against his mouth. "I'm coming with you."

At that, Draco paused, blinking. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I said I'm coming with you," Harry repeated. "First of all, I'm the only one of us who knows what's in Narnia, so
yeah, I'm not letting you go alone. That," he added, "and more importantly, I should really keep an eye on you two.
It's one thing to know you're doing something stupid, but quite another to fully relinquish control."

"Oh, wonderful," Draco scoffed, "so the Chosen One is keeping an eye, then, is he - "

"Besides, it'll save you the time you need getting a permit to apparate," Harry continued. "And as for the second
condition - "

"There's another condition?" Draco interrupted.

"Haven't you been listening, Malfoy?"

"Ignore him, Harry," Hermione sighed. "His comprehension skills are somewhat flawed - "

"Fucking excuse me," Draco cut in, "but I hardly think there's any reason for name calling - "

Hermione scoffed. "What name did I call you?"

"I heard it, Granger. It was implied - "

"Hey." Harry reached over his desk, snapping his fingers. "Focus. My second condition?"

"Right, yes, fine - "

"Hold on," Hermione interrupted. "What exactly is the deal with Narnia?"

"Pensieves," Harry replied, and paused. "Sort of. Same concept, anyway, inside of these - well," he amended,
hesitating, "you'll see. And anyway, as I was saying - "

"Pensieves?" Hermione echoed, frowning. "What on earth for?"

"It's, ah. To make the inmates relive their worst and most painful traumas on repeat," Harry mumbled swiftly. "And
anyway, as to my second condition - "

"But that's inhuman!" Hermione gasped, cutting him off.

"Oh really, Granger," Draco drawled, "and the soul-sucking monsters in Azkaban are better?"

"I - well," Hermione said, faltering, "that's also inhuman, but - "

"The pensieves are what make Narnia especially easy to break into," Harry commented, drumming his fingers
against the desk. "It's just that once you're there, there's a good chance you won't find your way out."

"Find your way out?" Hermione echoed, uncertain. "But then how would we - "

"This is my point," Harry acknowledged. "This is why there are two conditions."

"Fine," Draco grumbled. "What's your second condition, then?"

"Well thank you, Malfoy, I'm so glad you asked. As it happens," Harry mused, "there's someone else I want to come
with us. For tactical reasons."

"Tactical reasons?" Hermione echoed. "Isn't three people enough of a crowd?"

"Yes, Granger," Draco remarked, "three is, aphoristically speaking, the very definition of a crowd - "

"Normally I'd keep things small, but in this case, I'm not budging," Harry cut in firmly. "Two conditions for my
help, take them or leave them."

A pause.

"It would make things easier, Malfoy," Hermione offered tentatively, turning to him.

Draco slid a glance at her. "Hush, Granger. We can't let him know he has the upper hand."

Harry sighed. "You know I can hear you, right?"

"Potter, honestly," Draco retorted. "It's very rude to eavesdrop on a private conversation - "

"Are you agreeing to my terms or not, Malfoy?" Harry demanded.

"What is this, a hostage negotiation?"

"Harry, again, ignore him," Hermione sighed. "It really is hard to get things done from day to day if you don't."

"Granger, my fucking word - "

"Look, I have a lot of work to do," Harry interrupted, "so if you're not going to be reasonable about it, then - "

"Fine," Draco snapped, exasperated. "Who, pray tell, do you want to come, Potter?"

The League of Eternality

Unplottable location
8:47 a.m.

"You know," Theo exhaled, lazily levitating one box on top of another, "you could just, I don't know. Destroy
everything that's in here, and then moving would be hardly an issue at all."

"Well, large scale destruction is ultimately the goal," Cad agreed, straightening with a huff. "Honestly," he exhaled,
gesturing around the room, "I can't decide if I'm quietly pleased that neither of my brothers took my wing of the
house or deeply insulted that Montague's using it for storage."

"Well, think what Antioch and Ignotus might have done with it otherwise. A Roman bathhouse," Theo suggested,
and Cad shuddered. "Or, I don't know, some kind of sex dungeon - "

"Stop." Cad made a face, tugging at the thick, dusty curtains and charming the windows open, permitting a
surprisingly icy breeze. "Well, that's better. I always did prefer this side of the house."

Theo arched a brow. "As opposed to?"

"The summer side," Cad said simply. "I loathe humidity."

As if to prove it, he smoothed his hair down, testing for fly-aways.

"So," Cad continued, vanishing most of the dust, "you said you had something of interest?"

"I do," Theo said, and slipped a vial from the pocket of his trousers, holding it up for Cad's inspection. "How the
fuck do these work?"

"What is that, a memory?" Cad asked, swiping at his forehead. "Or no, wait. A secret?"

"Yes," Theo confirmed smugly. "Nicholas Flamel's secret, in fact."

He caught the twitching of Cad's lips into a slow, satisfied smirk. "I thought you didn't know how the secrets
worked."

"I clearly don't," Theo provided, gesturing vaguely to his previous remark, "but I know a secret when I hear one,
believe me."

"You do seem rather well-versed in them," Cad agreed, climbing over a box to inspect the vial between Theo's
fingers. "It's a good one, I take it?"

"Oh, an excellent one," Theo confirmed. "Thoroughly devastating. A little glass-encased psychological explosive, if
you will."

"You really are a prince of chaos, aren't you?" Cad murmured, arching a brow as he glanced at Theo. "You're
enjoying this."

"Well, I'm not not enjoying it," Theo agreed, "but it's hardly purposeless. As you might guess, there's one target I do
plan to aim for, and this is a very helpful arrow in my quiver."

"Mm, I see, and is th-"

Cad broke off, frowning at something over Theo's shoulder, and Theo turned, finding a silvery stag that swept
through the sturdy brick wall, gracefully emerging from the blocked-up fireplace.
"Nott," the stag said in Harry's voice, "I need a favor."

Cad's gaze slid to Theo's, expectant.

"Well," Theo said, "as he very well knows, I hardly run around granting fav-"

"I know you don't run around granting favors," the stag continued, persisting its pre-recorded message despite
Theo's interruption, "but I think you'll like this one. Plays well to your particular skillset."

"Apologies. He's a very dirty boy," Theo supplied airily to Cad, who rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to need you to come to the Ministry as soon as possible. And yes, Nott, I do mean now, and don't bother
telling me to fuck off, you know perfectly well I can't hear you."

"Doesn't make it less fun," Theo muttered.

"I'm here with Malfoy and Granger, so try not to dawdle - "

Theo scoffed. "It's as if he's forgotten that I have literally never dawdled in my entire li-"

" - and yes, I know, you have never dawdled ever in your life," the stag sniffed, "but this, Nott - whatever you're
presently doing - is the actual definition of dawdling. I'm expecting to see you in my office in ten minutes or less."

"Well, set achievable goals, I always s-"

"Don't tell me to set achievable goals," the stag cut in, and fixed its translucent gaze on him. "Just get here, Nott."

With that, the stag dissipated into empty air, leaving Cad to fold his arms over his chest, expectantly amused.

"What's that about?" he prompted, and Theo shrugged.

"I suppose I have nine minutes and forty seconds to find out," he replied. "Though, by the sounds of it, it's going to
be a classic Nottpott-Dramione mess-around."

Cad's nose wrinkled. "I genuinely hope you're not committed to the 'Nottpott' portmanteau, as it's a bit of a fucking
travesty - "

"Well, I'm certainly not committed in any healthy way," Theo replied spiritedly, about to return the vial containing
Nico's secret to his pocket before Cad reached out, stopping him. "What?" Theo asked, glancing suspiciously at him.

"Let me test it," Cad offered, holding his hand out for the vial. "You wanted to know how the secrets work, didn't
you? And nobody but Dionisia Trelawney has ever been able to use them. But if anyone's going to figure it out…"

He gestured pointedly to himself, and Theo scoffed.

"Are you saying that I can't sort it for myself?" he prompted irritably, and Cad shrugged.

"I'm certainly saying you don't have time to sort it," he clarified, gesturing to where the patronus had been. "I
thought you were running off to have a mess-around with your boyfriend and his star-crossed spies?"

"Hey," Theo retorted facetiously, brandishing the vial at him. "Don't belittle the mess-around, Peverell."

Cad chuckled, raising his hands in the air. "Fine, fine. But leave the secret with me," he suggested, and Theo
frowned. "I just want to test it," Cad assured him quickly. "If I can figure out how to use it, then I can most likely
use the network of secrets Lady Revel left behind, and considering both my brothers have secrets within it - "

"If I give it to you, I lose the secret," Theo protested. "Its power gets diluted. Isn't that the entire point of the
secrets?"
"So? Magical significant or not, it still carries leverage," Cad reminded him. "You can't currently use the magic
coming from it, and you don't un-know it just by giving it to me. So what do you really lose?"

A valid point, Theo thought, and a highly unacceptable offering.

"You know, believe it or not, I do have an end goal," Theo said slowly. "Whatever it is you're up to - and however
much our goals may coincide - I'm not just your lackey, Cad."

"I just want to know how it works," Cad assured him, unwavering. "I have no interest in pursuing anything outside
of your personal destructive tendencies, Nott. I know your angle in all this, and I won't do anything to disrupt it. But
you have to admit," he pronounced, taking a step forward with his hand outstretched, "if anyone's going to figure it
out, it's me."

Theo hesitated. Cad wasn't exactly wrong, and knowing how the larger network of magic worked was a valuable
thing, certainly - but still. Cadmus Peverell was perhaps the most cunning and least predictable person Theo had
ever met, and it was a hefty gamble either way.

"Fine," Theo determined eventually, placing the vial in Cad's hand. "I don't know what I was going to do with it
anyway. But I want to know how it works when you figure it out," he warned, and Cad nodded, closing his fingers
around the vial.

"Done," Cad confirmed. "You have my word."

"Well, that means very little, but thank you for the effort." Theo turned to leave but paused, gesturing around the
room. "By the way, in the modern age, helping someone move is considered a significant favor," he offered to Cad
over his shoulder. "Which means you owe me something now."

"You moved three boxes," Cad scoffed.

"Yes," Theo knowingly agreed, "but I don't see Antioch or Ignotus doing any heavy lifting. Do you?"

Cad, unable to combat such an irrefutable point, merely rolled his eyes. On that, his final note of discord, Theo
disapparated from the room, consenting to languidly acquiesce to Harry Potter's urgent summons.

The Ministry of Magic

Department of Magical Law Enforcement
9:27 a.m.

"You're late," Harry said without looking up, hearing the pop that signaled Theo's presence in his office.

"Christ, Potter, don't you have wards?" Draco demanded, jerking back at Theo's appearance. "You can't just let in
every haphazard lunatic that tries to break into the Ministry - "

"He has wards," Theo informed Draco, transfiguring an armchair and falling into it. "I'm just permitted entry. And as
for my tardiness," he announced grandly, summoning Harry's coffee with a flick of his wand and taking a loud,
obtrusive sip, "better to arrive late than come early, Potter."

Harry looked up with a stifled groan, accidentally catching Hermione's eye. She shook her head, giving him a
pointedly knowing glance, but (thankfully) said nothing.

"Gross," Draco said, and Theo smirked, gesturing for Harry to proceed.

"Yes, Potter?" he prompted. "You needed something?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "We're breaking into Narnia."

"The French prison, or the transparently religious muggle book series?" Theo asked, and at Hermione's surprised
glance, he shrugged. "What, Granger? I read."

"The prison," Harry said, cutting in before she could answer. "Unless you're busy?"

"Eh, I could make time," Theo drawled in response, taking another loud slurp. "I take it you want me there for recon
getting in and out?"

"Mostly out," Harry confirmed. "The pensieve chambers that each inmate is bound to make it so that getting in isn't
particularly difficult, because it's close to impossible to find your way out. I'd prefer to have someone there who's
well-versed in skullduggery - or, you know. Some sort of Hansel and Gretel breadcrumbs situation."

"Good reference," Hermione said, as Theo frowned, clearly missing it.

"Listen, crumbs or no crumbs, I object to being considered not well-versed in skullduggery," Draco protested, but
Theo leaned over, pausing him with a look.

"You know this is a three-man job, at least," Theo informed Draco. "I presume you're thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Honeypot?" Draco supplied and Theo nodded.

"Yes, honeypot. We need muscle, mouthpiece, and bait, which means we need - "

"What?" Hermione squawked, leaning over to glare at him. "You're using me as bait? That's completely sexist! I'm
the one with hand-to-hand combat skills, and - "

"I definitely didn't mean you, sugartits," Theo cut in, rolling his eyes. "No offense, but you're not exactly a world-
class seductress. Potter's the bait," he clarified airily, taking another loud, disruptive sip.

"What?" Harry and Hermione demanded in unison, just before he could have sworn she whispered "why aren't I the
bait?" to herself, frowning slightly at her lap.

"What do you mean I'm the bait?" Harry prompted grumpily, and Theo glanced up, his eyes dancing in a way Harry
had learned long ago was deeply, distressingly dangerous.

"Some people just have a gift for it," Theo said simply, pairing the statement with something that might have been a
wink before turning back to Draco. "Anything else I should know about what you're up to?"

"Just trying to talk to Gagnon," Draco supplied, shrugging. "See if we can't get the potion."

"Won't that be relatively difficult to do?" Theo asked, glancing at Harry. "Seeing as by the sounds of it, he'll be face-
first in a living nightmare."

"Well, that's the whole point of having you," Harry reminded him. "Hermione's the muscle in case you run into
trouble, Draco's the one who needs to talk to Gagnon, I'm the - "

"Honeypot?" Theo supplied, grinning. "You bet your sweet arse you are, Potter."

"Right," Harry acknowledged uncomfortably, wondering whether to be dismayed or begrudgingly flattered. "Which
leaves you to sort out how to get in and out without detection. Doable?" he prompted, and immediately regretted it
as Theo's tongue slid between his lips, the slip of it drawn lightly over them as he spared Harry a troubling,
uniquely-Theo smirk.

"Highly doable," Theo confirmed, as Hermione rolled her eyes again and Harry felt his cheeks burn slightly,
suddenly grateful that his lap was concealed behind his desk.

Blaise Zabini's flat

Diagon Alley
10:04 a.m.

"What's this?" Blaise asked, sitting up from beneath his sheets and reaching out for the vial that Parvati was
delicately holding between her fingers. "It's not going to explode, is it?" he asked, gesturing warily to his bar chest,
and she gave a dry laugh, settling herself on the bed next to him.

"No," she said, "though it's not safe, either. Not exactly."

Blaise made a face. "Patil, I'm going to have to request you not hand me dangerous items while my dick remains so
perilously exposed - "

"It's your secret," Parvati clarified, turning lazily to face him. "I had it removed from Dionisia's network."

Blaise paused, opening his mouth and then closing it.

"How?" he determined suspiciously, but she merely shrugged.

"Consider it a personal favor," she replied, watching him eye the vial. "Though simply possessing it doesn't do you
much good. You should really destroy it."

"Which means…?" Blaise prompted, and Parvati shrugged again.

"Tell someone," she said. "Anyone. The more secret something is," she explained, "the more power it retains. But it
can't destroy you if it no longer holds any meaning."

Blaise considered it, posturing silently.

"What's your secret?" he asked, and Parvati arched a brow, hesitating.

"I can't tell you mine," she said after a beat of delay. "It's part of the deal I made to get yours."

Blaise frowned. "But then - "

"Just do something with it," Parvati interrupted, reaching out to brush her fingertips against the sharp blade of his
hip. "You'll be safer if you do," she added, her gaze following the lines of his torso, and he pulled her closer,
matching her hips to his.

"Seems unfair to tell you my secret if you can't tell me yours," he commented, and she tilted her chin up, giving him
a particularly unreadable glance.

"I didn't say you had to tell me," she informed him. "You can tell anyone you want to."

"But you already knew I was going to tell you, I assume," he guessed, and she didn't say anything to dispute it. "Do
you already know what it is?"

"I - " she hesitated. "I've seen this moment before, yes, if that's your question. Recently."

"And?"

"And," she exhaled, permitting him the usual sharpness of her candor, "I know you don't want to do it, but you tell
me. Eventually."

Blaise let out a muted groan, pulling her closer with a low chuckle.

"You could be lying to me," he said, murmuring it as he held up the vial, contemplating it in the light. "You've
somehow managed that much power over me, do you realize that? You have to know that. I barely question whether
you might just be saying things to get me to do what you want - and still, these visions you have might not even be
real," he added with a little scoff. "I have no way of knowing, and yet I'm compelled to believe you."
Parvati said nothing, waiting, and Blaise sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable.

"I tell people that I don't know who my father is," he admitted slowly, "or I lie about him, but the truth is that I know
him. I've met him, actually. He's sort of a low level con artist who seduced my mother when she was first getting
started in this business." He paused, clearing his throat. "He's a nobody. A handsome, persuasive nobody who broke
my mother's heart and cured her of her faith in love, and then he disappeared forever."

Parvati waited, patiently drawing circles with her nails across his bare chest.

"My mother always made it seem like such a preferable thing, being alone. She preferred the gaps between husbands
to the times she was actually married. And then I met my father, and I decided she was right. I mean, why should I
ever define myself by someone else? Better to be alone, beholden to no one." He paused, eyeing the vial in his hand
again. "I thought I would see something especially compelling in my father, or possibly something of myself, but I
didn't. So, I decided right then that a man is what he makes himself, and not what his father makes him. My father is
a nobody, but I," Blaise exhaled, "am a Princeling. And still, the secret is that I fear ending up like him, if only
because I carry some of him in my blood."

He waited a moment, permitting the statement to settle in the air, and then he held up the vial, eyeing it as it slowly
seemed to shrink, losing color until the contents itself seem to have faded to a wispy-thin fog. It dissipating, like
mist, and then reformed like condensation around the outside of the glass, cool beneath his fingertips.

Blaise had never destroyed a secret before, having never permitted most of them to leave his lips; but this, he was
willing to bet, meant he'd successfully managed it. It felt different, anyway; the world. The vial. The contents of his
soul.

Everything felt slightly different, he thought, now that he'd shared his secret with her.

"Strange to think that was worth Lady Revel holding onto," Blaise murmured, frowning slightly, and Parvati shifted
to take hold of his face in both her hands, stroking her thumb along the angles of his cheeks.

"The secrets from the heart are always more powerful," she told him. "Dionisia always said so. They're imbued with
something that no other magic can create, or even duplicate. And besides, I think she would have understood it," she
added, contemplating it. "Yours, I mean. I think she would have found that secret very much like one of her own, if
she'd ever had one."

"And how do you know so much about her secrets, Patil?" Blaise prompted wryly, lifting her chin to catch her eye.

"Oh, I know about a lot of things," she assured him. "Like, for example, what comes next," she murmured, sliding
her hand down his torso, "after you've told me your life's biggest secret."

"And?" he asked, immediately blinking with surprise as she shoved him flat on his back, straddling him in one
smooth, unhindered motion.

"I think," she said, shifting to kiss the hollow beneath his sternum, "that this time, I'll just let you be surprised,
Zabini."

Narnia Wizarding Prison

A cave somewhere in France
2:04 p.m.

"You are 'arry Potter," gasped one of the guards in somewhat jagged English, though the accent was hardly the most
concerning thing about him. Theo had already said it best: holy fuck, it's a prison full of Dracos, he'd remarked in
awe, staring around at the half-blind vampires whose silvery hair were each tied into long plaits that hung down the
bare skin of their narrow, gleaming spines.

Draco, unsurprisingly, had not taken that particular comment well.

"Er, I am Harry Potter, yes," Harry confirmed to the vampire, trying not to be too obviously alarmed by the low
lighting of the prison. He blinked several times, trying to adjust to the darkness in the cavernous labyrinth, but it was
obvious that all of the guards, this one included, were far more able to see the details of his face than he was able to
make out any of their features. "I didn't realize you'd know who I was."

"But of ceeeeoourse," the vampire persisted, as Harry fought the urge to glance behind him, checking for the others.
He hoped the other three knew what they were doing; he'd certainly told them as much as he could think to prepare
them with, but outside of the basic layout of the prison (plus the obvious piece of advice: don't step inside any of the
cells) there wasn't much else to know in advance. "Marcel!" the vampire abruptly shouted, turning over his shoulder
and gesturing to one of his fellow guards. "Come loooook, loooook!"

"Ees zat 'arry Potter?" asked the guard named Marcel, who by then had drawn the attention of several more guards
watching the cavernous entry to Narnia. "Whatever ees 'e doing 'ere, Marius?"

"Busy-ness pertaining to ze staaate?" guessed the first vampire, who was ostensibly called Marius, and Harry
quickly shook his head.

"No, no, nothing like that," he assured them hastily. An official visit would require official logs of his presence,
which was to be avoided at all costs. "It's just - well, I, um. I thought maybe I could have a tour," Harry suggested,
unsure how to handle the situation further. What on earth does a honeypot do? he'd asked Theo, who'd merely
grinned, passing Harry another conspiratorial wink before turning back to antagonize Draco. "I mean, if you don't
mind. I'm an Auror and I've been to Azkaban many times, so this is, um - it's very fascinating, and - "

"You aaare wanting a tour of ze chaaaambres?" Marcel asked, glancing at Marius. "Well, zat would be hhhighly
unorthodox - "

"But een fairness, your curiooohhhsity ees understandable. Azkaban ees merely le box for amateurs," Marius
scoffed, as all of the guards gravely nodded their pale heads in agreement.

"Oh, I know you must have rules about visitors, and I would hate to distract you from your very pressing duties,"
Harry offered apologetically. Play up the beard, Hermione had suggested optimistically, and he scratched at it now,
vacantly trying to determine a successful route of entry. "It's just that I'd heard so much about the guards at Narnia,
and, you know. It would be such a, um - rare and special honor if I could hear about your work - "

"Special?" the first vampire asked, aghast, and for a moment, Harry worried he'd offended him until it became
increasingly obvious that that was not, in fact, the case. "You theeeeenk eet ees we who are special?" the vampire
gasped. "You are ze Boy 'oo Lived! Marcel, did you 'ear zaaaat? Did you 'ear 'im?"

"Oui, yes, I 'eard 'im, Marius," Marcel said, as Harry fought not to be alarmed by the other vampire guards who'd
gathered curiously around them. "You weesh a tour, really, from us? We are not veeery well liked," he lamented
sadly, in a way that would almost certainly have made Harry feel quite sad for him, if it hadn't been for the bright
flash of his sharpened canines in the dim light of the cave. "Eet is truly a prison for all of us to be trapped 'ere,
positively 'aaaaated for our looks while we waaaaste awaaaaay - "

"Waste away?" Harry echoed, managing as reassuring a smile as he could conjure under the circumstances. "No, no,
you're all so -" He paused. "You're all very, you know. Beautiful, and um - rare," he added hurriedly, as the silver-
sheened vampires crowded more pressingly around him. "And, er. Just very unique, and, well," he continued hastily,
"I suppose it would be rather uncouth of me to say handsome, but - "

At that, Marius looked like he might faint, though it was admittedly difficult to compare his initial paleness to the
color that drained from his face.

"Basile!" he barked over his shoulder, holding his pale hands to his bloodless cheeks. "Basile, come, and bring bring
ze ozers, tout de suite!"

"The others?" Harry echoed, stifling another wave of nerves as one of the vampires leaned in, eyeing Harry's neck a
little more closely than he might have preferred. "How many others?"
"Well, you must 'ave ze full experiaaaance, le tour ultime!" Marcel pronounced, his teeth glinting in the dimness of
the cave. "Besides, eet ees not like zese prisoneeeers can get out," he added with a laugh, gesturing through one of
the corridors. "And whoever would want to come een? Zey would only be trapped eeeenside a nightmaaaare!"

"Well," Harry exhaled, fighting a grimace as he fought not to look over his shoulder; at least he'd held up his role in
the break-in. The rest, he reminded himself, was up to Theo. "I guess that's a very salient point."

"You aaaare too kind," Marcel replied, beaming, as the vampire called Basile looped an arm through Harry's,
gallantly ushering him into the corridor.

2:19 p.m.

"I hate to point out the obvious," Hermione said at a loud whisper as they watched Harry disappear with the Narnia
guards, "but I really don't think I can successfully fight a vampire. They're unnaturally fast - quite literally
inhumanly fast, actually, and plus there's that whole blood thing - "

"Well, then I guess you'll have to settle for being an extra set of brains instead of muscle then, Granger," Theo
sniffed airily, "unless that's too difficult for you."

She glared briefly at him, and he shrugged, giving her an annoying look of total innocence until Draco yanked him
forward, gesturing down to the enchanted map Harry had sketched out for them.

"Potter thinks Gagnon is here," Draco said, pointing to one of the narrow winding corridors on the map, "which
means we need to follow - " He looked up, squinting in the dark. "That path, and then take a sharp right, followed by
a - " he trailed off, turning the map sideways. "Nope, sorry. That was upside down."

"Give me that," Hermione sighed exasperatedly, tearing it from his hands. She frowned, though, upon realizing that
the entire prison was a circular maze, curling in on itself like a snail shell. "Yes, okay, that path," she permitted,
pointing, "and then a sharp left, Malfoy, not right - "

Luckily Harry's surprising appeal had done them quite a lot of good, emptying the corridors in a matter of minutes.
It was vastly helpful, particularly considering that their inability to cast any light through the labyrinthine passages
left them to stumble over each other in a somewhat artless (read: clanging) manner.

"No magic," Theo determined unhappily, grimacing. "Not surprising, I suppose. Vampires have magic of their own,
so they hardly need wands. Must have a dampener of some kind."

"Great," Draco sighed, tucking his wand back into the pocket of his robe. "Well, at least I have the vials. If it comes
down to something terrible, I assume they'll still work - "

"What are those?" Hermione asked, catching the glints of metal from along the pitch-black walls of the cave. "Is
there something in the walls?" She reached out, holding a hand against what felt like stone. "It's almost like -
shaking," she mused, feeling some sort of strange, jolting vibration under her hand. "Tremors, almost."

"These," Theo said, pausing to step closer to the metal, "look like door handles."

The three of them paused, eyeing the wall until shapes gradually started to form, their eyes adjusting to the darkness.

"Oh my god," Hermione said, stepping back to squint at the entire shape of the door. "They're wardrobes."

"Well, that explains that," Theo said, testing the handle. "And I suppose these are lock-"

"No, wait! Don't - "

But the door had already opened at Theo's touch, prompting the frail, shaking body of what looked to be a middle-
aged man to come tumbling out at his feet, muttering something in rapid French.
"Très désolé," Hermione caught the man saying, his voice panicked and rapid as he flung himself at Draco's feet,
holding tight to his ankles. "Je suis tellement désolé, je vais le réparer, je vais tout réparer, laissez-moi sortir, s'il
vous plaît, s'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît!"

Theo reached down, grabbing the man under his armpits and hauling him back to the wardrobe as he continued to
wail, reaching wildly for Draco's robes.

"Je ne peux pas rentrer," the man said frantically, "je t'en supplie, s'il vous pl-"

"Yikes," Theo determined, depositing him roughly in his cell and rapidly shutting the door, exhaling deeply.
"Should've tried warning me, Granger."

Again, she glared at him, but beside them, Draco shuddered.

"Makes sense now, the shaking," he said, drawing a hand mournfully over his cheeks as he gestured to what they
could now see was motion from the wardrobes' metal handles. "The cells must be locked from the inside, but what
would be the point of locking them from the outside?"

"He must have thought you were a guard," Theo noted with a grimace, and Hermione glanced back at Draco, who
still looked thoroughly shaken. "We should really keep going," Theo added, gesturing forward, and after a second,
Draco permitted a nod, exhaling warily.

"Right. Granger, is it a left?"

"Yes, it's a left right h-"

They came to an abrupt stop, gasping collectively, as the corridors suddenly shifted around them, the spiral of the
maze coiling itself in tighter. In an instant, their surroundings had become unrecognizable, and they each pressed flat
against the cavernous surfaces of the prison as voices began to echo from somewhere that had once been a wall.

" - eet ees very eeemportant not to be in ze same place all ze taaaaiihme," one of the vampires was saying, his voice
growing louder as they approached, "or else 'ow could we call ouuuurselves secure?"

"Yes, right, too true," came Harry's slightly uncomfortable voice. "So, um, how often does Narnia rearrange itself?"

"Constamment," said another vampire. "You see? Eet will change ehhhgain soon - "

"Much better zan stupeeeed Azkaban," another vampire cut in smugly.

"Well, what if you're trying to find a specific inmate?" Harry asked neutrally. "Do you always have to go searching
for them, or-?"

"Ahh, no, not eef you ask ze walls nicely," the first vampire said. "Ze cave ees ehm, how you say? Alaaaihve."

"Alive?" Harry echoed, surprised. "You mean sentient?"

"Oui, yes," the vampire confirmed, and Theo reached out to swipe at Hermione's shoulder, gesturing to a narrow
footpath that was growing ever-so-slightly wider near their feet, indicating another motion from the walls. "Eet 'as
an excellent sense of 'uuumor. Zis cave ees always playing 'ilarious jokes, like when eet swallowed up Basile last
week. We found 'eem two days ago, ahah-ha - "

"This place is so strange," Hermione whispered, reaching forward to catch Draco's expectant hand before he tugged
her along behind him, the corridor only wide enough to fit a single pair of shoulders in any given place. "Do you
think we can really just ask it for Gagnon?"

"Well," Draco said, gesturing to a thick stalagmite that grew up from the center of the path, abruptly pausing them in
place. "I guess we're just going to have to try."
Emmanuel Gagnon wasn't a particularly religious man, nor an especially ideological one, but he'd always been
particularly drawn in by the concept of karma. The idea that a person usually got what he deserved seemed both
extremely believable and highly fitting, and as a result, Emmanuel had never worried much about anyone who
wronged him. Why should he dirty his hands seeking revenge, after all? Karma would inevitably take care of it.

It wasn't as if Emmanuel considered himself a particularly virtuous man, but there were certainly far more heinous
crimes than his, he thought. Yes, he'd developed a potion which mimicked the effects of adrenaline and yes, he'd
sold it to a long list of many, many less-than-virtuous athletes to eventually build himself a fortune, but did he really
imagine those sins to be worthy of a lifetime trapped in a French bureau of regret? He'd imagined his punishment to
be something more appropriate to his crimes, like having his house robbed. Narnia, even by karmic standards,
seemed a bit much.

He eased his own state of being with the fact that yes, he was the originator of the potion, but he clearly had no
convincing motives for murder; he might have been a skillful potioneer, and yes, certain death had always been one
plausible outcome of his invention, but he clearly hadn't stood to gain from the assassinations of three Wizengamot
members, either financially or politically. Eventually, Emmanuel reasoned, the courts would determine the extent of
his alleged crimes to be impossible, and then he would get what he actually deserved, which was probably
something more along the lines of a vaguely painful break-up. Maybe one or two broken bones; the loss of his life's
work, sure, and the destruction of his reputation.

But certainly not trial for murder.

Mostly, though, Emmanuel spent his mental fortitude on the comforting knowledge that Ludo Bagman, who'd
bullied him into the confession to begin with, would surely get what was coming to him. It would be much, much
worse than anything Emmanuel could imagine for him, without question - though that didn't keep him from trying.
In fact, Emmanuel spent most of his time hypothesizing what Ludo's karmic retribution might ultimately turn out to
be.

Would it be something straightforward, like a dementor's kiss? Or perhaps some sort of simulation like the
wardrobes of Narnia, wherein he would have to suffer a losing bet every hour on the hour? Would it be something
along the lines of the titan Prometheus, wherein Ludo might have his liver ripped out into eternity, only to regrow it
every night? That seemed fair.

Emmanuel had once again been distractedly considering Ludo's inevitable demise when the door to his cramped cell
had abruptly opened, revealing a small, vaguely familiar-looking young woman and what Emmanuel thought for a
second was one of the vampiric prison guards until he realized it was the British couple that had dominated the
newspapers around the same time he'd first been arrested. He tore his gaze from the memories playing around him
(yet another venturing into the day he'd been publicly humiliated by a Beauxbatons quidditch player, leading him to
invent his signature potion - although he never got to see that part, obviously) and stared, bemused, at the
silhouetted figures.

"Yes?" he asked, opting to address them in English, and the woman spoke first.

"Emmanuel Gagnon?" she asked, and Emmanuel nodded. "We have some questions for you."

She held out a hand, offering it to him, and he took it, freeing himself with a lurch from the inside of his cell as he
nearly toppled over, his legs faltering beneath him from lack of recent use.

"Sorry," he said awkwardly, and the woman, Hermione Granger, patted his arm, helping to steady him until he was
upright. Emmanuel soon found, though, that both his arms were being held steady, his left one in the iron grip of a
thin, lanky man with a grim expression.

"Hi," said the man, in a way that read more like don't fucking move.

"Hello," Emmanuel replied, looking expectantly at Draco Malfoy, who seemed to be gearing up to speak. "I presume
there's a reason you've come?"

"I need the potion," Draco said. Emmanuel, who'd kept an eye to other potioneers over the years, had heard whispers
of Draco Malfoy's prowess for magical explosives; it didn't surprise him, then, that it was Draco who spoke to him
now. "The adrenaline potion. I need to mimic the one that was used to kill the Warlocks."

"There are many other, more useful potions," Emmanuel reminded him carefully. "Surely you don't need mine."

"Unfortunately, I do," Draco replied. "And I'm prepared to offer you a deal for it."

"The deal being?" Emmanuel prompted.

"Your freedom," Draco supplied easily. "Give me the basis of your adrenaline potion and I'll see to it that the real
murderer is held responsible."

Emmanuel scratched at the very thick beard he hadn't realized he'd been growing. "And what if I'm the real
murderer?"

Draco's mouth quirked. "You aren't."

"Ah, I see," Emmanuel exhaled with a grim chuckle, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Well, I can't give you the
formula."

Beside him, Hermione frowned. "But if it could save you - "

"I'd like to," Emmanuel interrupted, "but I physically can't. Part of the deal," he added grimly, narrowing his eyes.
"There are several taboos placed on a variety of words, the formula for my potion included. I'll die if I attempt it."

"You could write it down," the man holding Emmanuel's left side suggested, and Emmanuel turned to look at him.

"Did you bring a quill?" he asked drily, and when the man (who clearly hadn't actually thought to bring one) didn't
answer, Emmanuel waved a hand, dismissing the concept. "There's an easier way," he conceded, turning back to
Draco. "You can still buy my formula. I have an apprentice who continues to make the potions in my absence. For a
potioneer with your skill, Monsieur Malfoy, it shouldn't be a problem to replicate."

The blond man's brow arched, surprised. "You know of my work?"

Emmanuel shrugged. "You know of mine, do you not? It's the mark of a craftsman."

Draco nodded slowly, thinking about something.

"My potions have a trigger," he said after a moment. "A panic reflex, of sorts. An ingredient that causes it to
detonate if it's being magically examined. For security reasons," he added, as the two on either side of Emmanuel
exchanged glances, alarmed.

"As do mine," Emmanuel confirmed, and behind them, the walls of the cave started to shift again, expanding slightly
to widen the path where they stood. "You'll have to add something to the potion. I can't say its name," he added, and
Draco nodded. "But it is a flower which means secrets. A secret affection, if you will, or an unspoken love."

"Gardenia," Draco said instantly, and Hermione's grip on Emmanuel tightened slightly as he nodded curtly.

"Yes," Emmanuel confirmed, and the dark-haired man on his left scowled slightly.

"How do we know you're not lying about the trigger?" the man asked gruffly, and Emmanuel shrugged.

"I have no reason to lie. I created a potion for athletes," he reminded them, "but the potion you need to create has
features that are not of my invention. Death is your skillset, or so I've heard. I assume it's fair to say your business is
profitable enough to keep you from desiring mine?" Emmanuel prompted, and Draco nodded. "Then if you only
plan to do away with the truly guilty party, it is clearly in my best interest to assist you."

After all, Emmanuel still very much hoped that Ludo Bagman would get what was coming to him, and soon. It
seemed this was to be karma's vehicle, and his by extension.
"How can we buy the potion?" Hermione asked, which was a simple enough matter.

"There is a wide network of quidditch players who would know where to find my apprentice," Emmanuel replied.
"Simply find one, and then - "

Beneath them, the ground moved again, and Draco turned sharply.

"Voices," he said urgently, squinting into the vastness of the darkened corridor. "Fuck, we have to - " He turned over
his shoulder, glancing at the other two as the voices began to grow louder. "We have to hide - "

"We?" the dark-haired man echoed, scoffing. "You look just like them, Draco. You'll blend right in - "

"Do it," Hermione said to Draco quickly, seeming to catch something that had gone unsaid in the air between them
as he hesitated. "Come on, quickly, Malfoy, they're coming - "

"I'm so, so sorry," Draco said to all three of them, and in a rough, inelegant movement, shoved them into
Emmanuel's cell, shutting the door quickly as they vied for space inside the cramped, nightmarish box.

For a moment, Emmanuel expected the other two to be subjected to his usual memories, but it seemed that however
the cave normally invaded him, it was no longer concerned with repeating its prior endeavors. Instead, the memories
they were hurled into belonged to someone else; to someone, he realized, with wild, bushy brown hair.

"Obliviate," said a younger version of Hermione Granger, as she aimed her wand at the backs of two peoples' heads.
They turned, staring blankly at each other, and then their eyes narrowed as they looked at her, Emmanuel's own
chest filling with the young girl's anguish.

"Who are you?" asked the man, and then Emmanuel felt a harsh drop, depositing him into another scene as he, the
dark-haired man, and the real Hermione Granger struggled to breathe inside the enclosed space, all three of them
cupping hands over their mouths.

It was hard not to watch it like a very terrible, very viscerally unsettling film. In the next scene, a redheaded boy
stormed away, disapparating outside of a tent, and the memory-Hermione let out a shrill cry, the impact of it tearing
at Emmanuel's strained lungs.

"Ron, no - please - come back, come back!"

No, she continued to mouth long after he'd gone, but she couldn't speak the word aloud; Emmanuel could feel for
himself the way her panic rose, faltering in her chest. In the memory, she fell to her knees, and he felt the bile that
rose in her throat like it was his own, tasting bitterness and betrayal all at once as the scene warped again, hurling
them somewhere else.

A boy, being limply carried by a giant; Hermione's entire constitution shattered at the sight of it, broken, and
Emmanuel's did too. He's dead, he's dead, he can't be dead, how can he be dead, how did I let this happen, how how
how? and then another warp, and -

A church, Emmanuel guessed; the same redheaded boy, now a man, was speaking in a low voice to a man with jet
black hair and glasses, not realizing that Hermione was standing just outside the partially-cracked door.

"I don't know," the redheaded man was saying, rubbing furiously at his temple. "Maybe we rushed into it. I thought
this would fix it, I really did, but what if - what if I'm wrong, what if it only gets worse, and what if it's a mistake, I
just - "

Outside the door, Hermione's heart faltered and then hardened over, and she walked out the door and directly to
another memory; a similar one when it came to the resonation in Emmanuel's chest, but different in scope. This
time, she watched the back of a blond man's head as he pulled from her side, heading towards the middle of a
panicked, restless crowd. Her stomach, and Emmanuel's, twisted in fear, in despondency, in envy.

Everything from Hermione Granger's head was twice as horrifying as any Emmanuel had ever seen from his own
memories. He saw a terrifying eye through a handheld mirror; a man transforming to a wolf in moonlight; the axe of
an executioner; the humming presence of a hooded, demonic spirit; a bloodied black-haired boy where he
disappeared with his hand held tight to a goblet. Emmanuel's own heart beat out a racing pulse of terror and loss, of
desperation, of pain and torture and the tearing of wordless screams from between Hermione's lips, all of it
interspersed with visions of her bloody knuckles; of countless practiced jabs; of blinding pain in all of his aching
limbs.

Suddenly, Emmanuel thought, his own karma didn't seem such a grim prospect; not while his memories were made
up of little more than small humiliations and generic setbacks, at least. He resolved that out of all the possible
karmic retributions that Ludo Bagman deserved, the most fitting was probably this: to live through Hermione
Granger's worst memories.

Then, having resolved his search for Ludo's ideal punishment, Emmanuel felt an immense amount of satisfaction in
his decision to give up his potion to Draco Malfoy.

Really, it was the least he could do.

3:41 p.m.

The moment Draco had shut the door to Gagnon's cell, he'd felt a sticky, sinking feeling of nausea that he suspected
was regret, though he hadn't had much time to think about it. He'd quickly stripped off his shirt, stuffing it into one
of the magically expanded pockets of his trousers and ducking his head, fervently hoping he'd be able to blend as
well as Theo had mockingly suggested once he heard the voices of the approaching guards.

" - ah yes, eet ees aaaalso a very fun story, 'ow Basile was veeery much trapped eenside one of ze chaaaambres for at
least - ehh, what wooould you say, Marius?"

"Oui, eh, two weeks, wasn't eet, Marcel?"

"Oui, eet was 'ysterical, you should 'ave beeeeeeen zere - "

"A lot of terrible things seem to happen to Basile," Harry noted, managing to look up in the precise moment that
Draco signaled frantically for his attention, catching his widening eyes. "Oh, um - what's that?" Harry asked, inanely
pointing somewhere over their shoulders, and the guards all turned to face the opposite direction as Draco slipped
within their midst, camouflaging himself among them with far more ease than he wished for anyone else to know
was possible. "Is that, um, more of the same chambers we just saw, then?"

"Yes, you aaare very gooood at zees," Marcel informed Harry, closing a pale hand around his shoulder in what
seemed to be genuine praise. "But zeees ees, of course, ze end of ze tour, 'aving no more chaaambres to show you - "

"Well, seems silly to just end it," Harry said quickly. "Maybe one more time around just for fun?"

The vampire next to Draco sniffed the air, clearly sensing something amiss; Draco leaned forward, kicking Harry's
heel as discreetly as possible.

"Oh, um, maybe just one of you could, er - show me your favorite stalagmites? Privately," Harry suggested
hopefully, as Draco stifled a groan. A subtle honeypot was one thing Harry Potter was not, though the vampire
who'd very nearly smelled Draco in the air now looked thoroughly distracted by the prospect of a moment alone
with him. "I don't want to inconvenience you, of course, but if one of you is free - "

"Oui, I am veeeeery free," one of them said urgently, tugging Harry towards one of the corridors as another vampire
reached forward, snatching at his shoulder. "You must of ceeeeourse come with me, 'arry - "

"No, 'e should come with me, Marius you are le beeezeeee, go away - "

Well, Draco sighed, watching the vampires pull at Harry's various extremities, maybe he wasn't the least successful
honeypot of all time. Only the most awkward to watch.
"Well, as long as it only takes FIVE MINUTES," Harry shouted, clearly for Draco's benefit, and the moment he had
disappeared, Draco sprinted back for the door that had been Gagnon's, hoping the prison hadn't shifted.

Upon first try, he could see that it had; a spindly, grey-haired witch poured out in a ball, whimpering, and Draco
hastily scooped her up to replace her in the cell, watching the narrowing path and following it to place a hand on the
wall.

"Bring her back," he whispered urgently, feeling the cave rumble beneath his hand. "Bring me Gagnon's cell, bring
me Granger and Theo - "

Abruptly, the shrinking hallway changed course, and at once, a door shifted beneath his palm. Draco yanked it open,
fearing the worst, and Hermione collapsed backwards as the door flew open, the small frame of her tensed-up limbs
falling unsteadily into his arms.

It was easy to see, even at a brief glance, that it had been Hermione's memories playing on repeat; Draco swallowed
hard, tightening his hold around her as she shook slightly in his arms, still suffering the effects of having witnessed
her tormented past.

"I'm sorry," he said, murmuring it into her hair and cradling her head against his chest as she shivered, drained and
weakened. "I'm so sorry, Granger - it's over now, I'm so sorry - "

"Help," she rasped to him, her eyes falling shut as she clung to him, and Draco looked up at Theo, feeling very much
helpless in the moment.

"Get us out, Theo," Draco commanded in a low, broken voice, and Theo looked up, glancing at Gagnon (who was
shell-shocked and pale, clearly also suffering the various annals of Hermione Granger's mind) before gradually
setting his mouth in a grim line, apparently coming to some sort of conclusion.

"Well," Theo said slowly, glancing back at Draco. "Got anything in your battalion of vials that'll make a man
bleed?"

At once, Draco exhaled in comprehension, apologetically meeting Gagnon's questioning expression.

"Vampires," Draco offered to him in explanation, and Gagnon grimaced, but after a regretful glance at Hermione, he
spared at small, resigned nod.

"Vampires," he confirmed, and held his hand out, waiting for Draco to hand him the vial.

a/n: a slightly shorter chapter (lol, barely) as I'm suffering a bit of writing lethargy; I'm pretty tired, so am opting to
post sooner rather than later. Will double up on dedications next chapter. Thank you for continuing to read, even
when this story gets to be… well, the kind of story where they break into a prison guarded by fanboy vampires, I
suppose.
 35. I Love You, Vampire Son

Chapter 35: I Love You, Vampire Son

Narnia Wizarding Prison

A cave somewhere in France
October 23, 2003
3:57 p.m.

Basile the vampire was what one might call 'exceptionally unlucky.' His companions, on the other hand, were what
one might call 'exceptionally disinterested in Basile the vampire's utter lack of luck,' and therefore it was not
unheard of for something Basile had done (or not done, in the instances of his numerous disappearances) to go
entirely unnoticed. Which was why, Basile supposed, when he and the others had sniffed an alarmingly tantalizing
amount of human blood (fresh blood, too, which was such a rare and tender delicacy, permitted to them only rarely
upon deliveries from the nearby hospital), he was ostensibly the only one to question whether or not such a thing
might have been a trap.

"Maaaarius," Basile began uncertainly, but was quickly interrupted as the horde of vampires quickly lost interest in
their unusual guest in favor of shoving Basile aside, racing towards the smell. "Eh, ees eet posssssible zat zees ees,
erm -"

"Ah, let them go," Harry Potter suggested, resting a hand carefully on Basile's shoulder. Basile leapt away, startled,
and the English wizard blinked awkwardly, retracting his hand. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. Just wanted to say
you should go with them, don't you think? They probably need you."

This, Basile thought, was extremely suspicious behavior, particularly once Harry Potter began taking several
measured steps towards the exit. Nobody ever needed Basile, really, and this was fairly obvious to him even without
possessing the supreme intellect necessary to defeat the infamous Lord Voldemort. Basile hardly required Harry
Potter's enviable prowess to know that what seemed like a trap probably was, in fact, a trap.

Still, he followed the others warily, keeping to the back of the horde, and stood on tiptoe to catch sight of one of the
prisoners retching up blood.

Immediately, Basile made a face, displeased. Blood was ideal under any circumstances, sure, but this was not his
preferred method of transference. A bite was always much more sanitary, and lung blood? Regurgitated, at that? Not
ideal. What's more, Basile happened to glance askance, noticing tiny shards of a broken vial glinting briefly behind
one of the cave's many stalagmites. Not only was the prisoner loose, but they'd also ingested something. Someone
would have had to remove them from the cell, given them the vial… Basile frowned. Something wasn't right.

In nearly the same instant, Basile spun, catching something out of the corner of his eye; it was rapid, nearly
unnoticeable, but what looked like a weedy demon and another vampire (only he was wearing some sort of garment
and carrying a very weak human girl, Basile detected on a sniff, and therefore almost certainly was not) appeared to
be sneaking out of sight, darting down the hallway.

"Ah," Basile began, about to reach forward to tap Marius on the shoulder. He paused, though, as one of the others—
probably Etienne, that small-headed weasel—shoved him out of the way, creeping towards the still-coughing
prisoner as the human backed nervously towards his cell.

"Waaaaaait, waaaaaaait," Marcel lamented loudly to the others, "we cannot draaaaaaain 'im, zere are ruuuuuuules,
we are not aaaaaaneeemaaaals - "

"Oui, oui, 'owever, eet would be waaaaasteful not to drink zees man's eeeexcess fluueeeeeds, non?" Marius agreed,
regretfully using two fingers to pick up the prisoner by the collar of his shirt, propping him aloft and eyeing what
little still dripped between his lips. "Someone feeeeehtch one of ze goblets, zere ees eh, per'aps enough for one? And
seeeeence I am ze ooone 'olding 'eem - "
"Ah, Marius, clearly you are le tiiiiired, let me 'old 'im, zen - "

"Marcel, go ehhwaaaaay, you only want to 'ave it all, you neveeeer shaaaaare - "

"Where ees Basile? Basile, go and get us le cup fantastique - "

But by then, Basile was already gone, padding quietly after the escaping not-vampire and his demon-looking
accomplice and pausing out of sight as they reached Harry Potter, who gave something of a quiet yelp.

"What happened? That took ages - and holy fuck, is she dead?!"

"Can't storytime wait, Potter? Don't know if you noticed, but the window of time we just bought for ourselves is
something of a limited fucking engagement - "

"Fine, fine, let's just get out of here, then. Did you get what you needed?"

"Yes, Potter, now go, would you? You're the only one with the clearance to apparate us internationally or I'd have
already left you behind - "

"Oh, very nice Malfoy. Lovely."

Basile glanced over his shoulder, weighing his options. Someone should have been alerted; someone should stop
them. They were leaving. They were escaping!

They were escaping, Basile registered with a curious frown, which was something he had been certain until that
moment could not be done.

"Come on, let's just go, then - "

"You know, I feel bad about this," Basile heard Harry Potter say. "Didn't you see how terrible they are to Basile?
Poor guy."

"Christ, Potter, you really are the world's worst honeypot - "

"I'm just saying - he's like, the runt of the pack, you know? And I liked him, he was nice."

Basile blinked, frowning slightly.

"Potter. This is a vampire you're talking about. You know, undead creature of the night and whatnot? He's not a
puppy."

"I know that, Nott, for fuck's sake, I'm just saying - "

The voices were fading; they were getting away.

Basile glanced over his shoulder again, adjusting the notably excellent hearing of his kind to where Marius and
Marcel remained with the rest of the horde.

" - fine, fiiiiine, we weeell put 'im back, zen, off you go preeesoneeerrrr, back to your leetle niiiightmaaaaare - "

"Where ees Basile? Did 'e get swaaaaallowed by le chaaaaambres ehgaaaahhhn, or ees 'e simply looooost?"

"Ahahahaah zees caaaave is 'ilarious, I tell you - "

Basile, having heard about enough from them, considered for a moment as he watched the human intruders prepare
to apparate that perhaps he wasn't as exceptionally unlucky as he had always thought. In fact, in the moment he
placed a pale hand on Harry Potter's shoulder (after the demon-looking one's eyes widened at the sudden sight of
him, but just before they were all abruptly yanked through the air), Basile considered for the first time that it was
distinctly possible he was, in fact, the luckiest vampire to have ever not-lived.
The Ministry of Magic
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
3:21 p.m.

The four of them landed somewhat unsteadily with a thud in Harry's office, Draco still holding Hermione semi-
upright as she seemed to finally regain some of her mental fortitude. She shook herself slightly, like a dog, and then
blinked up at him.

No, not at him.

And also - no, there weren't four of them.

"Uh, Potter," Theo ventured carefully, "not to alarm you, but - "

"Eet ees veeeeeery briiiiiiight een zees plaaaaace," commented one of the vampires from Narnia, and though the
vampire was squinting in a very non-threatening way, Draco instinctively nudged Hermione aside, hurling one arm
out in front of her. She rolled her eyes, letting out a tired breath, but luckily she seemed much more interested in
sinking into one of Harry's desk chairs than launching into yet another familiar tirade about how she was perfectly
capable of taking care of herself. "Where aaaaaare we?" the vampire posed uncomfortably, smacking a hand over his
eyes and looking down at them through slats between his pale fingers.

"Oh, Basile," Harry realized, scratching at his beard in what initially appeared to be confusion, though it was
followed by what was almost certainly tempered panic. "Did you, um. Mean to, uh, follow us? Or are you - "

"I am not loooost, eef zat is what you aaaare saaaayeeeeng," replied Basile. "Weeeeell, zat may not be entirely true,"
he amended softly to himself, "seeing aaaaas I do not know where I aaaaahm."

To Draco's surprise, Theo chuckled.

"My goodness," Theo remarked drily, circling the shirtless vampire. "Potter, I take it all back. You were such a
compelling honeypot that you earned us a stowaway. Someone put it in the minutes that there's obviously such a
thing as too much magnetism - "

"Uh, Basile," Harry interrupted, elbowing Theo into silence. "So, I'm not sure what the vampire rules are, but this is
- " He hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly over the vampire's pale skin and eyes just before he adjusted the charmed
curtains to limit the incoming rays. "It's not exactly a cave, if you know what I mean - "

"You aaaaaare wooooorried about le sun?" Basile asked, and then immediately gave Harry a slavish, adoring look,
appearing to swoon slightly. "'arry Potter, ees eet poooooossible zat you aaaaare worried pour moi?" At that, Draco
scoffed internally; it looked as though the vampire were steadily on the verge of weeping. "Truly, I 'ave neveeeer
seen such 'onor, such 'erooooeeeesm - "

"Well," Harry said hastily, "it's just that I, um. I think a number of people would be alarmed if they knew there was a
vampire in my office, so, it's not entirely selfless a concern; but on the off-chance you agree," he offered, grimacing,
"we'll have to get you back quickly, before the others notice you're gone - "

Basile's face promptly fell.

"No, no, he can't go back, Potter, obviously," Theo cut in, looking entirely too pleased with the outcome of their
visit. "If you take him back, the other vampires will be suspicious. And besides, didn't you say this is the one who
disappears all the time?"

"Oui, oui, constamment!" Basile confirmed excitedly. "Zey will not even notice I am le vanished! Eet weeell be like
any ozer Tuesday, I am suuuure - "

"It's Thursday, but sure," Draco grunted, though all involved parties proceeded to ignore him.
"Oui, you see, Potter? He is le sure," Theo said. "And besides, who knows when we'll need a Draco decoy - "

"What?" Draco demanded indignantly, as the vampire turned to scrutinize him with what appeared to be equal
amounts of disdain. "We look nothing alike."

"Sure you do," Theo countered, as beside him, Harry gave something of an unwilling nod in agreement. "All he
needs is a shirt, a superiority complex, a general sense of malaise, and then boom, he's the perfect Draco."

"You reeeeeally theeenk zis is what I looooook like?" Basile echoed, drawing a hand to his mouth briefly before
tilting his head at Draco and then giving Theo something of a palatial shrug. "I know 'umans are veeeeeery blind,"
he offered kindly, "so I forgeeeve you your flaws of naaaature."

"Well, it's official. He's too nice to be Draco," Harry sighed, shaking his head, and again, the vampire looked
moments from throwing himself gratefully at Harry's feet. "Are you sure, Basile, that you want to stay here?" At the
vampire's absurdly eager nod, Harry continued, "I won't bring you back if you don't want to, but we're going to have
to talk about this. Make some rules," he suggested tentatively. "Like, uh, it's probably best if you don't try to drink
any blood unless I say it's okay."

"I 'ave never 'eard such a kind offer," Basile said dreamily, and Harry winced.

"Right, well - "

Draco, having lost interest in what was apparently Harry Potter's new pet vampire, glanced down at Hermione, who
was sitting very still. She was staring out into nothing, in fact, her hands folded quietly in her lap, and she jumped
the moment Draco set a hand on her shoulder, clearly unsettled.

"Are you alright?" Draco asked quietly, kneeling beside her chair, and she glanced down at him, scanning his face
for something.

"You know, it's funny," she commented after a moment, looking somewhere between saddened and wistful. "Almost
all of my worst memories were about people leaving."

He blinked. "Oh," was all he managed, and she nodded, not quite looking at him.

"I think I had thought I was better off than you," she murmured, as elsewhere, Harry and Theo were collectively
trying to keep Basile from licking the window, apparently out of curiosity for whether sunlight could safely be
eaten. "Or that I had - I don't know. Managed it. Managed the trauma, I guess."

"You have," Draco promised her. "But even something you're managing is still bound to hurt, Granger."

She shut her eyes. "I know. I mean objectively, I know that, I just," she began, and cleared her throat. "I thought I
was stronger than this."

"I - " Draco frowned. "How can any of this mean you aren't strong? I know what you lived through. I mean, I don't
know it as well as you know it, obviously," he amended hastily, "but I have an idea of what it takes to get up every
fucking morning and keep living your life in spite of everything. That's - Granger," he exhaled, unsure how to put it
into words. "You have to know that's - I mean - "

"Yeah, I know. So listen, I have to go." She stood up sharply, nearly sending him stumbling backwards as he hurried
to rise alongside her. "I just - I need to be alone right now. I'll be home - I don't know. Later." She gave him a
strange, unreadable glance. "Thanks for getting us out of there," she added, and brushed her lips coolly against his
cheek before heading to the door.

"Hermione," Harry called after her, abruptly abandoning his post as Theo began fashioning an elaborate hat to shield
Basile's sensitive eyes. "Hermione, wait, are you - "

"I'm fine, Harry, I just have to go," she assured him stiffly, and then pulled the door open, passing through it without
glancing back until Harry was left to frown at Draco, gesturing questioningly in her absence.
"I don't fucking know, Potter," Draco muttered in answer, irritated by his own helplessness. "Aren't you supposed to
be her best friend? You tell me what the fuck's going on."

"I don't know. Sometimes she just needs to be alone, so maybe that's all," Harry guessed thoughtfully, curling a hand
around his chin as behind him, Basile did the same, apparently practicing his motions as a semi-convincing human
man. "I mean, she needed solitude from time to time when we were on the horcrux hunt. And after the whole fiasco
with the wedding, I guess - "

"After that wedding she left the fucking country," Draco snapped, and Harry grimaced. Basile leaned forward,
squinting to see Harry's expression, and then did the same. "Don't know if you recall, Potter, but the last time
Granger needed to be alone, she didn't come back for three goddamn years - "

"Well, I'm sure that's not the case now," Harry assured him, reaching out to set a hand on Draco's shoulder.
Alarmingly, Basile did the same, prompting Draco to glare at the vampire until he ruefully retracted his hand. "She
probably just needs some time to process, Malfoy. I'm sure it's nothing to do with you."

"I - " That's precisely the problem, he didn't say, exhaling sharply. "Fine," he conceded brusquely. "Whatever. Any
idea where she went?"

"Fiiiiiire," supplied Basile, which was several degrees of unhelpful.

"Fire?" Draco echoed doubtfully. "Maybe we should work on your English."

"Or not. Maybe it's some sort of idiom we don't know about," Theo suggested, holding up two shirts that he
appeared to have transfigured from Harry's curtains. "By the way, which of these do you like, Basile?"

"Zese are deeply teeeeerrrible," Basile proclaimed, "and I adooooore zem both."

"You know, I should probably tell Ron about this," Harry remarked uncomfortably, murmuring it to himself. "I
mean, if he's going to come home to a vampire roommate, I would imagine that at least merits a note in advance,
don't you th-"

"What, you're going to warn him? And spoil my fun? Don't you dare," Theo snapped. "I have so little to live for,
Potter, I don't know why you'd take any of it away - "

"Actually," Draco cut in, "maybe this is best. I have to go find a quidditch player to try to buy Gagnon's potion
anyway," he sighed, aiming himself at the door and pausing only briefly, turning to glance at Harry. "Just let me
know if you hear from her, would you? I'll be in touch if I need anything."

"Well, I may or may not have my hands full," Harry told him, gesturing to where Basile was now curiously
experimenting with interlacing their fingers, "but yeah. We'll talk."

Draco shook his head. "Good luck with all this," he offered, waving a hand at the general display of vampire
problems, combined with could only mean inevitable Theo-fuckery. "See you."

"Bye sweetie," Theo called loudly, and Draco pulled the door shut behind him, turning into the corridor with a not-
so-stifled groan.

Nott Manor
First floor office
4:15 p.m.

"Hard at work, are you?"

Daphne spun, startled, and rolled her eyes as Cad strode through the door, looking every inch his usual disruptive
self as he let it fall shut behind him. "You could have told me you were coming," she informed him drily, sitting
back in her desk chair.
"In general, I try not to announce myself," Cad replied, shrugging. "After all, if my enemies knew where I was, how
exactly would I get by? Surely they'd all descend within thirty seconds or less, and then how would I be able to do
this?" he asked, dropping a kiss against her lips. "You know better, Miss Greengrass," he murmured, and she rolled
her eyes.

"I certainly do," she agreed, leaning back to place the heel of her shoe against his chest. She gave him a light shove,
nudging him away, but ultimately permitted his hand to curl around the back of her ankle, holding her still. "Is there
something you needed, Cadmus?"

He dropped down with a smile, brushing his lips against the arch of her foot and propping her foot up on his knee,
carefully undoing the straps of her heels. "Well, since we're all playing for the same team now," he mused, "I
thought I could see how things were going."

"I don't work for you, Cad," Daphne reminded him, as he carefully slid off her shoe and beckoned for the other foot,
crooking a finger. "I don't have to tell you shit," she concluded, obligingly setting her left foot in his palm.

"Well, that's certainly true," he agreed, brushing his fingers up her calf in a slow, delicate motion before sliding his
hand back down to her shoe. "But of course, if there was anything I could help with - "

Abruptly, the door flew open.

"PARKINSON," Draco barked, "what are the chances you've fucked a quidditch play- ah, fuck," he determined, as
Cad gave him a spirited wave from where he sat behind the desk. "You're not Pansy."

"Pansy's out with the caterer," Daphne supplied lazily, leaning her head back as Cad slid her shoe from her foot and
proceeded to carefully knead the arch of it, rolling his thumb against the bone. "Did you need something?"

"Yes," Draco said grumpily, falling into the chair opposite the desk and making a face at Cad's uninterrupted
ministrations. "Some insight into women, firstly, and then a quidditch player that I can convince to buy an illegal
potion for me."

"Hermione giving you trouble?" Cad guessed knowingly, and Draco glared at him.

"I was kind of talking to Daphne, seeing as she's the woman in this scen-"

"No, no, keep going," Daphne interrupted, arching a brow at Cad. "I want to see what he says. Go on," she said,
waving a hand at Draco, and he grimaced, resigning himself to continue with a look of displeasure.

"Granger, ah - she sort of - well, she had to live through her worst memories," he explained (with a frustrating lack
of detail, in Daphne's opinion), "and then afterwards, I kind of - well, look. I thought maybe she'd want to be
comforted - "

"You didn't try comforting her with your penis, did you?" Cad prompted. "Because that only sometimes works."

Daphne nudged his chest, kicking him lightly in disapproval, and he grinned, brushing his lips against the ball of her
foot before sliding his hand back up, rubbing his thumb along the line of her shin.

"No, of course I didn't," Draco scoffed. "I mean, not to say I wouldn't have tried," he conceded grudgingly, "but she
just up and ran away as soon as she was able. She said something about 'oh, I thought I was stronger than this' or, I
don't know - "

"Mars," Cad interrupted, and Daphne glanced down at him, confused. "Hm? Oh, sorry, I was answering the other
question," he clarified, switching to her other leg. "You need someone to buy the potion? Get Mars to do it."

"Marcus?" Daphne echoed, blinking. "I suppose that's an option, but would he really - "

"Hi, yes, thank you for your sensitivity on this very delicate matter," Draco announced, irritably rising to his feet. "I
can see I took my highly uncharacteristic moment of sincerity to what was CLEARLY the most appropriate
audience - "

"Hermione Granger is a woman on the brink of madness," Cad cut in smoothly, not even turning his head as Draco
froze, partway to the door. "I've seen grown men go through mere fractions of what she experienced as a young girl
and come through on the other side utterly incapable of dragging themselves from their beds. She is no different
than you with your potions," he remarked slowly, "or Harry Potter with his inadvisable need to fix things. The only
reason Hermione Granger is able to function as a facet of the world that once tried to destroy her is to live behind
some sort of protective mechanism. A shield from her own experiences, I suppose."

"You say that like she's guarding herself from me," Draco ventured, turning slowly, and Cad shrugged.

"She is, in a way," he confirmed. "Though I doubt it's just you. She's not particularly free with her emotions, is she?
She has fears, but she stifles them. And you know this already," he added, "or you would not care for her so deeply."

Draco scoffed. "I never said - "

"You want her to come to you with her pain," Cad said neutrally, "but that would make her another woman entirely.
She is, like most women, wearing a queenly mask," he determined, kissing the inside of Daphne's knee and then
rising to his feet, pulling her with him as he spared Draco one more glance. "And she will only move it aside for you
if she deems you worthy. Does that sound right?" he asked Daphne, who blinked up at him, surprised.

"Yes," she permitted slowly, and Cad smiled.

Draco, meanwhile, cleared his throat, impatient.

"Well, fine," he muttered. "I'll wait for her to come to me, then. And in the meantime, should we talk to Marcus
Flint?"

Daphne glanced at Cad, who arched a brow, posing a similar question.

"Later," Daphne determined, watching the corner of Cad's mouth twitch with promise. "We'll both go talk to him
tonight, Draco."

"Fine," Draco sighed, departing with a soft crack.

Cad, meanwhile, slid his hand under Daphne's skirt, shamelessly running his fingers between the curves of her
thighs. "Am I mistaken, Daphne Greengrass," he remarked in her ear, "or did you just make some time for me?"

"Well, I suppose you earned it, having been not-entirely-unhelpful," she sighed, letting him maneuver her backwards
against the desk. "One of these days, though, I'm hoping you don't seduce me quite so effectively, or that I at least
manage to want you in a way that's less disruptive to my daily work schedule."

He lowered his head to kiss her, giving her another of his low, indulgent laughs.

"Funny," he said, slipping his fingers under the lace of her knickers. "I'm rather hoping to accomplish the same."

Diagon Alley
4:31 p.m.

"Hey," Oliver heard behind him, but he didn't stop. "Wood, come on. Wood, you FUCKING ARSE, DON'T
IGNORE ME - "

"WHAT?" he snapped, rounding on Marcus as a variety of onlookers suddenly stopped to stare. "Keep walking,"
Oliver grunted at one particular nosy witch, who gave him an indiscreet sniff of disdain. "What?" he repeated at a
more reasonable volume, standing with his arms folded as Marcus approached him.

"Yes, hi, one question: are you some sort of stupid idiot?" Marcus demanded, which was an extremely unpalatable
opening remark that made Oliver want to keep walking, right up until Marcus yanked his arm back. "Are you
seriously taking Bagman's offer? Obviously you've had some sort of head injury," Marcus continued obnoxiously,
"because literally nothing else would permit you to forget just what kind of shitbag Ludo Bagman is - "

Good news! Ludo had announced the day before, with his usual unsettling grin. I'm in talks to cement your contract
with the Wasps. Exciting, isn't it?

You've said that before, Oliver had replied warily, catching sight of Marcus' telling scowl across the room.

Yes, Ludo agreed with a wink, but believe me, things being what they are, I need this just as much as you do.

"Bagman can be whatever kind of shitbag he likes," Oliver informed Marcus flatly. "It's not like I'm doing anything
for him. He's getting me on a team, Flint. If it were you, you wouldn't even think twice."

"Is that really what you think?" Marcus asked, glaring at him. "Seriously, Wood. You think I'm so desperate to play
again that I'd go ahead and let Ludo fucking Bagman use me as his errand boy?"

Oliver growled his impatience. "I just said - "

"Come on, Wood, think about what you're doing," Marcus snapped. "Lie to me all you want, fine, but I thought you
were better than this. I mean, really think about who you're getting in bed with - "

At that, Oliver finally lost whatever remained of his temper.

"Have Daphne Greengrass, then," he spat. "Just - have your precious pureblood life, and have it without me, Flint,
because I'm fucking done here. Do you understand me?"

Marcus blinked, shoved back half a step by the force of Oliver's anger. "Wood, I'm just - "

"No, Marcus. Shut up. Shut the fuck up, because I can't do this anymore. You think I want to be kept waiting for you
to decide whether I'm more important than your archaic fucking traditions? You want to have everything," Oliver
snarled, "then have it. Everything except me, because I'm done."

He turned to walk away when Marcus' hand shot out. Oliver parried it as easily as if it were any other blow.

"Get lost, Flint," he hurled over his shoulder and then kept walking, not stopping until he was certain Marcus hadn't
followed. Then he paused, checking experimentally over his shoulder, and adjusted his path, aiming for the entry to
Knockturn Alley.

"Ah, Wood," Ludo called, catching sight of him and waving him over. Per usual, he'd done very little to camoflauge
his bright face and distinctive-looking hair, prompting Oliver to stifle a groan as he headed over to where Ludo
stood with two other men. "Oliver Wood, this is Peregrine Faulkner," he said, gesturing to the man that Oliver
recognized as one of the Wimbourne Wasp managers, "and this is - well, this is Mundungus Fletcher," Ludo
acknowledged with a slight element of distaste. "He's just leaving."

Oliver frowned, vaguely recognizing the name. "Aren't you a - "

"We'll talk later, Dung," Ludo told Mundungus with a high, false laugh, half-shoving him aside. "Yes, right, so
thanks for the advice - Dung just helps me figure out where to get the best food storage containers," he offered in
explanation, as Mundungus grimaced, permitting himself to be shoved further into Knockturn. "Very helpful, Dung,
thank you, I'll be sure to get the larger storage for my cured meats - "

"Wood, was it?" offered Faulkner, holding out a hand. "Welcome to the team."

Oliver blinked, surprised, as he accepted Faulkner's grip. "Really? You don't even want to see me play first, or - "

"It's a reserve position for now," Faulkner said, his gaze sliding somewhat apprehensively to Ludo, "but I see no
reason to doubt your prowess. I know of your performance for Puddlemere, and Ludo is of course a very close
friend - "

"Yes, absolutely," Ludo agreed, having by then been successfully rid of Mundungus. "Yes, so, everything's
arranged, isn't it? So good of you to spare the time," Ludo added to Faulkner, "and I'm sure Wood will be the perfect
fit for the team."

"Yes, yes, right," Faulkner agreed, though Oliver noted that he very much looked as if he wanted to escape. "Well,
welcome to the Wasps, of course, we'll be in touch quite soon - "

"Isn't there a contract or something I should sign?" Oliver prompted, and Faulkner nodded, hastily withdrawing a
somewhat long roll of parchment from one of his oversized pockets.

"Yes, here, just a few signatures and then it can be delivered by owl, of course - "

"I'll take that," Ludo assured him quickly, nearly snatching it from Faulkner's hands. "Just to look over on Wood's
behalf, of course," he explained, and Faulkner, who obviously couldn't bring himself to care (and who clearly must
have suffered some sort of grievance in order to be there to begin with) merely gave them both a nod, briskly
preparing himself to depart.

"Looking forward to seeing you for training," Faulkner said to Oliver, and then grimaced at Ludo. "Bagman," he
muttered, and backed away, pivoting only once he was out of Ludo's interminably long reach.

"Well," Ludo remarked, glancing over the contract, "this is pretty standard. There's just one thing," he cautioned, as
Oliver held out his hand for it, waiting. "I need you to procure something for me, in exchange for having secured
your spot on the team. You understand, don't you?" he prompted, and Oliver grimaced.

"What is it?" Oliver asked through clenched teeth, and Ludo smiled brilliantly.

"Oh, just a vial," Ludo said, and Oliver flinched, immediately grasping the reference.

"I don't cheat, Bagman - "

"No, no, you don't need to take it yourself," Ludo assured him, half-laughing. "In fact, definitely do not take it. I just
need one vial, but unfortunately I'm not able to approach the dealer directly. I'll give you all the details, of course,
and I can guarantee you won't have any sort of problems with Faulkner or the Wasps, but I need you to be the one to
get it. Are we understood?" he asked, his fingers tapping pointedly against Oliver's team contract.

Oliver hesitated. On the one hand, it was precisely as Marcus had said it would be to make a deal with Ludo
Bagman; but on the other hand, fuck Marcus entirely.

"If I do this for you," Oliver posed slowly, "will it get me out of here?"

Oliver found he was thinking (with an unfortunate modicum of regret) of the expression on Marcus' face when
they'd fought, which they seemed to be doing endless amounts of these days. Some things, Oliver reasoned, just
weren't healthy to stick around for.

No matter how much he foolishly wanted to.

"Oh yes," Ludo assured him, "definitely. The moment the potion is in my hand, yes. You'll be off to Wimbourne
without a moment's delay."

Oliver grimaced, attempting a rapid calculation of Ludo's sincerity.

"Then consider it done," Oliver determined, one hand steady with certainty as he gave Ludo's outstretched palm a
brief, firm shake, accepting the proffered contract with the other.

12 Grimmauld Place
7:43 p.m.

"I think he looks nice," Theo said, stepping back to eye his handiwork. "You know, it's possible I missed my calling
as a stylist."

"Zees ees an atrooooocity," Basile wailed tearfully. "And I looooove eet so maaaaahhhch- "

"Oh boy," Harry sighed, patting Basile's shoulder. "There, there - "

"I am le fine," Basile sobbed. "I am not weeeeeping, eet ees you who aaaaare weeeeeping - "

"I think I'd technically be correct in saying 'yikes,' but frankly, I find this all very apt," Theo pronounced grandly,
sweeping a hand over Basile's fresh haircut, which was mostly a very sleek side-part. "I'd cry too, I think."

"I have no idea how I'm going to explain this to Ron," Harry said, shaking his head. "Hopefully he handles vampires
better than he does spiders."

"Spiders, yeeeuuuuck," Basile contributed sagely.

"See? Perfect," Theo said, gesturing. "Something in common already."

"I'm beginning to think you're not particularly helpful as a criminal, Nott," Harry determined, falling back onto the
kitchen bench with another sigh. "This wasn't exactly the clean escape I was hoping for."

"Well, you should have thought that through, Potter," Theo sniffed disapprovingly. "Why'd you bring me along,
anyway?" he added, pretending at disinterest. "It's not like Draco and Granger couldn't have sorted something out.
You didn't technically need me."

"I," Harry began, and paused. "Yeah, that's true."

"So why did you - "

"'e liiiiikes your cooooompany," Basile interrupted, looking delighted. "'e weeeeeell not tell you zat because 'e is
embaaaaaaarrassed, but eet ees veeery cute, non?"

For a moment, Harry was astonished, but Theo clearly was not. "Ah, fuck," Theo groaned. "I forgot vampires do that
whole mind-reading thing. Is that what Granger's whole 'fire' thing was about?"

"Oui," Basile confirmed solemnly. "She was goooooing to ze plaaaace of fighteeeeeng, ze peeeeerson 'oo makes le
fiiiiiire - "

"Ah, the Arsonist," Harry realized, blinking. "Well, that's - "

He was interrupted by a loud crack that echoed through the kitchen.

"Master," Kreacher croaked, prompting Basile to duck behind Theo as the elf tugged a bound and gagged
Mundungus Fletcher forward slightly. "Kreacher is delivering the thief."

"Yes, I see that," Harry confirmed warily, looking up at a scarlet-faced Mundungus. "What's up, Dung?"

Kreacher snapped his fingers, the gag disappearing from Mundungus' mouth.

"-ET YOUR BLEEDIN' ELF OFF ME I SAID I HAD A MESSAGE DIDN'T I AND I'M HERE NOW AREN'T I
THIS IS UNACCEPT-"

"Ah yes, thank you, Kreacher," Harry said, nodding his approval as Kreacher snapped his fingers again to rid
Mundungus of his voice. "Still, we should, um. Probably listen to what he has to say, though - "

"Zis 'ouse is scaaaaary," Basile whispered loudly to Theo.

"You've no idea," Theo agreed. "There's a Weasley who lives here."

"Ees zat liiiiike un monstre?"

"Oui, absolument," Theo confirmed, as Harry flashed him a silencing glance.

"Dung, just stop shouting," Harry advised, turning back to the other two. "Seriously, you're wasting your own time,
you know. He won't let you go if you don't."

Mundungus flipped him off but grimaced, gradually closing his mouth.

"Okay, Kreacher," Harry beckoned. "Let him talk."

"Yes, Master," Kreacher sighed gravely, and Mundungus cleared his throat, glaring at the elf.

"Ludo Bagman asked me for Umbridge's ingredients," he explained hoarsely. "I gave 'em to him, like you told me
to. He's havin' a quidditch player buy the potion on his behalf - Oliver Wood," he clarified gruffly, and Harry and
Theo exchanged a glance, surprised. "I assume he's just goin' to add the extra ingredients to the potion."

"Huh, interesting," Harry said, tapping his mouth. "Well, good to know. Let us know if he contacts you again,
Dung."

"Like I've got a choice," Mundungus reminded him grumpily, gesturing to Kreacher. "You don't have to set him on
me like that, you know. I can get by without bein' brutally manhandled."

"To be honest, I think he likes you. Either that or he disagrees," Harry said, and Mundungus scowled.

"So can I g-"

Kreacher snapped his fingers, relieving them all of Mundungus Fletcher's presence.

"Kreacher is going to wash the towels now," he informed them, waddling out of the room until he paused abruptly,
looking up at Basile. "There is a vampire looking at Kreacher," Kreacher noted to himself.

"Oh yeah, Kreacher, this is Basile," Harry offered, gesturing between them. "Basile, Kreacher."

"Zees ees a veeeeery smoooool 'uman," Basile whispered to Theo.

"He's an elf," Theo replied.

"Zat seeeeeems liiiike eet ees probably veeeery ruuuude to saaaay," Basile said uneasily.

"Kreacher is being suspicious," Kreacher mused dubiously, "but Kreacher is not being upset." He tilted his head,
considering the remainder of his feelings on the matter. "Kreacher is leaving now," he announced in his gravelly
voice, "but is returning later with somethings of vampire feedings."

"Zees is a veeeery niiiice theeeng," Basile proclaimed, softening as he looked at the elf. "I liiiiike eet."

"Yes, thank you, Kreacher," Harry contributed. "I appreciate it too."

"Can I go weeeth ze smooool 'uman?" Basile asked Harry, gesturing to Kreacher, and Harry shrugged.

"If Kreacher says it's okay, I suppose," Harry replied.

"Kreacher is not being opposed to company from Master's new vampire," Kreacher remarked solemnly, continuing
to toddle out of the room as he muttered to himself, "but Master's new vampire will be doing the heavy's liftings - "

"Ooooh fuuuuun," Basile exclaimed, jogging after him to leave Theo and Harry alone in the room, turning to each
other with equal parts exhaustion and wry disbelief.
"This house," Theo pronounced brusquely, "is an absolute menagerie."

"You're probably right about me making a terrible honeypot," Harry lamented in agreement, rising to his feet to set a
hand on Theo's hip. "But you know something? I'm not that mad about it."

Theo chuckled, brushing his lips against Harry's ear. "Was le vampire right, then?" he asked. "Did you really just
want to spend time with me?"

Harry considered lying, but sighed instead.

"Don't hold it against me," he warned, "but I do prefer to have you with me than not. And since it wasn't a Ministry-
sponsored venture - "

"Fuck, you're so fucking soft." Theo nipped approvingly at Harry's ear, pressing his lips to the spot just behind the
lobe. "Though I'm sure Ignotus probably had something else in mind for you to do today," he murmured, "didn't
he?"

Harry stiffened. "Actually, I haven't heard from Ignotus today," he admitted, nudging Theo back slightly, "though, in
general, whatever he might have in mind, I don't think he's ready to tell me yet. He seems the plotting type. Not
unlike you," he added, and Theo shrugged, placing one of his hands around the blade of Harry's shoulder.

"Well, as long as you know what you're d-"

"HARRY," came Ron's panicked shriek, and Harry leapt back, facing the entry to the kitchen with what he hoped
was some semblance of reasonable behavior. "Harry," Ron panted, stumbling into the kitchen, "there was a
VAMPIRE in my BATHROOM - "

"Oh, he's just helping Kreacher with the housework," Harry supplied. "Also, he lives here now."

"Jesus bloody Christ," Ron exclaimed, just as a bespectacled Mel sauntered in behind him, her hair piled on top of
her head in a creation that might have equally been either laziness or fashion.

"Okay, first thing - oh, hello stranger, I'm Mel - so anyway, Harry, about this vampire - "

"Yes, yes," Harry confirmed, waving a hand. "I was going to tell you. There's a vampire in our house, he's French,
he's surprisingly well-mannered, I know it's inconven-"

"Yes, totally, that's great - so anyway, I'm going to need to borrow him," Mel said, brushing away Harry's
explanation. "His bone structure is like, totally en vogue. And I mean those cheekbones," she exclaimed, positively
blissful at the thought. "Plus his frame is absolutely perfect. He can model both my lines - "

"Well, he's kind of an escaped prison guard," Harry inserted warily. "So you might have to wait until that whole
thing dies down. But you know, if he wants to, then -"

"HE'S A WHAT?" Ron barked, his face paling, and beside Harry, Theo gave a low, shameless laugh.

"Well, Potter, I think my work here is done," he remarked in Harry's ear, and then he disapparated, leaving Harry to
roll his eyes, unable to prevent an unwilling smile in his absence.

The Arsonist
Diagon Alley
8:23 p.m.

"Move, Flint," Hermione said curtly, nudging Marcus into consciousness and shoving his chair aside to make room
for her bag. "Who's around tonight?" she asked, scanning the room, and Marcus frowned, still gaping uselessly at
her.
"Aren't you supposed to be - "

"Supposed to be what, Flint?" Hermione prompted, pulling the charmed tape out of her bag. "I don't work for the
Ministry anymore, and even if I did, what would it matter? Ludo Bagman's right over there," she muttered, gesturing
gruffly to him. "I'm pretty sure Seamus can't possibly have an issue with me showing up, and if he does, he can fight
me."

"Christ, don't fucking get me started on Bagman," Marcus growled, which was not remotely the point, though
Hermione was perfectly fine with ending the previous discussion there. "Do you know he's offering Wood a spot on
the Wasps?"

"How dare he," Hermione offered drily, and Marcus glared at her.

"Nothing Ludo Bagman does ever comes without strings," he grunted, as Hermione spared him a glance of curiosity.
"Everyone knows that."

"Do they?"

"Yes," Marcus snapped. "I mean sure, nobody will ever say anything, but everyone in the league gets that same look
on their faces whenever his name comes up. Actually, a specific type of player in the league, actually," he clarified
with a scowl. "The kind I was pretty sure Wood wasn't."

"Which is?" Hermione prompted.

"The kind that can be bought," Marcus supplied tartly. "Or whose silence can be bought, anyway. The kind," he
exhaled with ruthless displeasure, "that cheats."

At that, Hermione couldn't quite prevent a derisive scoff. "Last I checked, you weren't exactly opposed to the
'whatever-it-takes' sort of mindset, Flint," Hermione reminded him. "I saw a fair few Slytherin games at Hogwarts,
and I'd hardly call you any sort of paramount of virtue - "

"That's different," Marcus cut in, irritated. "Breaking rules on the field, fine. But potions? Fuck no," he snapped.
"Listen, I'm a purist. It's one thing to get a little rough on the pitch, but another thing altogether to plan out your
fucking cowardice in advance - "

"Hold on," Hermione interrupted, frowning. "Are you saying you know how to get those potions?"

"What? Of course," Marcus trumpeted impatiently. "Every professional quidditch player does, Granger, and that's
what makes the whole thing such a damn calamity. It's ruining the entire fucking game - because on the one hand,
you've got this handful of guys on some regiment of potions who end up near impossible to beat, and then everyone
else starts picking up the potions, and then suddenly everyone who isn't using potions is just a fucking travesty on
the pitch compared to everyone else, and th-"

"Right, cool," Hermione agreed, tightening her wraps one final time around her wrist before beginning to wrap the
other hand. "So basically any quidditch player knows where to go? Does that mean you knew about Gagnon before
he was arrested?"

"Yes, obviously. There's loads of imitation vials, but everyone knows Gagnon's original formulas are the best.
Apparently he developed them while he was on the Beauxbatons team," Marcus added anecdotally, "because he was
such a clumsy swot that he started doing more homework to get better - still never got called up to a pro team,
though, which has to be indisputable proof real quidditch players are born, not made - "

"It's incredible that this is such common information," Hermione remarked thoughtfully, and Marcus arched a brow.

"It's not common, Granger. It's a trade secret," he clarified. "Sure, every quidditch player knows who's using
Gagnon's potions, but nobody would be stupid enough to tell. Being a professional athlete is demanding shit, and
you travel so much that these guys end up being like broth-"
"Yes, right, okay," Hermione agreed, turning it over in her head. "So, say I needed to get ahold of these potions,
then," she suggested slowly, finishing up her wrapped knuckles and stretching out her shoulders. "Could you do it?"

"What, me?" Marcus scoffed. "Haven't you been listening? I don't do that shit, Granger, and I have a reputation to
uphold - "

"Say it's for a friend, then," Hermione suggested, kicking one leg up to lean into her quad stretch. "Doesn't have to
be for you."

"Yes, right," Marcus grumbled, "because 'it's for a friend' is definitely a new and completely revolutionary excuse - "

"Just think about it. You'd really be doing me a solid," Hermione informed him, and he made a face. "Not sure what
I could offer you in return, but - hey," she said, glancing at the slightly wiry man who stepped into the ring. "Who's
that?"

Marcus turned lazily. "Ah yes, my opponent for the evening," he said, looking hugely dissatisfied by the prospect.
"Some shithead who's won a couple tournaments in Dublin. A little below my weight class, but pickings were slim
tonight."

"Looks that way," Hermione agreed, watching the man in the ring. The man, probably her age, was Marcus' height
but maybe half his overall build, and he had a habit of rotating just slightly too far after each jab. It meant his
balance was slightly off-kilter, leaning him just past centered. It was a fine weakness, hardly a lethal offense, unless
his opponent was particularly quick - or perhaps particularly small, falling anywhere shy of his wingspan.

"Ah-ah, nope," Marcus warned, catching the slight twitch to her lips. "No. You're out of practice. Why don't you
wait until Carnegie gets here? Or hell, Hawkworth, even - "

"Shut up, Flint," Hermione murmured, still watching the man shadow-boxing in the far corner of the ring. His
stability really was appallingly poor; he also seemed to be nursing some sort of injury to his ribs. If he were forced
to take a blow to the body, he would almost certainly stagger to one side, leaving him susceptible to a well-placed
hook.

For a moment, though, something flashed in her mind; she tensed slightly, picturing tiny fragments from the barrage
of images she'd seen in Gagnon's cell. Reminders of what she'd seen and done and who she'd been, once. The things
she had only perilously recovered from. She curled her hands into fists, biting firmly on her lip, and found Marcus
watching her, brows furrowed.

"Something wrong?" he asked, without any particular mocking. It was more a curiosity than anything else, as far as
she could tell.

"No," she said with a quick shake of her head. "Though I'm going to go ahead and dispatch him for you," she
determined firmly, rolling her shoulders back and aiming herself at the ring.

"You've really got to stop doing this," Marcus groaned after her, though she didn't turn. "THIS REALLY ISN'T
THE WAY TO GET ME TO DO YOU ANY FUCKING FAVORS, GRANGER -"

She ignored him in favor of stepping into the ring, rolling her neck out and beckoning for Marcus' opponent. "You
ready?" she prompted, and he narrowed his eyes, unamused. She glanced aside, meeting Dean's arched brow with a
glare that dared him to stop her before gesturing again to the man in the ring. "Oi," she called. "Not scared, are
you?"

Scared, Granger?

She shoved Draco out of her head, focusing instead on the swing in her opponent's walk that meant one of his legs
was just slightly longer than the other. One of his hips was out of alignment; he should have really done something
about that before showing up here. "And who are you?" he asked. His mockery was patronizing rather than rude.
Who are you, little girl?
"I'm Marcus Flint," Hermione supplied, gesturing to herself as if that much were obvious.

"Like hell you are," the man replied smoothly, his gaze flicking to where Marcus stood off to the side, having left his
post to linger near the ring. "That's Marcus Flint."

"Calling me a liar?" Hermione asked, batting her lashes. "That's hardly a way to begin a fight between civilized
people. Gentlemen, even," she offered him, sweeping a low bow. "Shall we?"

"I'm not fighting you," the man said, his mouth stiffening. "Whoever you say you are."

"Well, that's a pity, but in fairness, I've met my fair share of cowards," Hermione told him, lifting her chin. "I find
it's hardly worth the effort anyway."

His nostrils flared slightly, one fist curling in. "There's no win for me here," he muttered, clenching his jaw. "Even if
I win, I beat a girl who barely comes up to my shoulder. No pride in that."

"Plenty, actually," Marcus called, smirking. "That's not just some girl."

"Oh, yeah?" the man prompted. "Then who is she?"

Marcus' grin broadened. "She's Marcus Flint," he supplied in bald-faced challenge, as the other man's expression
heightened from frustration to anger.

"Walk away from Marcus Flint and that's hardly much of a feather in your cap," Hermione informed the man, taking
a few steps back into the center of the ring. "Pretty sure that'll ruin your value for all these fine gentlemen," she
reminded him, sweeping an arm out to reference the gambling-inclined goblins who sat on the other side of the
barricade. "Willing to lose out on all your winnings tonight?"

The man stepped forward, seething. "Listen, bitch - "

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," came a drawling voice behind her, and Hermione spun, surprised, to find that of all people,
Draco Malfoy now stood with his hands flat against the low wall of the ring, leaning casually against it. "Do my ears
deceive me, or did I just hear you call my fiancée a bitch?"

"Who the fuck are you?" the man growled, as Draco leapt with a surprising dexterity over the barricade, striding
haughtily into the middle of the ring.

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" Hermione hissed, reaching out to stop him as he danced quickly out of her reach.

"Doesn't matter who I am," Draco replied to the man, shrugging, as he proceeded to ignore her. "I think what matters
is that you really ought to be taught a lesson - don't you think?"

"Oh yeah?" the man scoffed. "And what are you going to do about it, then?"

At that, Draco shifted his glance slyly, meeting Hermione's eye for half a second before turning his head back to
face the opponent. He removed his coat, tossing it blithely to Marcus, and then turned to face her opponent, drawing
his fists up.

"Malfoy," Hermione groaned, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, this really isn't necess-"

But as the man wound up to take his shot, Draco ducked, promptly smacking his hand out and tapping the backs of
his knuckles against Hermione's hip.

"You're in," he muttered under his breath, and then glanced up at the man, darting backwards with a charged look of
humor on his face. "And it's not what I'm going to do, fucker," he added louder, with a barking laugh for the benefit
Hermione's bemused opponent. "It's what she's going to do about it."

All at once, Hermione realized what Draco had done. By virtue of her opponent's swing, the fight had commenced;
she grinned, figuring she shouldn't let the bets placed on Marcus Flint go to waste. The man threw a wild shot that
she assumed was meant to hit somewhere near her face, though she slipped it easily, drawing him forward to step
just to his right. It was a straightforward shot to the right side of his body from there, the bone cracking slightly
beneath her knuckles, and he let out a loud growl of pain, stumbling backwards.

"Fuck him up, Flint," Marcus yelled gleefully, giving a loud whoop as Draco now stood quietly beside him,
watching with his usual lofty amusement as he pulled his jacket back on. Hermione swept her braid over her
shoulder, now beckoning for her opponent to return with a collected sense of control. The last time Draco had seen
her fight, she'd been knocked out cold just for having noticed him. This time, for whatever reason, she felt a strange
invigoration in her bones, content to turn the entirety of her concentration back the idiot who'd so foolishly thought
her safe to mock.

He wasn't totally without a challenge, at least; he swung for her kidneys and she stepped in close, getting under the
hit as she blocked it. From inside the radius of his swing she faked left, forcing him to throw up a painful block from
his injured ribs, and then took a quick step back to aim for his jaw, throwing a left hook that sent him reeling. He
stumbled, head snapping back, and she aimed a hard jab into his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him (a
merciful thing, probably, given the pain that must have been ricocheting through his ribs) before shoving him to the
ground.

"You know, my betrothed is quite correct," Hermione panted, standing over the man with a smirk she knew without
a trace of doubt she'd borrowed from Draco's collection of haughty expressions. "I hope you learned your lesson.
That's a win for Marcus Flint," she added to the row of goblins, who eyed her with casual disinterest. "Write it
down, gents - "

"I'm still not happy about it," Marcus informed her, meeting her as she stepped out of the ring, "but you looked like
you needed it, so fine."

She permitted a half-smile, accepting the bottle of water he offered her before he walked away, tipping his head
slightly in sly acknowledgement. She'd have pushed the issue, only there was someone else she wanted to speak to at
the moment.

"Malfoy," Hermione called, beckoning for Draco to join her as he ambled over, hands coyly in his pockets. "You
know," she murmured, gesturing to Marcus' back, "Flint here knows how to get Gagnon's potions."

"I do know that, actually," Draco said, prompting Hermione to frown slightly with surprise. "That's technically why
I'm here - though, now that I think about it, 'fire' makes a lot more sense. I forgot this place has a name."

"What?" Hermione asked, but Draco shook his head.

"Nevermind, it's a vampire thing. But to your point - I've already got my associate to work on convincing Flint," he
said, gesturing behind him to where Daphne sat in the crowd, casually overseeing Hermione's opponent where he sat
getting his ribs re-grown. "And as for you," he murmured, dropping his voice slightly, "you and I need to have a talk
about something completely unrelated."

Hermione grimaced. "Look, I know. I'm sorry I just walked out of there, but I just wanted to be alo-"

"I know you want to be impervious to everything that's happened to you - I get it, I do," Draco interrupted, cutting
her off, "but for the record, you don't have to be over shit, Granger. Be as fucked up as you want. I can take it." He
leaned forward, both his hands settling on the bared curves of her hips; she realized with a start that it was the first
time they'd really touched in public, and she held her breath with surprise as he leaned in, his voice low in her ear
and yet still somehow cutting through the noise of the Underground. "Granger, I promise, whatever nightmares
you've still got locked up in that swotty little brain of yours, I'm not going anywhere," he murmured, and she
swallowed hard, gradually permitting a tentative nod.

"I just hate it," she confessed softly. "Being reminded of everything. Of how much it still hurts."

"Fair," Draco determined, shrugging. "Then punch things if it helps you. Fight whatever you have to, do whatever
you want. But I'm not going to make the mistake of letting you believe you're alone." He rested his forehead against
hers, pausing briefly as her eyes fluttered shut, relaxing at his touch. "Take as long as you want," he said quietly,
"and I'll be here when you're ready."

He drew away, turning to leave, and she stared after him, not sure what to say.

He was already out the door, in fact, before she regained the presence of mind to chase after him, bursting through
the Underground's back entrance and lunging forward to take hold of his arm, yanking him back.

"Malfoy," she said breathlessly, and when he turned with surprise, she threw herself against his chest, snaking her
arms around his neck and pulling his open mouth down for her kiss. He kissed her back, restrained at first - one hand
on her hip, the other slid around her cheek - before shoving her back against the rear wall of the Arsonist, slamming
one hand against the old stone and sending her shivering against it.

"Yes?" he prompted expectantly, bending his head to brush the pebbled skin of her shoulders. It wasn't exactly a
warm night (and she wasn't exactly fully dressed, or even much more than partially), but she didn't care. She felt him
tear at the inseam of her shorts, brusquely ripping through the fabric, and she let out a small, exuberant laugh,
drawing the panels of his coat around them both. He hoisted her up in his arms, the dull ache in her shoulders from
slamming her fists into twelve stone of massive arsehole finally settling to numbness in the cold as she fidgeted,
scraping the chilled palm of her hand under Draco's shirt and sliding it down to his trousers.

"Are we really going to do this here?" she asked dazedly, even while she fumbled with his belt, shoving the buckle
aside. "I feel like" (she hissed between her teeth as he slid his thumb against her, shoving her knickers aside) "this
is" (a gasp as he shifted her, lowering her onto his cock) "I don't know" (a whimper as he widened her legs, pulling
them tight around his hips) "vaguely unladylike - "

"You're not a lady, Granger," he growled in her ear. "You're a fucking queen - "

She laughed, delirious, and then immediately stopped laughing as he adjusted his hips, permitting a dangerously
appealing degree of friction that only got worse (read: excruciatingly better) as his rhythm increased (fast, so fast,
faster, more, harder, oh god yes) and she rolled her hips, delivering him to another sputtered groan.

"Draco," she said in his ear, tightening her hand around the back of his neck, and he paused for a single moment,
waiting with one hand holding them up against the wall. "Thank you," she whispered, and then, at the resumed shift
of his hips, she stifled a moan, biting it into the exposed line of his neck instead.

He said nothing in reply, though he didn't need to. By then, the conversation was something both far more primitive
and vastly more interesting than either of their various realms of trauma. She came with a muffled cry, trying not to
alarm (or scandalize) any too-interested passersby, and by the time he collapsed against her, slowly lowering her
back to her feet, they'd already said precisely as much as either of them needed to hear.

"Good talk," Draco grunted, still panting slightly, and Hermione smiled.

"Definitely top five," she agreed, and kissed him again, applauding both their spectacular advances in
communication.

The League of Eternality

Unplottable location
October 24, 2003
12:07 a.m.

"Come on, you've got to be a little curious," Cadmus had insisted with his usual clever innocence, offering Ignotus
the vial with a perfect portrait of sincerity on his face. "And besides, who other than you could conceivably figure
out how they work, hm?"

Ignotus stared at the vial now, contemplating it in the flickering light from the candles. Unsurprisingly, the vial had
been sitting on his desk since that morning, untouched. At the time, Ignotus had accepted it with the vague
understanding that Cadmus was most certainly not to be trusted, and he'd therefore planned to do absolutely nothing
with it. After all, whether Cadmus claimed to be on one brother's side or the other, there was never any telling what
his loyalties actually were.

Unfortunately, it wasn't as if Ignotus hadn't known exactly what the vial was the moment he'd seen it in Cadmus'
hands, nor as if he hadn't wondered about that particular kind of magic for over half a century. He was a scholar at
heart, and Dionisia's secrets had always been a mystery to him. It wasn't as if he'd known where her network was
kept, so testing them had always been out of the question. Therefore, this, the vial Cadmus had somehow procured,
was possibly his only option if he ever hoped to sort it out - and Cadmus wasn't exactly wrong, was he? This sort of
thing - theory, magical construction, an inexplicable grasp of the fundamentals of what made magic work - were
always Ignotus' specialty. Weren't they?

So perhaps Cadmus hadn't intended any harm. Or, more likely, Cadmus needed answers badly enough to come to
Ignotus, knowing perfectly well he would have them. That, Ignotus reasoned internally, seemed well within Cadmus'
modus operandi. He was extremely selfish, true, but mostly highly resourceful.

Eventually, Ignotus let out a sigh, eyeing the vial again and shaking his head.

"Fine," he exhaled under his breath, picking it up and resigning himself to the inevitable. "Let's see what you
brought me then, Cadmus."

a/n: Dedicated to hufflebug, salovi, alttlbitlonger, and bookloverdream! FYI, I'm currently in the process of editing
and reposting Youth, the jily prequel to Clean and Marked originally written in 2016, so if you have ever wanted to
witness the unapologetic mass of dysfunction that is Marauder banter at my hands, now would be the time to join in.
 36. Loyalty, Loyalty, Loyalty

Chapter 36: Loyalty, Loyalty, Loyalty

The Arsonist
Diagon Alley
October 23, 2003
10:07 p.m.

Ludo nearly missed the quiet presence of a cloaked figure slipping into the seat beside him, distracted as he was by
the aftermath of Hermione Granger's fight. Luckily it had been yet another gamble that had worked out in Ludo's
favor; probably better the way it turned out, actually, considering Marcus Flint was presently having a muted,
disturbing-looking (or rather, it was Marcus who looked disturbed) conversation with a woman. Ludo only noticed
there was someone beside him when he heard the soft sound of throat-clearing, immediately recognizing Ifan
Hawkworth's tendency towards impatience.

"Is everything taken care of?" Ifan asked from beneath his hood, and Ludo lifted a brow.

"I thought you didn't come to the Underground?"

Ifan gave a sly half-smile. "Yeah, well, don't mention it."

Ludo took a long sip of his firewhisky, taking power where he could bide his time. "Everything's taken care of," he
confirmed, deliberately not mentioning that Oliver Wood had been dispatched to do it for him. "The potion will be
ready to go for the wedding, as you requested." He paused, considering the ring before them where Hermione
Granger had been fighting. "I suppose that answers the question about whether Granger's pregnant, by the way.
Looks like they're just rushing for the sake of rushing - or perhaps she's vastly more irresponsible than she looks."

He'd meant it to be a joke, but the Warlock was clearly in no mood for banter.

"No mistakes this time," Ifan warned him. "Have you considered how the potion will be delivered?"

Ah, the moment of truth. Ludo paused, eyeing the condensation on his glass before murmuring, "Actually, I thought
you should do it, Ifan."

Predictably, silence.

"The last time w- I failed," Ludo clarified, obscuring the reference to Dolores, "it was only because there was a
problem with the delivery. But if you deliver the potion, then he would have no reason not to drink it. If anything, he
would be rude to refuse."

Still, Ifan didn't speak.

"I need you, Ifan," Ludo added, throwing a hint of desperation into the statement. "What good is the plan without
you? You said so yourself. I need you if I want to be part of the Club, don't I?"

Amazing how easily lies still came to him.

"Yes," Ifan confirmed. "Of course. Though, you could just as easily deliver it," he mused, prompting Ludo to stiffen.
"You are a person of considerable influence yourself, are you not? Perhaps you should be the one to offer it to him."

"Flattering, Ifan, but I'm no Warlock," Ludo reminded him. "Frankly, I'm surprised at my inclusion in the event. Not
to say that I don't merit an invitation, of course - as you say, I'm hardly lacking influence - but I certainly hadn't
expected it," he offered, sipping humbly at his beverage. "Still, it seems that 'Dramione' aspires to all sorts of
publicity - "

"Fine," Ifan cut in gruffly. "If you wish me to do it, I'll do it." Ludo turned, bemused, to see that Ifan appeared to be
sincere in his offering. A surprising turn of events, to say the least; Ludo hadn't expected concession. "It's an
offering of good faith," Ifan explained, addressing Ludo's surprise whilst looking relatively unfazed. "I do mean to
keep my word, Bagman."

Ludo blinked, a little taken aback, and then nodded.

"Well, there's one more thing," he admitted, meeting Ifan's offering with one of his own. "I have a source who tells
me there will be a decoy Warlock Weasley at the wedding. Potter has arranged it for Weasley's security," he
explained, and Ifan nodded. "We'll need to identify which is which."

"Easy enough," Ifan permitted. "Are they using polyjuice?"

"Presumably," Ludo replied, shrugging. "Either way, I trust you'll be able to identify the fake Percy Weasley from
the real one?"

"Surely," Ifan agreed, and then looked up, catching sight of his son Rhys as he entered the Underground. "I should
go. You'll keep me updated?"

Ludo nodded, surprisingly relieved. It seemed that the Warlock actually intended to keep his word.

"Of course," Ludo assured him, and didn't notice the nudge of a wand against the back of his neck until it was
already too late.

"Forget this conversation," Ifan murmured, and Ludo's head went foggy, his vision swimming briefly just before the
memory of the Warlock swiftly faded away.

Ludo looked up, blinking, and caught a man leaving, nodding politely to Rhys Hawkworth as he went. The man
looked, strangely, like the Warlock Ifan, only that couldn't be possible. Ifan Hawkworth had made it very clear he
wouldn't return to this place.

"Who's next?" Ludo called loudly, and brought his glass to his lips, only to find with dismay that it was empty. He
frowned down at it. "Who drank my whisky?" he demanded of the gambler sitting next to him.

"You're drunk, Bagman," the man replied, sounding bored.

"Huh," Ludo remarked, suddenly feeling soothed and giddy. "Yes, I suppose I am."

10:19 p.m.

He headed out the door as swiftly as he could, pausing only momentarily as a hand shot out, gripping his arm.

"Be careful," a young woman warned, her pale, gleaming hair flashing against her dark skin. She was frowning, but
her eyes were (somehow) smiling, as if she possessed both good and bad news and wanted to deliver them both in a
single expression. "You're angry. I understand. Fate is almost never kind, and believe me, I would know. But still,
you should be more careful than this."

"Sorry," he said gruffly, tugging his arm free. "You must have me mistaken for someone else."

"No, actually, I don't. Though I suspect I'm one of the few people in the room who isn't mistaken," the woman
replied, and dropped her voice again. "You want to watch the whole world burn, don't you?" she murmured, and he
stiffened. "You do. You want to light a fire that scorches everything in its path and swallows you up at the end of it,
but that will not make you happy. It won't bring you peace."

He scoffed, forgetting himself for a moment. "Happiness is - "

"A rarity, yes, but not a lie." Her voice was stern, brisk, admonishing. "You want devastation now because you think
you have nothing to live for, but you do. This will not be the end of you. Your loss does not define you. Your story
isn't over." She paused, and he swallowed hard, taken aback by her insistence - and by how plainly she seemed to
read him. "There's someone waiting for you," she continued, softening slightly. "There's someone waiting, so be
steady. Have hope. Love fiercely, love brightly, because someone waits for you—Cadell Hawkworth."

He blinked, startled, and then she stepped back, gesturing for him to pass.

There was no way the polyjuice had faded; he'd been very careful with the particulars. His hands were still his
father's hands, he still maintained his father's height and lumbering strut. He felt his face, the lines beneath his
hands, and knew she could only be seeing him with something other than her eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"Not the one you're looking for. But still, I'd consider listening," she advised him, and then turned away, gliding
elegantly towards the ring as he shook himself of the encounter, hurrying up the stairs and out the door.

"Daisy," he hissed into the dark, and she stepped out of the shadows, waiting. "It's Weasley," Cadell confirmed
under his breath, pulling his cloak tighter around him and bending his head to speak to her. "You were right."

Daisy looked equal parts irritated and smug. "I knew it. He wouldn't stray from his initial targets. What else did he
say?"

"He said the potion is ready. He has it - or will have it, soon. He also said something about knowing about a decoy."

"Hm." If she knew what that meant, she didn't go into detail. "Anything else?"

Cadell nodded. "Yes. Bagman asked for my father to deliver the poison."

"Typical. And?"

"I said I would, to keep him talking. And then I took his memory of the conversation." He paused, glancing at her. "I
find it very unlikely that my father will agree to his request, though it certainly went a long way towards reassuring
Bagman of his intent. You were right that Bagman doesn't trust my father."

Daisy nodded distractedly. "Well, it's hardly a loss if Bagman delivers it - "

"No," Cadell interrupted, flatly ruling out the possibility. "It will have to be my father. His ambitions need to be
checked, without a trace of doubt. If he's not held accountable for his actions, it will never stop. He's corrupt, Daisy."
He paused, grimacing as he considered his options were his father not to concede willingly. "Though, I suppose if he
can't be compelled to agree, I could just impersonate him again. Or, I don't know, Imperius him - "

"Cadell." Her voice was harsh at first, and then softened. "Rhys allowed it this time, but if you do it again, he'll
never forgive you."

"I - " Cadell hesitated. "Maybe not, but it's necessary."

She gave a single shake of her head. "Isn't that precisely what your father would say?"

At that, he flinched. "I never said I was better than my father," he grumbled defensively. "And anyway, once this is
done, I'm going to Azkaban. I'll die there if I have to."

"Cadell." Daisy exhaled it sharply. "Rhys has no interest in punishing your father. He's only doing this so that you'll
get your life back." She set her jaw, glancing defiantly up at him. "Don't make a liar of him."

Cadell opened his mouth to answer, about to retort, and then withered, thinking better of it. Surely there was nothing
he could say to that.

"You're in love with my little brother, aren't you?" he noted instead, letting his gaze slide sideways to hers, and she
immediately looked away.
"Love is a strong word," she said.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Cadell agreed. "Lucky he's worthy of it."

She grimaced. "Don't change the subject."

"I haven't. You're the one who brought up Rhys."

"Cadell - "

"Don't hide it if you feel it," Cadell advised, and then laughed. "You're perfect for him, actually. And I think he likes
you."

Her cheeks were furiously flushed, her blonde ponytail swinging as she sheepishly ducked her head. "Stop."

"Fine, fine." Just talking about love, about the future, made him miss Gwen that much more fiercely. Love fiercely,
love brightly, because someone waits for you, Cadell Hawkworth. He shuddered at the thought, disbelieving, and
added, "I won't do anything that gives my brother a reason to resent me, I promise. But I still want my father brought
down, so I want that promise from you."

"Done," Daisy assured him. "Believe me, Harry wants him taken out just as badly - but that'll be up to Draco and
Hermione, I suspect. And Rhys." She sighed. "At this point, I think all I can do is pass on the information."

"Right, I know," Cadell agreed, fidgeting. He could feel the polyjuice's effects starting to fade, his limbs stretching
against the foreign form of his father's stockier build. "You're sure they can be trusted? Draco and Hermione, I
mean."

Daisy's smile broadened as she nodded. "Yes. You definitely can't tell by looking - they're an exceedingly odd
pairing," she mused, "but yes, to answer your question, I do trust them."

"Good." The word slid through his teeth, nearly lost in a sharp exhale. "I'm ready for this to be over."

"I know." Daisy's voice softened again. "Though, you do know the end of this isn't the end of everything, right?"

Love fiercely, love brightly, because someone waits for you, Cadell Hawkworth.

"So I've heard," Cadell remarked drily, watching the last vestiges of his father's veins smooth from his hands before
turning swiftly, heading back to his brother's flat.

10:29 p.m.

Parvati had grown to like the Underground. Having the gift was often like possessing a very excitable golden
retriever, and she'd been itching to get out of Blaise's flat. Sex was interesting - was enjoyable and fun, and certainly
rigorous - but hardly a substitute for other activities. The Underground was like a playground for divining, though
she didn't always feel compelled to tell people the things she saw. Better she didn't, in fact; how many gamblers
would want to know who would win the next fight, or who would suffer a catastrophic injury? But she couldn't help
herself once she'd seen that Ifan Hawkworth was rather not Ifan Hawkworth at all.

She saw his face when she touched his arm; Cadell, the handsome firstborn who was carrying the burden of a lost
love and a mighty disappointment. She'd left out some details when she'd revealed his future, of course, but he didn't
need to know them now. He'd find out soon enough.

"There you are," Blaise growled, slipping an arm around her waist. "Are you really this intent on escaping?"

"You can't tie me to your bed, Zabini," Parvati reminded him. "At least not all night, anyway."

Blaise made a face, clearly in disagreement. "This place is full of miscreants."

"Daphne Greengrass is right there. Isn't she your friend?"

"I said what I said," Blaise replied simply, and Parvati laughed, turning to face him. "So," he ventured, touching her
cheek briefly. "Are you planning to tell me why you can't come on Saturday, or will I have to pay for a reading
first?"

"While your opinion of my gift continues to be the most flattering," Parvati acknowledged curtly, "I continue to
persist that I can't tell you. Besides, how do you know this is the wedding I was talking about?"

"Well, whether there's a marriage is one thing, but it's certainly a wedding - "

"Oh, there'll be a marriage," Parvati told him. "That's definitely happening."

"Ah, marvelous. You continue to be creepy as fuck, Patil," Blaise said approvingly, "but if you say so, then so be it.
I'd still like to know where you're going to be, though. Divine purposes aside."

"I don't actually know where I'm going to be," she told him. "I know what I'll be doing, but the geographic location
remains vaguely up in the air."

Blaise sighed loudly. "You're being deliberately difficult, obviously, but fine. You're not the first person to dodge a
social event. Though, what about Hermione's 'real' wedding then, hm?" he prompted. "Where will you be for that?"

Parvati considered it before answering. "Dead."

He choked on a mismanaged inhale. "What?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure, anyway," she amended, tilting her head. "It's all sort of… through a lens. Or a veil, I think,
would be a more accurate description. Something gauzy, sort of flimsy. So I assume I'm dead."

"I - " Blaise froze, taking a hasty step back. "Are you serious?"

"Something's brewing. Something troublesome is starting, or started a long time ago, and it's certainly simmering
now. But anyway, there's no real telling, so - " Parvati broke off, glancing at his expression of disbelief. "What?"

"How soon?" he demanded hoarsely. "I mean, are we talking - what, is this months from now? Years?"

Parvati paused. "Feels like days," she guessed after a moment, "though again, this is all extremely inexact."

"Inexact? Are you - is that a joke?" Blaise sputtered. You can't - you can't just - "

She frowned, watching him stumble over his words as he took another step back, staring at her. "Patil, you can't
motherfucking do that - "

"Zabini, please. People die all the time." I would know. "Where did you think this was going? What were you going
to do, build a life with me?" she prompted skeptically, cutting her gaze up to his. "A family? Were you going to
marry me? Blaise Zabini, who doesn't believe in love," she mocked with a laugh, "were you going to build your life
on me, despite resenting half the words that come out of my mouth? You were going to wake up one day and wish
for your old life back, Zabini, and you can have it. My gift to you."

She wasn't sure if she'd meant it to be cruel, but it seemed to have struck him that way. He flinched.

"You said a stranger would harm me," he accused her, lips pressed thin. "You said I would fall in love and lose
everything for it."

"I say a lot of things," Parvati agreed. "But you don't believe in my gift, so what does it matter?"

"Parvati." To her surprise, the sound of her name was anguished. "Gift or not, how did you imagine I would take the
news of your fucking death?" She said nothing. "What did you think I would feel if you were gone? Do you really
think I can just - go backwards? That isn't - " He let out a growl. "That's not how life works!"
Parvati, however, sighed with impatience. "Here's what I know about life," she replied steadily. "It ends. Sometimes
tragically. But my life has never felt like mine at all, so it hardly feels like I can bother pretending I have any control
over it. You asked me for the truth and I gave it to you. There," she pronounced brusquely. "Are you happy now?"

For a moment, he didn't move. She shrugged, letting her hands fall to her side, and turned to leave, pausing only at
his motion behind her.

He reached forward, holding tight to the tips of her fingers. "I just realized something," he said, and abruptly, for
reasons she couldn't possibly fathom, his anger was gone. "It's not me who doesn't believe in love, Patil. It's you."

She stiffened. "Let go of me."

"No. I listened to you. Now you'll listen to me." She turned over her shoulder, glaring at him. "What's your secret,
Parvati Patil?" he whispered, pulling her close enough to brush his thumb against the bone of her cheek. "Is it that
someone broke your heart once? That someone you loved only showed you that love meant nothing?"

"No." Yes. Defensively, "You have no idea what I've done, Zabini."

"Of course I don't. You've shared none of it with me." His grip on her tightened. "Losing you would break me,
Parvati. Losing you would be losing everything. You were right." He closed his eyes and she shuddered, the motion
of it passing from her bones to his. "You were right when you said I would lose everything, only it wasn't what you
thought. It wasn't what I thought."

A cool rush of blood flooded her fingers, tingling in her veins. "Then don't love me. Just let me go."

His grip didn't relent. "Parvati," he said, and when she tried pulling away again, he repeated her name. "Parvati. Stop
fighting me." A slow exhale, and she relented, holding still in his arms. "You have to know by now that I'd rather
lose everything than have nothing."

She closed her eyes. "That," she exhaled after a moment, "is a very dangerous thing to say, Zabini."

"Rightly, I imagine, seeing as you predicted a very dangerous future for me," Blaise reminded her drily. "Almost as
if I'm some sort of alleged contract killer, or other such criminally princely blackguard."

"You still don't believe me," she noted, wondering why the thought of it made her smile.

"Of course I don't. I don't believe in fate, Patil. Or second sight, or stars, or prophecies. But that doesn't render me
incapable of believing in more important things."

He tilted her chin up, then, and she kissed him, or he kissed her. The sequence of things hardly mattered.
Chronologically, the kiss was a kiss, and they shared it equally between them.

"Don't die, Patil," he said to her lips.

"No promises," she replied, and then added, grudgingly, "But since you're asking nicely, I suppose I'll do what I
can."

She felt him smile. "Now that," Blaise determined with satisfaction, "is something I'm happy to believe in."

10:36 p.m.

"So you'll do it?" Daphne asked, as Marcus groaned, curling a hand around his mouth.

"I hope you know what you're asking me to do," he warned, and she nodded.

"I do. But I promise, it'll be worth it," she assured him. "It's a favor to me, and besides, we'll both be better off. As
will he, whatever he chooses."
"You're sure?" Marcus asked, fidgeting. "You're positive he agreed to Bagman's request?"

Daphne nodded. "He thinks he has no options," she reminded him, and Marcus grimaced. "I thought so myself for a
long time, and I imagine you feel that way too. As it turns out, though," she exhaled softly, "the world is rather
limitless when you stop to consider how many other things you could be doing instead."

"Is this the Cad's doing, then?" Marcus mused. "Did he finally offer you something real?"

She considered it a moment, and then rose to her feet.

"No, actually," she determined. "I just finally realized the world is much too big to resign myself to a future I didn't
choose." She leaned forward, brushing her lips against his cheek with her reserved, rose-scented perfection; she'd
make a very good wife, Marcus thought, to a man who truly loved her. "I think it's rather more important to fight for
something I want. Even if it takes me some time to figure out what that is."

Marcus sighed, the truth dancing on his tongue.

"I think I already know what I want," he confessed, and Daphne smiled down at him brilliantly, with all the
fierceness of her affection.

"Good. Still, a deal's a deal. I'll let you think on it," she told him. "See what he says, and then tell me tomorrow. I'll
stand by whatever you decide. See you then?" she prompted, transitioning with perfect ease from selfless offering to
perfunctory farewell.

Marcus intestines twisted in opposition.

"See you then," he agreed, hoping whatever he offered at the time would be enough.

Emmanuel Gagnon's apprentice was a very private woman. It was one of the reasons Gagnon had chosen her, in fact
- or so she assumed, anyway. Men who lived in the shadows preferred their associates not be very chatty; better still
if they never revealed their actual names. No family, no friends? Perfect. No paper trail? Hired on the spot.

Gagnon's apprentice had no apparent history, no name, and no interest in gaining possession of either one. Gagnon
called her Belle, and so that was the name she used. It suited her, they'd both thought. She had an almost palpable
innocence - an ingenue's endearing sense of naivety - which she supposed was the quality most responsible for
having earned Gagnon's implicit trust only four or so months into her apprenticeship. That, or he'd fallen inadvisably
in love with her, if the gardenias he kept slipping into his potions were to be believed.

In any case, Belle certainly had a certain quality that meant any wandering she did in Knockturn Alley made her
look lost and misplaced rather than purely up to mischief. She slipped carefully through the alleyways and waited
for the pre-arranged portkeys to arrive, counting down the seconds on her antique watch.

With a pop, two figures appeared.

"Belle?" they asked in unison, and then turned to glare at each other.

"What are you doing here?" asked the broad-shouldered sandy-haired one, gruffly posing the question to a severe-
expressioned man with a swoop of dark hair. "I swear to fucking god, Flint, if you're following me - "

The other man, Flint, scowled. "Fuck, Wood, flatter me, why don't you - "

"You must be Marcus Flint," Belle offered, extending a hand to the scowling one. "I'm Belle."

"Yes, Belle, and this is Oliver Wood," Marcus supplied on behalf of the other man, "who is, as you can see,
something of a stubborn dickhead."

She artfully ignored him, sidestepping the comment even as the man called Oliver spared Marcus a disgruntled
frown. "I have the potions if you have the payment," Belle offered to both of them, having concealed the vials in a
charmed pocket of her robes. "As discussed in our correspondence, it won't come cheap. You're not the only ones to
have sought me out. Scarcity," she explained, shrugging. "You understand. Many players continue to request it."

"It's not for me," Oliver assured her quickly, and Marcus rolled his eyes.

"I hardly think she's the person to tell, Wood - "

"What are you even doing here? What about all those bloody morals you're always going on about, Flint - "

"This seems like a you problem," Belle interrupted, pursing her lips. "Do you want the potions or not?"

"I do," Marcus confirmed. "He, on the other hand, is about to be talked out of it."

Oliver turned to him, glaring. "And why is that?"

"Because I have another suggestion for you. A request." Marcus gave Belle something of a darkened smile. "If, that
is, the lady here is willing to permit my half of the transaction and let us send her on her way."

Belle held a hand out, waiting. "Payment?"

Marcus shifted around, dropping a bag of galleons in her hand. "One hundred and fifty, as requested."

"Fucking Christ," Oliver exclaimed. "What?!"

"I said it was steep," Belle reminded him.

"But for one dose?"

"One round," Belle corrected, "and yes. And unless you'd like to take your chances on an inferior product, I'm going
to need the money right now, Mr Wood."

"I take it Bagman didn't give you the money to buy it?" Marcus prompted, giving a mocking little chuckle, and
Oliver's expression contorted as a quiet note of alarm sounded in Belle's head at the name Bagman. "Imagine that,
Wood."

"Flint, for fuck's sake - "

"Can we have a minute?" Marcus interrupted, turning to Belle. "I have to explain something to Wood here before he
loses his mind. But I want that vial," he warned, brandishing a finger at her before pulling Oliver aside, speaking
quietly to him.

Bagman. Ludo Bagman, of course. What would he want with this potion, of all things? Sometimes hubris went too
far, Belle thought, shaking her head at the reminder that it had been Bagman who'd put Gagnon in prison. She
listened as intently as she could while appearing as disinterested as possible, eyeing her fingernails.

"Why should I?" Oliver hissed from a slight distance away. "It's one favor, Flint. One. And if it gets me on a team
and out of here - "

"Do me this one favor," Marcus beckoned in a low voice, "and I promise, one of two things will happen. One, I'll
make sure Bagman never knows it was you. You can leave and play for the Wasps and I'll never bother you again, if
that's what you want."

Oliver grunted something inaudible. "And two?"

"Me." The word was a breathless exhale. "Do it for me and I'll choose you, Wood. I know I fucked up, I fucked
everything up, but if you do this for me, I swear, I'll get down on my knees and beg you to stay."

Oliver stared at him, stunned, but Belle wasn't here for a soap opera. If they weren't discussing Bagman, this was of
no use to her. She sighed aloud, eyeing her watch.

"You have one minute," she told them, as Oliver jumped, abruptly startled into remembering he and his erstwhile
lover weren't alone. "Made a decision?" she asked him, holding out her palm again, and he grimaced.

"You're sure," Oliver said to Marcus. "If I do this, you're sure he won't know? It won't cost me my spot on the
Wasps?"

It was a blow, clearly, and even Belle felt it. Marcus, however, hid his disappointment well. "I swear."

Oliver nodded, taking a step back. "I changed my mind," he told Belle, and then turned to Marcus. "Get me that
vial."

Marcus nodded, lips pressed thin, and then Oliver turned and walked away, heading out of the alley.

"Looks like that went well," Belle noted, removing a vial from her robes and handing it to him. "Can I assume you
know how to use this?"

"Are you asking me if I know how to consume liquids?" Marcus grunted.

"Hey, I'm not the one who rejected you," Belle reminded him. "If you're angry, take that up with someone else."

"Fine." Marcus closed his hand around the vial, tucking it into his pocket and giving her a quick thrust of his chin.
"Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Belle said. "Seriously. Don't."

"Yeah, yeah," Marcus mumbled, and then turned away, ambling down the alley.

He knew something about Bagman. Whatever it was, it was better than nothing. Better than being in Paris without
any news for four months.

Belle sighed, casting a disillusionment spell and following after him as he wound his way through Knockturn,
gradually making his way to Diagon. It seemed he was going about his business without interruption until a woman
discreetly joined his side, prompting Belle to quicken her pace, straining to hear their conversation.

"Well?" asked the woman, and Marcus grimaced.

"He said he'd do it," Marcus replied. "Though, I don't think he considered my offering much of a reward."

"Well, I told you it was up to you," the woman replied. "Engagement or no engagement, your choice. All you had to
do was this one favor - which I presume you've done?"

Marcus slipped the vial under his arm, passing it to her.

"Perfect," the woman said brightly. "I mean, sad to hear about Wood, obviously."

"Well, the cad had a point," Marcus told her. "There's such a thing as too little, too late."

"Oh, you don't believe that," the woman countered, disapproving. "He loves you. You love him. You just have to
prove it to him a little more effectively, that's all."

Marcus groaned loudly. "All this optimism is intolerable, Greengrass," he told her. "What's gotten into you?"

"Funny you should ask," remarked another voice, a tall, dark-haired man falling in step beside them as he slid one
arm around the woman's waist. At the sight of him, Belle stifled a gasp. "Ah, Mars, ever a pleasure to see you," the
man offered, as the woman stood on tiptoe, brushing her lips coolly against his cheek. "I take it your business
ventures went well, then?"
"Quite well," the woman confirmed. "Marcus has been exemplary."

"And the engagement?" the man prompted.

The woman glanced at Marcus, who shrugged.

"Off," he said. The woman let out a visible sigh of relief, and Belle caught the motion of the man's fingers tightening
on the bodice of her dress.

"I was hoping you'd say that," the woman said. "See you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes. I look forward to it," Marcus said. "I find it's always best to deliver bad news in a very public, very disastrous
way."

"Ah, Mars strikes again," the man said approvingly, and as Marcus parted with another gruff motion of his chin, the
man tugged the woman closer, bending to kiss her with a tenderness that made something catch in Belle's throat.
"And as for you, Daphne Greengrass - are you by chance headed back to headquarters?"

"Naturally," the woman, Daphne, replied. "Don't get any ideas, though, Cad. Wedding preparations will have my full
attention, I'm afraid. But tomorrow…"

She trailed off suggestively, and the man smiled. "Ah, tomorrow," he said coyly. "Positively sparkles with
possibility, doesn't it?"

"Shut up." Another kiss, intimate and full of wanting. "Shall we?"

"We shall," he replied, and with a pop, they disapparated.

Belle, meanwhile, flickered back into visibility, staring at the place where they'd been.

It hadn't been what she'd been looking for; then again, it wasn't nearly not. She quickly cast a patronus charm,
waiting for the silvery fox to appear at the tip of her wand before murmuring her message.

"Shacklebolt," Belle said, trying and failing to keep the sound of triumph from her voice. "I found him."

Then she sent the fox into the air with a flick of her wand, the shape of it swirling and dancing away on a breeze.

Nott Manor
First floor office
October 24, 2003
3:45 p.m.

"Okay, so," Pansy exhaled, adjusting the golem-Percy's tie, "I brought you over here because we need to make sure
it has your exact mannerisms. Not too much work, hopefully, as it's fairly advanced magic," she clarified, not
bothering to conceal a bit of pride in her achievement. "But you being here while the enchantment is stabilizing will
allow it to pick up some of your personality by proximity."

From where he was sitting, Percy crossed one leg over the other, tilting his head in consideration.

"Just how intelligent is this golem?" he posed curiously, and Pansy shrugged, stepping back to observe her
handiwork.

"I imagine it can handle a series of somewhat simple concepts," she said. "It has about the intellectual capacity of an
Imperiused person, I think, in that it knows what you know to be true, but probably can't think for itself."

Percy gave a crisp nod, rising to his feet to approach the golem. "So," he said to it, eyeing the details of its face.
"What's your name?"
"Percy Weasley," replied the golem.

"Ah, even I know that's wrong," Pansy interrupted, cutting Percy off before he could speak. "It's Warlock Percy
Weasley."

"Apologies," said the golem, offering Percy's curt head tilt of acknowledgement. "I am Warlock Percy Weasley."

"And how are you this afternoon, Warlock Weasley?" Percy asked.

"Fine," said the golem.

"You're well," Pansy corrected. "You're doing 'quite well, thank you' - "

"And you?" the golem finished for her, as she nodded, satisfied.

"You're very polite," she explained to Percy, whose mouth quirked slightly with amusement, inclining his head.
"Ask him another."

"What is your view on the most recent proposed Ministry regulations for longevity-related crimes?" Percy asked.

"It's an atrocity," the golem said.

"Correct," Percy agreed, as Pansy rolled her eyes.

"This is a wedding, Weasley," she reminded him. "A social event? People aren't going to ask you your opinions on
politics."

"Very well," Percy permitted, turning back to the golem. "Did you enjoy the wedding?"

"A lovely ceremony. Tasteful linens. Florals a bit much," the golem said, and Percy chuckled as Pansy glared at him.

"I'm choosing the florals," she shot impatiently, and he shrugged.

"And much as I admire your taste, your florals can be a bit much," Percy permitted wryly. "You have a fanciful
palette and a background of wealth, Miss Parkinson. Excess comes rather easily to you."

Pansy sniffed her disagreement, turning back to the golem. "What do you think of him?" she asked, gesturing to
Percy, and the golem turned its head.

"He is not very well liked," the golem said, "and rightly so. A bit of a try-hard, isn't he?"

Pansy glanced at Percy, arching a brow, and he shrugged.

"The golem is correct," he said, "albeit slightly uncouth."

"And what do you think of me?" Pansy asked the golem, and it turned its head back, fixing its gaze rather blatantly
on her breasts.

"I desire you," the golem said, as Pansy folded her arms crossly over her chest. "I think about you often. You are
frequently unclothed when I do."

"Uncouth," Pansy growled, glaring at Percy, but the golem wasn't finished.

"I admire you," the golem said, its voice strangely dispassionate, considering the words. "I imagine a life with you, a
future. I have never slept well until I met you. Now I sleep soundly, and all of my dreams are filled with your face."

Pansy shifted with surprise to glance questioningly at Percy, who didn't turn his gaze away.

"You are my conviction. My reward. The prize at the end of a lonely, empty life," the golem postured, continuing to
speak with an easy, measured version of Percy's voice. "I do not deserve you, nor do I think you aspire to someone
as low as me. But if you would have me, I would love you well. In fact, I lo-"

"That's enough," Percy cut in, as Pansy raised a hand to her mouth, pressing it to her lips. "If anyone's going to tell
her that," he informed the golem, "it will be me."

The golem nodded his courtly acknowledgement, and Percy turned to Pansy.

"This is extraordinary magic," he remarked. "You're an extremely gifted witch."

She stared at him.

"There is, of course, one problem. Everyone will know this isn't me." She blinked, and Percy shrugged, resolutely
impassive. "It doesn't look at you as I look at you. Nor does it seem to possess my very well-cultivated subtlety, I
should think." His mouth twitched into a smile. "But I'm sure with some tinkering you'll get there. As you know, the
devil is in the details. The more attention you devote to the project, as ever, the more success you will derive from
the work."

He turned back to the golem. "Now, as for your speech patterns - "

"Weasley," Pansy blurted, her hand abruptly dropping from her mouth as he turned to look at her. "Weasley, are you
- are you not going to say it?"

"Say what?" he asked, as she once again waffled between straddling him and strangling him. "Oh, you mean what
the golem was saying?" he guessed, frowning. "This hardly seems the time."

"Are you joking?" Pansy demanded, curling a fist. "Weasley!"

"She's very upset," the golem noted to Percy, who nodded.

"Weasley, you maniacal asshat," Pansy snapped. "Do you love me or not?"

Percy and the golem exchanged a brief conspiratorial glance, and then Percy turned towards her, considering her
where he stood.

"Pansy," Percy said plainly, "how on earth could I not?"

Pansy, who had been holding her breath, flung herself into his chest without a second thought, wrapping her arms
around his neck as he chuckled in her ear, one hand rising to cradle her hair.

"Miss Parkinson, we're supposed to be working," he reminded her, as she dug her nails into the notches of his spine.

"Right. Right. You," she said breathlessly, turning to the golem. "You're going to have to die, okay? Because there's
no fucking way I'm letting it happen to him."

"Harsh but fair," replied the golem.

"And as for you," Pansy continued, turning back to Percy as he angled his reserved smile down for her. "Tell me
again."

He arched a brow. "There is such a thing as overusing a phrase," he informed her drily, but she shook her head.

"Not from you. Not that phrase." She rose up on her toes, pressing into him. "Say it," she beckoned, one hand above
the pulse of his heart, and he slid his fingers between hers, holding her. "Say it for real so that I can say it back," she
murmured, tilting her chin up, and he kissed her slowly.

"I think you just did," he said quietly, and behind them, the golem sighed with contentment.

"Yes," it confirmed. "And also, now that I think about it, the florals are appropriately extravagant."
"They're not extravagant," Pansy growled, about to give the golem the full extent of her contemptuous
disagreement, but Percy yanked her back, not letting her go.

"Miss Parkinson - "

"Pansy," she cut in, groaning.

"Pansy," he agreed, silent laughter alighting in the corners of his eyes as his hands dropped to her hips. "I believe
your time would be better spent on other activities, don't you?"

"Here?" she asked, permitting herself to be backed against the bookshelf. "What, now? With - that watching?"

"Well," Percy chuckled, burying the sound of it in her neck while he slid his hands under her dress, "it's going to
have to learn how to be me, isn't it? Perhaps you should close your eyes," he advised the golem, who complied with
a sigh.

"Uncouth," the golem declared at a grumble, but by then, nobody was listening.

The League of Eternality

Unplottable location
5:48 p.m.

Nico knocked quietly on the door. "Ignotus?"

No answer.

"Ignotus," Nico attempted again, "Montague says you've been in there all day. Have you eaten?" Predictably,
silence. He thought he heard the scratching of a quill, perhaps some murmuring, but nothing else. "Ignotus, I'm
coming in," he called, and pushed the door open gently, bracing himself for what he would find inside.

Nothing too out of the ordinary, given the signs. There was a time when, once every couple of months, Ignotus
would go on an absolute tear, discovering something that set his interests ablaze and poking at it, prodding the
threads of magic until something (something Nico had never understood) came loose, revealing to him its secrets.
That was Nico's favorite Ignotus; the inventor, the mad scientist, the frantic discoverer of beauty and greatness and
the intricacies that somehow made every puzzling element of magic into a neatly plated affair.

To say Nico loved Ignotus Peverell for his mind was an understatement. In fairness, it was objectively very difficult
not to. Even Antioch and Cadmus had been known to silence themselves in the midst of it, and Nico was certainly
delivered to awe now, wandering inside to tiptoe past strips of discarded parchment.

It had been years since an occasion like this had last arisen; nothing had piqued Ignotus' interest since Lady Revel,
or perhaps even before. The courting of her, followed by his anger with his eldest brother, had rendered Ignotus
largely uncreative in the decades that followed. Now, recognizing the familiar signs of brilliance, Nico found he was
at once concerned for Ignotus' health whilst being exuberant with excitement, certain that whenever Ignotus cracked
his inevitable discovery, they would finally have another of their quiet fireside chats. Their old ventures into
conspiracy were without a doubt the highlights of Nico's life; his memories tasted of cold fireside coffee and lazy,
languid nights as the two of them inevitably talked well into the morning, the delicate promises of magic that had yet
to be uncovered dancing like stardust through their heads.

"Ignotus," Nico murmured, closing a hand around his shoulder, and Ignotus jumped, startled. He'd left the youth
enchantments off, wearing his older face, and already there were dark circles under his eyes from what Nico could
see beneath his spectacles. "Are you hungry?" Nico asked, gesturing to the plate he'd levitated in behind him, and
Ignotus frowned.

"It's like a memory," Ignotus murmured, answering some question Nico had not asked, "but not quite. Like
something you might put into a pensieve, only there's something darker. It's that top layer, that little sliver that gives
it its power, but what?"
"Sorry?" Nico asked, frowning. Impossible to tell from a distance what Ignotus had been working on; the desk was
littered with notes and sketches.

"What gives a secret its power?" Ignotus posed, frowning, and Nico blinked. "Does it come from the bearer? Is it
like an Unforgivable, where the more intensely felt it is, the stronger it is? Or does it depend on the exclusivity?
What happens when someone shares it? Does the secret always lose power, or can the sharing of a secret strengthen
its power?"

"Ignotus," Nico said, tightening his grip slightly. "Ignotus, are you well? What have you - "

He stopped, catching a glimmer of something from Ignotus' hand, and froze.

"That vial," Nico said, half-choking. "What's in it? Have you seen what's in it?"

"What, this? Cadmus gave it to me," Ignotus supplied absently, not looking at it, and Nico felt his blood drain from
his face with panic. "Molecularly speaking, it's fascinating. It's not any conceivable matter, though that's no surprise.
What form would an idea even take? I'm having one now," he realized, his expression suddenly going blank. "I
wonder if I should try to capture it somewhere - "

"Ignotus," Nico ventured, suddenly urgent. "Where did Cadmus get this from? Who gave it to him?"

"I don't know," Ignotus said, and then paused, giving him a slow, curious glance. "Why?" Ignotus asked slowly; in
his thinking voice, and Nico hesitated.

"I just - do you know what secret it contains?" Nico asked tentatively. "Because Ignotus, you must know. You must
know I would never have - I wasn't - I only wished to - "

Immediately, Ignotus' gaze came into focus, snapping to attention. "Only wished to what?"

"I - " Nico hesitated, burdened with frustration and doubt. Why had he ever trusted Theo Nott with something as
delicate as this? With his very heart, his soul, his most haunting betrayal? The moment Nico had met Theo Nott he'd
compared him to Cadmus, and still - "Whose secret do you hold, Ignotus?" Nico pleaded breathlessly, and Ignotus
rose slowly to his feet, his eyes narrowing as they met Nico's.

"Well, I know now whose secret I do not hold," Ignotus remarked coolly, setting the vial down on his desk. He
turned his head away, considering something, and didn't look up when he remarked, "You're afraid, Nico."

Nico said nothing. He couldn't speak.

"You told me once you were loyal only to me," Ignotus reminded him, still not looking up. "Is that true?"

"Of course." It came out as a rasp. "Can you really doubt me, Ignotus?"

"As a reminder, Nico, I can and do doubt everyone. Hazards of being betrayed by my brothers one too many times."
Ignotus curled a hand in slowly, letting it rest in a fist on his desk. "If you have something to tell me, Nicholas, I
would advise you to do so quickly." He glanced up, his green eyes settling on Nico's. "I may be the youngest
brother, and perhaps the most forgiving, but I am certainly not the least requiring of loyalty."

Hardly a reassuring thought.

"You have to understand," Nico said, swallowing, "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was protecting
you. I thought I - " He faltered, averting his gaze. "I didn't think it would happen the way it did. I thought she would
- I didn't think -"

"So it was you who told him." Ignotus' voice was hard and mean. "You were the one who told Antioch about
Dionisia. You're the reason Antioch intervened, aren't you? I'd always wondered. He has eyes everywhere, it could
have been anyone, so I wondered, but it never crossed my mind to believe someone I trusted had been the one to do
it." His mouth hardened, lined thin with anger. "I might have forgiven you then if I'd known, Nico. But you lived
with this? For years you lived with it, keeping it from me?" Silence. "And you say you didn't think it would happen
the way it did. How did you think it would go? Did you think Antioch would kill her?"

Nico slid a grim hand over his mouth, unable to say a word.

"You did," Ignotus realized with hardened wonder. With sharpened disbelief. "You wanted him to kill her. You'd
hoped that he would. Were you as disappointed as I was to find that he did not?"

He gave a mirthless laugh, and Nico flinched. "I thought I was losing you," Nico confessed quietly.

"Losing me?" Ignotus took a step forward, staring at him. "Why? Because I might have chosen her over the Club?
What business was that of yours?"

"Are you serious?" This time it was Nico's voice that struck with violence. "Are you really so blind, Ignotus? This
isn't about the Club. This was never about the Club! This was never, not once, about your brothers for me - not
them, nor your ambitions, nor your rivalries. Not your hatred of each other, nor anything else named Peverell, except
for you." His chest heaved, straining, and he grew progressively more sickened at the thought that this was how the
words would escape his vault of secrets; vomited up, deposited in a pool at Ignotus' feet. "I was losing you and I was
afraid," Nico half-whispered, burning from the inside out. "I didn't care that you might choose her over us. I only
feared you would choose her over me."

Ignotus didn't drop his gaze. Didn't raise it. Didn't move, didn't blink, didn't breathe.

"I trusted you," he said through his teeth.

"Yes, you did, and it was the one time I failed you. I failed you because I loved you, selfishly, but believe me," Nico
begged, reaching out as Ignotus instinctively pulled away. "If I have kept one secret from you, Ignotus, it is only that
I've loved you all this time."

At that, Ignotus softened, or seemed to soften. Nico exhaled in relief, waiting, and Ignotus considered him a moment
before speaking.

"Oh, Nico," Ignotus beckoned softly, reaching out after a moment to take Nico's scarred face in his hands. "Nico,"
he breathed out, and Nico stepped closer, waiting to catch the words from Ignotus' tongue as he leaned in, his lips
near Nico's ear. "Oh, Nico," Ignotus said a final time, and then dropped to a whisper. "Unrequited love is hardly an
excuse."

Nico's breath hitched as Ignotus held him firmly. Not intimately; more like captivity. Nico pulled away, but Ignotus
didn't relent.

"You killed her," Ignotus said, his voice shattered and sharp. "You killed her, you betrayed me, you let it turn me
against my brother. Who was it, I wonder, who decided it should be a secret?" He yanked Nico in tighter, spitting
venom onto the side of his neck. "Let me guess. You asked my brother to keep your betrayal from me and he agreed,
didn't he? And yet tell me, Nico, which of you I will spend eternity hating. Guess! Will it be the one I trusted to keep
my secrets," he seethed, "or the one I specifically did not - "

"You're angry," Nico cut in bluntly, wondering if he shouldn't reach into his pocket for his wand. He shifted slightly,
feeling for it in his trouser pocket where he was not pressed hard against Ignotus. "I understand, believe me. I
deserve your anger, even your hatred, if you wish it. But please, you have to know, I did it - "

"Out of love?" Ignotus snarled. "What a strange concept of love you possess, Nicholas Flamel."

The moment Nico's hand closed around his wand, yanking it free with a gasp, Ignotus had already pressed his into
the side of Nico's temple, his teeth gritted as he shook his head.

"What would you have me do now?" Ignotus asked him, his voice a dangerous breed of quiet. "If it were you, Nico,
what would you do?"
"We've shared so much, Ignotus," Nico reminded him, his hands shaking now. He'd never been so close to Ignotus,
and in the same token, never so far. "We've shared centuries of discoveries together; centuries of secrets and truths.
We've faced highs and lows together, Ignotus - please, I beg you, let your memory be as long as our friendship has
been - "

"Tell me the truth," Ignotus cut in, and there was no rage in it. No fury. Only a distinct, frigid coldness. "I want to
hear you say it, and I will know if you lie, Nico. I have known you long enough to know your tells, so don't test me."
The words were tipped with poison, the teeth behind them bared. "What had you hoped Antioch would do to
Dionisia Trelawney?"

There was no point to lying.

There was no reason to pretend.

There was no turning back now.

"What I couldn't do," Nico replied softly.

Ignotus' mouth stiffened. "Which was?"

Nico looked up, not tearing his eyes away.

"You need me, Ignotus Peverell," Nico told him firmly. "You need me. I've cleaned up enough of your messes
already. You have no idea the things I've done for you, what I've sacrificed for you, and what will happen to you if
you cast me from your side - "

"What was it?" Ignotus demanded again, shaking him. "What couldn't you do, Nico?"

Surely you've thought about your own death before, Nico heard Draco Malfoy whisper from the recesses of his
memory. Surely you've thought about the things you would have done… The things you'd want to say, and how you'd
want to say them…

"I love you, Ignotus," Nico confessed, eyes closed. "I have loved you like I have never loved another. Like I never
dreamed a love could even be. I have admired you, worshipped you, revered you, in every fit and form that you have
taken. I have basked in every stray gaze, and I have lived in every quiet moment. Ignotus Peverell, I love you like
she could have never loved you - "

"WHAT COULDN'T YOU DO?" Ignotus shouted, and Nico opened his eyes, Ignotus' wand digging painfully into
the side of his temple.

I always knew I would die for you.

"Kill her myself," Nico said with a laugh, and then, after a beat of silence, he saw a flash of green light.

And then, once Ignotus' face had faded, Nicholas Flamel saw nothing at all.

Nott Manor
Living Room
6:01 p.m.

"I have to admit, I wasn't expecting to see this again," Theo said, holding out his hand as Cad dropped the vial into it
with a perfunctory smugness. "You know, don't tell anyone, but I find it delightfully refreshing every time you prove
me wrong."

"The truth always shocks people," Cad agreed, and gestured to the vial. "But really, thank you for that. It provided a
surprising amount of insight - that," he clarified, "and it did provide me with the means for very necessary
replication. All in all, you were very useful to me, which I appreciate."
Theo groaned. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning I was able to extract some minor secrets of my own - for my own experimentation, and, more relevantly,
for my brother to play with," Cad replied, shrugging, as Theo gave him a doubtful look. "Ignotus is sort of like a
child, or a bird," Cad explained. "He needs toys, shiny things. It makes him much more amenable to deals with me
in the future."

"Psychologically speaking, that means his love language is gifts," Theo supplied. "Never an ideal match for me, a
person who hates to give people what they want. What secret did you give him?" he added tangentially, and Cad
rolled his eyes.

"I thought we were clear on the matter of secrets, Nott? And how they must, by necessity, remain secret?"

"Right, fine," Theo permitted, glancing distractedly at the vial. "So what'd you gather about them?"

"Well, I recreated a few. Ran a few experiments," Cad supplied. "If you tell a secret that's a lie, the vial gets
corrupted. Burned my fingers twice." Theo winced, and Cad nodded. "Exactly. Apparently there's a fine line
between secrets and deceit. However, if you confess a secret, it dissolves. Well, more like disintegrates - "

"That's all well and good," Theo agreed, obviously uninterested, "but how does the actual magic work?"

"Like a battery," Cad replied. "You know what a muggle battery is?"

Theo arched a brow.

"A single secret doesn't seem to do much," Cad explained, "but several secrets in a network conduct something of
electricity. A circuit," he clarified, drawing it out in the air, and then Theo nodded. "The magic in a single secret is
little more than a memory in a pensieve. You can view it, and that's all. Multiple secrets, though, are more like
portkeys, in that it's a form of magic that exists on a grid. Traveling from place to place in accordance with time?
Multiple circuits of magic," Cad explained, and Theo nodded again. "Multiple secrets? Excess power. An entire
network of secrets and you have enough magic to power - I don't know. A non-sentient castle, probably. A massive
explosive, for sure."

"I knew that network was dangerous," Theo said, shuddering. "There's something fucking weird about it."

"Well, I think in this case, 'weird' is a stand-in for the more accurate 'worryingly unstable,'" Cad confirmed. "It's
genius, really, and not technically illegal by Ministry standards, but it's a lifetime's worth of work compiled by
someone who was clearly much smarter than she looked. A pity she left no instructions. It's not lacking in value as
is," he clarified, "but I highly doubt it will ever be reliable."

"Is it more dangerous to use, then, or to destroy?" Theo prompted.

"No telling," Cad replied, before smoothly adding, "Luckily it's missing."

"Missing?" Theo echoed, alarmed, and Cad shrugged.

"Antioch must have moved it. It's not at the Clubhouse," he explained, "but I'm not too fussed about that at the
moment, considering that now I know it might literally murder everyone within a hundred square miles if anything
goes wrong - "

"Which would be one hundred miles within what country again?" Theo asked hopefully, and Cad spared him a
disapproving glance.

"Nice try. The point is, the secrets are being kept somewhere else," he finished, "but now we know how they work,
so you can just hold onto that one until we have somewhere to put it."

"Wonderful," Theo said, closing his hand around it. "I presume you saw the contents?"
"Yes," Cad confirmed. "Antioch was right to point you in that direction, if positioning yourself to destroy Ignotus is
in any way your goal. He has always trusted Nico implicitly, and Nico has long been in love with him. It's a bond
that, if broken, would likely end in disaster. I do love the way Antioch thinks," he added cheerfully, and Theo shook
his head.

"Funny isn't it, that love is such a weapon," he noted, and paused. "And secrets, too."

"It's all very meta," Cad agreed. "But, live as long as we have, and eventually you run out of things to bring to a
knife fight."

"Right. Well, I'd better check on our impending murder," Theo said. "Will you be attending the festivities?"

"Do you mean the wedding, or the assassination?" Cad prompted.

"I certainly don't mean the crudités," Theo replied, as Cad permitted a chuckle.

"I may be around. I might not. No telling. In the meantime, I'd better go see what my brothers are up to," Cad
finished, aiming himself towards the Floo. "Antioch's been especially broody, and Ignotus has been locked in his
room all day - "

"Siblings. Nightmare," Theo called after him, as Cad passed him a salute, stepping through the flames and emerging
into his wing of the Clubhouse on the other side.

For a moment, he was caught off guard, wondering if he'd somehow come to the wrong place. His office, only
newly refurbished, had obviously been ransacked; he hadn't collected much in the way of possessions, but furniture
had been gutted and overturned, every drawer of his desk charmed open as his notes floated in the air, strewn about
and weightless.

"Ignotus," Cad growled, catching sight of him in the center of the storm, and his younger brother turned, his face
suddenly old and haggard. "Ignotus?" Cad asked uncertainly, stumbling mid-stride, and instantly, Ignotus' face
rippled over and smoothed out, restored by his usual enchantments. "What are you - "

"Where is it?" Ignotus hissed. "The memory. The secret. What have you done with it?"

Cad halted in place. "What secret?"

"Don't lie to me, brother," Ignotus snapped. "I know you have it. I know what Nico did - what he's done. I know you
know about it. Give it to me, I want to see it for myself - "

"Ignotus." Cad stepped forward, taking his brother's shoulders firmly. "What's going on? What is this?"

"Nico. He lied to me. He lied." Ignotus spat the words out, furious. "He killed her. Even if it wasn't his wand that did
it, he may as well have just killed her, Cadmus - and not even you ever wronged me like that - "

"This was years ago, Ignotus. Years." Cad frowned. "How did you find out?"

At that, Ignotus spared him a halting laugh. "Isn't it funny how secrets live forever? Isn't that the funniest thing about
them? They only grow stronger over time, Cadmus. They don't age like human beings age. Add that to your notes."
He struggled away, shoving Cad with a jab to his chest. "Secrets ferment like wine. Like poison. More toxic over
time - "

"I don't have it, Ignotus," Cad cut in firmly, hands outstretched. He circled Ignotus carefully, watching his brother's
cold gaze follow him as he moved through the room. "I know what Nico did, yes, but I don't have the secret. You
won't find it here."

Ignotus' mouth twitched. "I know you're telling me the truth," he acknowledged after a moment had passed, though
he didn't look soothed by the thought. "You're my brother, Cadmus, and I have watched you lie to me and to
everyone since we were children. But I also know that to you, a truth and a half-truth have no distinction." His
expression soured. "I swear, if you're keeping something from me - "

"Having it won't bring you satisfaction," Cad reminded him. "You already know what it contains, do you not? Ask
Nico about it, if you want answers. Ask Antioch, even - "

Ignotus flicked his gaze to Cad's, expressionless. "I can't ask Nico."

"Why not?" Cad prompted, and at Ignotus' telling silence, he blinked, registering a nameless sense of apprehension.
"Ignotus. Brother. Why not?" he asked again, stepping closer.

Ignotus' face didn't change. "Ask him yourself," he said coolly, and as Cad took a step, Ignotus disapparated, his
boyish face gone as easily as it had appeared.

12 Grimmauld Place
6:56 p.m.

"Ah, Basile, could you hand me that pin?" Mel asked, holding a hand out for one as Hermione squirmed, beginning
to feel restless and lightheaded. "Don't lock your knees," Mel scolded, nudging the back of Hermione's thigh and
nearly sending her toppling off the makeshift platform. "I want to make this train perfect."

"Does the dress really need a train, though?" Hermione asked weakly. "I mean, what if I need extra mobility or
something - "

"What, are you anticipating a murder during the ceremony?" Mel asked vacantly, as Hermione hid a grimace. "If
you're wearing a Melibea Warbeck original, Hermione, it's going to be sensational. You already only gave me a
week to do it - not that I need much longer," she added, exchanging a conspiratorial glance with Basile. "Perfection
requires inspiration, true, but time is only a necessity for amateurs."

"Plaaaaaytime in le box pour amateeeeeurs," Basile agreed nonsensically, and Hermione sighed loudly, giving her
knees a quick bend.

"I do like it, Mel," she conceded, running her fingers over the shape of the neckline. It was a breathtakingly simple
design that was perfect for her figure, cut with a low back and a dramatic train. It was also from charmed silk,
meaning no wrinkles and a magically fluid ease of movement. All in all, a dream wedding dress - if only it were for
something not so entirely pretend. "I just - given everything, I don't want to take up too much of your time - "

"Nonsense," Mel cut in, her mouth full of pins. "Basile," she mumbled incoherently, "where's Kreacher?"

"KREEEEEEEEAAAAAACHER," Basile called, prompting Hermione to jump as the elf appeared beside them with
a crack, giving her a solemn look of disinterest. "You weeeeeeell feeeeex le haaaaair now, oui?"

"Kreacher is not being thrilled about Miss's unrulings," the elf said, referring (ostensibly) to the state of Hermione's
mismanaged curls.

"Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaase," crooned Basile.

Kreacher sighed, snapping his fingers, and then Hermione felt her hair swept up with a woosh like a conjured
breeze, suddenly lifted from her shoulders and twisted back none-too-gently to finish in some sort of complicated
twist that she slid her hands over with ease.

"Oh, Kreacher, thank y-"

The elf vanished with a crack.

"Well," Hermione sighed, as Mel chuckled softly. "He and I have a very tempestuous relationship."

"EET LOOKS NIIIIICE," Basile shouted, aiming his voice upstairs just before Kreacher reappeared at the vampire's
feet. "Ohhh, zere you aaaaare, I saaaaaid - "

"Kreacher is hearing Master's vampire," Kreacher replied solemnly, "and Kreacher is already knowing." With that,
he disappeared again, casting what Hermione thought was a rather needlessly smug gaze in her direction.

"Nice," Mel agreed approvingly, taking a step back to admire her handiwork. "Basile, what do you think?"

"Zees weddiiiiiiing ees happening veeeeeeery queeeeeeeeeckly," replied Basile.

"No, about the dress," Mel corrected, as Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Ahh, LA PERFECTION," Basile announced. "Eet ees veeeery - how you say?"

"Good?" Hermione supplied optimistically.

"Oui," Basile said. "Spectaculaaaaaire. Stupéfiaaaaaant. Sensationneeeeel. Zees aaaaaaare all good, yeeees?"

"It's all in the same vein, yes," Hermione confirmed, all three of them looking up as she heard a two sets of
impending footsteps.

" - right, and that's what I said, Malfoy - "

" - still, it's nice that some things remain consistent at least, and yes, to answer your very unwelcome question, I'm
nearly there, but - "

Hermione froze, catching Draco's startled gaze as he paused in the doorway, a tickled Harry at his side.

"Granger," Draco pronounced, somewhere between awed and bemused, and then immediately smacked one hand
over his eyes. "Fuck, I - I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here, I was just - "

"Mel, can you help me with something in the kitchen?" Harry asked innocently, gesturing over his shoulder. "Basile,
you too, actually - "

"Eet would be my greeeeeeeatest honooooooor," Basile crowed in response, chasing after him as Mel turned to wink
over her shoulder, flashing Hermione a broad, triumphant smile before following.

"Malfoy," Hermione sighed, stepping off the platform to knock his hand from his eyes. "What are you doing here?
And also, what is this - "

"It's bad luck to see the bride," Draco protested weakly, though in spite of his opposition, he indulged a fairly
gratuitous pause, his grey gaze sweeping over her from head to toe.

"Right, true, one quick thing though: we're not actually getting married," Hermione reminded him, giving his
shoulder a quick backhanded smack. "And I would think I have better things to do than sit here being pricked by
pins, don't you? I could show up in a burlap sack and it wouldn't matter even remotely - "

"You look beautiful," Draco interrupted, clearing his throat, and despite the fact that he had very obviously not been
listening, Hermione permitted her mouth to snap shut, cutting herself off in favor of staring disbelievingly at him.

"You like it?" she prompted (with more hesitation than she might have preferred), and Draco nodded, his mouth
quirking up at the corners.

"I suppose I forget from time to time that you do clean up rather nicely," he told her, transitioning back to his usual
smuggery and giving her an unapologetic smirk. "And besides," he drawled, "wedding or no wedding, people will
still see you. Better to give them something to look at besides my exceedingly slimming cummerbund."

"I'm sort of expecting Hortense to show up in a matching dress," Hermione remarked, and Draco nodded his fervent
agreement. "Or Thibaut, for that matter."
"Well, one can only hope," he agreed, and reached out, briefly passing her cheek with a gentle brush from his
fingertips before withdrawing his hand, fixing it firmly at his side. "Anyway. I have the potion nearly finished," he
informed her, and paused. "Well, both potions, I should say."

"Oh. Good." Hermione stiffened, suddenly feeling immensely hot. "Were you telling Harry?"

"Yes. He and Weasley will have a few others from the Auror department there."

"Ron's involved?" Hermione asked, surprised, and Draco shrugged.

"Well, it can't hurt. Again, one hopes." His gaze skated over her again, consistently appreciative, though he
continued without much inflection. "Pansy's finished the golem, Weasley-the-elder has been prepped, the event itself
is finalized and planned to Daphne's assured perfection. The Club's been informed, according to Theo, so all that's
left is to - "

"Not fuck everything up?" Hermione guessed, and Draco nodded.

"Or try very hard not to, if we're setting achievable goals," Draco said, and shook himself. "Which is a Theo-ism,
and therefore I regret it immensely."

"Funny," Hermione remarked, shaking her head slowly. "This is the night before my wedding, and I'm not even
thinking about the wedding part."

"There are many layers of hilarity, yes," Draco confirmed, "though as you pointed out, there's no actual wedding. So
it hardly merits much consideration."

"Right," Hermione permitted with a sputtered laugh. "Right, I'm eternally bound to you," she remarked drily, "but at
least there's no swearing-in ceremony."

"Marriage is kind of outrageous, isn't it?" Draco prompted, as she grimaced her agreement. "It's sort of like 'oh,
things are very nice as they are with you and I'd very much like them not to change, please accept this ring and agree
to live with me until one of us dies' - "

"Yes, and 'please sign this, too, because otherwise how can I be comfortably assured you won't pop out for some
milk and never return' - "

"Ah yes, and to think, I didn't ask your father for permission. Now how am I supposed to validate the patriarchy?"
Draco lamented, and Hermione abruptly stopped laughing, coughing on a bit of poorly-handled air. "Are you okay?"
he asked while she choked, one of his hands curling around her shoulder as she pressing hers into her stomach.
"Christ. Breathe much, Granger?"

"He's - you can't - " She straightened, sputtering, and rubbed vacantly at her chest. "You can't actually ask him," she
admitted slowly. "So, um. We'll have to think of another way to archaically transfer me as property - "

"Ah," Draco said, murmuring it to himself as his thumb stroked the bone of her shoulder. "I'd wondered." He
stepped forward, brushing his lips lightly, delicately, on the spot where his touch had been. "You don't have to talk
about it. I can put two and two together."

She looked away, nodding. "Anyway," she continued, clearing her throat. "I guess we should talk about some sort of
evacuation plan. You know, for when a Warlock inevitably dies and the guests attempt to run screaming out of the
venue - "

"Potter's got it," Draco assured her, tilting her chin up. "Anything else?"

She hesitated, wondering if she should tell him.

Three years ago, she'd been sick to her stomach the night before her wedding to Ron. She hadn't slept at all, in fact,
and had woken up with faint bruising under her eyes, as if her doubts themselves had emerged from her intestines to
assault her sometime while she'd been staring at the ceiling. She had imagined promising herself to him, over and
over, and it had felt at once very natural, very comfortable, and yet vaguely terrifying, the walls of possibility
closing in around her with a sprawling sensation of captivity. So many avenues were going to be closed, she had
thought to herself then. There were so many lives she could have lived, so many roads she could have taken, and she
could see them all fading away and drifting off into a vacant abyss each time she imagined the moment she
promised her life to Ron Weasley.

Part of her wanted to tell Draco Malfoy that her pattern recognition was, in fact, highly sophisticated, and therefore
she was not entirely certain that she wouldn't be marrying him tomorrow. What if their timing was off? What if
distractions became necessary? She'd been in a relationship with him, engaged to him, and then bound to him all by
a series of unanticipated (unfortunate? unlikely, at the very least) events, and not once had she felt ready at the time.
If some higher power saw them fit for entertainment, then perhaps she would end up married to him tomorrow.

But for some inexplicable reason, not one thread of her was scared.

"You really think I look nice?" she asked, discarding the confession in favor of curling a hand around his cheek and
smiling up at him. "Basile said so, but Kreacher seemed considerably less enthused."

"The dress is perfect. Tasteful." He slid his hand over her hair, cupping it around the back of her neck. "You," he
murmured, "are exquisite."

"Pity I come with no dowry," Hermione lamented facetiously, and Draco chuckled, setting his free hand on her
waist.

"Hardly," Draco countered. "You come with adventure. With a charming volatility, with unbearable tension, with
wit and conversation and fists, and an admirable lack of social graces. With promises you strangely keep." She
glanced up at him, watching his smile spread slowly; a horizon of promise. "A tidy sum, all in all, and I would be the
one getting a bargain. You, unfortunately, only get - "

"A manor house," Hermione supplied. "Two manor houses, plus two mad French cousins." She paused, thinking.
"Also, a sizable fortune."

"Ah yes, how could I forget," Draco drawled. "Nevermind what I said about the bargain, clearly I'm being flagrantly
rob-"

She cut him off with a kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I look forward to not marrying you tomorrow, Draco Malfoy," she said.

"Do try not to get killed," he agreed at a murmur, and she smiled, failing to notice the audience that had gathered in
the doorway.

"Oi," Mel called, clapping her hands and startling them apart. "That train isn't finished. Out with you, Draco
Malfoy."

"Yeeeees, you muuuuust leeeeeeeeave," Basile declared, though he looked slightly saddened. "Even eef zis ees
veeeeery niiiiice."

"Well, you heard the vampire," Draco said, releasing Hermione and nodding to Mel. "Warbeck, a pleasure, as ever."
He paused before leaving, passing Hermione a final unbearable smirk. "Bye, Granger."

She nodded after him as he left, turning to face Mel and Basile with a sigh.

"What?" she asked, catching their indiscreet exchange of glances. "Seriously. What?"

"Eet ees veeeeeery niiiiiice," replied the vampire, preening with approval.
The League of Eternality
Unplottable location
7:14 p.m.

"ANTIOCH!"

Immediately, the hairs at the back of Antioch's neck rose in fervent opposition. His brother's voice nearly always had
that effect on him, particularly when distressed; he could count on one hand how many times he'd heard it that way.
Cadmus' voice, sleek and dry and most commonly used for irritating quips, took on a very distinct timbre when in a
panic. It reminded Antioch of their childhood; awoke something primal in him. Abruptly, his mind flashed with the
recollection of finding a young Cadmus curled around his arm, having broken it falling from the branch of a
decaying tree. Cadmus' dark head had been bent, his clever little fox's face in anguish. The sound of his name then:
Antioch!

Brother, help me!

"What is it?" Antioch said, turning as Cadmus burst through the doorway, panting.

"Nico," Cadmus said, eyes wild. "Dead."

"Revive him," Antioch replied easily, waving a hand from where he leaned against his desk. "I trust you know how?
Nicholas will have several records, and surely a horcrux, or an aevum - "

"Antioch!" Cadmus shouted. "He's dead. He's murdered. Ignotus - " A grimace. "Ignotus killed him."

At that, Antioch froze, frowning into nothing. "What do you mean Ignotus killed him? Why would he - "

"It's my fault." Cadmus' expression was grave. Brother, help me! "I - I didn't think - " A sharp exhale. "I didn't
actually think he was capable," Cadmus murmured, the sound muffled into the palm of his hand as he curled it
soberly around his mouth.

Antioch shifted, slowly wandering to his decanter and pouring a glass as he gestured for Cadmus to sit. "You told
him, then," Antioch guessed, testing the beverage before withdrawing a second glass, pouring one for his brother.
"How did you find out?"

Cadmus looked up. "I told him nothing. And as for how I knew," he added at a growl, "does it matter?"

Antioch considered it. "No, perhaps not." He shifted, placing the glass in front of Cadmus as he took a seat in the
opposite chair. "It was my most foolish decision, separating Ignotus from Lady Revel. But I had already lost one
brother," he remarked, eyeing the flash of liquid in his glass as the flames danced from the fireplace. "I was rather
hell-bent on not doing it twice."

Cadmus sniffed testily at the whisky, sparing Antioch little more than a bitter glance.

"I'm not going to feel sorry for you," Cadmus informed him stiffly. "You killed me three times, Antioch. If the
mistake was in losing me, I daresay you made it enough times to be quite sure."

"I lost you long before I killed you," Antioch reminded him, and took a slow sip, letting the alcohol burn a little
sincerity into his tongue. "What did you think would happen upon your return, Cadmus?" he asked, not looking at
his brother. "Did you think you would turn him against me? There was no need." His own voice sounded tired,
wearied. Not its usual battle-hardened blade. "Ignotus has been against me for decades."

For a moment they sat in silence, the wood crackling from the fire.

"This isn't the Ignotus I remember," Cadmus confessed eventually. "This is not the brother I knew. And I have no
idea where he could be now, or what he might be doing - "

"So track him," Antioch suggested neutrally. "No one on earth could ever hide from you, Cadmus. Ignotus would
already know as much."

"Exactly." Cadmus grimaced. "He knows I can find him. If I track him, there may be an ambush waiting for me."

In spite of everything, Antioch let out a grim chuckle at the woeful look of uncertainty on Cadmus' face. "Ah,
brother," he murmured. "Are the stakes finally real for you now? No more playing pretend?"

Cadmus glared at him. "Don't mock me, Antioch. You let things come to this."

"Ah, it's not so dismal, Cadmus. We are the League of Eternality, are we not?" he prompted, taking another sip.
"Nicholas would have been prepared for this. I'm certain he has something from which he can be resurrected; and as
for Ignotus, he will come around - "

"Will he?" Cadmus demanded. "I've never seen him like this. I've never known him to hold so much hardness in his
heart. Have you?"

Antioch didn't answer. Of course he had. How else to explain the last half-century?

"When I died," Cadmus continued morosely, "Ignotus worshipped you. He loved Nico. Perhaps not as Nico loved
him, but still." Silence. "I have known him his whole life and never known him to be capable of so much
resentment."

"His whole life, minus some," Antioch reminded Cadmus. "He fell in love, Cadmus. It changed him, and you missed
it. He fell in love with a woman and out of love with my ideals some time ago."

"But that's precisely it," Cadmus argued. "Ignotus never loved people. Only ideas, only knowledge!" He rose to his
feet, his fingers tight around his glass. "I wanted discord," he admitted, as Antioch rolled his eyes. Once a fox,
always a fox. "I wanted him to resent you, I wanted you to mistrust him. I wanted to watch this Club burn from the
inside out, Antioch, to watch it sweat us out like a fever - but I had no idea things were so far gone."

"You always did want chaos," Antioch agreed. "But this Club has seen chaos before. Why should it not? Immortality
is no small thing, no easy thing," he acknowledged simply, "but for that, this Club will not be easily destroyed. Not
even by you."

"Easy for you to say," Cadmus grunted. "You've never died. More importantly, you've never been killed by Ignotus,
which is apparently no longer something only I can say - "

"Revive Nico," Antioch suggested again, shaking his head. "You seem like you'd be glad of the distraction. I'd also
guess you'd manage it in half the time it takes Nico himself," he mused, "which will infuriate him to hear upon
revival - "

"This!" Cadmus exclaimed, flinging an arm out and startling him into silence. "This is part of it, Antioch! It's just
one thing among many you don't understand!"

Antioch grimaced, rubbing his temple. "Fine. Explain it to me then, Cadmus - "

His brother was already pacing. "You can't simply revive him, Antioch," Cadmus muttered, waving a hand as he
spoke. "You may not have the version you started with - you don't know what will happen when he comes back!
You've never done it, Antioch," Cadmus reminded him sharply, pivoting to face him, "but I've done it three times.
The version you are when you return is different. Who you are when you return is not yours-"

He froze abruptly, stunned, and Antioch frowned, waiting.

"Antioch," Cadmus said, blinking. Brother, help me! "Antioch," he repeated hoarsely, "did Ignotus… die?"

A pause.

"Of course not," Antioch pronounced gruffly. "I would have known. Obviously I would have known if he had - "
"Why? Because Nico would have told you?" Cadmus demanded, and to that, Antioch said nothing. It wasn't as if he
watched Ignotus at all hours; the youngest Peverell was known to disappear from time to time, and it had never
worried him before. He'd merely trusted Nico to know.

"What if Nico didn't know either?" Cadmus pressed, echoing Antioch's thoughts. "You said yourself Ignotus was
different. Nico said as much, too - and considering the strangeness of his relationship to Lady Revel -" He trailed
off, faltering, and fixed his gaze on Antioch. "What if Ignotus died and was resurrected," Cadmus postured
emphatically, "and now we have no idea what kind of man lives inside our brother?"

"I - " Antioch hesitated, shifting testily. "It's merely a theory, Cadmus. Beware a theory doesn't become truth in your
mind."

"Tell me I'm wrong, then," Cadmus demanded brusquely. "Tell me I'm wrong and I'll retract it, but you can't,
Antioch. You can't."

True, he couldn't. Certainly not as inescapably as he'd have liked to.

Antioch stared warily at Cadmus then, considering him, before rising slowly to his feet, striding forward until his
shoulders aligned with those of his middle brother.

"Does this mean you side with me now?" he asked Cadmus. "Can I trust you, brother?"

Unsaid: tell me who you're loyal to.

"If the question is do I want Ignotus to kill me again," Cadmus replied, setting his jaw firmly, "then the answer, dear
brother, is a resounding no."

"No, Cadmus, that wasn't the question," Antioch sighed, strangely relieved, "but with you, I always set a low bar."

"What will he do?" Cadmus asked grimly, and Antioch shook his head.

"It's not what he will do. You are used to sly manipulation, Cadmus - to setting traps and hunting with lures - but
that's not how wars are won. It's not what he will do," Antioch repeated, and murmured, "it's what we will do."

"I don't like brute shows of strength," Cadmus argued, stiffening in distaste. "And you, brother, are certainly no good
at them. You love to overplay your hand."

"Ah, but did I suggest something?" Antioch reminded him, scoffing. "No. We need answers before we act."

To that, Cadmus nodded slowly. "There's only one person who might know," he murmured, and Antioch reached
out, closing a hand around his brother's shoulder.

"Get the divinist," Antioch confirmed, and Cadmus turned without another word.

a/n: Dedicated to atelokin, GAgal, and FrancineHibiscus! Shall we have a wedding next week…?
 37. I Now Pronounce You Partners in Crime

Chapter 37: I Now Pronounce You Partners in Crime

Nott Manor
West-facing rose garden
October 25, 2003
6:05 p.m.

"Is this really happening?" Draco asked her, swallowing hard. From afar, he could see her breath catching at the
words, and though he had no way to prove it, he suspected her mouth was equally dry.

He wished there had been time to kiss her first, but time was rather not a luxury they'd ever really possessed. Neither
was choice, actually, come to think of it. Hard to imagine they'd ever end up here, considering where they'd begun.
Draco thought back to a time when he'd felt anything other than warmth at the sight of her, determining he could
scarcely remember it; though, at the moment, that warmth was mixed with a cool sensation of thrill, or possibly fear.

She, however, never seemed to possess any at all, and for that, neither did he.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed steadily, her fingers reaching out as if they'd brush his from afar.

He gave her a single nod, promising her at a distance the same thing she'd resolutely promised him: where you go, I
go.

"Then let's do this," he murmured, turning towards the altar.

The night before

October 24, 2003
Ludo Bagman's flat
8:15 p.m.

If there was one thing Kreacher the house elf did not enjoy, it was being called away from actual tasks of meaning.
Towels, if not changed regularly, became bacterial hazards. This was an obvious fact, and yet one that no humans
ever seemed rightly aware of. His Master, the young wizard known commonly as The Venerable Chosen One Harry
Potter, certainly wasn't. Master's friend (formerly Blood Traitor Ron Weasley and now simply Master's Friend Ron
Weasley, due to the phrase Blood Traitor being, quote, "rude"), may have been, given the lad's insistence on
regularity - but still, without Kreacher, both wizards would likely have died of the plague.

Just a guess.

That being said, following around The Thief Mundungus Fletcher was itself a highly necessary task, as he was an
extremely slippery sort of wizard. Kreacher, having known many slippery wizards during his time, knew very well
that they were just as bacterial as unchanged towels. Seeing that Kreacher's Master The Venerable Chosen One
Harry Potter had set out with very specific instructions, this was at least as necessary a task as towel-changing, if not
more so.

Kreacher and The Thief Mundungus Fletcher arrived in Unsavory Wizard Ludo Bagman's flat with a loud crack, per
the magic of house elves. "Don't say anythin'," The Thief Mundungus Fletcher said to Kreacher, which was highly
unnecessary advice. Kreacher, of course, said nothing; not because he had been ordered (The Thief Mundungus
Fletcher was not his Master, after all, and so no such ordering carried any weight), but rather because he simply
didn't feel like speaking.

"Ah, excellent," said Ludo Bagman, who was himself a thief many times over, according to Kreacher's Master The
Venerable Chosen One Harry Potter. "You have the materials, then?"

"Yes," The Thief Mundungus Fletcher replied, removing them from the lining of his coat pocket. They were the
very same materials that Draco Malfoy, Worthy Heir to the House of Black, had specifically informed Kreacher's
Master The Venerable Chosen One Harry Potter were necessary to create a very specific kind of draught - which the
Secondary Thief Ludo Bagman knew nothing about. "You have everythin' you need, Bagman. Is that all?"

Secondary Thief Ludo Bagman narrowed his eyes, glancing curiously (and perhaps derogatorily) at Kreacher. "Why
do you have an elf here?" he asked suspiciously. "Since when do you have an elf, Dung? Rather reserved for
wealthy pureblood folk, aren't they?"

"He's my elf," replied Original Thief and Newly Minted Liar Mundungus Fletcher, gruffly. "He's nothin' of
consequence. As for the potion, if we're all done here, then -"

At that, Kreacher reached over, surreptitiously tapping the ankle belonging to Original Thief and Wormy Little
Traitor Mundungus Fletcher, sending a warning surge up his Achilles tendon and prompting him to stifle a yelp.

"Sorry, as I was sayin', I should probably stick around," amended Original Thief and Bacterial Wizard Mundungus
Fletcher with a muted squeak, "just to make sure the materials get added correctly."

He glared down at Kreacher, whose ears twitched with approval.

"Well, might as well," Secondary Thief Ludo Bagman permitted, unfazed. "Have your elf fetch a towel, would
you?"

"Er - " Original Thief and Highly Nervous Conspirator Mundungus Fletcher glanced down at Kreacher, giving him a
pleading look. "Elf, ah, if you could - "

Again, Monstrous Worm Mundungus Fletcher was not Kreacher's Master, but Kreacher's Master had made it quite
clear that anything that needed to be done to obtain the correct potion, however surreptitiously, must be done.

"As Master wishes," Kreacher lied cleverly, snapping his fingers and producing a slightly damp towel (which had
likely been snatched from the hands of Not-A-Blood-Traitor Ron Weasley) and presenting it to Smugly Pleased
Secondary Thief Ludo Bagman.

"Ah, I'll have to get myself one of these," Secondary Thief and Intolerable Human Ludo Bagman said approvingly,
nodding. "Well, let's get to work, then."

Kreacher nodded, settling beside Original Thief and Jittery Fool Mundungus Fletcher to keep his watchful eyes on
any possible mistakes. It wasn't an enjoyable task (not as rewarding as housework, which at least resulted in a
pleasing lemon scent), but it wasn't unimportant, either.

Kreacher had his instructions, and being the dutiful elf that he was, he settled in to wait.

Rhys Hawkworth's flat

Diagon Alley
8:20 p.m.

"So let me get this straight," Cadell ventured slowly, brows furrowed as he glanced between Daisy and Rhys.
"You're saying that there are going to be two separate assassinations at this wedding?" At his brother's hesitant
silence, Cadell's own frown deepened. "Is this really the most efficient way to do this?"

"Efficient? No," Daisy conceded. "Effective? Yes. Two birds," she pointed out stiffly. "Two Percy Weasleys means
two guilty parties."

"But Bagman knows there's a decoy," Cadell reminded her, and though Rhys remained conspicuously quiet, Daisy
nodded on his behalf.

"Harry had Mundungus slip that little detail to keep them separated," she said briskly. "Besides, men like Ludo
Bagman are paranoid by nature. Make something too easy and they don't trust it. We needed to be certain he acts,
and to do that -"

"Selective truth is an old gamblers trick," Rhys murmured suddenly, staring at a spot on the ground in front of him.
"Reveal something true and it makes the other person more inclined to trust you. Make them comfortable, make
them vulnerable, just before you reel them in."

Cadell lifted a brow, catching something worrisome in his brother's tone.

Guilt? Hesitation?

Whatever it was, it wasn't promising.

"Well then, my father will have to be the one to deliver the real poison," Cadell said, and Rhys looked up sharply.
"Right? Otherwise he has all the resources in the world to combat it, doesn't he?"

Daisy glanced at Rhys, who frowned.

"Not if the evidence suggests otherwise," Daisy answered blithely.

"You're just going to frame him?" Cadell echoed, skeptical. "That won't work."

"Actually, it will," Daisy corrected grimly, sparing him a not-so-furtive glance, "and I would know, because the
exact same thing dismantled my entire career. It almost sent me to prison for murder, actually, so yeah." She exhaled
sharply. "It does work."

For a moment, Rhys' hand twitched, like he might reach for hers; Daisy's fingers lay delicately twined in her lap, and
Cadell watched his brother glance at her hand, considering it.

"Sorry," Cadell said after a moment, watching Rhys ultimately opt to curl his hands tightly at his side, rejecting the
possibility. "I didn't mean to - "

"It's fine," Daisy exhaled. "Don't worry about it. In any case, Ludo will almost certainly deliver one of the potions,
while Malfoy or one of his associates will deliver the other on your father's behalf, and then - "

"No," Rhys interrupted, so quietly Cadell almost didn't notice.

"What?" Daisy asked, turning to him, and he shook his head.

"Malfoy shouldn't do this. I should." He cleared his throat, glancing up at Cadell. "I should, shouldn't I? I'm the one
most likely to make it happen. Dad confides in me. And if anyone is going to frame my father, then - "

He trailed off, grimacing.

"I should have one of the potions," he said firmly, and turned to Daisy. "Will you tell him?"

Her brow twitched slightly, opposition curling around the tip of her tongue, but eventually she seemed to resign
herself to his wishes, nodding slowly.

"Sure," she said, and rose to her feet. "I'll go talk to him now."

She paused before heading to the Floo, eyeing Rhys for a moment, and then promptly abandoned whatever she was
going to say, turning instead to Cadell.

"I really do hope you get your life back," she told him.

He wanted to shrug, apathetic, but in the face of her characteristically sincere offering, that seemed a rather cruel
thing to do.

"Thanks," he said instead, and she nodded, sparing Rhys a final parting glance before passing through the Floo,
leaving the brothers in silence.

For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sound of the ticking clock, punctuating the rhythm of time passing.
Then Rhys looked up, his face drawn and weary as he met Cadell's expectant gaze.

"This is our father," Rhys said, his voice strained, and Cadell nodded.

"Yes," he agreed. "It is."

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Rhys asked him, pained now. "You're sure that you can't believe him? That
you can't trust that he might - that somehow, if everything goes right, we might convince him to - "

Cadell stopped him with a touch, leaning forward to rest his hand on his brother's forearm.

"If you can't do this, Rhys," Cadell said quietly, "then don't. Whatever's between Dad and me is between us, and it's
not on you. You have no obligation to me whatsoever, Rhys, I promise you. You've done more than enough just by
taking me in."

Rhys hesitated, swallowing hard. "But - "

"It doesn't have to be you," Cadell added, but at that, Rhys only seemed to grow more certain, a shiver of certainty
rising to manifest in the stiffness of his jaw.

"No, it does have to be me," Rhys countered. "I won't be a passive participant in this, Cadell. If we're bringing down
our father, then it should be me who does it. It should be my hand on the trigger." He exhaled slowly, though it
wasn't nearly as shaky as before. "I have to do this, Cadell, or I'm just the coward who sat by and did nothing."

Cadell tightened his hand on Rhys' arm, giving it a single pulse of pressure.

"Said like a true Gryffindor," he murmured, "whatever else some magic hat may or may not have determined."

At that, Rhys managed half a smile, dragging his gaze up to Cadell's.

"Sounds like you're going to miss one hell of a wedding," he commented drily, and at that, Cadell permitted a stifled
laugh.

"Send my regards to the happy couple," Cadell agreed, quite certain that his younger brother was very right, and that
all of it - everything that had befallen him, and the loneliness of the past five years - was very nearly over.

The honor of your presence is requested

at the marriage of
Hermione Jean Granger
and
Draco Lucius Malfoy
Saturday, October 25, 2003
Nott Manor Gardens
Celebratory cocktails to be served at 5 p.m.
Ceremony and reception to follow

The day of
4:14 p.m.

"I still don't understand why we went with Theo's house," Draco muttered, pinning the hideous charmed tie clip in
place and dusting it off, suffering his usual sensation of displeasure at the sight of it. "Theo's roses are paltry at
best."
"Paltry?" Pansy echoed. "You're blind. But at least you're finally dressed." She stepped back, fussing with the lapel
of his suit before shifting the arrangement of her cleavage. "Everything good on your end?" she asked, adjusting the
placement of her breasts, and Draco rolled his eyes.

"Yes," he confirmed, "although I find it difficult to believe anyone is going to take any of this seriously. First of all,
how on earth are you and Daphne believably passing as Granger's bridesmaids?"

"Draco. Be serious," Pansy scoffed. "Everyone loves us, Granger included. And furthermore, you want us close by,
don't you?"

"This dress has pockets," Daphne announced excitedly, bounding into the room before Draco could answer. "I've
never worn a Melibea Warbeck original before. She really has a knack for the right cut, doesn't she-"

"Don't be so impressed, Daph, it's upsetting to my sensibilities," Pansy sniffed over her shoulder, having finally
settled on the carriage of her décolletage. "Though, in re pockets, I'll allow it. They're a nice touch."

"You're telling me," Daisy agreed, rustling into the room. All three of the women in Hermione's bridal party were
wearing variations on cream-colored dresses. White? Draco had asked skeptically, only to be bombarded with a
hopelessly swotty rendition of the history of the bridal party: The original purpose of bridesmaids was to confuse
vengeful spirits and camouflage the bride, Malfoy, and if I'm going to have to concede to artificial standards of the
patriarchy, I'm going to do so in a way that's at least historically relevant - "I can fit a gun in mine," Daisy added
excitedly, and then quieted as Draco slid a questioning glare in her direction. "Not that I did," she amended hastily,
in a way he very much doubted was true. "You look nice, by the way. Where's Nott?"

"Oh, you mean the best swordsman in the village?" Blaise asked drily, appearing in the doorway and nudging Draco
aside to eye the folds of his jacket. "Who knows. Still upset it wasn't me, by the way," he added, arching a brow at
Draco. "Everyone knows I can wield a sword much more effectively than Theo."

"Is that really the significance of a best man?" Daisy asked, skeptical. "A swordsman, honestly? Rather sad," she
determined, frowning. "That concept's really been corrupted down the line, hasn't it?"

"Clearly you missed out on one of Hermione's best lectures," Harry told her, striding into the room behind them,
"and by best, I do mean longest."

"The best man is intended to keep jealous suitors of the bride from harming the groom during the wedding," Blaise
recited for Daisy's benefit, meticulously adjusting his hair until Draco finally shoved him away from the mirror,
exasperated. "Which, if that's the case, then I say we should have hired Weasley. Who would trouble themselves
with getting past him? That's the real question."

"Is it?" Harry posed doubtfully.

"Well, it's one question," Blaise amended, shrugging.

"As fun as this is," Draco cut in, "I rather think you all have other places to be, don't you?"

"Right, yes," Daphne confirmed, turning to Pansy and Daisy. "Check that your lockets are working?"

"Testing," Daisy called loudly into it, as Draco, Blaise, and Harry immediately covered their ears, straining to
obscure the sound. "Does it work?"

"YES, SEEMS TO BE IN ORDER," Harry said kindly. "IT DEFINITELY WORKS, DAISY."

"Potter, you're shouting," Blaise said.

"WHAT?" Harry asked.

"Christ," Draco exhaled, shaking his head. "Where's Theo?"

"He wants to know where Nott is," Blaise spoke loudly into Harry's ear, prompting him to be brusquely shoved
away. "Which - this is his house, is it not? Surely he's somewhere around here."

"I'm sure it's fine," Harry agreed, wiggling his pinky in his ear and then tapping his tie clip. "You know he loves to
make an entrance - and besides, last I checked he was still working on the disapparation wards in the garden."

"You realize we're just trapping ourselves in with that," Draco said uneasily, and Harry shrugged.

"Better that than Bagman or Hawkworth apparating themselves out," he reminded Draco. "Ron's got all the
perimeters. Nott had the Floo networks limited to the one in the living room. And if everything goes absolutely tits-
up and we all get trapped in here - "

"We'll fight our way out," Daisy confirmed, and at Draco's glance, she rolled her eyes. "With wands, Malfoy.
Relax."

"So everything's taken care of, then," Draco exhaled, and then frowned. "Is that possible? Everything's actually
taken care of?"

"Definitely," Blaise said, genially patting Draco's shoulder. "What could go wrong?"

"Oi," Pansy snapped. "Famous last words, Zabini. Next thing you know we'll all be arrested - or worse, trapped in
some kind of body-swap with Potter -"

"That's oddly specific," Harry remarked.

"It's a recurring nightmare I have," said Pansy.

"Look, it's very simple," Daphne reminded them, cutting Pansy off with a warning glance. "There's the game
Bagman and Hawkworth think they're playing - "

"Wherein they plan to kill Weasley and frame the Peverell brothers," Daisy chimed in helpfully, and Daphne
nodded.

"Yes, right. And then there's the game we're playing - "

"In which two murders take place," Blaise drawled, "and only one of them involves actual death. Allegedly," he
added, conjuring what looked to be a mojito and taking a loud, disruptive sip.

"Right," Daphne confirmed. "So, according to the plan, the fake potion will 'kill' the real Percy Weasley, the real
potion will kill the golem, and our surveillance wards, also courtesy of Theo," she said, gesturing around, "wherever
he happens to be at the moment - will ensure that both Hawkworth and Bagman appear guilty as all hell - "

"By some definitely not-illegal method," Harry posed optimistically, "which I hope never to know anything about."

" - and then that's a job done," Daphne concluded with a flourish, waving a hand. "Easy."

"Ah, yes," Draco sighed. "So very simple and straightforward."

"Look, it's all taken care of, Malfoy," Harry assured Draco, materializing on his other side. "Everything is fine, no
marriage required. Right?"

That hardly seemed likely, but even so.

It was hardly the prospect of marriage forming the pit in his stomach.

That, Draco determined grimly, seemed far more responsible for the flutterings in his chest.

Fuck, what had come over him? Insanity, he figured. One sight of Hermione Granger in a wedding dress and all
semblance of rationality went straight to hell.
"Everything's fine," Draco assured his reflection with a sigh, tepidly wondering what the rest of the afternoon would
bring.

4:34 p.m.

"There," Mel exhaled, adjusting Hermione's veil and smiling adoringly at her. "Perfect."

Hermione stared at her reflection, finding it somewhat difficult to recognize herself. If she hadn't known perfectly
well it was a mirror, she would have assumed her reflection to be a portrait of someone much more refined. Much
more beautiful. Someone who hadn't ever punched anyone in her life, in fact, opting instead for a regimented
skincare routine and a healthy plant-based diet, along with other things Hermione couldn't fathom. She looked, in
fact, like someone about to marry the love of her life - only she did know better, didn't she?

Still. Perfect.

It was that, in a word.

"You really do have a gift," Hermione murmured, running her hands over the smooth lines of the gown as they
sloped over her hips. It was an elegant, sleek dress with no particular frills, and yet which struck her as easily the
most beautiful garment she'd ever worn. The cathedral veil - which she'd insisted she hadn't wanted until Mel had
pleaded with her to just try it, just put it on, we'll take it right off if you don't like it - slid to the floor with an airy
grace, floating just above the floor, and the single gardenia tucked into the base of her low chignon was just visible
amid the loose array of curls. "I'm impressed, Mel. And very grateful."

"Ah, well, there's a trick to it," Mel said, smiling with approval. "The dress doesn't make the woman. The woman,"
she murmured, tucking one hair away from Hermione's face, "makes the dress, if you do it right." Then she stepped
back, passing Hermione a cheeky wink. "Of course, don't tell anyone that or I might not be half as successful as I
am, and that would be an outright pity."

"Too true," Hermione agreed, and caught the appearance of someone in the frame; a hand outstretched to knock
against the open door. "Yes?" she prompted, turning over her shoulder as Rhys Hawkworth stepped into view, his
lips curling up at the sight of her.

"You look," Rhys began, and paused. "Well, you know."

"Men," Mel sighed, shaking her head. "Such limited vocabularies."

"Well, at times we are rather lost for words," Rhys assured her, "seeing as there aren't any quite good enough. That,"
he conceded wryly, "and I suppose I really didn't read enough books."

Hermione permitted a smile, turning to Mel. "Could we - ?"

"Of course," Mel confirmed, inclining her head. "I'll be back in a bit. As soon as I find Basile," she added,
murmuring it to herself as she went. "Have to make sure he's still wearing a shirt, however much he hates it - "

"Thanks," Rhys said, stepping towards Hermione and closing the door behind him in Mel's absence. "Wasn't sure
you'd be willing to see me," he admitted, smiling somewhat shyly at her, "but I thought, you know, given
everything, I might not have a chance to speak to you later - "

"It's not a real wedding," Hermione reminded him. "I'm sure I'll be just as available as anyone else by the end of it."

"That's not really true though, is it?" Rhys asked, and Hermione felt her cheeks flush, looking down at her hands. "I,
um. I really am happy for you," Rhys told her, though she didn't look up, suddenly realizing (with a brush of shame)
she'd never actually ended things with him. Or started them, really. Could there be an end without a beginning?
Didn't matter, she supposed, opting instead to fidget uncomfortably in place.

"I know we didn't really talk about it," she said uncertainly, "but - "
"Don't worry. I always knew it was Malfoy for you." She glanced up to find that Rhys was still smiling, the arch of
it certain and reassuring. "But that's not actually why I came here."

"Oh," Hermione said, frowning. "Sorry, I guess that was presumptuous of me - "

"I just - " Rhys hesitated. "This just feels sort of… dirty, I suppose. Plotting against my father, I mean. I guess I just
wanted to know why you were doing this," he explained slowly, "so that, I don't know. Maybe I could - "

"Feel better?" Hermione guessed, and he nodded, grimacing. "I'm not sure it can really be made to feel much better,
unfortunately. It's not good," she conceded, "but it's certainly necessary."

"I suppose I'm just having some trouble coming around to that way of thinking," Rhys murmured, looking troubled,
and Hermione reached out a hand, giving his knuckles a quick brush of reassurance.

"You know, I obliviated my parents," she told him quietly, and he glanced up at her, bemused. "It was the war," she
explained, "and, you know. With me being muggleborn and all that, and on the run with Harry - "

"Got it," Rhys exhaled, nodding. "And then?"

"And then nothing," she confessed with a wince, watching him visibly deflate. "Obliviations are very serious magic.
They're not easily reversed, especially if they're done well, and I definitely meant to rid them of any memory of me
with every fiber of my being. I'm a rather good witch," she lamented, somewhat wistfully, "and unfortunately, the
moment I resolved that it had to be done, it couldn't be undone. I tried, but that's the thing with sacrifice." She
shrugged. "If it can be undone, then it's really not a sacrifice at all."

Rhys nodded, his throat obviously tight. "My brother has his reasons," he murmured. "I suppose I just need some of
my own."

"That's fair," Hermione permitted, and hesitated before adding, "What will you do, then? Before you have them?"

It was only a matter of hours, after all. If Rhys Hawkworth were to change his mind - or worse, if perhaps he opted
to warn his father in advance -

"I won't betray you, if that's what you're asking," Rhys assured her, derailing her minor burst of panic with a pulse of
pressure to her palm. "It just feels very strange," he clarified at a mutter, "being a small piece for the benefit of a
much larger machine."

Hermione, who'd once felt very much that small piece, nodded her understanding.

"Make it simpler, then," she suggested. "Let your father be the one to make the choice."

Rhys looked up, surprised. "What?"

"No tricks," Hermione told him. "No veiling your intentions, no leading him to an answer. See what choice he
makes on his own, and then maybe you'll know what feels right."

Rhys nodded his agreement, staring vacantly into space for a moment, and then looked back at her. "You look
beautiful," he said after a moment, smiling again. "Draco Malfoy is a very lucky man to be your choice. Assuming
he was, in fact, your choice?"

Hermione hesitated; had he been, really?

"The partnership wasn't," she finally confessed, relieved at being able to discuss it freely. "Working with him, I
mean. The entire thing, really, even down to the engagement - "

"I didn't mean that the circumstances were your choice," Rhys corrected, interrupting her. "I meant the man." He
paused, toying with the silence before adding, "Is it him, Hermione?" He stepped closer, edging out room for
hesitation. "Has it always been him?"
"Not always," she admitted with a laugh; the thought of feeling this way years (or even a matter of months) ago was
near hysterical. "Certainly not always. But today, yes." She smiled slightly, her fingers tracing the edges of her
floating veil. "Today, and tomorrow - and, I suppose, the following tomorrows - " Her grip tightened on the lace,
certain. "It's him," she exhaled. "I'm quite sure it's him."

Rhys rewarded her with a smile, stepping forward to brush his lips lightly against her cheek.

"Enjoy your wedding, then, Hermione," he told her, and turned away looking ever-so-slightly better, tucking his
hands into his pockets as he slipped quietly out of the room.

Cocktail Hour
5:15 p.m.

"Ah, Wood," Ludo said, sidling beside Oliver as he gestured behind one of the massive gazebo pillars. This, like
most outrageous structures that filled pureblood gardens, was an exceptionally helpful hiding place. "I have to thank
you again for that little favor I asked of you. I presume your discretion persists?"

"Yes," Oliver remarked tightly. "That was the expectation, wasn't it? Discretion on both sides, I hope."

"Yes, yes, of course," Ludo said, waving a hand. "Just confirming, that's all. Not that you would need to say
anything. And besides, it's hardly as if your word would carry any particular weight," he added, with a tinkling laugh
that was as much an insult as it was a warning.

Oliver, for his part, only bristled.

"You know, it's interesting," Oliver noted after a moment, taking a sip from his champagne glass, "because I can't
imagine Gagnon's original formula really required improvement. Particularly for someone who isn't playing
quidditch any longer - if that's really what you needed this for."

Ludo paused, noting the mutinous lilt in Oliver's tone.

"If you have any suspicions," Ludo began coolly, "you'd be wise to keep them to yourself. You are, after all,
complicit. And if you wish to maintain your spot on the Wasps - "

"There's no need to threaten me," Oliver assured him, his expression souring. "I'm not going to turn you in, Bagman.
I'm simply curious what on earth it is you think you're doing with an illegal potion, particularly at a wedding."

"Well, curiosity killed the cat, as they say," Ludo replied spiritedly. "Luckily cats have more lives than middling
quidditch players, eh?"

Oliver blinked, taking the blow, and then shook his head. "I hope we're done here, Bagman," he said tightly, and
Ludo scoffed his agreement.

"Very much so," Ludo confirmed, patting the vial in his inner breast pocket and turning away, ending the
conversation with dismissal. He caught sight of Ifan Hawkworth having a discussion with his son Rhys from afar
and ambled towards him, careful to smile as leisurely as possible at the other guests; meanwhile, behind him, Oliver
Wood slipped (rightfully) back into obscurity.

Oliver, Ludo knew, would almost certainly not see a single game as a reserve keeper, and then would likely be cut
from the Wasps within a year. A foolish idea, really, thinking that a single nod from Ludo could make his career.
That, Ludo thought with an inward scoff, was reserved for men of his own caliber, and rather not for pusillanimous
lackeys who were helplessly enamored with cocksure gits like Marcus Flint.

5:20 p.m.

"I presume everything's been arranged?" Ifan asked Rhys, his gaze flicking surreptitiously to where Ludo had just
left Oliver Wood. Already, Ludo was none-too-discreetly looking around for Ifan, eager to move onto the next phase
of whatever plot he believed was happening.

"I did," Rhys confirmed, and toyed internally with Hermione's advice before adding, "Ludo was given a false potion,
as I told you he would be. Draco Malfoy delivered the specifications himself."

"Good, good," Ifan murmured, nodding. "And you really got all that out of Granger? I must say, I'm rather
impressed, Rhys," he noted, sounding surprisingly genuine. "I assumed you'd be more hesitant."

"Well, I was, at first," Rhys confirmed, which was true enough. "But it seems a small price to pay, gaining her trust
to ensure Cadell will be able to come home."

To that, Ifan nodded his approval. "You should really marry her, you know," Ifan commented, startling Rhys with
the off-handed remark. "When this nonsense with Malfoy is over and the falseness of this ridiculous narrative comes
to an end. Once the Club is done with them - and with him, specifically - she'd make a politically advantageous
wife." His attention slid sideways to Rhys, measuring him carefully. "If, that is, it's still your plan to be a credit to
our family, and to me. I find I could use a model son to stand beside me during my campaign."

Rhys bristled slightly. "Well, Cadell will have his life back after this," he commented. "Right? I can't imagine I'd be
any better than the son whose wife was killed by Snatchers - can you?" he prompted, as Ifan blinked, appearing to
have just remembered he possessed any such son.

"Right, of course," Ifan assured him. "That's what this is for, Rhys. For your brother. Of course."

Rhys nodded warily, watching his father turn over his thoughts in his head.

"Well, I presume you still want to move forward with the plan, then," Rhys ventured, "seeing as I have the real vial.
Do you plan to give it to Weasley yourself, or - "

"Hm? No. No, actually," Ifan cut in suddenly, a bit jarringly, as if something had just occurred to him. "No, I think
Bagman may turn out to be a greater liability than I thought." He paused, sorting through calculations in his head.
"No. Give the vial to Bagman instead," he murmured, tapping his mouth. "Yes, that seems reasonable. Though, hm
hmm, who would want him dead - ah, that's easy. Everyone - "

"What?" Rhys prompted, taken aback. "You're going to kill Ludo Bagman? But he's - he's not - I thought this was
about the Peverell brothers - "

"We could, of course, pin it on Weasley," Ifan postured, plainly ignoring Rhys. "He's been something of a political
parasite in his past, hasn't he? Worked for Thicknesse for… how long? Without even noticing the man had been
Imperiused? Hardly a great loss, all things considered - "

"Dad," Rhys said. "Dad, but - "

"You'll have to find a way to do it, of course," Ifan said, turning his hard gaze on Rhys. "There's too much at stake
for me. I'll protect you, obviously - "

Rhys blinked. "Dad. You can't be serious - "

"If anything were to happen, the Club will spare you, Rhys," Ifan assured him. "I'd see to it. But that's not likely to
happen, is it? Everyone knows how vulnerable Bagman is," he murmured. "Always drinking, gambling - positively
up to his ears in debt and alcoholism - "

"Dad. Why would the Club spare me," Rhys interrupted slowly, "when it won't do anything to help Cadell?"

"I - what?" Ifan asked, startled, before turning towards him, abruptly dropping his voice. "Rhys, your brother killed
someone - "

"Just as I would be doing," Rhys reminded him, "if I did as you asked. What's the difference?"
"I - " Ifan blinked. "Rhys, clearly that's - these are two highly distinct circumstances, and - "

"Why?" Rhys asked bluntly. "Because you need Ludo Bagman dead, but the Snatcher who killed your daughter-in-
law for no reason should have been spared? Is the difference because Cadell did something you didn't like, whereas I
would be doing what you told me? Is that why the Club would spare me over him? And what happened," he added
emphatically, "to the entire purpose of this being to stamp out the Club itself?"

For a moment, his father looked off-balance; but only for a moment.

"Rhys, this is hardly the time," Ifan snapped impatiently. "You just have to trust me. I'm your father, Rhys, and - "
He broke off, grimacing, his gaze darting to Ludo Bagman's oncoming form. "Can I rely on you?" Ifan asked,
gripping his son's shoulder tightly. "Tell me truly, Rhys, or I'll simply do it myself - "

"Don't worry, Dad," Rhys assured him tightly, pulling away. "I'll take care of it for you."

Ifan looked visibly relieved, sending him away with a nod and a quick dart of his gaze towards Ludo Bagman. Rhys,
meanwhile, slipped away, not bothering to look back. He wasn't happy, certainly, but at least he was satisfied.

The question was straightforward: does my father deserve to be betrayed?

He'd gotten the answer he'd come for. Hermione had said no tricks, true, and he'd used one, but it had more than
answered his lingering doubts.

The answer? Equally straightforward.

Yes.

5:25 p.m.

"Bagman," Ifan offered to Ludo in a low voice, sending his son Rhys away with a flick of his gaze before turning
towards him. "A lovely party, isn't it?"

"The loveliest," Ludo confirmed, opening his breast pocket slightly to indicate the vial inside. "Quite a promising
afternoon, don't you think?"

Ifan nodded, careful to make their encounter look casual even as he muttered, "No mistakes this time, Ludo," and
sipped at his champagne, prompting Ludo to frown.

"Didn't we agree you would do it?" Ludo asked foggily, blinking. "I could have sworn - "

"Of course not," Ifan scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I have much more on the line, Bagman, and you know it. You'll have
to do it," he repeated, taking another apathetic sip, "and I'll take care of you the moment it's over. You have my
word."

Ludo hesitated, then snapped his mouth shut.

"Is that Warlock Weasley over there?" he asked neutrally, gesturing; a test, and one which Ifan would hopefully fail.

"Of course it is," Ifan said impatiently, glancing. "You've seen him enough times to know, haven't you, Bagman?
Who else would it be?"

At that, Ludo smiled, delighted.

If Ifan Hawkworth didn't know about the decoy Percy Weasley, that meant Ludo remained one step ahead. If that
wasn't a magnificent sign, then he didn't know what was.

"Right," Ludo said, decidedly cheerful. "Well, I'll be off, then."

"Do that," Ifan advised, turning coolly away, and Ludo headed across the charmed ballroom floor, his gaze fixed on
where Percy Weasley (or some version of him) stood near a highly understated arch of white roses.

How to tell? Ludo thought, frowning. Ideally Ifan would have sorted that out for him, but that was clearly not an
option, now that he was keeping that information to himself; nobody was speaking to the redheaded Warlock, so
there was no way to tell from eavesdropping; besides, was it polyjuice? Was it something else?

Ludo scratched his forehead, frustrated.

He'd have to kill the real Percy Weasley, of course. Otherwise it could be a trap, couldn't it? Well, it was a trap
either way. Whoever died, Ifan was almost certain to turn on him; Ludo was more sure of that than ever. Still, this
remained the opportunity of a lifetime. How better to get the Club's attention than here, at an event where the
Minister himself was watching? Ludo needed to control the narrative… to be certain that both Wizengamot and the
Ministry remained in fear, with him as their only source of explanation…

Well. He'd have to kill a Warlock, certainly. But was Percy Weasley really the only option?

A quiet alarm bell sounded in his head as he saw Draco Malfoy approaching the youngest Warlock, a plan coming
together as Ludo determined with certainty that that, then, was the real Percy Weasley. Why else would the groom
approach him, and looking so witheringly concerned? Ludo reached out for two glasses of champagne, yanking
them from a floating tray before discreetly vanishing the contents of the vial into one of them, waiting for the tell-
tale fizzing sound that indicated the potion had been dissolved.

"Ah, Mr Malfoy," Ludo said, heading jauntily towards him, "an honor to have been invited to the wedding. And
Warlock Weasley!" he added, turning to Percy as Draco stepped back, pausing to permit their conversation and
inclining his head politely. "How are you this afternoon?"

"I'm very well," Percy replied in his stiff way, "thank you. And you?"

"Ah, quite well, quite well. Tell me, would you do me a favor?" Ludo asked, angling them out of Draco's view and
offering the Warlock the poisoned glass. "I fetched this for Warlock Hawkworth," Ludo murmured quietly, "but I'm
afraid I have to run at the moment. Lots of people vying for my attention, I'm afraid - so could you give it to him?"
he asked, and discreetly flicked his wand, making the request something more of a command. "I'd appreciate it very
much."

"Of course," Percy confirmed, with telltale signs of blankness. "I'll bring it to him right now."

"Excellent," Ludo exclaimed with pleasure, returning his wand to his sleeve, "and apologies for interrupting, Mr
Malfoy," he added, turning back to Draco, "but it is quite a nice wedding. You must be positively over the moon!"

Draco opened his mouth, hesitating. Ludo noted he looked a bit pale; he supposed the prospect of marriage did that
to a person.

"Well, thanks ever so for the invitation," Ludo continued, patting his shoulder. "Do you have any plans for the
honeymoon? Aside from the usual, of course," he joked. "I'm sure you're looking forward to the festivities, though it
would be rather boorish of me to go into detail, all things considered - "

"Yeeees," Draco said slowly, and Ludo frowned.

"Sorry," Ludo offered, "what did you just say?"

Draco's brow twitched, distressed.

"I haaaaaave to leeeeeeave," he said, and turned sharply, suddenly heading in the opposite direction as Ludo sighed,
shaking his head.

"What an odd duck," he noted to himself, glancing around. He caught sight of Percy from afar, noting that Ifan had
disappeared; still, it wasn't as if he had any doubts in his ability to cast a simple Imperius. The job was as good as
done. Ifan would be poisoned, and by Percy Weasley, who almost certainly had motive buried somewhere under his
layers of uninteresting rubbish - which made it a very neat plan, all in all, Ludo thought with satisfaction, taking a
sip of his own champagne.

It went down smooth, much like the taste of victory.

"Marvelous," Ludo determined, and downed the remainder of his libation, searching around for another glass.

Thirty minutes earlier

5:05 p.m.

Hortense Malfoy was born with an insatiable need to witness the world in splendor. She was told that from the
moment she'd been expelled from her mother's womb, she'd glanced around and proceeded to declare the room
unsatisfactory with nothing more than a strangely advanced expression of disdain, and nothing had ever sounded
more right to her. It was as if she had come into the world looking for something, and never fully seemed to find it.

She and her brother Thibaut, approximately two years her junior, were at least alike in that. She'd never met anyone
with her same capacity for boredom except for him, and while there were at least three versions of his personality
that she would have enjoyed drowning at a much earlier age, the rest of him was at once her closest friend and her
only true soulmate in life.

(Not incestuously, of course. That had been done. In fact, not only had it been done, it was biblical. And if there was
anything criminally uninteresting in Hortense's mind, it was something that had already been done, particularly since
the beginning of time.)

No, Thibaut was simply the person whose mind was most like her own; though, their time together still had its
elements of boredom. Having their cousin Lucius had been diverting for a time, drawing her attention away from the
endless slog of mortality, but he was growing rather resistant to their attempts at entertainment. Hortense was
already lamenting the return to the same palatial manor house she and Thibaut had always lived; so much so, in fact,
that she very nearly couldn't enjoy the fact that she'd worn nothing to her cousin Draco's wedding aside from a few
strategically-placed fig leaves.

Not even the blatant staring was enough to stir her blood; that is, at least, until she heard about the vampire.

"Vampire?" she'd asked Hermione, who was rapidly becoming very difficult to faze. She merely handed Hortense a
flute of champagne, opting neither to comment on her breast-leaves nor to ask how she'd gotten into the room.
"What vampire?"

"His name is Basile," Hermione said, adjusting the train of her dress. She'd been fidgeting, pacing back and forth in
the room and repeatedly eyeing the time as if she expected the sky to fall at any minute. Which, Hortense thought,
would hardly be an unwelcome spectacle. It'd make a good story, at the very least. "He's an escaped prison guard
from Narnia."

"You're joking," Hortense said, aghast. "You abducted a vampire and didn't think to tell me immediately?"

"We didn't abduct him," Hermione corrected with a sigh. "He's just - I don't know, he was very taken with Harry, so
-"

"I have to go," Hortense announced, immediately conjuring a small cloud to carry her out of the room. "By the
way," she realized, pausing before turning back to a still-pacing (and generally not-listening) Hermione, "there are
more rituals, you know. There's some fun ones, too," she added warmly, "where if he ever sleeps with another
woman you can sever his penis and wear it as a hat. Up to you, of course," she conceded hastily. "I know you don't
particularly have the face for hats, so you can always opt for gloves, or possibly some sort of metallic bangle? It's all
mostly dependent on pronunciation. Latin's fun that way."

"Oh," Hermione said, losing a bit of color. "Well, that's… thoughtful."

"Right," Hortense agreed, hovering back into the hallway and resolving to find her way to the vampire, wherever he
was. Probably hidden, she figured. It had come to her attention that other people did not enjoy having bloodthirsty
creatures of the night at social events (a lesson that took thirty-some years to learn, much to her displeasure; weren't
times supposed to change? Progress was a hoax) and so she snuck unobtrusively through the crowd, seeking him out
before stepping off her floating cloud.

"Thibaut," she hissed at her brother, and he turned, his glittering white suit blinding at least three people behind him
as he pivoted towards her. "Have you heard there's a - oh," she exhaled, catching sight of the gleaming pale face
behind him. "Oh, it's magnificent," she murmured, running her hands over the vampire's slightly sunken cheeks.
"And so lifelike, too! My goodness," she declared, opening its mouth to get a glimpse of its teeth, "it looks rather
like Draco, except for these threatening canines - "

"Hortense," the vampire sighed, pulling away. "Hortense, it's me."

"How do you know my name?" Hortense gasped, and then remembered. "Ah, right, the mind-reading, how could I
forget - "

"Hortense, you buggering fuck, it's Draco," the vampire said.

"Very funny, vampire," tutted Hortense.

"No, unfortunately, this one is actually Draco," Thibaut told her, as Hortense's world immediately crashed to a
depressing halt. "The vampire is elsewhere, evidently, being used as a decoy. I already asked."

"Oh, is he?" Hortense asked excitedly. "What's he doing? Is he turning everyone, or just the unsuspecting guests?
Are you having a surprise siring? Draco," she exhaled, delighted, "have you thrown some sort of undead wedding
for me?"

"Oh my fucking god," said the person who was, unfortunately, human Draco.

"I hardly think it's too much to ask," Hortense informed him, as Thibaut nudged her.

"Good news, though," Thibaut said, adopting his most furtive tone. "There's murder afoot."

"MURDER?" Hortense asked quietly, as Draco pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.
"HOW MANY DEAD? You probably shouldn't have a vampire loose if there's going to be any bloodletting, Draco,"
she added scoldingly, being the elder and therefore wiser of the Malfoys. "Better if you separate them, you know.
Vampirism for one party," she clarified, "murder for another - "

"Yes, fine," Draco sighed. "But this party, Hortense, will have to be as normal as humanly possible, okay? If you
can manage to prevent, I don't know, my inevitable arrest - then I promise, I will introduce you to Basile."

"All right," Hortense sighed, disappointed. "But if he bites me - "

"He won't bite you," Draco cut in.

"No, I was - let me finish, Draco - if he bites me - "

"Which he won't."

"Right, but if he does - "

"If Hortense turns," Thibaut announced, "then I'm going to have to turn with her, or else I'm killing everyone in this
room and then myself."

"Thibaut," Hortense crooned, looping her arm through his. "Mon amour sanguinaire, that's the sweetest thing you've
ever said - "
"Why am I here?" Draco asked, directing the question at nothing. "Why do I keep inviting you people places?"

"Hard to say," Thibaut replied thoughtfully, just as an American woman with highly blonde sensibilities
materialized among them, giving Draco a nudge.

"Basile's just been dispatched to lure Bagman," she informed him, and Draco groaned.

"I still don't see how anyone's going to believe he's me," he grumbled. "We clearly look nothing alike."

"Literally everyone thinks he's you," the girl sniffed, "but that aside, you should probably go find Weasley. Rhys is
with his father outside. Oh, you're naked," she remarked tangentially to Hortense, looking surprised. "That - can't be
comfortable."

"That dress," Hortense informed her smartly, "is a tool of the patriarchy. Is oppression comfortable?"

"Well, it has pockets," the girl replied, as Draco sighed loudly.

"Alright, thanks, Carnegie," he said to the American, shaking his head. "I'll go find Weasley. Check on Granger for
me?"

"Of course," the girl confirmed, the two of them parting ways as Thibaut and Hortense were, once again, left
tragically alone.

"Alone again," Hortense murmured, just as a throat cleared behind them.

"You're not alone," Lucius reminded her wearily, his arm slung gracelessly across the massive portrait frame as he
wandered in behind them. "I am, after all, right here."

"Even worse," Thibaut lamented, as Hortense conjured a vast lace parasol, leaning it against her shoulder.

"Well, at least Armand is here too," she remarked, glancing at the portrait. "What do you think, Uncle Armand?"

"LUBRICATION," announced Armand, "IS SLIPPERY BUSINESS."

"Too true," Thibaut agreed, toasting the portrait.

"Well, shall we return for cocktail hour?" Hortense prompted, gesturing out into the garden. "Wouldn't want to miss
anything, would we?"

After all, somewhere here there was a vampire. An escaped vampire.

Better yet, someone was going to die.

Thibaut, per usual, seemed to have precisely the same thought.

"Maybe this wedding will be worth attending after all," he remarked, conjuring a martini with a snap of his fingers
and smiling beatifically at Hortense.

5:28 p.m.

"Ludo Bagman," came a voice, and Ludo turned, catching sight of Ifan's young son Rhys. "Quite a night, isn't it?"
Rhys asked, and Ludo blinked, surprised that they were speaking.

"I didn't think you were much a fan of me," Ludo remarked, and brought his glass to his lips, realizing with
disappointment that it was empty. "Rats," he muttered to himself, glancing around for another tray as Rhys cleared
his throat, holding out a glass.

"Here," Rhys offered. "Have a refill."

Ludo squinted at him, warily accepting it. "Friends, are we?"

"Friendly enough," Rhys replied, shrugging. "I do see you nearly every evening, don't I? Much to my father's
disapproval," he added, as if such a thing were not particularly important to him.

Ludo scoffed. He could hardly imagine Ifan Hawkworth's opinion being worth much, either. "How well do you
know your father?" he asked, his fingers toying with the glass in his hand.

"How well do any of us know our fathers?" Rhys countered, thunderously impassive. "Well enough, I suppose." He
paused, glancing pointedly at Ludo. "Well enough to have a lot of questions."

At that, Ludo permitted a chuckle.

"Too true, too true," he permitted, and glanced down again at the glass.

It wasn't as if anything was wrong with it; he was obviously being paranoid.

Just how many vials of poison could be floating around one wedding, anyway?

"Cheers," Rhys offered, plucking a stray glass off a nearby tray, and Ludo glanced up again, meeting the young
man's eye with a slightly unsteady lurch.

He needed another drink, clearly. Why not the one in his hand?

"Cheers," Ludo agreed, tapping the lip of his glass against the one belonging to the son of a future dead man. Then,
as Rhys obligingly took a sip, Ludo brought his own champagne to his lips, taking a long, refreshing drink and
relishing the promising sensation.

5:29 p.m.

Oliver stood off to the side, watching as Rhys Hawkworth approached an already-intoxicated Ludo Bagman,
offering him a glass of champagne. Part of Oliver wanted to warn Rhys that everything out of Ludo Bagman's mouth
was poison; though, presumably, of course, he already knew as much. It wasn't as if Oliver hadn't known. He'd
known well enough even without Marcus warning him, and still. He needed to get out, didn't he? This seemed just as
depressing a way as any other.

"I hope you were careful," Oliver heard behind him, and jumped, startled, as Marcus slipped into the spot beside
him. Despite being a fairly large and obscenely aggressive man, Marcus had always been relatively stealthy, and
Oliver wished, like always, that he had ever been able to see Marcus coming. "That potion's no joke."

To that, Oliver rolled his eyes. "Interesting position you put me in, then," he muttered, and immediately regretted it.
Marcus' brows rose, amused, and Oliver grimaced. "Stop."

"I do always put you in interesting positions," Marcus agreed, and Oliver groaned.

"I said - "

"Anyway, as I was saying," Marcus continued coolly, "I hope you were careful. You handled the early stages of a
very dangerous poison, as I'm told. By my former fiancée," he added with a very purposeful emphasis, and took a
quiet sip from his glass as Oliver turned, frowning.

"What?" he asked, much as he wished he weren't curious.

Internally, he sighed. He was always taking Marcus' bait.

"Daphne Greengrass and I are no longer betrothed," Marcus confirmed, looking pleased Oliver had noticed. "As it
turns out, I have other interests. Aside from money and inheritance, I mean."
"And those interests are? Poison, I take it," Oliver prompted, and Marcus chuckled.

"That's a means, not an interest," Marcus said, eternally blithe, but then, to Oliver's surprise, he glanced down,
eyeing his hands. "I was stupid," Marcus murmured after a moment, his dark gaze sliding regretfully to Oliver's. "I
know I was too late, Wood, I get that. I am too late, but - but maybe not. I hope not."

Oliver blinked. "I'm leaving," he said firmly. "You can't stop me, Marcus."

"I know. I wouldn't." Marcus cleared his throat, uncharacteristically uncertain. "But maybe someday you'll miss me,
Oliver Wood," he said very softly, as intimately as Oliver had ever heard him speak, "and when you do - if," he
amended sharply, "you do, I'll be here. I'll be waiting."

"Waiting," Oliver echoed skeptically. "Marcus Flint doesn't wait."

"For you, I do." Marcus turned to him, the motion so sleek and swift Oliver didn't even notice that he had turned too,
his entire body expectant. "For you," Marcus said, carelessly tossing his champagne flute into a rosebush and
settling his chilled fingers on either side of Oliver's face, "I'll wait as long as I fucking have to."

Marcus leaned forward, his lips firm against Oliver's, and elsewhere, to Oliver's immediate distress, a camera went
off. There were of course plenty of photographers at this wedding; and with a kiss, Oliver realized, Marcus had
made a statement. A terrible one, really, and a stupid one, and one that Oliver never technically gave him permission
to make - but then again, Marcus Flint was never very good at following directions.

Oliver reached up, gripping the hair at the back of Marcus' head, and leaned away, glancing questioningly at him.

"Your mother's going to see that," Oliver said, slightly dizzied. Marcus kissed him again, his incisors scraping
against Oliver's lower lip and prompting him to step away, swearing loudly. "Flint, you goddamn - "

"Wood," Marcus cut in, laughing, "if you'd like to fight me, it'll have to wait. This is hardly the place," he mused,
pulling Oliver back to him, "and hardly the time. But I find myself rather available, and very likely disinherited, so I
may need to find myself living somewhere with a reasonable cost of living. Wimbourne, perhaps?"

Oliver hesitated, idly chewing his lip.

"They're going to cut me within a year," he eventually confessed. "I'm almost positive. I didn't earn this contract."

"Eh, there's still time to prove yourself," Marcus reminded him. "Besides, I can give you some pointers. Fix your
game for you. I know all your weaknesses, Wood, and I'm more than happy to make a legitimate quidditch player
out of you. Even manage you, perhaps?"

It came out before Oliver quite intended it.

"Marry me," he countered hoarsely, upping the stakes, and Marcus paused, the motion of his startled blink followed
by a heavy swallow.

"My goodness, Wood," Marcus said. "I thought you'd never ask."

5:31 p.m.

Draco glanced up at the window as he wandered out into the garden, wondering what Hermione was doing. It was
supposed to all be over by the time the ceremony was about to start, which meant this would all be over in… oh,
twenty minutes. Thirty, tops. Maybe no one would even see her gown.

A pity. She really did look lovely in it.

He shook himself. Why was it that, despite everything else going on, he couldn't quite get that image of her out of
his head?
"Bonsoir," murmured Rhys Hawkworth, thankfully interrupting his thoughts, and Draco glanced askance with a
disapproving head shake.

"This shouldn't be so confusing," Draco reminded him. "I'm clearly not a vampire."

"It's less obvious than you think," Rhys assured him, taking a sip of his champagne. "By the way, there's been a
slight change of plans."

"What?" Draco turned sharply, blinking at him. "What do you mean a change of plans?"

"Well, it's hardly a harmful change," Rhys said. "As it turns out, my father has decided it would be more enjoyable
for him to murder Ludo Bagman, rather than Percy Weasley. You can call off the real Percy, wherever he is."

"I - he's waiting for my signal, but - " Draco frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Rhys replied drily, "that my father has decided Ludo Bagman is an expendable resource, and he has
therefore opted to have him killed. It still accomplishes your aims," he added, permitting a sidelong glance at Draco,
"seeing as my father will be the guilty party, won't he? And Ludo Bagman will be dead, so it's fine."

"But Ludo Bagman won't be dead," Draco said, blinking. "I was supposed to lead your father to the real Percy. To be
certain the false potion would be administered - "

"Right," Rhys said. "It's only an altered Draught of Living Death that I gave him, isn't it? Clever, by the way," he
added. "Not to mention my father thinks it's real. He knows nothing about the two Weasleys, so once the golem's
dead at Ludo's hands, and Ludo will soon be 'dead' at my father's, that still takes care of both of them - "

"Where's the real potion, then?" Draco demanded, pivoting in place to search the ceremony. "Who's watching Ludo
Bagman?"

Rhys shrugged. "Not much to watch now," he commented, gesturing to where Ludo had nearly polished off his
glass. "Not as potent as the real stuff, is it? Still, by the time his drink is empty, I presume my job is done."

"Oh, shit," Draco hissed, turning over his shoulder and taking off at a run.

5:35 p.m.

"Huh. Where's he going?" Daisy asked, joining Rhys in Draco's wake as the blond wizard scurried off among the
roses. She gave Rhys a quick once-over, frowning as she looked at him. "Are you okay? You look kind of - "

"I'm fine," Rhys assured her, turning towards her. "You look nice, by the way," he said, glancing at the way the light
seemed to glow around her face and wondering once again if he should kiss her.

Probably not the moment, he determined. He didn't want his first kiss with Daisy Carnegie to be tainted by the
memory of his father's blatant disregard for him.

"Thanks," Daisy said, half-whispering it, and Rhys headed to the Floo without another word, determined to put
whatever else came of the night firmly behind him.

5:37 p.m.

It was a very good thing Rhys was such a pliable sort of person, Ifan had thought while watching his youngest son
offer Ludo Bagman the poisoned beverage. True, it was a risky move, sending his own son (someone with whom
Ifan had less of a connection would have been ideal, but really, who in the entire wizarding world didn't want to see
Ludo Bagman dead for one reason or another?) but still, Ifan was jubilant, nearly ready to breathe out a sigh of relief
he'd been holding for quite some time.
Taking down the Club would be another matter; unfortunate that those efforts would have to continue some other
way. But Rhys had already said he'd won over Hermione Granger, and perhaps that would be Ifan's way in. Hell,
why not pin it on her - or even better, on Draco Malfoy? Nobody would question the idea that a former Death Eater
was capable of murdering on behalf of an international secret society, and just as easily as he'd risen to significance,
he'd be well out of the picture. Whatever 'Dramione' was up to on behalf of the Club, it would soon be at an end, and
then Hermione would no doubt look to salvage her reputation. What better way to do that than with a Warlock's son;
the son of a future Minister of Magic?

Once Rhys won over Hermione Granger, Ifan thought with a smile, there would be no limit to what they could
accomplish together.

After letting his thoughts meander, though, Ifan conceded there was a considerable thorn in his plan: what to do
about Cadell? He'd have to be done away with, Ifan knew, his delighted warmth very quickly disintegrating to a
grimace. Cadell was already dangerous, and growing rapidly more so; his influence on Rhys in particular needed to
be struck.

Ifan hated the thought of having to kill his own son. But he hadn't even had to lift a finger to kill Ludo Bagman, had
he? And besides, Cadell had not been the son he'd raised for quite some time. As far as Ifan was concerned, his son
Cadell had died some five years ago, and whatever remained of him would have to be put to rest.

Sometimes, Ifan reasoned - all while watching Ludo Bagman choke suddenly, the glass falling from his hand onto
the ground below - things simply needed to be done, and the consequences would be whatever they would be, in the
end.

5:38 p.m.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Draco muttered to himself, catching sight of Basile just at the edge of the garden and pulling him
aside. "Where's the golem? Were you watching?"

"The maaaaaan, le baaaaad maaaaan," Basile wailed. "'e sent 'im awaaaaay, 'e's goooooooone, I cannot fiiiiiiiiiind
'im - "

"Get Hermione," Draco said, glancing feverishly around the garden and hurling out the only option that came to
mind. "Get her down here, quickly, Basile - "

The vampire let out another distraught sound but nodded, vanishing in place as Draco spun, searching the crowd.

Theo would be helpful right about now, he thought with a grimace; or Blaise, or - hell, Harry, even -

"Hey," Draco hissed into his horrible tie clip, "has anyone seen Weasley?"

"Which one?" came Daisy's voice, and Draco groaned.

"Percy," he muttered. "The real one. Where is he?"

"With me," came Pansy's voice. "We've been waiting for your signal, Draco, where the fuck have y- oh fuck, did
you hear that? What just - "

She broke off as Draco let out an irritated growl. "What's happening?" Draco demanded, spinning in place, and
caught sight of a crowd gathering near the center of Theo's rose gardens. "Oh no," he realized, kicking himself. "Is it
Bagman?"

"Yes," Daphne's voice said, uncertain. "Why is Bagman down?"

Just then, Draco caught sight of something extremely worrisome, a flash of red glinting steadily beneath the
twinkling lights.
"Oh no," he exhaled, and took off running once more.

5:42 p.m.

"For being such a last minute event, this is a very nice wedding," Mel remarked, eyeing the string lights twinkling
overhead as the sun went down. "You know, at ours - "

"At ours?" Ron echoed, glancing at her, and she rolled her eyes.

"Yes, ours," she confirmed, "which will not be happening now, obviously, nor any time with any known immediacy,
but presumably someday - "

"Don't distract me," Ron told her firmly. "I'm supposed to be watching for any problems, Melibea, and I can't spend
the next fifteen minutes thinking about the color palette of our June wedding, or someone might get killed."

"Color palette of our - " Mel broke off, groaning. "Is that what you think we're going to have?"

"It's what I want," Ron replied hotly, and to that, Mel gave a loud, surprised burst of laughter, leaning over to kiss
his cheek.

"Well, fine, we can discuss how hopelessly cliché that idea would be, but - oh, is that something you're supposed to
be watching for?" she asked suddenly, pointing into the crowd with a frown. "Looks like Ludo Bagman just went
down. I thought you were joking, but - shit, is he dead?"

"Of course Ludo Bagman isn't dead, Mel," Ron sighed, "it's Percy who's supposed to be murd- wait, what?" he
amended, aghast. "Did you - what did you just say?"

"Percy looks fine to me," Mel remarked, holding out a hand to gesture, and Ron took off, stumbling through the
crowd and brandishing his badge.

"Auror Ron Weasley, Department of Magical Law Enforcement - STAND ASIDE," he barked, as a variety of
witches and wizards (and Draco's half-naked cousin) flashed him a disinterested glare, eventually parting for him to
reach the fallen Ludo Bagman's side.

"He's dead!" Warlock Ifan Hawkworth trumpeted, storming forward and gesturing wildly, as if the others could not
very obviously see as much.

"Oh my god, is he?" came the voice of the naked Malfoy cousin. "How delightful!"

"He's not dead," Draco panted, shoving through the crowd and falling beside Ludo, pressing an ear to his chest. "No,
he's - he's just -"

"He must have been poisoned!" Ifan accused loudly, accepting a glass of champagne that was offered to him and
taking a gratuitous sip, fanning himself with obvious (blatantly false, in Ron's opinion) shock. "Thank you, Weasley,
as I was saying - poison! Perhaps the potion was meant for -"

"Ooh, look," said the other Malfoy cousin, whispering it loudly. "There's two of those garish redheaded ones!"

"What?" Ifan echoed, and glanced over his shoulder at Percy, who stood vacantly beside him. "Weasley, how did
you - "

"What happened?" demanded Pansy, forcing her way through the crowd with Percy at her heels. "How did he - "

For a moment, Ron's brain exploded, his attention darting between the two identical versions of his brother before
returning to the dead not-dead man on the floor when Draco burst to his feet, stumbling away from Ludo.

"DON'T DRINK THAT!" Draco shouted suddenly at Ifan, prompting every confounded head to swivel in the
opposite direction, but it was quite obviously too late. Ifan's eyes widened, bulging almost comically in his head as
his hand rose to his throat, and after a sputtered cough, a seizing motion, and a gasp, he raised a single shaking
finger, pointing it at Draco.

"You," Ifan choked out, eyes wide. "You - did this - "

Then, before anything could be done, Ifan Hawkworth collapsed on the lawn of the lush Nott Manor gardens, the
champagne flute falling from his fingers before he even hit the ground.

For a second, nobody moved, and Ron blinked. "What the -"

"Auror Harry Potter," came Harry's voice, urgently pushing his way through the crowd from the direction of the
house with the eerie white figure of Hermione running right behind him. "Department of Magical Law Enf-"

He broke off, staring, and after a moment of shock, he bent down, checking Ifan's pulse.

"Dead," Harry pronounced eventually, eyes wide as they rose to meet Ron's. Fuck, Harry mouthed, gritting his teeth,
and Ron blinked.

"Form a perimeter," Ron announced, immediately falling back on standard Auror procedure and pushing back the
crowd, wondering how best to conceal the error that had somehow taken place. "Everyone take a step back, please -"

"Auror Potter," came Kingsley's deep voice, the Minister himself stepping out from the crowd. "Auror Potter, a
Warlock has just been murdered. Someone must be held accountable - "

"I see that, Minister," Harry snapped testily, and even with a rapid glance over his shoulder, Ron could see that
Kingsley's grip had tightened, closing around Harry's shoulder.

"There must be an arrest," Kingsley murmured, his gaze traveling out over the bodies that remained on the ground
and the single man who stood between them, the implications obvious. Draco had known what Ifan Hawkworth was
about to drink, and everyone had seen it; there was no question every witness to the event would have only one
suspect in mind.

Ron, having put these things together, stepped furtively towards Draco. "Disapparate," Ron hissed at him, voice low.
"You know Harry and I won't come after you - "

"I can't," Draco said dully, not looking up. "The apparation wards are disabled."

"But - "

"He knew," Kingsley said to Harry, gesturing to Draco. "He knew what Warlock Hawkworth was drinking. There's
no other explanation than that he was part of this, Auror Potter," Kingsley warned, both apologetic and firm, "and if
you cannot do your job - "

"I can do my fucking job," Harry snapped, pulling free from Kingsley's grip to look up at Ron.

Ron, for his part, suddenly felt helpless.

"Arrest him, Auror Weasley," Harry finally exhaled, and Ron nodded, taking hold of Draco's wrists and beginning to
charm them behind his back, wishing he had ever been good at thinking of a way out of anything. "Take Draco
Malfoy into custody, and - "

"And me," came Hermione's voice, her glowing white silhouette suddenly stepping out of the crowd. "If you're
taking him, you're taking me, too, Harry. I'm just as responsible."

"Granger," Draco gritted out, glaring at her. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Hermione, who looked both more beautiful and more terrifying than Ron had ever seen her, took a step towards him,
her chin raised defiantly in protest.

"Where you go, I go," she said flatly, and Draco stared back at her, his breath suspended. Ron, for his part, shook his
head fervently at Harry, who sighed.

Everything had already gone wrong. There was nothing they could do now.

"Hermione Granger, you're under arrest for the murder of Warlock Ifan Hawkworth," Harry said, and Hermione
placed her hands gently against her floating veil, never once dropping her gaze from Draco's.

6:01 p.m.

"You didn't have to do this," Draco said, his gaze traveling vacantly (Hermione assumed, though she couldn't see
him well enough to confirm) to watch Harry and Ron finishing their obligatory surveillance of the crime scene. She
and Draco had been seated at the foot of what would have been their wedding altar, placed back to back with their
hands bound. "My reputation is already rubbish, Granger, but yours isn't," Draco muttered. "The last thing you need
is a murder charge, even if we somehow manage to get out of it."

She leaned her head back with a sigh, resting it against his shoulder. "I woke up this morning ready to promise my
life to you, Malfoy," she informed him, "and that's exactly what I'm doing. Besides," she added, ever the pragmatist,
"me being arrested can help you. However far this has to go, you'll never get a fair trial if you're accused of doing it
by yourself, and you know it."

He sighed deeply, the weight of it nearly sending her backwards. "Yes, but that's my prob-"

"It's not your problem. It's my problem. It's our problem." She shifted, angling her chin over her shoulder. "I asked
you to do this, remember," she murmured. "This is as much my problem as it is yours, and if you go down, I'm
going down too."

"That," Draco sighed, "really doesn't make me feel better."

"Well, maybe not," Hermione permitted stiffly, "but it is what it is."

She couldn't see him grimace, but she heard it in his voice. "Funny to think this is what comes of us being partners,"
he remarked, and let out a dry half-chuckle. "Maybe Potter didn't think this through."

"He almost certainly didn't," Hermione agreed, being herself very familiar with Harry Potter's lack of foresight, "but
this particular disaster was mostly my doing. And anyway, I trust him," she added. "He'll get us out of this if he can.
And if he can't - "

She trailed off, chewing her lip.

"If he can't," she attempted again, and faltered a second time, unsure where to go from there until she felt Draco's
shoulder nudging hers.

"I'm not worried," Draco assured her, and this time, she heard a faint smile in his voice. "I'm with you, aren't I?"

She closed her eyes at that, half-smiling in return, and wondered why she wasn't infinitely more distraught at being
in magical handcuffs. At least the dress hadn't wrinkled; though, unfortunately, this was probably not how Mel
Warbeck had planned to advertise her custom wedding gowns.

"I've certainly been through worse," she reminded him wryly, and Draco turned his head, angling himself towards
her as she turned hers.

"Hermione Granger," he said, his voice quiet in her ear, "this seems a rather appropriate time to tell you that I am
deeply, unreasonably, illogically in love with you."
At that, her smile was broad and unburdened, if only for a moment.

"That sounds right," she agreed, both of them turning towards each other until Harry cleared his throat loudly,
looking his most frustrated form of disappointed.

"I'm sorry," he sighed, grimacing, and Draco shook his head.

"Not to worry, Potter," Draco replied, adopting his signature drawl. "I always knew you'd arrest me someday."

Harry rolled his eyes, helping them both rise to their feet. "Are you ready?" he asked, turning Hermione and Draco
to face each other with one hand on each of their shoulders. "I swear, I'll do everything I can, but for right now, I
don't have a choice." Another grim sigh. "I have to take you in."

Draco, whose hair was unkempt enough to make Hermione wish she could run her fingers through it, tilted his head,
eyeing her with something that was as much needy as it was inescapable. Something equal parts longing and
certainty.

Something very firmly theirs.

"Is this really happening?" he asked her.

He sounded a little afraid. She supposed she was, too. She shifted her fingers slightly in the air, soothing him in the
distance between them.

"Yes," she said, and he nodded once.

Where you go, I go.

"Then let's do this," he pronounced, turning to Harry with a smirk that not even unanticipated murder could fade.

6:05 p.m.

"This was quite an event, Miss Greengrass," came a voice behind Daphne, and she jumped, turning sharply over her
shoulder from where she'd been watching Harry disapparate with Draco and Hermione. "Am I correct in thinking
some things went rather… awry?" a woman asked, which Daphne didn't dignify with a response. "Still," the woman
continued, unfazed, "it was rather beautifully executed. The intent was certainly there." Her smile twitched. "In
some rare cases, it is, in fact, the thought that counts."

"Who are you?" Daphne demanded, staring at the woman before her. She was rather young-looking, Daphne
thought, though her voice suggested otherwise; she had a trace of an unknown accent, a bit of maturity to her
tongue, and something vaguely familiar but unplaceable to her speech - but aside from that, the woman's face wasn't
particularly remarkable. Brown hair, brown eyes; pretty enough, but highly forgettable.

"Call me Belle," said the woman, offering Daphne a smile. "I wondered if I might have a chat with you, Daphne."

Daphne bristled at the repeated use of her name, but opted to conceal her opposition. "You're not on the guest list,"
she remarked instead, arching a brow. "What exactly are you doing here?"

"You know, I rarely have to be on the guest list," Belle conceded, looking as if she'd heard similar statements before,
"and yet I've seen a rather wide array of things. While I'm here," she continued, removing something from her
pocket, "I wanted to leave you with something. An offer, actually."

She extended a hand, a slip of paper between her thumb and forefinger, and Daphne took it warily. It was a business
card, which contained, on one side, the Ministry seal; on the other, three words, embossed: Department of Mysteries.

"What the fuck is this?" Daphne asked bluntly, and Belle gave a quiet, girlish laugh.
"A job offer," Belle supplied, prompting Daphne to unconcealed confusion. "Something to consider, anyway. When
all this" - she waved a hand to where Draco and Hermione had been - "excitement has passed, I think you'll want to
stop in for a longer chat with me, Daphne. You may find it worth your time."

With that, Belle turned to leave, apparently having said everything she'd intended to say. Daphne, meanwhile, stared
at the card, utterly bemused, before calling out after her, eyeing the other woman's back.

"What do you want with me?" Daphne asked suspiciously, and Belle turned briefly over her shoulder, offering a
shrug.

"Come find out," she beckoned, and smiled again. "Have a good night, Miss Greengrass."

And with that, she wandered into the house, disappearing from sight.

6:08 p.m.

"What went wrong?" Pansy demanded, pacing in front of two solemn Percys and one close-to-inebriated Blaise.
"How did this happen?"

"Honestly?" Blaise asked, taking a swig from the bottle of champagne in his hand. "We were down a set of eyes. We
were all thinking too broad," he added, scoffing, "watching everyone except the one we thought was expendable.
We forgot that someone should have been watching the golem."

"Down a set of eyes?" Pansy echoed, and paused, turning to frown at him. "Hold on. Where's Nott?"

Blaise took a long sip, propping his feet up on the table.

"Well, therein lies the question," he drawled, loosening his tie and tossing it over his shoulder.

Six hours earlier

Indeterminable location
12:08 p.m.

"I really wish you'd scheduled my abduction for another day," Theo drawled, giving his restraints another firm tug,
"or at least bothered to save the date in advance. This may come as a surprise to you, but I had plans." He paused,
waiting for a response that didn't come. "It's not every day your best friend gets fake married, you know," Theo
continued, gesturing with his chin to his impeccably cut suit. "I mean, first of all, have you noticed how good I look?
Honestly, just look."

"Shut up," Ignotus growled impatiently, rolling his eyes.

"Also, I know that this is a fairly standard feature in a typical villain speech - and/or a speech to any given villain, of
course, not to presume," Theo amended, "but you really are making a mistake. I mean, good job, I'm not totally
without some value, so mazel to you for recognizing that," he conceded, "but really, I'm beginning to doubt you've
thought this through. What are you going to do, hm? You have me, Ignotus. Fucking brava. Now what?"

At that, Ignotus finally turned, bending sharply to face Theo and then pausing, his gaze dropping slowly to fall on
Theo's tie clip with a small frown.

Fuck, Theo thought firmly, fully aware of the unlikelihood that Draco had his on. Draco had a habit of avoiding it
until the last minute; hated it, unreasonably. Some sort of opposition to gaudiness, or so he claimed, despite being
himself one of the gaudiest things in his own house.

"Oh, this old thing? You can have it," Theo assured Ignotus languidly. "This is - this is nothing, obviously.
Decorative. You know me, ever the ostentatious idiot - "
"Silencio," Ignotus murmured, tapping his wand against Theo's mouth, and Theo mimed an exasperated sigh, stifling
his actual sensation of panic as Ignotus slid the communication device from his tie.

I can still annoy you, Theo mouthed optimistically, but Ignotus turned away, apparently no longer interested.

"We'll see what my brothers think you're worth, Theo Nott," Ignotus determined flatly, and spun on his heel with the
tie clip in hand, slamming the door and leaving Theo to groan silently into the dark.

a/n: Good news and bad news. Bad news: this fic will skip next Thursday so I can update the final installment of
Modern Romance instead. I have many pressing deadlines next week and have unfortunately had to make some
Responsible Adult Decisions About Priorities. Good news: we're getting close to the end here, so that will be the
LAST TIME, I PROMISE, and from there we will continue to the end without interruption unless I die. Which,
fingers crossed, I don't, or potentially can't? TBD. Okay thanks!
 38. The Interplay of Love and Labor

Chapter 38: The Interplay of Love and Labor

The Ministry of Magic

Department of Magical Law Enforcement
October 26, 2003
5:14 a.m.

Harry threw the copy of the Daily Prophet down on his desk without a word.

MALFOY AND GRANGER: MURDERERS?

"Snappy title," muttered Draco, as beside him, Hermione sighed.

"Don't be difficult," she warned, eyeing Harry's posture as he turned, fidgeting in thought. "Harry's at least done us a
favor by taking us back to his office."

"True," Draco grumbled. "I suppose it's a fair bit better than spending the night in a cell with a dementor - which is
presumably where we may be for the remainder of our nights," he murmured under his breath, "so sure, thanks for
that, Potter - "

"Oh, don't be dramatic," Hermione told him. "People don't just go straight to Azkaban, Malfoy, it's for heinous
wizarding crimes - "

"YES," Harry interrupted, apparently having abandoned the effort to think, "AND YOUR CRIME WAS
MURDER!"

"You seem upset," Draco noted drily, and Harry began to shift in earnest, continuing what had been an entire
evening's worth of pacing. "Look, Potter, I'm sure this will work out, okay?" he said, which Hermione thought was a
surprisingly selfless effort to soothe Harry, considering it wasn't in Draco's nature to view any situation with
optimism. "I'm sure Nico's going to pop up any minute, or who knows, Antioch or Cad, even - "

"It's not that," Harry muttered, scraping a hand roughly through his hair. "Whether this gets solved or not, Kingsley's
right. I had no choice but to arrest you after you stupidly incriminated yourself, and now, ironically, I have to
pretend I don't know full well how many people at that wedding were involved, MYSELF INCLUDED - "

"Oh, so this is a moral quandary, then," Draco noted.

Harry merely glared at him.

"Harry," Hermione attempted, shifting slightly in her restraints (just for show, Harry had assured them, though not
without just cause, as other Aurors had certainly shuffled in and out throughout the night), "I understand that this is,
um. Highly inconvenient - "

"Highly inconvenient?" Harry echoed furiously, and spun, pointing to the newspaper. "This article makes several
very compelling points, Hermione! Emmett Carnegie died while you were in New York. Gagnon was arrested while
you were in Paris. You were at the party where the first attempt was made on Percy's life - which, by the way, is
information I have no choice but to release now! You," he said, jamming his finger next at Hermione, "have been
missing for three years with no accounting for your whereabouts, and you," he snapped, turning to Draco, "are
wanted in Russia! It never occurred to you to mention that?"

"Obviously not," Draco sniffed. "And anyway, they can't prove shit."

"DOES IT SEEM LIKE THIS MINISTRY CONCERNS ITSELF MUCH WITH PROOF?" Harry bellowed, and
Hermione winced, glancing briefly at Draco for reassurance before trying again to soothe Harry's failing tempers.
"You couldn't possibly look more guilty, and what's worse, I have no way to prove that you aren't without
incriminating positively everyone, and then - AND THEN," he added, at another shout, "ON TOP OF THAT,
LUDO BAGMAN IS STILL ALIVE!"

"Where is he now?" Draco asked, and when Harry glared at him, he shrugged. "Asking for a friend. No reason.
Certainly no assassination attempts. That would be crazy."

Harry pressed his fingers to his temples. "I have a headache."

"Well, what with all this shouting, I really recommend that you hydrate," Draco advised, as Hermione sighed,
flashing him a silencing glance.

"Look, I'm sure the Club knows about this by now," she said to Harry, trying to keep her voice to a certain tone of
rationality, "and we just have to bide our time until, I don't know. Until they think of something. I'm sure it would be
easy enough to prove Ludo Bagman was the one who intended to kill Ifan Hawkworth, and then - "

"And then Ludo Bagman, opportunist that he is, will likely find a way to blame me for giving him the poison to
begin with," Draco supplied for her, before Harry could even open his mouth, "and of course, nobody will possibly
fail to believe him. That, and I'm sure he could get any number of people to testify against me, either by way of
extortion or bribes."

Hermione opened her mouth, hoping to argue, but faltered.

"Okay, so, it's not great," she said tentatively, just as someone knocked on Harry's door.

"Auror Potter?" a Ministry aide asked. "Minister Shacklebolt just called down. He's looking to speak with you."

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "My office is a bit at capacity at the moment," he muttered, and
waved a hand. "Tell him I'll meet him in his office."

The aide nodded. "Right away, sir," he said, and scampered off as Harry glanced between Hermione and Draco.

"You two wait here," he said resignedly. "I'll - fix this. Or try to."

"Wonderful," Draco said, referencing his bound hands. "Do you like your martinis shaken or stirred?"

"Hilarious," Harry muttered. "I'll see what Kingsley says, and hopefully we can keep you both out of Azkaban until
the Club does something. Try not to explode anything while I'm gone," he added hotly, and then stalked out of his
office, hands tight at his sides as the door fell shut behind him.

"You know, it's very rare Harry has to be the responsible one," Hermione noted, gaze following after him. "I'm not
sure he's handling it very well, but at least it'll be a learning experience."

Draco smiled thinly. "Granger," he said, in a tone that spelled I'm serious, be serious now, we have something
serious to discuss, "you should know they're going to try to convince you to testify against me. Or force you to, if it
comes to that."

"They can't do that," Hermione protested. "That's - it's unconscionable, and anyway - "

"It's the smart thing for this Ministry to do," he said, shaking his head. "You're a war hero. You fought for this
Ministry. They need you to remain a beacon of public trust. They'll say you're protecting me, and then it'll be the
Wizengamot's chance to put another Death Eater in Azkaban. They wanted to before," he added, swallowing, "and
now they get their chance. They're not going to pass it up a second time."

"Well - " Hermione grimaced. It was the bleakest of proclamations, and he was certainly assuming the worst, but
still, he wasn't entirely wrong. "Well, then let's get married," she said firmly, not leaving an inch for refusal.

Draco sighed. "Granger - "

"I'm serious. They can't force us to testify against each other if we're married," Hermione insisted. "Marital privilege
is a legal protection, Malfoy, so all we'd have to do is - "

"My goodness," came a low drawl, just before three figures manifested into being inside the office. "'Marital
privilege,' really? You two are just making excuses now."

"Cad," Hermione exhaled, consummately relieved, as he, Antioch, and - oddly - Parvati Patil appeared, standing
opposite them at Harry's desk. "Thank goodness you're here - "

"This," Antioch said, pursing his lips, "is not what I wanted."

"Well, then, at least we're all on the same page," muttered Draco, as Cad rolled his eyes.

"We'll clean it up," Cad assured them. "Easy enough, isn't it? Change a few autopsies, kill a few messengers - "

"I keep telling you it won't work," Parvati informed him, as if they'd had the conversation before.

"Eh," Cad said, shrugging. "Agree to disagree."

"Why are you here?" Draco asked Parvati, frowning. "Did Blaise send you?"

"No," Antioch supplied, cutting in before she could answer, "but speaking of your henchmen, where's Theo? I have
a thing or two to say to him about this mess, quite frankly - "

"I -" Draco frowned. "What do you mean where's Theo? Isn't he - "

He broke off, turning to Hermione, who blinked. "I haven't seen him," she realized slowly. "Not since - not since
yesterday morning? Maybe? I'm not sure - "

"You could track him," Draco said to Cad. "Easy enough, isn't it?"

"Well," Cad began, and glanced at Antioch. "I mean yes, the spell is easy enough, but if you haven't seen him, then
this is rather, um. Coincidental."

"Coincidental? Coinciding with what?" Draco demanded, bristling. "And where's Nico been all night, by the way,"
he grunted unhappily, "because I was under the impression he was the one stalking the surveillance charms at the
Ministry - "

"Right, yes, well, Nico's dead," Cad said, as Draco's face fell ever so slightly. "Ignotus killed him."

"Ignotus killed h-" Hermione broke off, disbelieving. "But - but Nico was - "

"Yes, yes, we're all aware," Antioch said irritably. "One might say Ignotus has gone a bit rogue."

"Fuck," Draco exhaled, as Hermione registered their apprehension. "So you're saying Ignotus might have taken
Theo, and now, if that's the case, you don't want to track him, because it might be - "

"A trap, yes," Cad confirmed, with a rather noticeable lack of shame. "Inconveniently, that's exactly what I'm
saying."

"Is there any chance Nott's just off being difficult somewhere?" Antioch asked, glancing at Parvati, who sighed
heavily.

"I keep telling you," she said, "I don't see things on command. It's not like I could drink some tea and tell you his
precise location - "

"I can tell you with certainty that if he's missing, it's not by choice," Draco informed them staunchly. "Theo wouldn't
just disappear. I've never known him to be conspicuously absent, and certainly not when I needed him. If anything,
he's unbearably present."
"Did you at least check his house first?" Hermione asked tentatively. "This isn't the first time I've assumed
somebody was abducted only to fall into a trap."

Promptly, Cad disappeared.

"So," Draco said in his absence. "How's everybody been?"

"Fine," replied Parvati.

"Good, good," said Draco, just as Cad reappeared with a pop.

"Not at his house," Cad confirmed. "Theo Nott is definitely missing."

"Well, marvelous," Draco said. "In sum, I've been arrested for murder and my best friend's been abducted. Anyone
else have any good news they'd like to share?"

"I'm not entirely sure what Ignotus wants from us," Antioch remarked tangentially, glancing at Cad, who shrugged.
"I suppose he might want us dead, though that seems rather… narrow in scope."

"Well, listen," Hermione exhaled stiffly, "why don't Malfoy and I go look for Nott, and then I suppose we can just
report back to you, if - "

"If you don't die?" Cad guessed. "Promising, promising, only I'm almost positive it's us Ignotus wants. Nott's really
the only one both of us would go after," he said, turning to glance at Antioch, who gave him a deeply resigned nod,
"and I'm positive Ignotus doesn't like him."

"Still," Antioch said, frowning, "if there's some way to prove there's a connection - "

"The tie clip," Hermione cut in, turning to Draco. "What if Nott has his on?"

Draco's eyes widened as he glanced down. "Brilliant, Granger, perfect - now if someone," he said, glancing around
with irritation, "would, say, remove my fucking restraints, I might be able t-"

Cad lazily snapped his fingers, prompting Hermione and Draco's hands apart.

"-to ah, yes, okay - Nott," Draco said, raising the tie clip to his lips. "Theo, you there?"

Silence.

Then, all of a sudden, a voice -

"Draco, you fucker, I'm sleeping."

Draco groaned. "Parkinson, fucking Christ, you're sleeping?"

"It's five in the goddamn morning, Draco, I don't care if you're arrested, it's not like I'm going to accomplish
anything while you're g- no, Weasley, it's fine, go back to sleep - "

"Gross," Draco muttered, just as another voice chimed in.

"Draco? Is that you? What's going on?"

"Oh, hi sweetheart," Cad said, suddenly appearing behind Draco and nearly prompting him to drop the tie clip.
"Sorry I missed the wedding. I'm sure it was very lovely, albeit an uninhibited disaster. But that's not your fault," he
assured her kindly.

"Cad? Thanks, I guess, but what are you doing on th- wait, hold on, did I just hear Pansy?"

Once again, the Ministry wards were making the connection somewhat compromised.
"Daph?"

"You idiots," came a tired version of Blaise's voice, "need to shut up."

"Tell him I say hello," Parvati suggested, as Draco glared at her.

"Why is everyone on here?" he demanded. "I'm trying to find Theo!"

"We already tried last night," Pansy's voice informed him. "No answer."

"Well, fuck," Draco grumbled moodily.

"Can't Cad track him?" Daphne asked.

"Well, I certainly could, Miss Greengrass, but you do know how little I enjoy being helpful," Cad reminded her, as
Draco swatted him away.

"He's worried it might be a trap," Draco supplied for him, "and unfortunately, he's not wrong."

"No," came another voice, "he is very definitely not wrong. Glad to see I finally have your attention, brothers."

"Ah, fuck," Cad sighed, glancing up at Antioch. "Ignotus."

"Wait, who are w-"

"Everyone else shut up immediately," Draco said into the tie clip. "Ignotus, talk. Now."

"No need to have your knickers in a twist, Malfoy. I have business with my brothers. Cadmus is free to use his
tracking spell," Ignotus' voice said, "and then he and Antioch are free to retrieve Mr Nott at their convenience."

"We need to have a chat about traps, Ignotus," Cad said, snatching the tie clip from Draco's hand. "Specifically, that
you shouldn't give them away."

"Cadmus, you know me," Ignotus said, sounding bored. "You know I have no interest in abductions. I needed your
attention, and now I have it."

"Such a youngest child," Cad muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

"My only interests lie with you and Antioch," Ignotus' voice continued. "If you both come to fetch Mr Nott, those
are my only conditions for his release."

"Is he alive?" Cad asked.

"Yes," replied Ignotus. "Is Antioch with you?"

"No," Cad said.

A pause.

"You're lying, Cadmus."

Antioch rolled his eyes, striding forward to take the tie clip from Cad's hand. "Ignotus. You're being childish."

"Ah, of course you're there, Antioch. I was guessing, but it was a rather safe guess. Cadmus does enjoy lying. That,
and you two always do love to gang up on me."

"Except for the times you both killed me," Cad snapped.

"You're really going to have to get over that," remarked Ignotus.

"What do you want from us?" Antioch demanded.

"I told you. I only want your attention," Ignotus said. "I want you both at my beck and call. Is that so surprising?"

"I know I'm not supposed to be saying anything, but you three badly need therapy," came Pansy's voice, as Draco
rolled his eyes.

"Come get Nott yourselves, brothers," Ignotus said, "or we have nothing more to say to each other."

If it had been a phone, the line would have gone dead.

"You're not going without me," Draco said, glancing up at Cad and Antioch. "You two can worry about your
brother, but I'm getting Theo back."

"I'm coming too," Hermione said quickly, glancing at Draco. "Don't try to stop me."

He gave her a weak smile. "I know better by now."

Antioch, meanwhile, was speaking in undertones to Parvati. "You're sure?"

"Of course not," she replied, as Draco and Hermione glanced at each other, curious. "There are things I've seen and
things I know, but neither are very informative. I know that Lady Revel possessed one of Ignotus Peverell's secrets.
What that is, though, I have no idea. I've seen that all three of your fates are inextricably connected. You will all
meet the same end, or lack of end. But the fate itself?" She shrugged. "Unclear."

"Didn't you predict Granger and I would get married yesterday?" Draco scoffed. "I'm beginning to think you don't
actually know what you're talking about, or you're making this up as you go."

"No, wrong," Parvati corrected him, lips pursed. "I said there would be a marriage yesterday, and there was. I never
said it would be your marriage."

Draco opened his mouth again but Hermione threw a hand out, stopping him.

"Don't," she warned. "We have to get Theo."

"Fine," Draco grumbled, turning to Cad. "Shall we?"

Cad looked at Antioch, who looked back at him.

"Do you think he'll kill us?" Cad asked, less fearful than he was purely bemused.

"No," Antioch replied without hesitation, "but I think we can both agree there are many worse things than death."

Cad grimaced, then nodded.

"Yep, okay," he said, turning to the others. "Let's go, then."

The Ministry of Magic

Office of the Minister
5:35 a.m.

"So that's it, then," Harry said tightly, twitching from where he sat across from Kingsley. "You're going to deny that
Draco and Hermione ever had the Ministry's protection?" At Kingsley's tepid silence, he grew even angrier. "You're
going to make me turn my back on them, and lie to the public, all so that the Ministry doesn't get blamed?"

"The war was not so long ago, Harry," Kingsley sighed, shaking his head. "People still don't fully trust the Ministry -
"
"No, and why should they?" Harry demanded. "People worry the Ministry is lying to them, and it is! Why should
anyone believe otherwise?"

"The Ministry protects them, Harry," Kingsley pressed, with the sort of slowed-down patience (calm down, relax,
everything's fine) that was driving Harry to further madness. "This isn't the Order of the Phoenix anymore. This isn't
guerrilla warfare, where each individual is fighting for some very narrow cause, or for their lives. The interests of
the wizarding world are protected by governments, by judicial systems, and when faith in those things erodes - "

"Rightfully," Harry muttered, scowling.

" - then the entire world is at risk," Kingsley concluded firmly. "There's a reason Lord Voldemort was able to gain
power, Harry. The world had not yet recovered from the threat of Grindelwald, and he took advantage of that fear,
of those little seedlings of mistrust in government. I cannot permit the same thing to happen again, and after this -
after the terrorism at the Wizengamot conference," he reminded Harry, "and the very public assassination of our
most senior Warlock - "

"Removing the Ministry's ills from public scrutiny isn't going to help," Harry snapped, cutting him off. "There's a
reason I felt so terrible for Malfoy and his friends, Kingsley, and it's because this Ministry would rather save its own
arse than give them a fighting chance - "

"You knew how vulnerable his reputation was," Kingsley pointed out, with a hint of admonishment. "You knew,
Harry, when you chose him for this investigation that Draco Malfoy was an easy target, and one whom the public
would never be willing to trust. There's a reason I could never approve his application to be an Auror," Kingsley
lamented, and while he sounded genuinely despondent, Harry couldn't help a renewed burst of fury. "No matter how
qualified he is. I had hoped Hermione Granger would lend him the necessary credibility, but - " He hesitated,
swallowing hard. "I'm afraid I misjudged."

For a moment (several moments), they were silent. In reality, it wasn't as if Harry really blamed Kingsley, or even
that he felt he could blame him. It wasn't as if Kingsley Shacklebolt himself could right the world all in one broad
swoop of progress. But still, there was something nagging at Harry; poking at his agitation, twitching in his brow,
prompting him to drum his fingers gently across his knees.

"When," Harry ventured quietly, "did you become a coward, Kingsley?"

For the first time, Harry saw Kingsley's face express something close to anger.

"You're dismissed, Auror Potter," Kingsley said, his voice dangerously low. "Do your job. And I expect you to take
Malfoy and Granger into custody immediately," he added, not looking up. "They can await trial in Azkaban, just like
any other person accused of murder would."

Harry's mouth tightened. "Kingsley - "

Kingsley stopped him with a hard glance.

"Minister Shacklebolt," Harry amended tightly, "I don't see the justice in this. Draco Malfoy was condemned by this
Ministry a long time ago." He paused, grimacing. "If he goes to Azkaban now, he'll never come out."

"Can you honestly tell me he had nothing to do with the death of Warlock Ifan Hawkworth?" Kingsley asked, and
Harry bristled, saying nothing. "Then I should think it is you who are blinded, Auror Potter. Not me."

It was perhaps even more dismissive than his actual dismissal. Harry rose to his feet, not even bothering to storm
out. He found he lacked the energy. Instead, he merely walked slowly to Kingsley's office door, slipping outside at a
glacial pace. He had the odd sensation he was walking through a very thick, very unforgiving cloud of obstacles, and
scarcely noticed when someone who had apparently been waiting for him cleared their throat.

"Harry," said Ignotus Peverell, and he turned, blinking. "Difficult morning, I take it?"

A number of questions flooded Harry's mind (how did you find me, why are you here, what do you want, did you
realize the world was fucked, and is it a new thing, or has it always been this way?) but he found himself rather
unwilling to entertain them.

"Yeah," he said instead.

Ignotus considered him a moment, reading the intent of Harry's silence.

"The world can be a very frustrating place," Ignotus determined eventually, resting a fraternal hand on Harry's
shoulder. "Not very much of it is within our control, I'm afraid."

"I just - " Harry sighed, reaching beneath his glasses to rub at his tired eyelids. "I really thought that the world would
be better when I wasn't fighting Voldemort, but it was actually much easier having one enemy. Simpler." He
grimaced. "Much simpler, or maybe I just never considered what happened next. I guess I just assumed things
worked themselves out - you know." A shrug. "Bad people would just… get punished. Good people would be okay.
Seems like that should be how things work."

"Ever thought much about a career in politics?" Ignotus asked him, and Harry gave a dry laugh, shaking his head.

"No," he said. "And certainly not now. I'd rather not be beholden to, you know. Politics."

"What if you didn't have to be?" Ignotus asked, and Harry frowned, turning to him.

"What do you mean?" he asked carefully, as Ignotus' mouth twitched slightly, forming the subtle bow of a promising
smile.

Unknown location
6:35 a.m.

It was probably not necessary to say that Theo hadn't slept particularly well.

That being said, he hadn't.

It wasn't so much the abduction part; that bit, really, he could take or leave. It wasn't the forced silence, either, or the
uncomfortable office chair he seemed to be trapped in, or the fact that once Ignotus had left, he hadn't returned.
(Theo was starving, but he decided it was probably a good thing that Ignotus hadn't left any food; maybe his
captivity wouldn't be long.) It wasn't the bizarrely institutionalized air, either, or the eerie silence. All of those things
were unpleasant, sure, but at least they were new, and say what you wanted about Theo Nott, but he could generally
be convinced to try something new at least once. Twice, even, because what do you really know after the first time?

Anyway, it wasn't those things. It was that somewhere, the two people he cared about most in the world were putting
themselves in danger, and he could do nothing to help them. Somewhere, Draco was getting forcefully married, or
he was murdering someone (or both), and somewhere, maybe, Harry was equally in the midst of murder, or more
likely, having a moral crisis. That wasn't even worst case scenario, which Theo did not want to think about. Worst
case scenario wasn't exactly Theo's most useful place, so that was really more what was keeping him awake.

Well, that, he amended internally, and the hovering fox that kept looking up from the corner, eyeing him with
suspicion.

He heard a pop of apparation and braced himself - wondering whether it would be Ignotus again, or perhaps the
owner of the glowing fox - and at first he was pleased, catching the sound of Cadmus Peverell's voice, before being
instantly dismayed, noting Draco's as well. Cad, Theo knew, could easily take a bit of torment before slipping out of
a disastrous situation. Draco, on the other hand…

"Where is he?" Draco demanded, and Theo, who couldn't move or speak, merely grimaced. "Could this be a trick?"

"No," Antioch said, as Theo registered his presence, and the floaty white gown that meant Hermione was there, too,
along with another woman he half-recognized. Patil, he realized after a second, and frowned. No Blaise, though.
Odd. "Cadmus' tracking spell never fails. Theo is here somewhere."

"He's there," Hermione pointed out, running to him in a swoop of ivory silk. Say what you will about her, Theo
thought grudgingly, but she's got the requisite heroic panache. "Are you okay?" she asked him, eyes wide and
fearful as she flicked her wand, ridding him of his restraints. "It's fine, we'll get you out of here, let's go - "

Theo, who continued to be unable to speak, grabbed her shoulders roughly, turning her towards the fox. Look, look,
he mouthed, as Draco frowned.

"I knew the silence was out of character. Finite," Draco said, and in nearly the same instant, Theo's voice returned at
a shout, somewhere around, " - MIGHT BE A PROBLEM, DON'T YOU THINK - "

"But that's a Patronus," Hermione said, registering it with bemusement just as the fox flickered out of sight, trotting
through the wall and into nothing. "Where did it go?"

"Back to its owner," Antioch said grimly, reaching out to take hold of Cad. "Let's go, now, Cadmus - "

"Yes, right, about that," Cad drawled. "We can't."

"What do you mean we c-"

"Yes, yes, oppose away," Cad said flippantly, "express the many volumes of your disbelief, but we're stuck. There
are some very strong disapparation wards in here. The kind you only find," he muttered, displeased, "in one specific
type of building."

"Meaning?" Draco demanded. Theo glanced at him; he clearly hadn't slept, and his hand was tight around Theo's
arm. He was both stressed and notably relieved, Theo noted, which was at least comforting in a sense. It was as
close to an 'I love you' as he was ever going to get from Draco Malfoy, presumably.

"Meaning that, odds are, we're somewhere inside the Ministry," Cad pronounced with grim finality, just as a sound
behind them prompted them all to turn.

"Excellent deduction, Cadmus," said a female voice, and Cad immediately groaned, one hand curling into a fist just
as every remaining wand in the room flew into her grasp, each one tucking themselves neatly in the inner pocket of
her robe. "Glad to see death hasn't had any ill-effects on your capacity for observation."

"Fucking Christ, Ibb," Cad spat instantly, as beside him, Antioch's face paled. "You're supposed to be dead!"

"Funny how that works," the woman replied, seemingly finding the irony to be little more than charming, "and also,
it's Belle now, Cadmus. 'Ibb' was always rather primitive."

"This is the woman you killed yourself for?" Theo asked Cad, giving her a quick once-over. Nothing too
remarkable, though perhaps not unremarkable. She had the same vaguely strange, Welsh-adjacent accent that
belonged to Cad and Antioch, but where they were tall and broad, taking up space in the room, she was slight and
innocuous. Theo guessed he might not have noticed her before, had she not been so obviously the person in the
room most responsible for their current disaster. "Interesting."

"That," Cad said stiffly, "was an ill-founded rumor."

"As was my death," Belle assured him. "Greatly exaggerated, I assure you."

Cad scowled.

"Was it just very easy to live forever when you three were born," Theo guessed loudly, "or was there, perhaps,
something in the water - "

"I wouldn't expect you to know this," Belle said, flashing a disapproving look at Theo, "but there are other ways to
live forever than to make a mess across the entire continent of Europe for four - four - entire centuries and then
ostensibly disappearing, only to begin using unmissable symbolism - "

"Unmissable?" Antioch scoffed. "Please. Covert."

"No, she's right," Cad said, not particularly apologetically. "Unmissable, absolutely."

" - and in any case," Belle continued, "the study of magic was very limited then, for good reason. Hogwarts, for one
thing, was a total sham." To that, both Cad and Antioch scoffed their agreement. "Its curriculum is determined by
the Ministry now, but back then, the Ministry didn't exist. Witches and wizards were servants of muggle kings and
queens, and for what? Now, of course, there's far less experimentation, for better or worse. Magic is far less bloody
than it once was." She gave Theo a grim smile. "So yes, to answer your question, it was very easy to live forever,
once. Particularly considering one didn't have to be a Peverell brother to go about it."

"You're their sister," Hermione interjected suddenly, and Belle turned, fixing her with a long, studious glance.

"Close," she said eventually, though her expression glittered with approval. "Only a woman would make that guess,
and good on you for doing it. But no," she clarified, shaking her head. "My mother was their father's sister."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "But that still essentially makes you - "

"A Peverell, yes," Belle confirmed, voice clipped as she glanced back at Cad. "I'm Cadmus' favorite cousin, in fact."

Cad made a face. "First of all, everyone was cousins at the time. It wasn't exactly a highly selective gene pool. And
secondly, you're exaggerating."

"She's not," Antioch muttered.

"Look, what's this about?" Draco demanded, abruptly regaining his voice and angling all of his aristocratic
affectations towards Belle. "Don't know if you've noticed, but we have a bit of a problem. Things to take care of, as
you might guess, so if you'll let us on our merry way - "

"Problem?" Theo echoed, tensed now.

"Ifan Hawkworth is dead," Hermione supplied for him, glancing at Draco. "Malfoy was arrested."

"By whom?" Theo demanded.

Hermione grimaced. "Harry."

Theo was silent for a beat, stunned. "Well, when I have a word with him - "

"Right, well, about that, you can't," Belle informed him. "The circumstances of me finding you are contingent on a
deal. One, in fact, that I made with - "

"Ignotus," Cad and Antioch groaned in unison, as Theo's stomach lurched, beginning to piece it together.

We'll see what my brothers think you're worth, Ignotus had said.

Fuck. He hadn't just been abducted. He'd been the bait for a trap.

Fuck.

"What does Ignotus get out of this?" Cad demanded, and then paused. "And wait. Since when do you work for the
Ministry?" He spun, rounding on his elder brother. "And how did you not notice Ibb's been alive all this time?"

Antioch shrugged. "I imagine she can't have worked at the Ministry for long, given that she doesn't appear very old,"
he said dispassionately, giving her a glance that might unsteady someone (like, say, Theo) who hadn't known him
from childhood, though Belle herself didn't flinch. "And even if she had, there is one department in the Ministry
with which I cannot interfere, which means - "
"Goddamnfuckinghell," Cad swore, half-spitting it onto the ground. "The Department of Mysteries."

Belle smiled serenely, pleased.

"How," Hermione growled, "has this place not been burned to the ground?"

"An excellent question, Miss Granger," Belle replied. "I understand you tried, some years ago, but that was only one
small portion of the department. Rather a lot falls under the category of 'mysteries,' as you might guess."

"So the Ministry essentially does have an espionage department," Draco realized aloud, and Belle turned to him.

"A bit of an underwhelming description," she murmured, "but I suppose the answer would be yes, in theory. In
practice, this department handles dangerous, indeterminable, or unstable magical items, practices, and properties.
Prophecies, for example," she said, gesturing to Hermione, "or old world magic, like these two. The routes we take
to collect them are - " She shrugged. "I suppose that's the espionage part. I've certainly done some time undercover,
most recently for a potioneer in France, but I'm sure we've all done our fair share of that."

They exchanged a glance, not wanting to agree.

"Why would Ignotus lead us to you?" Cad pressed.

"Because I want the League of Eternality," Belle replied. "Obviously."

"Yes, but - "

"He knows her," said the other woman; Parvati, Theo recalled, as everyone suddenly remembered she was there.
"Doesn't he?" she asked Belle, whose brow twitched slightly. "In your current form, I mean. You're the one who
brought him back after he died."

"Wh-" Belle stopped, as Draco and Hermione frowned at each other. "How can you possibly know that?"

"I didn't," Parvati said, shrugging. "But I do now."

"You're not a divinist at all, are you?" Draco demanded. "You're just very good at guessing."

"You can say whatever you like, Malfoy, and I'm still not telling you who got married," Parvati replied, bored, and
he made a face.

"Hold on," Theo interrupted suddenly, backtracking. "After who died?"

"Ignotus," Antioch said, his expression stiff before turning his attention back to Belle. "You brought Ignotus back.
Why didn't he lead you to me back then?"

"I didn't want just you," Belle said, though Theo wondered if that wasn't a bit of a lie. "You'll destroy yourself
eventually, Antioch. You don't need my help to do it. You, on the other hand," she said, her gaze sliding to Cad's,
"have been a very difficult man to catch, Cadmus."

"That's because I was dead," Cad informed her dully, folding his arms over his chest. "You spent all this time
looking for me, Ibb?"

"Don't confirm that, even if you have," Antioch warned her. "His ego is already unbearable."

She, however, didn't appear to be listening. "You know, that Daphne Greengrass is very interesting," Belle remarked
to Cad, continuing on without flinching. "She got you to love her, first of all," she murmured, and Antioch turned to
Cad, equally surprised, "which is something I've never seen anyone do."

Cad scoffed. "Don't get gross, Ibb, honestly -"

"I've offered her a job," Belle continued, and Cad blinked. "I think she'll be very good at this. Very clever,
obviously, highly skilled, extremely capable of secrecy - "

"Get to the point," Cad snapped, obviously ruffled, and Belle smiled again.

"Well, if I'm going to bring down the entire League of Eternality," Belle mused, "then I'll need the very best witches
and wizards on staff to do it, don't you think?"

"WHAT?" Cad and Antioch said in unison, glancing stiffly at each other again.

"There's no way Ignotus turned the Club over to you," Antioch growled at Belle. "He wouldn't."

"He kind of already did," Belle reminded him, gesturing around the room. "I wanted the full set, and I almost have
it, don't I? Ignotus will come around. I doubt he's suited for this type of ceremonial posturing - after all, he can't fill
your shoes, Antioch," she told him, "seeing as he's never had an ounce of authority in him, nor does he have the
stomach for Cadmus' preferred methods of interference. With you two arrested and tried for longevity-related crimes
-"

"Oh hell," Hermione said, her features suddenly going pale. "That's the legislation that Percy's been talking about for
months, isn't it? Mandatory minimum sentences for longevity-related crimes - this," she exhaled sharply, "this is
what he's been talking about -"

"Oh, Warlock Weasley? Yes, and he's been about the only one discussing it, too," Belle said impatiently, "which is
positively stupid. Amazing that the wizarding world can emerge from a war with a horcrux-laden dictator only to
fail to realize people who try to live forever should clearly be prevented from doing so - "

"Ironic," Theo noted, and Belle turned to him, irritated.

"I've been looking for the Peverell brothers for nearly eight centuries," she snapped. "Forgive me if I've made the
necessary effort to see that through - "

"You said yourself the Ministry isn't that old," Theo reminded her, but she merely glared at him.

"Don't antagonize her," Draco suggested, reaching out to tighten a hand on Theo's arm. "Please," he added, looking
queasy, and Theo obligingly shut his mouth, though he wasn't particularly pleased about it.

"So Ignotus died," Parvati inserted, looking as though she were blithely recounting the events of a very strange,
highly fantastical book, "and you, somehow, found one of his methods for survival and resurrected him. When he
came back, you wanted him to turn over his brothers - you were hoping, even, that you could convince him to be
your spy - but he disappeared, I take it?" She glanced at Belle, whose mouth tightened. "Yes, I'm guessing that was a
bit embarrassing for you, so you don't have to say anything. But then Ignotus, in his new state of resurrection, wasn't
the same. He couldn't believe he'd killed his brother - which he very intentionally didn't tell you - or that his other
brother felt no guilt over their misdeeds. He fell in love with a woman who fed his already lingering doubts. His
convictions decayed over time, his relationship with his brother worsened. He came to find you, probably recently.
Probably yesterday, or at most, the day before. Didn't he?" she prompted. "He offered you his brothers in exchange
for sole leadership of the Club, and you gave it to him."

Silence rang in the room; Theo heard Draco's uncomfortable swallow.

"You," Belle said after a moment, "are unwisely informed."

"Divinist," Parvati said in explanation, gesturing vaguely to what Theo presumed was her aura. "I have a habit of it."

"None of that was divination," Belle pointed out, and Parvati shrugged.

"Fine. Here's something divine: you're not going to find the secrets in time," Parvati said, and Belle froze, her entire
posture going rigid. "I know that's what you want, aside from rounding up the Peverells. I'm sure Ignotus even
promised them to you, but it won't do you any good. You'll find them, I know that much, but by the time you do, it'll
be too late."
Belle bristled. "You're guessing."

"People always say that," Parvati said, unsmiling.

Belle rounded on Cadmus, her wand in his face. "Tell me where they are."

"Nice try, Ibb," he said, "but I don't know."

She stared at him. "I always know when you're lying."

"So am I lying, then?" he asked, raising his hands in the air. Theo, who recalled that Cad had already said privately
that he didn't know, registered in the same moment Belle did that he was telling the truth, and then she moved onto
Antioch.

"Tell me," she warned, voice dangerously quiet, and he smiled.

"You were always chasing after Cadmus," Antioch murmured, tutting softly. "Always jealous of me and Ignotus for
being his favorites, weren't you? Always trying to prove yourself to him, to us, to prove that you were one of us.
How's that working out for you?"

Without hesitation, she slapped him, and Theo blinked, the sound ringing through the chamber.

"That," she said, "was for the time you broke my finger when I was six. But you're still going to have to tell me
where the secrets are."

"Am I, though?" Antioch scoffed. "You have no other cards to play, Isabel."

The look on her face was murderous.

"Antioch - "

"As charming as this is," Draco interrupted, apparently losing his woefully thin patience, "I don't see how this has
anything to do with the rest of us. Let us go," he suggested, gesturing to himself, Hermione, Parvati, and Theo, "and
take your bizarre vendetta with these two elsewhere. Granger and I could even bring you Ignotus, or - "

"Ha," Belle said, not bothering to look at him. "No, I'm afraid you haven't been listening, Mr Malfoy. I need the
entire League of Eternality," she said, and flicked her wand briskly, a pair of restraints appearing around not only
Cad's and Antioch's wrists, but Hermione's and Theo's as well. "But you make an excellent point," she murmured,
finally turning her attention to Draco, "in that you aren't necessary to me."

His face paled, just slightly. "I can bring you Ignotus, if that's what you want," he offered, maintaining a carefully
cultivated lofty indifference, "and I can find you the secrets - "

"Ah, a lovely offer, but I'll find them myself, and rather soon, I predict. I think you've made enough of a mess for
now, Mr Malfoy - though I'm not going to kill you, if that's what you're worried about," she informed him coolly, as
Hermione let out a small squeak of dismay. "I work for the Ministry, so that isn't exactly my thing. In fact, you can
go. Best of luck," she added with a laugh, "seeing as you're still very much a fugitive wanted for murder, and
therefore probably not of much use to anyone, don't you think?"

Draco stepped towards her, cheeks gradually draining of color. "No, wait - wait, f- "

She flicked her wand once, briskly, and then Draco and Parvati were gone.

"No," Hermione gasped, and rounded on Belle, hands still bound. "Where did you send him?"

"Doesn't matter, Miss Granger," Belle told her, "seeing as you've got your own problems. You'd all better hope
nobody else was listening to Warlock Weasley, or you're all going to run into some trouble, don't you think?"

Hermione gaped at her, and Cad and Antioch exchanged a glance, both mutinously displeased.
"You know," Theo mused, tapping his thumb idly against his thigh as his stomach let out a ferocious growl, "I
thought I was going to like you, but I'm starting to think maybe I don't."

"Don't sweat it, Mr Nott," Belle assured him with a thin smile. "Most people don't."

The Ministry of Magic

East corridor
6:35 a.m.

"I'm just not sure," Harry was saying slowly, "that I agree with the motives of the Club."

Ignotus knew as much. Harry had already made that clear when Ignotus had initially chosen him as a candidate. But
Ignotus also knew that the Club Harry opposed was his brother Antioch's version of the Club, rather than the one
that the two of them could create, so he felt fairly confident he had a bit more leverage than before.

"Can I tell you something?" Ignotus asked confidingly, and Harry nodded, still looking hesitant. "There was a time I
felt the same way you do. That I was being controlled by ideas I didn't believe in, or else by forces outside my reach.
I felt powerless and subjected to the wills of others. Understandable, I assume," he added warily, "since you know
my brothers."

Harry grimaced. "Cad in particular is a bit… difficult to read."

"You don't trust him," Ignotus agreed, "nor should you. He's not the kind of person one can or should trust. Nor is
Antioch, because their motivations are subject to their own selfish whims. But I believe in what's right - in fighting
for what's right," Ignotus pressed. "Autonomy, choice, these are the most important things a person can achieve; the
ability to possess a conviction, to nurture it, and to act accordingly. That, to me, is freedom. Can you really say you
disagree?"

Harry chewed his lip, hesitating. "It's just that - "

"The other members of this Club fear death," Ignotus told him. "It's that fear which drives them. They want eternity
because they fear what's beyond it - but you and I don't. Fear isn't what drives us, is it?"

Ignotus carefully didn't mention his own experience with death. It wasn't the time for such things, and certainly not
the time for his own secrets to be revealed. Still, Harry seemed to understand, and nodded slowly, processing what
had been said.

"I promise to listen to you," Ignotus assured him. "This won't be a Club like it was under Antioch's leadership, nor
will it be like the Ministry. You will be beholden to nothing but your own convictions. Beholden to nothing," he
urged, "except what is right."

Harry said nothing, thinking, and Ignotus sensed he was starting to come around.

"Trust me because you can," Ignotus said quietly. "Trust me because you should. Because I can no longer trust my
brothers, and I wish to place my trust in you."

Harry exhaled, still wary.

"Ludo Bagman may yet get away with everything," Ignotus reminded him, and immediately, Harry's expression
darkened. "If you and I were the decision-makers of the Club, we could see that justice was served appropriately."

"I - " Harry began, and stopped, biting his tongue. "He'd go to Azkaban, then," he said slowly. "Be found guilty of
all his crimes?"

"Of course," Ignotus said.

Killing him would be easier, but that seemed a step too far to mention at the moment.
"Give me a way to arrest Ludo Bagman and let Hermione and Draco go," Harry finally permitted, "and you have a
deal. I'll run the Club with you."

Ignotus smiled. Easy enough to blame any failure to free 'Dramione' on his soon-to-be convict brothers, and on
Isabel, for that matter, whose refusal would only bolster Harry's opposition to the Ministry. All in all, a win-win
situation.

"Deal," he said, and shook Harry's hand with uncharacteristic warmth, breathing out a sigh of relief.

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
7:46 a.m.

"-UCK," continued Draco, before landing on his back in his own living room. He leapt up, wincing, and
immediately lunged for the Floo; he had to get to Harry, had to tell him what had happened, and surely Harry would
have access to the Ministry -

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," murmured Parvati.

He nearly slammed himself into solid brick before realizing the exit via Floo had been sealed.

"FUCKING HELL," Draco informed it, glaring at Parvati and giving the fireplace a brutal kick before beginning to
calculate everything that had gone wrong. To begin with, he was wanted for murder. He couldn't very well waltz
into the Ministry without being arrested on the spot, and who would believe him if he couldn't get directly to Harry?
Belle still had his wand, which rendered him very well trapped, unless -

He sprinted from the room and dove for the front door, yanking, but the knob didn't turn.

So much for that idea, then.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to think of other ideas. The tie clip? He dug into his pocket, half-shouting
into it. "PARKINSON," he barked. "ARE YOU THERE?"

Nothing but a vacant static answered him.

"Containment spell," Parvati said, wandering in after him. "Dionisia used to use them quite a lot during the revels to
keep her… guests," she determined, with a darkly foreboding smile, "from misbehaving too much under her roof.
You won't be able to leave or communicate with anyone."

"You're honestly the worst," Draco told her, not even bothering to qualify the statement with any reasoning. "Truly,
the absolute worst."

"Totally fair," Parvati replied, shrugging. "I get that."

Draco grimaced. "How can you be so… blasé about this?" he demanded.

"Ooh, gooooood woooooord," someone behind him supplied, and Draco spun, alarmed, as Basile appeared from the
corridor. "Eef you don't miiiiiiiind," the vampire added sheepishly, "coooouuuld you tell zees niiiiiiice peeeeeeeople
zat I weeeeell not drink zer blooooood unteeel 'arry Potter 'as saaaaid zat I maaaaay - "

"Oh, Draco, there you are," announced Hortense, strutting in after Basile. "Are you hearing this? It's not even like
I'm asking him to turn me, I just want, you know, a little nibble, just a bit of bloodletting, just for fun - "

"Draco, you're out of wine," Thibaut added, holding a bottle in each hand. "Or will be at some point. One or the
other."

"I can't believe I'm saying this," Draco exhaled, "but thank fuck you two are here - we're trapped in here, and - "
"Oh my god, really, we're trapped?" Hortense asked giddily, reaching over to give Basile's arm a squeeze. "I'm - I'm
honestly speechless, Draco. Truly, I'm so sorry for the times I called you a heinously dull marsupial, you really
outdo yourself every time - "

"You called me a what?" Draco asked.

"Oh, come now, I'm positive I've said it to your face at least thrice," Hortense claimed, and glanced at Parvati.
"Who's this?"

"I'm a divinist," Parvati said.

"HE BROUGHT US A DIVINIST," Hortense exclaimed to Thibaut, and then glanced back at Parvati, scrutinizing
her. "Tell me, how am I going to die?"

"You're not," Parvati said, and Hortense crowed with pleasure.

"Would you like some cunnilingus?" Hortense offered.

"I have a boyfriend, but thanks," Parvati replied.

"So do we," Thibaut informed her, "and as you can see, that stops us quite literally zero percent of the time."

"In fairness, he's really more of a pet than a boyfriend," Hortense amended.

Draco grimaced. "I really hope you're not talking about my father - "

"Of course not. He's more of a toy," Thibaut sniffed, and Draco groaned.

"Listen, we have to find a way to get out of here," Draco pressed. "Hermione and Theo are basically kidnapped - "

"Oh, hm," Hortense said, frowning. "I thought she'd go bigger than that."

"Bigger than captivity?" Parvati asked doubtfully.

"Honestly, who hasn't been held captive before?" Thibaut asked in answer.

"Most popes," Parvati replied.

"Well, she's got us there," Hortense lamented.

"THE POINT," Draco reminded them, "is that we have to get out of here, firstly, and secondly, I have to manage to
not be arrested, and thirdly, if we can't get to Hermione and Theo directly, then we have to find Lady Revel's secrets
or Ignotus Peverell or both, whichever happens to come first - "

"I caaaaaan geeeet you ouuuuuut," Basile informed him brightly. "Eet would beeeee my pleeeeeeeasuuuuuure - "

"I assume that's because you want to get away from these two?" Draco asked him.

"No, zey aaaaare veeeeery niiiiice," Basile said, looking offended by the very suggestion. "I eemagiiiiine zey
wouuuuld taaaaaste liiiiiike, eh, 'ow you saaaaay - "

"Death? Corpses? Rotting flesh?" Hortense asked hopefully.

"Cuuuuupcaaaaakes," replied Basile, and Draco held up a hand.

"Don't get distracted," he instructed firmly. "As for the rest?"

"You know, the vampire really does look just like you," Parvati pointed out, "and I already know where the secrets
are, so - "
"FOR THE LAST TIME, HE DOESN'T LOOK LIKE M- wait, what?" Draco asked. "You know where they are?"

"Of course," she said. "Haven't you put that together? I know everything."

"Does this mean we're not trapped anymore?" Hortense asked, frowning. "I feel like I really didn't even get the
chance to enjoy it - "

"How is it you can get us out of here?" Draco asked Basile, who gave an amiable shrug, having ostensibly picked up
that particular gesture from Harry by then.

"I caaaaaaan't," he admitted, "buuuuut, I do 'aaaaave a veeeery gooooood frieeeeeend."

Draco frowned. "What fr-"

"KREEEEEEEEEAAAAAAACCHHHHHHHHEEEEEERRRRRR," Basile bellowed.

"Ah," Draco sighed, shaking his head. "Okay then."

The League of Eternality

Unplottable Location
8:46 a.m.

Montague the house elf had a general practice of beginning the morning with his master's room, which is perhaps
why he was the last to know that Nicholas Flamel had been killed. (The lack of dishes in the sink had been telling,
but it wasn't as if Nico hadn't been known to take dinner elsewhere from time to time.)

Admittedly, upon discovering the scene, Montague had found himself unusually surprised by the mess. It wasn't the
first time he'd been expected to clean up a dead body for his master, but it was the first time the dead body had
belonged to his master, so it was a bit of a jarring revelation. Unfortunately, the fallout of that information would
decidedly have to wait. For the time being, Montague busied himself around the room, cleaning up the books and
freeing dust from the curtains before wandering into Nico's workshop, finding it locked and warded for perhaps the
first time in recent memory.

Easy enough. Montague snapped his fingers, unlocking the door, and proceeded to toddle slowly inside, noting that
a woman's body lay across a conjured cot of some sort.

Another dead body? That would be unusual, but not unheard of. No, perhaps not. Montague crept closer, levitating
himself onto the cot to check her pulse. Slow, but steady. She seemed to be in an enchanted sleep.

For a moment, Montague considered leaving, but was unsure what to do about uncovering an enchanted woman in
his dead master's workshop. He could ask Antioch or Cadmus, of course, (or Ignotus, though he didn't particularly
wish to, having found himself quite unsavorily opposed to Ignotus for the time being) but as they had not been
around for most of the morning so far, he wasn't sure he wanted to wait.

Something would have to be done. He sniffed the remnants of magic in the air, contemplating how long she'd
occupied the room. Three days, perhaps? More?

He frowned. She would gather dust.

Montague tapped a hand on her temple, waking her, and she sat upright, gasping.

"My research!" she said at once, her face pale and oddly sweaty. She wasn't quite capable of focusing on him; wasn't
looking anywhere in particular, in fact, and had a hazy look of distraction in her glassy-eyed gaze. "I have to go
back, I have to go back for my research, my research is - I have to - I have t-"

Montague glanced askance, noticing the open books that had been propped up near the bed. It appeared that his
master had been researching cognitive malfunctions, scribbling notes to himself about reawakening certain portions
of memory. Unfortunately, it also seemed he hadn't been able to solve the problem before he'd died.

Typical, really. Wand magic was only so advanced, and Montague's master had always been better with potions,
which would have done little to solve the problem.

"Mmph," Montague said, recognizing at once that the woman, whoever she was, had clouds of delusion floating
around her mind. He reached forward, clearing them out like cobwebs, and she calmed for a moment - but only a
moment.

"Where am I?" she asked, still panicked, though her gaze fixed on him with clarity this time. "Where - ? Oh god, it's
Ignotus Peverell," she realized, her hand flying to her mouth as memory seemed to come back to her. "He's going to
kill me, isn't he? I have to tell Harry, oh shit, I have to tell - " She tried getting to her feet and stumbled weakly,
glancing around the room. "Is this - is this the Ministry? Am I somewhere inside the Ministry, because I have - I
have to find Auror Harry Potter immediately - "

She would be a lot of work to keep clean, Montague thought with a disgruntled sigh, and snapped his fingers again,
vanishing her from the room.

Blissful silence. That, and more importantly, no dust. A vast improvement.

Now what?

Ah, yes. Resurrection, of course.

Montague slid out of the workshop, closing the door behind him and disapparating with a crack.

a/n: Dedicated to Tootsie Roll 101, Acciotheo, and reyloclaw, and a little extra love to everyone who left any review
that stated any degree of enjoyment re: "pockets." I love that in the midst of these trying times, we can at least agree
on one very important thing. Some additional mentions: Modern Romance is now complete, and Youth will also be
complete very shortly. Thank you, as ever, for reading!
 39. This Has Gone On Long Enough

Chapter 39: This Has Gone On Long Enough

Marcus Flint's flat

Diagon Alley, London
October 26, 2003
8:15 a.m.

Considering he'd ruined his reputation, made a mockery of his pureblood name, and lost his fortune all in a single
night, Marcus Flint had slept surprisingly well. He supposed that was largely due to his companion, despite the
ongoing (albeit slowly fading, thank god) progression of nasally snores. One of these days, Marcus thought, Oliver
was really going to have to seek treatment for that old bludger injury to his nose. But there was plenty of time for
that, and the thought alone was comforting enough to draw him contentedly to waking.

"Good morning, Mr Flint," murmured Marcus, and beside him, Oliver gave a sleepy grunt of disapproval.

"Fuck off," he muttered, but conceded to crack one eye, half-smiling. "Mr Wood."

"So," Marcus posed casually, tracing the line of Oliver's shoulder. "When do we leave for Wimbourne? The howlers
will continue, I'm sure, but maybe the owls will take a bit longer to find me if I go somewhere new. And perhaps
this is my opportunity to finally grow an elegant mustache," he determined, thoughtfully stroking his chin.

"You know, it really says a lot that someone could be publicly murdered, and yet your family would still find a
picture of you kissing me to be the most upsetting thing in the newspaper," Oliver remarked, sounding a bit like he
was tentatively stepping into the statement and awaiting any possible backlash. "Are you sure you didn't make a
mistake?"

To that, Marcus gave him a hard shove, rolling Oliver onto his back and bracing against his wrists. "First of all, I
don't make mistakes," Marcus said, growling a little, and Oliver laughed; perhaps the first laugh Marcus had heard
from him in weeks. "Secondly, howlers aside, I think it was a lovely wedding. Even if we did steal most of it."

"Well, had to make use of the minister," Oliver agreed solemnly, and Marcus leaned forward, kissing him with an
uncharacteristic gentleness he would surely regret later just as the Floo lit up, a new presence entering the room.

"Ooh," Daphne said, nudging them over in the bed and sliding in without much regard for Oliver's obvious
discomfort. "I'm beginning to think we didn't really make use of this arrangement."

"Still time," Marcus drawled, as Oliver gave him a swift backhand to the shoulder. "Ah, sorry, I meant to say - one
partner is plenty for me, Greengrass."

"Good." She turned to him with a glorious smile. "I don't suppose you're one for jewelry, are you?" she offered to
Oliver, slipping Marcus' engagement ring from her finger and holding it up for his inspection. "I'm told it's quite an
heirloom. Worth almost as much as, say, a few years' rent in Wimbourne."

Oliver blinked, surprised. "Really?"

"Of course," Daphne said, shrugging, and Marcus gladly reached over, kissing her fingers briefly before taking the
ring from her hand. "I can't say I don't need the money, but I certainly don't want any Flint heirlooms. And besides,
my family may not be particularly thrilled with me, but at least I have a unique set of skills." For a moment, her
smile wavered, but then brightened. "I'm sure I'll find a way to make a comfortable life for myself. And if not, I'll
just move in with you two."

"Oh," Oliver said.

"I'm joking," Daphne assured him.

"Oh," he exhaled, obviously relieved, and Marcus laughed.

"So what now, Daph?" he asked, glancing at Oliver. "Will it be the Cad for you?"

Daphne shrugged. "Maybe," she said, looking as though the word she intended was hopefully, but such inclinations
were rather unsavory to confess. "Maybe not. We'll see."

"Where are you off to now?" Oliver asked.

"A job interview, I think," Daphne replied, which explained why she looked particularly nice, albeit more than a
little bit tired. "Well, I have my suspicions it's less of a job interview than a trick of some kind, but either way, I
have a feeling it's something I should do." She slid her legs out from under the covers, rising to her feet, and briskly
straightened her skirt. "How do I look?"

"Delightful," said Marcus.

"Like a woman whose former fiancé is now married to a man?" Daphne guessed.

"Yes," Marcus agreed, "but, you know. Same thing."

She laughed. "Thanks." She turned, about to pass back through the Floo, but paused to look over her shoulder,
sparing Marcus one last glance. "Have the best life, okay?" she said, looking as if the words had strained in her
throat a bit. "Have a wonderful life together, Marcus. Mars." Another brilliant smile. "Be good to each other, and
don't be a stranger."

"I'll pop by when you least expect it," Marcus assured her, and she nodded, the curve of her smile a bit sadder now.

"Bye, then," she said, and disappeared with another flicker of light from the fireplace.

"I like her," Oliver said, a minute or so after she'd gone.

"Not too late," Marcus reminded him, gesturing to where he remained bare under the covers, and Oliver promptly
delivered another smug backhand to his shoulder. "Okay, fuck, fine - "

"You're mine now, Mr Wood," Oliver reminded him, and Marcus grinned, letting Oliver roll him onto his back as he
took Oliver's hand. He slid his family ring onto Oliver's pinky, making a note to himself to charm it to fit the proper
finger later. If, that is, they didn't need it for rent.

"I'm yours, Mr Flint," Marcus agreed, and then he laughed into Oliver's mouth, feeling as if he'd finally - finally, and
well and truly - won it all.

Somewhere inside the Ministry of Magic

London
8:21 a.m.

If there was one thing that was bothering Antioch most about being locked up by his insipid cousin Isabel, it was
strangely not that it was with his brother Cadmus. It wasn't that his Club, the product of centuries of work and
dedication, was about to be revealed to the world; nor that the rest of his lifetime(s) would likely be spent in
wizarding prison. These were very much future problems, Antioch reasoned, whereas he was presently being
plagued by something very strange indeed.

Specifically: the dull red glow of Hermione Granger's ostentatious diamond.

Antioch, having been subject to the ring's enchantments before, already knew what it indicated. A presence of
magic, as he understood it, though it hadn't been glowing when they'd arrived, which meant something new had
happened. Someone new, most likely, and though Hermione herself appeared not to have noticed (she seemed
mostly consumed with worry for Draco Malfoy, who was at the very least not trapped in this godforsaken room),
Antioch felt Cadmus' attention pique beside him, meaning that he wasn't alone in his observation.

He felt a renewed thrill of relief at having Cadmus beside him, as it meant he wasn't alone. Despite the bleakness of
their circumstance, Antioch found himself oddly comforted, and he glanced at Cadmus, wondering if they couldn't
still communicate as easily as they used to.

We need her to leave, Antioch suggested, and Cadmus' brow furrowed in thought.

A distraction? Cadmus mouthed, but before he could think of anything, a glowing greyhound trotted into the room,
directing its attention to Isabel (or Belle, as she was apparently called now).

"Yes, what is it?" Belle asked impatiently, glaring at Antioch as if he'd done something to make it appear. Someone,
Antioch thought menacingly, can really hold a grudge.

Beside him, as if he could guess what Antioch was thinking, Cadmus let out a low chuckle. Again, Antioch felt
strangely relieved. He wasn't alone.

Though, more to the point, they weren't alone, and that particular mystery had yet to be solved.

"Belle, someone is here to see you," the greyhound said. "A Miss Daphne Greengrass."

Immediately, Cadmus stiffened, and Belle turned to him with a laugh.

"Oh, is she?" Belle echoed, and spoke into her wand. "I'll be right there," she murmured, and as a fox bloomed from
the tip of her wand, Antioch turned to murmur in Cadmus' ear.

"Be smart," Antioch warned. "Don't be reckl-"

"Don't you dare speak to her," Cadmus announced loudly, and Antioch sighed, noting that Belle looked positively
elated at the interruption. "Leave her alone, Ibb. If anything happens to her - "

"What, Cadmus?" Belle prompted, tapping her mouth blithely. "You'll kill yourself?"

Cadmus scowled at her, and she gave another tinkling laugh.

"Well, I suppose I shouldn't keep your girlfriend waiting too long," Belle determined, winking at Cadmus. "Try not
to miss me too much."

"IBB, YOU FUCKING MONST- ah, okay, excellent," Cadmus said, his expression abruptly changing from furious
to giddy the moment Belle disapparated from the room. "What perfect timing that Daphne Greengrass has, honestly.
I'd kiss her right now if I could - "

"Cadmus," Antioch growled with disapproval, shaking his head. "I thought you were losing control of your wits for
a second - "

"No, no, you know Ibb only wants to antagonize me," Cadmus assured him. "I was giving her what she wanted so
she'd feel it safe enough to leave, obviously. Besides, Daphne can take care of herself - and Herpo," he called into
the room, "now would be a good time to reveal yourself, don't you think?"

"Herpo?" Hermione and Theo said in unison, turning with surprise as the familiar silhouette flickered into being.

"Herpo," Antioch confirmed, swallowing hard on the sound of his own relief before turning to Cadmus. "How did
you know it would be him?"

Cadmus gave him a small and surprisingly guileless half-smile. "He always comes for you," he said, and Antioch
felt strangely grateful for the observation, a sense of warmth filling him briefly as Herpo hurried to undo the
restraints on each of the people in the room. "Even if this is, admittedly, a very unhelpful place for him to be."

"I noticed I couldn't disapparate as soon as I got in here," Herpo agreed, perfunctorily freeing Cadmus and then
pausing as he waved away Antioch's restraints. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly, one hand smoothing a slow circle
across Antioch's shoulders. It was a reassuring gesture, and more comforting than Herpo could have possibly known.
You came back for me, Antioch didn't say, though his return gesture against Herpo's wrist might have said as much
on his behalf.

"I'm fine," Antioch said briskly, noticing that Theo and Hermione's glances caught the motion. "Better now,
obviously, considering you have a wand."

"Yes, but one wand for five people isn't ideal," Herpo reminded him, "and it's not as if I can get you out of the
Ministry."

"I thought you'd already left the Clubhouse for Greece. How'd you find us?" Cadmus asked casually, and Herpo's
gaze slid curtly to his.

"You're not the only one with a tracking spell," he reminded Cadmus, as a smirk of satisfaction played across
Cadmus' mouth.

"Fair enough," Cadmus permitted. "So now what?"

"Well," Hermione suggested, walking experimentally with her ring held against the walls, "if we can just find some
sort of gaping in the wards, maybe we can find a way out of this room, and from there out of the Ministry?"

"Actually," Antioch offered alternatively, "we don't have to leave the Ministry."

"Sounds like an opinion," Theo noted, "and one I firmly disagree with."

"No, he's got something up his sleeve," Cadmus said, sparing Antioch another glance of approval. "He always does."

"But even if he does," Herpo interjected, "I'm still the only one with a wand. Are you sure whatever it is is worth
risking?"

"Ahh, Herpo, you so easily forget," Antioch said, turning to offer him a smile. "Wands aren't the only weapons."

At that, Cadmus looked delighted; Hermione confused; Theo exhausted. Herpo, on the other hand, only looked at
Antioch; waiting, curious, but in no particular hurry. He merely stood there, as he always did, by Antioch's side,
with his usual sense of trust, and Antioch found he had never been more grateful.

"Well, whatever it is, hurry it up," Theo said grumpily, folding his arms over his chest. "I, for one, am starving."

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
8:21 a.m.

It was quite obviously a terrible idea the moment Parvati told Draco where it was they would find what they were
looking for.

"The Department of Mysteries," she'd said, either not having realized or not particularly minding just how
inconvenient that news was, and Draco, in reply, had let out a groan.

"IS THAT A JOKE?" he announced. "WE WERE JUST THERE, AND NOW YOU WANT TO GO BACK?"

"For one thing," Parvati replied snippily, "it's not my fault Belle somehow managed to miss what's right in front of
her, and for another thing, you're going to have to calm down. There's no way you're going to be able to sneak back
into the Ministry if you continue to be so unapologetically shouty - "

"I was just very much hoping I would not have to sneak back into the Ministry at all!" Draco retorted, before
promptly registering that it likely wasn't the worst place to be. "I mean, I suppose we could get to Potter, in that case
-"

"What, and force him to arrest you all over again? Use your head," Thibaut said, in what was a surprisingly lucid
statement from a man who'd had at least two full bottles of Bordeaux in addition to a strange compulsion to be
drained by a vampire. "The last thing you need right now is an Auror on your tail."

"Well, the last thing he needs is, more specifically, a tail," Hortense said, wiggling her hips for emphasis, "but if
there are Aurors on it, that's certainly unsavory."

"Kreacher is not knowing why Kreacher has been summoned," muttered Kreacher, as Basile bent down to pat the
elf's head.

"Just a moooooooment," Basile assured him. "Ze 'umans alwaaaaaays arriiiiive at sooooomeseeng sooon enouuuugh
-"

"Okay, well, fine," Draco permitted, exasperated. "But if we're going back to the Ministry, these two" - he jabbed a
finger at Hortense and Thibaut respectively - "can't come, and also - "

"Well of course we're not coming," Thibaut informed him snottily. "Honestly, Draco, haven't you noticed? We're
very busy, and we have callings of our own."

"Yes, quite," Hortense agreed, "and besides, I've already broken into at least three Ministries. Sadly, it is, like most
things, a task that no longer impresses me," she clarified to Basile, who nodded in what appeared to be sympathy.

"Fine," Draco barked, before turning to Kreacher. "Can you get us into the Ministry?"

The elf glanced questioningly at Basile (must I?) who gave an eager nod (yes, please, you must).

"Fine," Kreacher bemoaned drily.

"Okay," Draco exhaled. "So then we need a distraction, I suppose."

Which was probably how he had ended up hiding in the Ministry's lobby with nothing but a handful of vials and
Parvati Patil, whilst Basile, dressed in what was lamentably Draco's wedding tuxedo, conducted a massive
runaround through the Ministry, drawing so much attention with his vampiric speed that eventually camera crews
from wizarding news companies began apparating in on the spot, arriving to set up camp just outside the doors.

"Are we sure this is a good idea?" Draco asked Parvati, who shrugged.

"Certainly seems to be keeping them occupied," she pointed out, gesturing to the Ministry officials who were
arriving in response to what must have been a series of highly distressing summons. "Besides, with all this attention
on the manhunt for you, the Department of Mysteries will probably be accessible enough - assuming that's also
where Granger and the Peverells are."

"You'd better be right about that," Draco sighed. "Any ideas about getting a wand?"

"Steal one?" Parvati suggested, gesturing around. "Not too many people are keeping a close watch on theirs."

"Well, it's an option," Draco conceded, peering throughout the room. "But stealing one is never very helpful, unless
the owner is amenable to - "

He trailed off, catching sight of a familiar figure across the room.

"Hm," he murmured, and Parvati frowned.

"Hm what?"

But by then, he'd already taken hold of her arm, pulling her through the crowd.
Rhys Hawkworth's flat
Diagon Alley
8:35 a.m.

"BREAKING NEWS," squeaked the television, "IT APPEARS DRACO MALFOY HAS ESCAPED FROM
CONTAINMENT BY MINISTRY AURORS. SPECULATING MINISTRY OFFICIALS HAVE ALSO MADE IT CLEAR
THAT MALFOY IS SHOWING SIGNS OF VAMPIRISM. ALL DIAGON RESIDENTS HAVE BEEN PLACED ON
HIGH ALERT - "

Rhys hadn't waited to pull on his coat, grabbing for his wand with Cadell close at his heels.

"Rhys!" Cadell half-shouted, closing a hand around his shoulder just in time to avoid being splinched. "Where do
you think you're going?" he gasped, coughing slightly from the unexpected apparation as Rhys landed them just
outside the Ministry's atrium, promptly marching himself up the stairs. "Rhys, for fuck's sake, would you explain
yourself - "

"It's my fault," Rhys said, shaking him off. "I'm the reason our father is dead, Cadell, and if I turn myself in, then
maybe they'll let Malfoy go - "

"Rhys, fucking hell, slow down," Cadell growled, taking a lunging step to cut him off. "Listen to yourself - you'll go
to prison, and for what? This wasn't your fault, and even if you turn yourself in, they'll still find a way to arrest
Draco Malfoy, you know they will - just think this through for a second before you throw your life away - "

But Rhys was done thinking. What had he accomplished so far in his life, anyway? Nothing, really. Nothing brave,
and certainly nothing clever. What had he ever been except the son of his father, who'd been nothing worth imitating
at all? What would anyone think of him if he hid from his complicity now? What would he think of himself?

And what would Daisy think if he simply stayed at home, hiding?

"You should go," Rhys told his brother, giving him a brusque shove. "I'll take care of this. You're lucky it's a
madhouse, too, or someone might have recognized you by now, Cadell. Just go back to my flat and stay there, I
promise I'll figure something out - or, I don't know - you can stay there as long as you need to, but I have to do this,
Cadell. I have to, or else I'll never forgive mys-"

But Cadell was already gone, not even listening, and Rhys spun in the crowded atrium, searching for him with a
frustrated groan amid the swarming sea of people.

"My name is Cadell Hawkworth," he heard his brother shout, drawing some of the onlooking reporters' attention
towards him. "I'm wanted for the death of a Snatcher, and I'm here to turn myself in - "

"CADELL," Rhys shouted desperately, growling again in fury. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU D-"

"Don't shout," came a warning in his ear, a cool hand closing around the back of his neck. "Have you lost your
mind?"

"But my brother is - wait a minute," Rhys said with bemusement, spinning to face a hooded Draco Malfoy. "How
are you here if you're - oh," he realized, suddenly recalling the 'evidence of vampirism' he hadn't quite paid enough
attention to on the news.

"Yes, 'oh' is right," Draco drawled, yanking Rhys after him and heading for the lifts.

"Wow, you got really lucky with that vampire, didn't you?" Rhys prompted dazedly, idly permitting Draco to yank
him through the crowd. With the amount of panic in the lobby, nobody noticed them, and for a moment, Rhys
suspected Draco had used some sort of distraction charm - or that perhaps the woman beside him, whose gaze
flicked through the crowd, had been responsible for the way nobody was sparing them a second glance - until he
realized neither of them seemed to be casting anything at all. Panic, it seemed, had been distraction enough.

" - so do you want to save Granger or not?" Draco asked, jolting Rhys back to cognizance with the question.
"Wait a minute - save her?" Rhys echoed, alarmed. "Does that mean she's not with you?"

"Right on the first guess," Draco confirmed, and shoved him into the lift. "By the way, I hope you have a wand."

"Of course I have a wand," Rhys said, and then balked. "Are you saying you don't?"

"Good for you, Hawkworth," Draco said grimly, tugging the platinum-haired woman inside as the lift doors shut
behind them. "You're simply too clever by half."

Department of Mysteries
Administrative offices
8:30 a.m.

"So sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Greengrass," Belle said, falling into her seat behind the desk. "Also sorry about
the accommodations," she added wryly, gesturing around the cramped space of her office. "I'm not actually in my
office very often."

"Not a problem," Daphne assured her, glancing around the room. "You know, I don't know much about this
department. Intentionally, I imagine," she conceded, and Belle gave a low chuckle.

"It's a mystery in more ways than one," Belle agreed. "We answer directly to the Minister of Magic - when, that is,
we find it necessary to answer to anyone. Some business requires more oversight than others." She smiled again,
somewhat toothily this time. "The nature of our work is inherently difficult to report."

"What sort of work is it?" Daphne asked, and Belle shrugged.

"Space. Thought. Time. Death. Love," she mused, glancing pointedly at Daphne, who bristled slightly, a bit of
tension catching somewhere along the back of her neck. "The most mysterious of all, some say."

Daphne paused, toying with the silence, before shifting in her seat. "Your accent," she noted, glancing questioningly
at Belle. "I noticed it yesterday. It's very interesting."

"Is it?" Belle asked, though Daphne thought she heard something disingenuous in the other woman's tone. "Yours is
very polished. You're well-schooled. Sacred Twenty-Eight, aren't you?"

"Yes. But you already know that," Daphne said, "as I imagine you wouldn't have come for me without knowing
every accessible piece of information about me. Would you?" she prompted, and Belle leaned back, a curious smile
on her face.

"You're very quick, Miss Greengrass," Belle noted. "Just how clever are you?"

"I wouldn't call it clever," Daphne said. "More like observant. The primary observation being that I've only met one
other person with an accent like yours."

"Well, I come from a very small village," Belle said, parsing her words carefully.

"You mean a village that was very small at one time," Daphne corrected, and Belle's smile broadened.

"Do you wish to accuse me of something, Miss Greengrass?" she asked.

"Accuse? Of course not," Daphne replied. "Is there something you wish to confess?"

To Daphne's discomfort, Belle seemed positively jubilant over the line of questioning.

"Well," Belle said, drumming her fingers against her desk, "you really are something, Daphne."

Daphne waited, saying nothing.

"Obviously you have some ideas about who I am," Belle said, and paused. "Is it really just the accent that gave me
away?"

"It's very distinct," Daphne assured her, "but no, not just that. I'll admit, it took me a bit of pondering, and I wasn't
totally sure, but actually, your Patronus gave it away when you sent your aide a reply just now. A fox, hm?" she
prompted. "There's always been something very fox-like about him. Something a little too clever, and you either
embody all those things, or you imitate them."

At that, Daphne leaned forward, resting her elbows on Belle's desk and intentionally taking up the other witch's
space.

"Where is he?" Daphne asked quietly, and Belle's smile broadened.

"You're just as good as I hoped you'd be," Belle told her, looking smugly satisfied. "Granted, I doubt any lesser
woman could have held his attention for long, so it was a relatively safe set of assumptions, but still - "

Daphne's wand was at her throat quicker than she could blink.

"Where is he?" Daphne asked again, sharper this time. "Your interest in me can't be coincidental."

"Coincidental? Of course not," Belle replied. "But that doesn't mean it isn't merited. You're smart, Daphne. Smart
enough to know he won't choose you. Smart enough to know not to build a life on him. You can't have him, not for
long, and you certainly can't rely on him. So wouldn't you rather beat him while you can?"

"Is that what you think?" Daphne asked, nudging Belle's chin up with her wand. "That I'm just sitting around,
waiting for Cadmus Peverell to choose me?"

"I know you aren't," Belle said, "which is why I want you on my side, Daphne. The Cadmuses and Antiochs of the
world think they deserve to control everyone in it because they're men, because they're charming, because they're
ruthless and willing to step on people and discard them, and therefore there will never be consequences - "

"I am not a consequence," Daphne snapped impatiently. "Nor will I be discarded."

"Still. You could have so much more than a man," Belle informed her, not without a fair amount of conceit. "Not to
mention that the man in question is currently in my possession, rendering him positively useless to you - but make
no mistake. Whatever happens to him, Daphne, I'm serious about this offer." Daphne paused warily, and Belle gave
an awkward shrug beneath the point of her wand. "Work your way up to head of this department and you could
control the study of the world's mysteries. What is it you love about Cadmus?" she asked slyly, as Daphne felt
herself bristle unwillingly at the implication of her feelings. "Why love him, Daphne, and not some other man? Is it
his power? Is it his knowledge, his experience? You could have it, you know. You could have all of that, and unlike
him, it would never walk away from you."

"Is that what happened to you?" Daphne asked harshly. "Did he walk away from you, Isabel?"

Belle's smile tightened to a grimace. "He never had me. I never had him. We were - "

"Friends. Right." Daphne pressed her wand in deeper, lifting Belle's chin. "He didn't love you, did he?"

"He doesn't love you either," Belle said with a spiteful laugh. "Even if he's said so, which I doubt he has, he'll never
love you as much as he loves his brothers. He only loves Antioch, Ignotus, and himself, Daphne. They're the only
people Cadmus Peverell has ever truly loved, and somewhere in your heart, you already know that."

For a moment, Cad's face floated into Daphne's mind; specifically, the way she'd last seen him when they'd been
alone together. He'd had his fingers twined with hers, wrapping them discreetly around a series of vials.

Here is a secret, he'd said, and whispered something to her. A little something, a little nothing; this and that, and
this, and that. The first time I ever envied anyone, he'd said, was when my brother Ignotus was born, and I wasn't
Antioch's only friend. She remembered the way the vial had warmed in her hand, the secret dissolving within the
glass and turning to condensation beneath her fingertips. The first time I ever really felt fear, he continued, handing
her another vial, was when I saw they no longer needed me, because I am never very likable. That's a secret, too, he
added with a laugh, tilting her chin up. I am not very likable, and it's why I never stay for long.

Until now? Daphne asked, aware how foolishly hopeful she sounded even as he pressed his lips to her knuckles; to
the hands that had held all of his truths.

If I was meant to keep on living just to find you, Daphne Greengrass, he'd said to her, it will have been worth every
death along the way.

No secret that time; no vial to close her hands around. It wasn't an answer, it wasn't a promise, but nor was it a lie. It
was just a statement, words that had bled into the space between them, but it was something Daphne hoped
desperately to keep for herself, even as she stared Belle down and hid behind a mask of certainty she didn't truly
feel.

"Cadmus hates his brothers," Daphne forced out, clearing her throat. "They betrayed him. That's not a secret."

"Of course they betrayed him. He betrayed them, too, more than once," Belle told her confidently, "but he will never
really want to be rid of them, because he is not himself without them. Watch," she added, shifting under the pressure
of Daphne's wand. "Or better yet, don't watch. Don't wait for it to happen. Work for me instead."

"I'm not going to betray Cad," Daphne warned, and Belle smiled grimly.

"I don't need you to betray him. I already told you, I have him. I'm going to round up the entire Club and make sure
they're all put to justice, Daphne, and I think you should be part of it. I've heard about your friends, you know. The
little arm of Songbird's enterprise that you sometimes work for? You could be so much bigger than that." Daphne
glared down at Belle as she continued to smile, consummately unfazed by the threat of Daphne's wand. "Why do
you think I do this, Daphne? Because I wanted to be bigger than the Peverell brothers, yes, but I don't have their ego.
I don't need to glorify my name, or put some symbol on all the world's important documents. Instead, I work for a
part of the Ministry that has no restrictions, and which has more access to knowledge than Antioch and his little
boy's club will ever have. When they're gone, I'll have their resources, too. This department will be unstoppable.
And I want you with me."

"Why?" Daphne said, and scoffed. "And don't tell me I'm smart. I know how fucking smart I am."

"Why?" Belle echoed, half-laughing. "Isn't the better question why not? You tell me who's better than you, Daphne.
Draco Malfoy, is he smarter? Is Blaise Zabini more persuasive? Is Theodore Nott any quicker? Is Cadmus fucking
Peverell more talented than you, Daphne Greengrass?"

Daphne grimaced, teeth gritted. "No."

"Exactly." Belle's smile was radiant. "So why should you work for any of them?"

Daphne stiffened. "That doesn't mean I should work for you. I can't respect someone who kidnaps my friends," she
pointed, "or who withholds information from me."

"You want to know what I know? Fine. They're here," Belle said, loosely waving a hand. "In this building. The
entire Club's leadership, once I get to Ignotus, and I'd be willing to bet he won't be far behind."

"How much do you actually control?" Daphne pressed.

"All of it. This department, anyway," Belle said. "The Unspeakables answer to me."

"And you answer to…?"

"Minister Shacklebolt, when I'm undercover. Otherwise nobody."

"And I would be?"

"A special agent of sorts. Assigned to this case first, and then wherever your interests were after that. Want to travel
in time?" Belle asked her. "You can do that. Want to develop weapons? You can do that, too, if you want. Anything
in the wizarding world, any power you could ever hope to have, you can do it here."

"And the Club?" Daphne asked.

"As good as gone," Belle promised her. "Everything they controlled, you can control."

"What makes you think I want control?" Daphne asked.

"The wand at my throat," Belle replied, and to that, Daphne took a step back, promptly releasing her. "No, it's fine,"
Belle assured her, rubbing slightly at her neck with a wary smile. "I'd do the same thing if I were you. We're not
really that dissimilar."

You remind me of Ibb, Daphne heard Cad say in her mind, and immediately shook the comparison away.

"Fine. I'll take the job," Daphne said, and Belle blinked, pleasantly surprised. "If," she clarified, "you get me the
paperwork today. Right now."

Belle rose to her feet. "Consider it done," she said, and offered Daphne her hand. "Partners, then?"

Daphne nodded, gripping it once. "Partners," she agreed, and Belle slipped out of her office with a satisfied nod,
shutting the door behind her.

Daphne, meanwhile, let out a breath, reaching for the locket she'd tucked into the neckline of her dress.

"Pans," Daphne whispered into it. "Did you get all that?"

A brief moment of silence, a bit of static, and then -

"We're on our way, bitch," Pansy replied, as Daphne smiled with satisfaction, curling her hand around the locket.

Department of Mysteries
8:30 a.m.

"Well, this is mine," Antioch grumbled, sorting through an uncategorized pile of things in one of the chambers of
mystery and picking up something that looked like a mad king's scepter, swinging it briefly in the air. "How long has
Isabel been stealing from us, exactly?"

"Stealing, really?" Cad scoffed. "Unlikely. You're famously careless with your things, Antioch. Look how often you
lose Herpo."

"Not the time," Herpo growled, glaring at him, and Hermione picked up a narrow lance, eyeing the sharpened tip.

"What exactly are all these weapons for?" she asked faintly, exchanging a wary glance with Theo.

"That one compels the subject to truth," Cad informed her, pointing to it. "Like a bloodier Veritaserum."

"How?" Hermione asked, glancing again over the tip. "Potion?"

"Violence," Cad said with a wink. "Well, and the azurite crystal inside it, of course."

"Helpful," Hermione determined, sparing Theo another grim glance. "And what've you got, then?"

"What I've got is a nauseated sense of danger and a stomachache," Theo replied, glancing pointedly at Antioch.
"What I'd like is an explanation as to why we're not trying to get out of the Ministry. Wouldn't it be easier to try to
get to Potter? To warn him about what Belle's up to?"
"I imagine Ignotus will prevent us from doing that," Antioch said, "which is why we need to get to something…" He
paused, toying with the word. "Bigger."

"Bigger?" Theo echoed.

"Yes, bigger," Antioch said. "Something that can cause a bit more, um - "

"Damage," Cad said suddenly, and Antioch nodded.

"Yes, that," Antioch confirmed. "Something rather, uh - "

"Massive?" Cad asked. "Explosive? Something to literally destroy the Ministry before it can report our many
numerous misdeeds? A catastrophe of epic proportions that will disembowel the heart of government and leave an
entire wizarding population in fear?"

"I mean, not the words I would have chosen, but you're not on the wrong track," Antioch replied slowly, as Theo's
eyes widened.

"The secrets," Theo realized, suddenly balking at the thought. "They're here - they're here in the Ministry?"

"Everyone knows there's only one place in the world nobody looks," Antioch informed him, brandishing the scepter
for emphasis, "and it's government. Particularly this branch of government, which has no surveillance and
practically no oversight."

"And I thought a club full of immortals was problematic," Hermione muttered to herself, as Theo glared at Antioch,
scarcely able to speak for want of incomprehensible shouting.

"You can't just blow up the Ministry!" Theo sputtered, and Antioch, to his alarm, let out a low chuckle.

"Do you mean to tell me you've never used similar tactics before?" he asked Theo, who gaped at him.

"Not like - not like this, I mean what if - what if Potter's in the building? Not to mention, I don't know, the thousands
of people who work here - "

"We'll vacate it before then," Antioch assured him, exchanging a glance with Herpo, who gave something of an
impassive shrug. "As much as we can, anyway. Besides, there's evacuation protocol in place for anytime this
department is invaded."

"Invaded?" Hermione echoed, securing what looked like the sheath of a dagger around her waist before looking up
with a hazy sense of alarm, just as the sound of footsteps began to echo down the corridor outside.

"Invaded," Cad confirmed darkly, picking up a narrow throwing knife and aiming himself at the door, practicing a
couple of motions. "Hope you're ready for it, Granger."

"Why isn't anyone asking if I'm ready for it?" Theo demanded, finding his voice to be an uncomfortably high
squawk as Hermione smacked a centaur's bow and arrow against his chest, giving him a shove.

"Oh, buck up, Nott," she advised, and gave him a faint smile, the bottom of her wedding dress still floating
effortlessly above the floor as she descended towards the door. "Personally, with the night I've had, I'm rather
looking forward to giving this department a piece of my mind."

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

8:30 a.m.

"Okay, good news," Harry called, checking his watch just before re-entering his office. "I have to process the rest of
your paperwork, but I'm thinking that - "
He paused, blinking, as he registered that his office was in fact empty, and that the expected occupants (i.e., Draco
Malfoy and Hermione Granger, notorious persons of ill-repute) were very decidedly not there.

"Well, fuck," Harry determined, briskly pivoting in place just before colliding with Ron. "Oh good, you're here.
Have you seen - "

"HAVE YOU SEEN THE ATRIUM?" Ron interrupted, waving his arms wildly. "IT'S A BLOODY MADHOUSE
DOWNSTAIRS! VAMPIRE MALFOY'S RUNNING AROUND LOOSE IN THE MINISTRY, CADELL
HAWKWORTH JUST TURNED HIMSELF IN, THERE'S ENCHANTMENTS GOING OFF ALL OVER THE
DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES - "

"The Department of Mysteries?" Harry echoed, confused. "Why?"

"BLOODY FUCK IF I KNOW," replied Ron, before immediately scampering off in the other direction, shouting
something about open cases and charging for the bullpen.

Harry stared after him, frowning, as he registered that something (perhaps more than one something) wasn't quite
right. Ron had been correct about pandemonium; nearly every Auror was running around somewhere, too busy to
even look to Harry for direction. The last time that something like this had happened, Harry thought, there was very
much one specific person to blame.

"Nott," he said aloud, rapidly pulling up his wand, and for a moment, didn't know what else to say. Was Theo in
trouble? It seemed unlikely Harry would somehow manage not to know something like that, but he'd certainly
missed signs of trouble before, and it hadn't exactly been an uneventful night. He paused, the silvery stag staring
vacantly at him, and sighed. "Nevermind, I'll find him myself," he determined, dissipating the spell before turning to
stumble into someone else this time.

"Harry," gasped Katie Bell, nearly falling into his arms as she somehow manifested directly in front of him with a
loud crack. "Harry, I have to warn you - Ignotus Peverell, I don't know how it's possible, but he's alive, Harry - he's
real, and he's - he wants something with you - "

"Katie?" Harry asked, taking hold of her shoulders to keep her aloft as she stumbled, wild-eyed. "Katie, no offense,
but you look like hell - where on earth have you been?"

"This morning, the - the attack, I think he had something to do with it - I don't know, I don't know," she babbled,
wringing her hands in agitation. "I don't know what he could want, Harry, all I know is that he said I knew too
much, that I - that I was a liability, and I - I think he - Ignotus, whoever he is - might want to hurt me, Harry, or hurt
you, but - "

"Katie," Harry said, tugging her into his arms and hoping to soothe her, registering with uncertainty how much she
was shaking at the thought of Ignotus. "You're saying Ignotus Peverell threatened you?"

"I don't know how it's possible," she sobbed into his chest. "I thought - maybe it was stupid, but I didn't know - I
didn't think he was using me - "

Abruptly, Harry felt the blood in his veins run cold. Why would Ignotus pursue her, only to discard her once she'd
known who he was?

Trust me because you can, he heard Ignotus say. Trust me because you should. Because I can no longer trust my
brothers, and I wish to place my trust in you.

Was Harry only ever a stand-in for Cadmus and Antioch when they were no longer useful to Ignotus' agenda?

"I need you to wait here," Harry said to Katie, maneuvering her around until she was sitting in the chair at his desk.
"I'll put a ward on my office so nobody comes in, okay? But I need you to just stay here for a bit. Can you do that
for me, Katie?"

"Y-yes, I'm so sorry, Harry," she mumbled, looking thoroughly exhausted, and he nodded quickly, sitting her down
and conjuring a blanket over her before heading to the corridor, considering his options and then letting out a sigh.

Clearly something was wrong; something nagged at his conscience, at the sleepless corners of his tired brain. Draco
and Hermione were problematic on their own, obviously, but even with their fully questionable alliances, they still
hadn't trusted Ignotus. Neither had Theo. Had Harry really been willing to ignore all the signs that perhaps Ignotus
was using him precisely as he claimed he had been used by Antioch? For whatever reason, a shaking Katie Bell
appearing to him at this precise moment struck him as something violently more than prophetic.

Ominous, more like.

"Kreacher," Harry said, and the elf appeared with a crack, peering up at him from somewhere around his knees. "I
need you to find someone for me."

"Kreacher is doing very much finding this morning," Kreacher croaked solemnly. "Is Master also looking to enter
the Department of Mysteries, or is Master merely wanting Kreacher to continue aiding Master's vampire?"

"What does Basile have to do with - wait, Department of Mysteries?" Harry echoed, frowning. "Why?"

Before Kreacher could answer (if he was even going to, which he seldom actually did), a certain number of things
began to connect in Harry's mind, the most prominent of which was the convergence on the Department of
Mysteries combined with - what had Ron said? The appearance of Cadell Hawkworth, and 'vampire Malfoy'? He
must have meant Basile, and therefore, all of this was unlikely any sort of coincidence. Who would have gotten
Draco and Hermione out of his office? Only a couple of immortal brothers that Harry could think of. Why would
Cadell Hawkworth turn himself in? From what Harry knew from Daisy, surely only to protect Rhys. And where else
would Theo be, if not at the very center of a veritable shitstorm?

"Nevermind," Harry sighed. "But if you see Ignotus Peverell, give him a good kick in the shins, would you?
Something tells me he deserves it."

"Kreacher is amenable," replied the elf, his voice as cracked and neutral as ever as he disapparated.

"OI," Ron shouted from the bullpen, "HARRY, WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"

Harry shook his head. "Somewhere I thoroughly wish I wasn't," he replied, and took off, sprinting for the lifts.

Department of Mysteries
Administrative Offices
8:40 a.m.

"Isabel," Ignotus hissed, yanking her aside as she sorted through paperwork. "Is there a fucking reason you're up
here? Surely you haven't been stupid enough to leave my brothers alone, have you?"

"Ignotus, the last thing I need is you berating me," Belle reminded him, pivoting to fix him with a glare. "I left them
alone for what, ten minutes? I had things to take care of, and may I remind you, you owe me," she added,
brandishing a finger in his face. "You wanted the Club and I gave it to you, didn't I? You're welcome. Now go enjoy
your spoils and let me deal with your brothers."

"My brothers are far too dangerous to be left alone," Ignotus snapped at her, as she rolled her eyes.

"What are they going to do, Ignotus?" she scoffed. "They have no wands, and even if they did, they couldn't
disapparate from the Ministry. Why are you here, anyway?" she asked, frowning. "Shouldn't you be off, I don't
know - influencing international politics or something?"

"I'm trying to," Ignotus informed her with a glare, "only I can't, as the entire Ministry's a mess. Have you really not
heard?"

Belle tried not to sound as apprehensive as she felt. "Heard what?" she asked, just as the lights promptly went out,
enchantments from the main corridor going off with a loud, blasting siren. "Fuck," she sighed, grabbing Ignotus' arm
and yanking him back towards her office. "Let me just get Greengrass out of here, and - "

She paused in the doorway, registering first the empty office and then the note on her desk, signed with elaborate
scripted handwriting.

Took myself exploring. Might have mentioned in your recruitment speech you have a master key to all the chambers
on this floor! Hope I don't break anything on my way through.

Yours sincerely,
D. Greengrass

P.S. For the record, I still accept the job. Hopefully there's no hard feelings?

"Fuck, she's great," Belle said approvingly, and turned to Ignotus. "Though, for the record, if she really has sorted
out how to open all the chambers in the department, I think we may have something of a major problem on our
hands. Your Club got anything that can help?"

"More than your department's Unspeakables?" Ignotus asked. "I thought you said my brothers have no wands."

"They don't," Belle said. "But do you think Ministry Unspeakables are enough?"

Ignotus grimaced. "Fine. I'll call in the Zodiacs."

Belle nodded with satisfaction, giving his cheek a brisk smack of approval. "Good boy, Ignotus. Now come on," she
sighed, taking off for the department's main corridor, "let's see if we can't make sure your brothers don't manage to
kill us all."

Room of Classified Weaponry

8:40 a.m.

"GRANGER!"

Hermione turned, enormously relieved at the sight of Draco skidding across the marble floor towards her, distracting
the Unspeakable she'd been ducking spells from just long enough for her to spear the Ministry worker's shoulder
directly into the wall behind him. He let out a shout, satisfactorily disarmed, and then Hermione turned back, taking
stock of both Draco's oncoming form and Rhys' hard blow to one of the Unspeakables closer to the door.

"There you are," she panted, as Draco darted forward and caught her hand. "Took you long enough, Malfoy.
Where'd you find Rhys?"

"Oh, picked him up on the way over. And not to be invasive, as clearly you're rather busy," Draco said, ducking as
Hermione threw a punch at another approaching Unspeakable from behind where his head had been, "but would you
mind sharing what, exactly, you're up to?"

"I - hold on," she sighed, pulling him to the ground as another of Theo's (surprisingly accurate) arrows shot over
their heads, pinning the arm of someone who'd been dueling Antioch with what looked like some sort of golden
hammer. "Right, okay, so, Lady Revel's secrets are somewhere in this department and Antioch is trying to get to
them to, um. Set off something of an explosive."

"Oh, so he's finally trying to die?" Draco scoffed. "How ironi- move, Granger," he said, and shoved her over,
prompting them both to roll out of the way as a blasting spell caused part of the wall to shatter where they'd been.
"Christ, what a morning - "

"It's that Belle person," Hermione said, pulling him to his feet and smacking the first thing she could find into his
hand. "Here," she said, squinting at what she'd picked up. "I don't know what these do, but - "
"What are these?" Draco demanded, glancing down at what appeared to be flat metallic triangles. "You had a
fucking spear, Granger, and now you want me to play in your steel drum band?"

"Just, um - hold on," Hermione said again, turning towards an oncoming Unspeakable and pulling at the blade she'd
strapped to her hips, using it to deflect whatever wildly aimed spell had come her way. "Try, um - try throwing one,
or, I don't know - "

Draco spun with his back to hers, none-too-carefully tossing one of the triangles so that it nicked the forehead of an
oncoming Unspeakable and just barely missed Rhys, who turned over his shoulder only long enough to glare with
annoyance.

"No, not like that, more like - like a frisbee, Malfoy," Hermione shouted over her shoulder.

"A fucking what?" he yelled back.

"Like - like a discus," she said, mimicking the motion, and he angled the triangle just in time to bury it in someone's
side, the wizard promptly dropping his wand and falling to the floor as Draco looked down at his hands, startled.

"Huh," he said, impressed with himself, and then elbowed Hermione hard, pointing. "Fuck. Look."

"Fuck," Hermione exhaled in agreement, catching sight of the celestial lapel belonging to what was almost certainly
not an Unspeakable and was, almost surely, a Club assassin - one of the Zodiac Killers. "But if they're here - "

"Ignotus sent them," Cad shouted to her in confirmation, kicking an Unspeakable hard in the chest and then stabbing
a Roman-style sword down to keep them there, shoving his hair forcefully out of his eyes. "I promise you, you do
not want to be trapped in a room full of weapons with a dozen fucking assassins - "

"Thirteen assassins, you mean," Draco corrected, tossing down a vial and shoving Hermione out of the way as part
of the floor shook beneath them, taking out two of the oncoming Zodiacs. "Honestly, you never give me my due,
Cadmus."

"Oh good," came Pansy's voice, "everyone's he- oh fuck no, bitch, you did not just try to curse me - "

"Parkinson?" Draco asked, surprised. "Fucking - Zabini, is that you?"

"Draco," came a return drawl, "this motherfucker just tried to - ah, hold on, I'm busy - "

Hermione, now feeling that the tide had turned very much in their favor, spun on the spot. She pulled Draco's face to
hers and kissed him hard, burying her fingers in his hair and leaning back to watch him blink, dazed, as his hands
dug into her hips.

"What was that for?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"I just really, really think we should get married," she told him. "I've given it some thought, and I think it's a really
good idea."

"Can it wait?" he asked, as she turned, momentarily stabbing at an oncoming Zodiac and shoving them into the
outstretched arms of an Unspeakable. "Here," Draco added, handing her one of the triangles as she promptly turned
to slice it across a Zodiac Killer's throat, then proceeded to use them as a barricade for the oncoming spell that
whizzed past Daphne Greengrass' shoulder. "Okay, cool, bloodier than I thought you were going for, but okay - "

"I mean, regarding marriage, it can definitely wait," she assured him, using the dead Zodiac to absorb one more
errant spell before permitting the body to fall limply to the floor, "but hopefully not very long. I think I'm very tired
of not being married to you, Draco Malfoy. The whole concept of it is frankly very dull."

"You realize it's only been about a month," he reminded her, and spun her quickly, as if in a dance, as they both
ducked another wild spell.
"Sorry," Cad shouted, appearing just long enough to quickly dispatch the Unspeakable responsible for the
interruption. "Carry on!"

"Has it?" Hermione echoed, falling into a dip as Draco caught her, ducking them both away from a falling bit of
what had been, at one point, part of the ceiling. "Huh. Well, I rarely do impulsive things. I think I'm permitted one or
two, don't you?"

"How about we get out of here alive," Draco suggested, spinning her upright and then taking the dagger from her
hand to stab it seamlessly into a passing Zodiac's shoulder, "and then we give it a go, eh Granger?"

She slid her hand under his jacket, grabbing one of the vials and throwing it over his shoulder, only aware it had met
her target when she heard a strangled yell and a grunted "Thanks" from Herpo. "I love you, you know," she said, one
hand on the back of Draco's neck as he bent to kiss her again, smiling against her lips. "It's the absolute dumbest
thing."

"The very stupidest," Draco agreed knowingly, as Theo suddenly reappeared, his bow strung impressively around
his shoulders.

"God, you two stupid idiots and your dumb love," he scoffed, disapproving, just as someone else slid into the room.

"NOTT!" Harry bellowed, barrelling towards him and taking Theo's face with both hands. "You motherfucker," he
said, and kissed Theo firmly, one hand curling possessively around the angle of his jaw. "Did I just see you shoot a
man with an arrow? And here I was so convinced you were totally useless - "

"What the fuck is this?" Draco demanded.

"It's fucking dumb love," Theo replied adoringly, just before Harry turned at the sound of a loud yelp of pain.

"Oh good," Harry remarked to Theo. "I think Kreacher found Ignotus."

"Did he just kick him in the shins?"

"He did, didn't he? Honestly, he really is so reliable with instruction - "

They were interrupted as Cad shouted from somewhere near the entrance. "IF YOU'RE ALL DONE HERE, CAN
WE PLEASE GET TO THE SECRETS?" he demanded. Hermione realized, startled, that Antioch and Herpo were
already gone, while the Zodiacs that remained had chased after them.

"Oh, shit," Harry said. "Uh, Kreacher - "

"Master called?" Kreacher wheezed, manifesting abruptly at his feet.

"Mind taking care of the assassins?" Harry asked hopefully, and the elf disappeared with a crack, another resounding
yelp echoing shortly afterwards from the corridor. "Ah, wonderful."

Hermione turned to Draco, finding herself euphorically pleased despite the continued danger. "Shall we?" she asked
him, daintily gathering up the train of her gown.

He swept a hand out, ushering her forward. "After you," he agreed, pulling her dagger from one of the bodies on the
floor and gallantly wiping it on his trousers before handing it back to her, waiting for her to slip it into its sheath.

Corridor outside the Room of Time

8:50 a.m.

"About time you showed up," a woman said. She was standing with Ignotus at her side as Antioch and Herpo ran
into corridor, ducking behind Herpo's shield charm to avoid a Zodiac's spell. "Where are the secrets, Antioch? Ah,
and you must be Herpo the Foul," she determined, narrowing her eyes at him. "I see I made the mistake of forgetting
there was another one of you."

"I'm conveniently forgettable that way," Herpo assured her, pulling Antioch after him.

Unhelpfully, Antioch resisted. "Isn't this your department?" Antioch demanded of the woman, who Herpo assumed
must have been Belle. "Seems like you should really know. And as for you, Ignotus," he added to his brother,
scowling slightly. "I see you've chosen a side."

"Haven't you wronged me enough, brother?" Ignotus asked him, shaking his head. "Why can't you just walk away
from all this?"

"Why can't you?" Antioch retorted, stepping forward, but again, Herpo pulled him back.

"Do you want to fight with your brother," he asked Antioch under his breath, "or do you want to get to the secrets
first?"

"Both," Antioch snapped, tension flooding through all of his muscles, and Herpo shook his head.

"Antioch - "

"Yes, listen to your boyfriend," Belle advised slyly, raising her wand. "That is what he is, isn't he? Though he never
quite loves you enough to stay. Tragic," she lamented, eyes glittering, and Herpo tightened his grip on Antioch's
shoulder. "Is that why you fight so hard for your little Club, Antioch? Because after so many centuries, nobody has
ever loved you quite the way you love power?"

"Don't listen to her," Herpo warned Antioch. "She doesn't understand. Just focus, Antioch, focus on what we came
here for - "

"ANTIOCH!" Cadmus bellowed, catching sight of him as he turned the corner. "Where are they?"

"Yes, Antioch," Belle murmured, toying with her wand. "Where are they?"

But Antioch, rather than answer, turned to Ignotus.

"You know where they are," Antioch said to his youngest brother, with undertones of pleading in his voice that
Herpo felt certain only he had ever truly learned. "You know me, Ignotus. You know what we built. You know
where they are. But if this has ever meant anything to you, Ignotus, then I am asking you now. Reconsider your
choice."

For a moment, Ignotus' mouth tightened, his shoulders stiff, and Herpo wondered which he would choose; whether it
would be the opportunity he'd been promised, or the brother he'd so long stood beside.

"They're in the death chamber," Ignotus said to Belle, effectively choosing a side.

Herpo let out a breath of disappointment, shaking his head, and beside Ignotus, Belle smiled.

"Then let's get there first, shall we, Ignotus?" she suggested, just before aiming a curse at Antioch's head.

Room of Death
8:50 a.m.

If asked, Parvati would not have admitted what had called her to this room rather than the one Draco had run into,
where she knew the others who'd joined them were willingly risking their lives. She'd meant to stop - had tried to -
but something had called her forward from further down the corridor, and she'd followed it until she'd stood here,
facing the ancient stone archway and watching the tattered black curtain that fluttered, oddly, as if touched by a
wind that could not physically exist.
If asked, she would not admit it. She would chalk it up to the wildness of a dream. But nobody had asked, and for
the moment she was alone in the dimly lit room, standing in the middle of the sunken stone pit, and as she stood
before the veil, she found she was not surprised by what she saw.

"Hello, sister," said Padma, who looked unsurprised to see her there, and Parvati blinked, suddenly recognizing
everything about this moment as if she'd visited it before. "I see you've been making use of our gift."

"Padma," Parvati said, half-choking on the name. It had been five years since she'd said it aloud. "I think I've - I
think I saw this - "

"Probably," Padma said, shrugging. "Death does odd things to time. Warps it a bit, don't you think? I'd be willing to
bet you've been seeing more things than usual. Probably all look a bit funny to you, don't they?"

"Yes," Parvati said, suddenly not wanting to talk about it. She reached forward, holding out a hand. "Padma, were
you calling me?"

"Of course," Padma said. "Took you long enough to listen, didn't it? Had to mix up your visions quite a bit just to
get you to pay attention, but hey, it brought you here. At least I worked that much out. Sorry if any of it seemed
ominous… theatricalities, you know."

Parvati frowned. "But - but how - "

"I want it back," Padma continued. "My gift. You're not using it properly." She smiled grimly. "You're relying on it
too much, and isn't that precisely what killed me, in the end? If only I'd embraced love." Her smile saddened. "If
only I'd stopped listening."

Parvati took another tentative step forward, the curtain of the archway brushing against her fingers. "What do you
mean?"

"This gift is a curse, Parvati," Padma sighed. "I'm sure you've realized that by now. Wouldn't it be better just to live?
To actually live, without knowing what comes next? To love, without fear of what may come? I think you're in
love," she added, half-smiling. "I could always feel your heart, Parvati, and I feel it still. I think you're in love."

"I - " Parvati swallowed. "He can't know what I've done, Padma, and I've seen that the secrets will be destroyed. Me
along with them."

"No, no," Padma scoffed. "That's an assumption. The secrets will be destroyed, true, but you know as well as I do
that doesn't mean they have to destroy you."

Parvati blinked, hesitating. "But I can't tell him," she whispered. "I can't. If he knew - "

"If he knew, then he would know all of you," Padma agreed. "Your entire heart, the good and the bad. So let it be
choice, then, and not fate." She reached forward, her hand a mirror-image of Parvati's. "Let him choose you for all
that you are, Parvati, and let life surprise you."

For a moment, Parvati could only hold her breath; and then -

"Padma," she exhaled uncertainly, fingers shaking as they stretched out towards her twin. "I'm sorry."

"I know," Padma replied softly. "I know."

Comforted, Parvati took a step, rolling forward on the ball of her foot, and felt certain she touched her twin's fingers.
Then she felt a jolt, a stab of pain, and the vacancy of something that flooded through her, evaporating sharply from
her veins.

"Padma," Parvati gasped, stumbling back. "What did you just - "

"I took it back," Padma said, looking perfectly smug. "You only have one gift now, Parvati, and it's the one I'm
giving to you. It's life."

Then she smiled, more radiant than Parvati had ever seen her, and a delicate hand with faint purple nail polish slid
around Padma's wrist, drawing her back from the arch.

"Don't worry about us, sister," Padma said, giving Parvati another dazzling smile. "Don't worry. We'll be fine."

Then she tumbled backwards, out of sight, and Parvati's ears flooded with the sensation of silence, with nothing but
her own thoughts to fill her mind - until she heard the sound of a spell behind her, followed by the crash of glass.

Room of Death
8:52 a.m.

It took a moment upon entry to realize the room wasn't empty. An errant spell from Belle had ricocheted from
Herpo's shield spell, crashing into something in the corner, and only then did each of the members of the room turn
to notice that Hermione Granger's enormous diamond was glowing a steady, pulsing red.

"Oh," Hermione said faintly, as Ignotus grimaced, and in the same moment he aimed a spell in the direction they'd
heard the crash, Blaise caught sight of Parvati standing alone, nearly twenty feet below where they'd entered.

"Patil!" Blaise shouted, stumbling down to the sunken stone pit and hurriedly taking hold of her. "Are you okay?
The secrets," he told her, pointing up. "Antioch put them in here. Up there, somewhere, and we have to go - "

"I know." Parvati shook herself, blinking. "I mean, I knew they were in the department. This room is a little bit too
on the nose, but I suppose he's never really been that subtle - "

"Patil," Blaise asked, frowning. "Are you - are you okay? What's happen-"

"It's fucking freezing in here," Pansy said, dropping down beside them and providing them both cover from a
blasting spell that must have been meant for Cad or Antioch. "And what are we supposed to do with the secrets
while those immortal imbeciles irresponsibly duel it out up there?"

"Oh yeah," Blaise sighed to Parvati, murmuring in her ear. "Forgot to warn you. The entire loon squad is here."

"We can't actually let them destroy the Ministry, can we?" Hermione asked frantically, dropping down beside them.
Blaise could see from the continued glow of Hermione's ring that meant the secrets must have been concealed under
a cloaking spell in the corner, idly sitting beside one of the room's many benches. "This is extremely dangerous
magic, and who knows if the building is actually empty - "

"What if we disabled the network?" Draco asked, arriving panting beside her. "Somehow. There's a way, isn't
there?"

"The secrets can't be physically destroyed," Theo contributed, shaking his head. "In fact, if they continue to get
damaged like this, the whole thing's going to become totally unstable. We could all get fucking killed - "

"Well, not the first time I've heard that," Harry said, thoroughly unhelpfully. He aimed a spell over their heads, very
narrowly missing Ignotus. "Also, I have something of a bone to pick with my ancestor, so - "

"We don't actually die this way, do we?" Blaise asked in Parvati's ear, growling with disapproval. "I mean, if you've
seen it, please do tell me - "

"Do you believe me?" she asked. "The things I say. Do you believe I'm telling you the truth?"

"I - " Blaise paused, blinking. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but yes," he murmured, holding her tighter as Theo
tugged Harry back up, joining the others in their continued duel. "I do believe you, Patil, stupid as that sounds - "

"There's a way to disable the secrets," Parvati told him, swallowing hard. "A secret loses its power if you reveal it to
someone else - "

"What if we just - what if we told the secrets?" Hermione asked Draco loudly, having an uncanny moment of mind-
reading from somewhere up above. "I mean, if we told them, like - to each other, I suppose - if we saw what was in
the vials and then, I don't know, revealed them - "

"Well, a secret becomes less powerful the more people know, right?" asked Rhys Hawkworth, whom Blaise had
totally forgotten about by then. "So we would conceivably have to tell as many people as possible, wouldn't we?"

"The cameras," Theo yelped suddenly, and while it made positively no sense to Blaise, Harry let out a yelp.

"THE CAMERAS," he agreed, promptly ducking a spell.

"I'll go," Rhys offered.

"Great, take our one wand," Draco said sarcastically.

"Yes, go, Rhys - and take some vials!" Hermione shouted.

"It'll help," Parvati said to Blaise, her voice a dull whisper. "It'll buy some time, but they need the secret at the
center. To disable the entire network, they need the lynchpin secret."

Blaise held his breath. "Which is?"

Parvati smiled weakly, curling her hand around his cheek.

"Try not to hate me," she whispered, and leaned closer, telling her secret in his ear as he held his breath, utterly
captivated.

12 Grimmauld Place
9:00 a.m.

"The Ministry continues to be an total zoo as evacuations persist from the Department of Mysteries. The Office of
the Minister has declined to release any official statement, but we've been told that Minister Shacklebolt is on site - "

"I hope Ron's okay," Mel murmured, turning to Daisy with a frown. "I know he's supposedly survived a lot of
things, but sometimes his stories really sound like lies. I mean, giant spiders? Sure, Ron. Sure."

"I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't go down there myself," Daisy agreed. "I don't know how helpful I'd be, exactly,
but at least if I were there, I'd - "

"HEY! HEY, THIS IS IMPORTANT, TURN THE CAMERA!"

"What's going on?" Mel asked, leaning towards the magical television and nudging Daisy. "You know him, don't
you? That Warlock's son?"

"Oh my god, it's Rhys," Daisy realized, stunned. "What's he doing?"

"Okay, um," Rhys said, looking down at something that appeared to be a vial. "Okay, Magnolia Everhardt's
husband, I'm very sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your wife cheated on you with your sister. Wait, your
sister?" He glanced down, squinting. "Yeah, wow, your sister. Okay, um, Cornelius Fudge, you bought your
election. What? Jesus, okay - Filius Flitwick, you're wanted in three countri- three?! Three countries? Isn't this a
Hogwarts professor? Right, I don't know why I'm asking you. Um, okay, Rita Skeeter's real name is Helena Burke.
Huh, probably should have gone with the real name, but nobody asked me. Uh, Esmeranda Zabini, your first
husband is alive. Good news, I hope? Probably not, I'd guess. Septima Vector, you have a surprisingly lucrative
gambling problem. Zacharias Smith, you have a secret gay lover. Oh, come on, that's not even that bad. Oh,
nevermind, it's your step-uncle. Okay, fair, that's not ideal. Alexander Poliakoff, you took a bribe to land on your
first quidditch team. Aw, man, I liked you. Is Viktor Krum in here too? I hope not. Roger Davies, you're… broke?
Like, deadass broke. It's okay, money isn't everything. Oh, and while I'm at it." Here he looked up, smiling slightly.
"I have one too, even if it isn't particularly relevant. I like you, Daisy Carnegie," Rhys said to the camera. "I really
like you quite a lot."

Daisy smiled.

"What on earth is going on?" asked Mel, bemused.

"No idea," Daisy said, though whatever it was, she found herself surprisingly uplifted.

The League of Eternality

Unplottable location
9:00 a.m.

"What's this?" Nico asked Montague, gesturing to the news.

"Is a magical television," Montague replied sagely. "It be transmitting noise and pictures in real time, Master Nico."

"No, I know what the contraption is, my notes indicate that much," Nico assured him, gesturing to the open diary
before him. "I meant what's going on, and why is the Ministry exploding?"

"Montague is not knowing, sir," Montague said. "Will Master Nico be having his usual breakfast?"

"Depends," Nico said, frowning. "What's my usual breakfast?"

"Eggs, sir," Montague replied. "And honeyed toast."

"Eh," Nico said, waving a hand. Evidently tastes changed after death. "Make it crepes."

"Montague will make Master Nico some crepes," agreed the elf, toddling out of sight as Nico turned up the volume
on the television set, thoroughly amused.

Room of Death
9:15 a.m.

"It's not working!" Pansy shouted frantically down to Parvati and Blaise, who were having some sort of ill-timed
romantic moment. "I thought you said you had the lynchpin secret?"

"I did," Parvati said slowly, frowning, "or thought I did."

"You clearly didn't!" Pansy snapped, as Daphne paused to grab her arm, steadying her.

"Not the time to lose your temper, Pans," Daphne advised, sending a rather brutal curse at her new employer that
sent Belle leaping out of the way. "All we can do is to continue trying to disable the secrets, and hope these idiots
stop trying to kill each oth- OUCH," Daphne snapped, her wand flying out of her hand as Belle's stinging hex hit
one of her fingers. "For fuck's sake!"

"Stay out of it," Belle warned her, which on Daphne's behalf, Pansy did not appreciate. Belle ducked a wild swing
from Cad's sword as Daphne dropped into the twenty-foot pit of death, chasing after her wand, and Pansy threw a
blasting curse in Belle's direction, sending her crashing into the vials of secrets.

"WOULD YOU BE CAREFUL," Antioch barked at her. "The more of those that break, the less stable the network
is - "

"Here's a novel concept - WHY DON'T YOU JUST FUCKING TELL EACH OTHER THE TRUTH," Pansy
shouted back, just as Belle sent her flying back against the wall, binding her to it.

"Stay out of it," Belle warned again, taking another moment to conjure a thick set of metallic vines that roped
Hermione, Draco, Theo, Harry, Parvati, Pansy, and Daphne back against the walls, rendering them all incapable of
retaliating. "This isn't your fight. It's ours."

Belle immobilized Herpo next, the spell hitting him around the knees and sending him crashing to the floor, before
she turned to Cadmus and Antioch, who both glanced briefly at each other before leaping down into the sunken pit,
hovering near the ancient arch. Belle and Ignotus glanced at each other, breathing heavily, and then levitated
themselves down slowly, now the only two left with wands.

"It's over," Belle said, and turned to Cadmus. "All of this, it's gone on for too long. It's gone on long enough. It's
over," she said again, and stepped forward to place her wand at his throat, securing it beneath his jaw. "Isn't it?"

He glared mutinously at her.

"Damn," Daphne exhaled, stiffening beside Pansy. "I really should have killed her."

Pansy opened her mouth, about to agree, but was cut off by the subtlest possible interruption.

"Wait," said Antioch, his voice barely audible in the chamber.

And then, collectively, they all held their breaths, waiting.

9:20 a.m.

Ignotus swallowed hard, uncertain why his brother's voice had so successfully paused him. He'd won already, hadn't
he? The secrets in the corner were beginning to spark, power rising above them like steam. They had minutes before
the whole network exploded; possibly less. If Antioch was buying time, he'd be paying far too high a price by the
end of it.

It struck at Ignotus, violently, and somewhere deep in his chest, to see Cadmus edging closer to Antioch. For once,
his two brothers - who'd hated each other for centuries - had managed to join up in defense against a common
enemy.

Him.

He swallowed hard, and Belle turned her wand on Antioch. "Shut up," she warned, but Ignotus held up a hand,
pausing her.

"Say it," he said.

"I went back to Lady Revel," Antioch said at once, and Ignotus was surprised to find that his eldest brother was
addressing him directly. Beside him, Cadmus looked thoroughly surprised. "I went back, Ignotus, not long after I - "
He swallowed hard. "Not long after I let you believe she'd been killed. I could see what I'd done to you, and I - I
asked her to forgive me. To have the life with you that you'd both wanted. I asked her to take you back and let things
be as if I'd never interceded." He paused, and Ignotus waited. "She refused."

Ignotus took in a shaky breath, shutting his eyes briefly.

"I am so sorry, brother, for what I cost you," Antioch said, and though he'd always been a liar, Ignotus wondered if
that were not a rare truth from him. He let his eyes flutter open, curious, to see a look of pain on his eldest brother's
face. "She told me it was my fault that none of us were capable of love. That I never showed it to you, and therefore
you could never show it to any others. Neither you nor Cadmus." He glanced at Cadmus, who blinked, stunned. "If
that is the truth, then I am desperately sorry. I wish I could have been a better man, if it meant you two could have
had better lives. Eternity never made me wise. I was never good enough to live forever, only smart enough. You
have both been right to push me away, and that is the truth. Both my secret," he clarified, "and the truth."
Belle's gaze darted to the secrets, which notably hadn't diminished. "Yours isn't the lynchpin," she told Antioch
victoriously. "You're in just as much danger as you were before, Antioch."

"I know," Antioch agreed. "I know precisely which secret I placed as the lynchpin, and I suspect the secret's owner
knows as well. But at least now I've finally said something worth saying."

Belle rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'm not going to kill you, anyway. I want you all out of here," she said, turning gruffly
to Cadmus, "so that you can be apprehended, properly, like you should have been right from the start - "

"Stop," Ignotus warned, raising his wand so quickly that Belle blinked with surprise, unable to conceal her
startlement for a moment. "Put that down."

Cadmus' eyes widened. Antioch, meanwhile, did nothing, waiting without expression, and made no demands; no
requests. Ignotus was glad for it.

This was autonomy.

At last.

Belle raised her hands in the air, smirking boldly at Ignotus. "The secret's out, you know," she warned him. "Even if
you decide to change sides. If anything happens to me, there's already a memo detailing everything I know about the
Club, and it's on its way to Kingsley Shacklebolt. If I'm killed, you'll have no League of Eternality left to lead,
Ignotus."

"It's not mine to lead," Ignotus said, shaking his head. "It was never just mine."

"You wanted it," Belle reminded him. "You gave up your brothers for it. Is it everything you wanted?"

No, Ignotus thought with a darkened laugh, as his brothers watched him closely, his wand still trained on Belle.

No. Nothing was how he wanted it. But least of all was this.

There was a decisive flash of green light from Ignotus' wand, his mind made up, and Belle dropped to the floor, the
wand rolling from her hand to Cadmus' feet.

"Never really knew what you saw in her, Cadmus," Ignotus remarked, lowering his wand arm. Cadmus, meanwhile,
stared at the wand at his feet; appeared to consider it for a moment before looking up, apparently having discarded
the option to use it.

"I mean, you have to admit," Cadmus managed in reply, "Ibb's very entertaining, albeit in a hugely destructive way."

"Ignotus," Antioch warned, gesturing to the ground that had begun to tremor beneath the secrets. "We don't have
much time."

"I don't need much," Ignotus assured him, and took a steadying breath.

9:25 a.m.

"I died once," Ignotus confessed, as Cad turned to glance at Antioch, waffling somewhere between thoroughly
unsurprised and entirely taken aback. "Not for very long. I think maybe I was afraid of staying dead, so I sent one of
my horcruxes to someone I'd recently discovered was looking for us. Isabel," he said, gesturing to where she was
now lying on the ground, unmoving. "I uncovered her around the early twentieth century. She'd been investigating
Tom Riddle, as I understand it. Had heard of his relation to Cadmus."

Ignotus glanced at Cad, who gave a brief shrug. "Sorry," he muttered, and Antioch rolled his eyes.

"I killed myself, actually," Ignotus continued neutrally. "I… wasn't quite able to get over losing Cadmus. I kept
finding myself questioning all of my decisions, wondering if anything had been worth sacrificing my brother. I kept
telling myself that the Club was worth it, that eternity itself was worth it, but then I grew to realize that the more I
thought about it, the less it made any sense. What purpose could there be in living forever that would merit the loss
of someone I loved so deeply? What possible purpose is greater than love? Can life itself hold meaning without it?"

At that, Cad glanced up, meeting Daphne's gaze.

She looked sad, he thought, but in a way he'd only seen in paintings before. A resigned sort of sad, the way a person
looks when they uncover a truth. A sadness that would ultimately resolve itself to understanding.

"My secret, as I told it to Dionisia, wasn't that I had once died," Ignotus went on, "but that I wanted to die." At that,
suddenly, the earth beneath them stopped shaking; froze, abruptly, as Ignotus continued to speak, and the light in the
vials of secrets began to dim. "I was waiting for something worth dying for. The first time had been guilt, but it
wasn't enough. I hadn't really wanted death; I only wanted not to live, and not to feel, but nothing in that was noble.
I no longer wanted to live, but I was seeking an honorable death. Something that would bring me peace in this life,
or any other." He smiled slightly at that. "Though perhaps that won't make sense to you."

"No," Antioch said, shaking his head. Above them, Herpo had stirred, sitting up slowly. "It makes sense, Ignotus,"
Antioch said, locking eyes with Herpo. "I understand."

Cad, whose mouth was by then terribly dry, only managed a nod.

"As it turns out," Ignotus said neutrally, glancing between Antioch and Cad, "you two are the only things in my life I
ever considered worth living for. Stupid, isn't it?" he said, with a little laugh. "For all that we hate each other,
brothers, I have only ever truly loved you. Only ever chosen you, over everything, much as I wish I wouldn't." He
gestured to Belle. "She never understood that. Nobody ever would, but you do, don't you?"

He glanced at Antioch, who nodded slowly.

"Eternity itself," Antioch finished for both of them, tentatively clearing his throat, "is nothing. Immortality is worth
nothing at all," he said, with a pointed glance at Cad, "without my brothers by my side."

Cad swallowed heavily at that, watching Daphne's lips part; he caught the hint of something longing that lingered on
her tongue, and it made him smile as much as it made him ache.

I understand, she mouthed to him, and he nodded, swallowing around a mouthful of sorrow and peace. Sorrow, for
what he was losing; peace, for what he had found. He hoped she felt it, and sensed, somehow, that she could. If
anyone could, it was her. She'd always been cleverer than him, more worthy. She had been the privilege of his many
undeserved lives, and he felt certain she knew as much, even if it wasn't in his nature to tell her.

Tell me one more secret, she'd said on the last night they'd spent together, with all those empty vials scattered on the
bed. Tell me just one more, Cadmus Peverell, and maybe that will be enough.

Tell me yours, he beckoned, and she lifted her chin.

I might never have known much of anything I hadn't met you, she said, as if she'd already given it some thought. I
might have lived an ordinary life, never questioning anything, and never knowing what more the world could hold
for me, if I had never loved you.

You could never live an ordinary life, Daphne Greengrass, he told her, sure, at least, of that. Not now, and certainly
not ever.

Because I am loved by an immortal? she asked, half-laughing.

Yes, because you are loved, he confirmed, with as much exposed sincerity as he could muster, and also because you
made something worthy of a man who might have lived a thousand years and still only loved himself.

Standing above him now, Daphne looked at him with sorrow and with peace, never more beautiful than she was in
that moment. Behind him, there was a breeze from the archway; at his back, the tattered curtain fluttered slightly,
beckoning, despite the chamber's lack of wind. Beside him, Ignotus and Antioch met his gaze, and each of them
resolved with a hum of clarity - like a chord that had finally rung true - to the same inevitable conclusion.

The Club was over; that much was clear. The empire they'd built would fall.

Still, it wasn't an ending. Certainly not in the way Cad had once thought.

Slowly, he held out his hands; one to Ignotus, and one to Antioch. They each took hold, with the steady
synchronicity they'd lacked for so many centuries, and then Cadmus Peverell took one more breath, glancing a final
time at Daphne.

Goodbye, he mouthed, and she smiled tearfully, a glint of something wistful in her eye.

And then he pulled his brothers backwards, all in one fluid motion, and felt himself fall beyond the veil, both of their
hands steady in his as they tumbled, together - finally - into the promise of the wild unknown.

St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

Poison recovery wing
10:25 a.m.

Ludo Bagman awoke with a sharp gasp, momentarily bemused. He blinked, trying to place himself, when he
realized the heavy weight that had left him feeling trapped was not a nightmare, but was in fact two people - one on
each of his feet - who were alarmingly and disturbingly familiar.

"Hello," the pale blonde witch with the French accent said from his left, her eyes wide with troubling delight at the
sight of him. "Remember us?"

"Oh god," Ludo said, scrambling, when the wizard on his right - who was nibbling from a narrow vine of grapes -
gave a small tutting sound, thoroughly disapproving.

"Where are you going?" the man whined, pouting. "I thought we were all going to play."

"We're not going to play, Thibaut. Not yet. Right now, we're going to have a chat," corrected another voice, as Ludo
looked up, sighing with relief.

"Janvier," he said, pleased to see that Bastien Janvier, the French Auror, could at least be counted on for his defense.
"Thank goodness. I have to give my statement - I have to disclose that Warlock Ifan Hawkworth is - "

"Dead," the blonde witch supplied cheerfully. "Isn't it delightful? A boring enterprise, death is, to be sure, but a
wonderful turn of circumstance."

"Right," Ludo coughed up slowly, "and, um - Draco Malfoy is - "

"Surprisingly tolerable, considering his bore of a father," said the blond wizard, pouring himself a gratuitous glass of
champagne. "Yes, we know."

"Right, yes, and Ludo," Bastien tutted with disapproval, "we all know who's really responsible for all those
poisonings, don't we? Quite a number of us know, in fact."

At that, Ludo swallowed, alarmed.

"You wouldn't," he accused wildly. "You'd all lose everything. Your careers!"

"Well, as it turns out, Alexander Poliakoff's secret is already out, and personally, I loathe my career," Bastien said
dully. "In fact, I only love two things: Melibea Warbeck's dress socks for trousered men, and - "
"Fucking," supplied the blond wizard, to which Bastien sighed.

"I was going to say companionship," he admonished the blond, who shrugged.

"Potato, potato," supplied the witch. "So, you agree to testify then, Janvy?"

"Oh, yes," Bastien assured them, and turned to smile wickedly at Ludo. "In fact, I suspect I will very soon love three
things, as it will bring me immense pleasure to watch you fall, Ludo Bagman."

"But - those charges will never stick," Ludo countered frantically. "I - I have people who can vouch for me, and I -
I'll never - "

"Oh, hush now," the witch tutted. "You'll tire yourself out, and that won't do. You haven't met our friend yet, have
you? Not officially, anyway."

Yet another pale blond figure stepped out from the corner, much to Ludo's dismay. "Bonjoooooooooooour," said
what at first appeared to be Draco Malfoy, until the wizard who was almost certainly not a wizard smiled serenely,
baring his too-sharp teeth.

"He's only just escaped the Ministry's eager clutches," lamented the blond wizard, "but he's assured us he's not quite
overtired yet."

"Is that," Ludo began, and swallowed. "Is that a - "

"Why yes," the witch confirmed, stroking the vampire's chest with a single crimson nail before turning over her
shoulder to preen at him, beaming. "Yes, darling, it most certainly is."

a/n: Hm, is that a happily-ever-after I spy in the distance? Thank you, as ever, for being the void into which I toss
my unmanageable comedies of errors. Dedicated to Aurora, who read nearly 50k words for me this week (yikes),
and to all of you who have stuck with me this far. I love you more than you know.
 40. Romantic AF

Chapter 40: Romantic AF

The Ministry of Magic

Office of the Minister
October 26, 2003
3:30 p.m.

"So, let me get this straight," Kingsley sighed, glancing between Harry, Hermione, and Draco. "The Wizengamot
assassinations were committed by Ludo Bagman, in an effort to gain entry to a secret society called the League of
Eternality, which is run by the Peverell brothers, who are… dead."

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "Well, to clarify, they were alive, but now they're dead. Or, um. Gone, at least. Not really
sure how the veil in the Department of Mysteries works, if I'm being honest."

"Right," Kingsley said uncertainly. "So Ludo was trying to - ?"

"Well, the Club was tr- right, sorry, the League of Eternality," Harry clarified at Draco's subtle cough, "which is
better known as the Infinity Club, generally seeks to influence politics and government, which I suppose is up Ludo
Bagman's alley. I guess."

"And they do this for," Kingsley began, and paused. "What purposes, exactly?"

"Uncertain," Harry replied, glancing at Hermione, who shrugged. "Their own personal gain? With smatterings of
ideology here and there, I imagine."

"Right," Kingsley permitted doubtfully. "So you're saying Ludo Bagman is some sort of… criminal mastermind?"

"No," Harry said with a laugh. "No, definitely not saying that."

Kingsley frowned. "But the potions - "

"Ah, right. Well, Bagman didn't make those himself," Harry said, "though I suppose it might have initially been his
idea. They're modified adrenaline potions, commonly used illegally in professional quidditch matches. I'm sure you
could ask Gagnon about it," he added, "though I assume you already knew that, considering you had a spy working
as his apprentice. Which, by the way, we knew nothing about," he added, lifting a brow.

Kingsley grimaced. "Isabel Lewin was not a spy. She is - was," he corrected himself, "Head Unspeakable at the
Department of Mysteries, and she was independently investigating a criminal case on behalf of the Ministry of
Magic."

"Yeah, I fail to see the distinction," Harry said, "but that's cool."

Kingsley sighed again. "So, if Ludo wasn't making the potions himself - "

"Dolores Umbridge," Harry supplied evenly, though he looked unable to say the name without expressing some
level of revulsion. "A fellow disgruntled Ministry bureaucrat, with reason to gain the Club's favor. She wanted a
pardon, I believe. Or something to that effect."

"And where is she now?" Kingsley asked.

Harry glanced briefly at Draco, who shrugged.

"According to an unsubstantiated rumor that I know nothing about," Harry replied, "she's dead."

"Where does Warlock Hawkworth fit in here?" Kingsley asked, shifting in his chair. It had been a very long day,
with a very long night ahead. "Was he simply Ludo Bagman's next target on the Wizengamot?"

"Yes and no," Harry said. "He was also a low-ranking member of the Infinity Club. As we understand it, he was
initially Bagman's next partner once Bagman arrived back in England, but they began plotting against each other
almost immediately. It was Ludo Bagman who killed Ifan Hawkworth, as I believe his own testimony will confirm."

"Oh." Kingsley drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. "And the outburst at the wedding?" he asked, his gaze
traveling slowly to Draco.

"Hermione and Draco were, erm. Forcibly compelled by the Club to continue a private investigation," Harry
explained. "Their involvement in all of this was somewhat… extorted. Is that the word?" he asked, thinking. "I'm
trying to say there was a lot of heavy-handed extortion."

"I'm grasping that," Kingsley permitted, "but still. It's not as if this Club was operating within any conceivable realm
of legality, which Mr Malfoy and Miss Granger would have been aware of. They could have approached the
Ministry at any time for assistance."

Hermione sat up, about to argue, but Harry shot a hand out, forcefully pressing her back.

"First of all, the Club has - had - more control over the Ministry than you do, I imagine," Harry supplied, as
Hermione nodded vigorously, "so it's not like there was anyone here they could trust. For example, Daisy Carnegie,
a MACUSA Auror, was framed by the Club. Which unaltered surveillance enchantments would probably prove,
correct?" he asked, consulting Draco for confirmation. Draco nodded. "Yeah, so, there's that, too. As a separate
point."

"Harry, as I've said, Miss Carnegie's case - "

"Auror," Harry corrected. "Auror Carnegie."

"Auror Carnegie," Kingsley amended slowly, "is under MACUSA's jurisdiction, Harry. I can't make a ruling on
that."

"Right, well, just saying. In any case, Draco and Hermione were acting within their scope as Ministry consultants - "

Kingsley frowned. "But they were - "

" - until such time," Harry continued loudly, "that they were each granted temporary Auror licenses, which legally
permitted discretionary investigatory powers where public safety was concerned."

"What?" said Kingsley, Draco, and Hermione in unison.

"I mean - of course," Hermione amended weakly, glancing at Draco after having conveniently remembered this was
something that applied to her. "Yes, obviously that - that happened. We knew that."

"Harry," Kingsley began, but Harry gestured to the file in front of him.

"Check," Harry told him, pointing to it. "Check their paperwork."

Kingsley shook his head, flipping the file open. "It looks like there are indeed conditional Auror permits here for
every member of…" He paused, then read aloud, "Joke's on You, Potter, Turns Out I Can Send an Owl to the
Ministry Without Your Help After All - "

"Deathstar," Harry amended quickly. "Malfoy's company is called Deathstar Enterprises, and I signed over
temporary Auror licenses to each of them, to last until the conclusion of this investigation."

"That," Kingsley said, arching a brow, "was done without my permission, Harry."

"I'm Head Auror at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and I was independently investigating a criminal
case on behalf of the Ministry of Magic," Harry replied, parroting back Kingsley's own defense of Belle's actions.
"Unless I have somehow less power than a branch of the Ministry with no oversight? Which I'm sure you wouldn't
want the general public believing. That, I imagine, would cause more unsubstantiated panic than the Ministry is
capable of dealing with at the moment," Harry added coolly, "don't you think?"

Kingsley was both very proud and utterly irritated.

"A fair point," he permitted, which he felt encapsulated both sentiments. "I take it you were playing rather fast and
loose with this, then."

"It was a high-profile case," Harry informed him. "I made some judgment calls, and I'd be happy to support them,
either in the media or before the Wizengamot, if you decide to make that information available to the public."

Ah, what a cheeky little shit, challenging him to a public image war that only a Chosen One could win. Kingsley
scratched fondly at his chin, covering a smile.

"So Mr Malfoy, rather than reveal his ongoing investigation, opted to take the blame for Warlock Hawkworth's
death," Kingsley said slowly. "Is that what you're saying, Auror Potter?"

Harry blinked. "Yes," he said stonily, recovering quickly from his surprise.

"And Miss Granger, who has been pretending to be his consort so as to conceal the investigation from the public
eye, claimed responsibility for a similar reason," Kingsley said, glancing at Hermione, who hastily permitted a nod.
"Well, you two must be very relieved, then, that this charade can finally be permitted to rest."

"What, these two?" scoffed Theo Nott, who had been sitting quietly beside Harry until that precise moment.
"They're as real as the Deathly Hallows. Which is to say, real as fuck."

"Remind me why you're here?" Kingsley asked.

"Mostly comic relief," replied Theo, "though I do have a very compelling backstory."

"He's with me," Harry sighed, glaring at him. "Nott, you promised to be quiet - "

"Yes, but you foolishly failed to specify for how long," Theo informed him, as Kingsley held up a hand, drawing
them all back to the point.

"The secrets," Kingsley said. "Lady Revel's death, and the subsequent theft?"

"The Club's doing," Harry supplied, a bit too quickly. It looked like a lie, but in fairness, it felt very believable. In
any case, all evidence seemed to indicate as much, considering the now-obsolete network of secrets had been
uncovered inside of the Ministry. Kingsley nodded, permitting that as a sufficient answer.

"And the terrorism attack at the Ministry?" Kingsley prompted.

Theo had a brief, mildly disruptive coughing fit.

"The Club," Harry said again, unfazed.

Kingsley pursed his lips, thinking back over the events of the previous weekend. "The golem who delivered the
poison?"

"Imperiused by Ludo Bagman. Initially, it was created for Warlock Weasley's protection," Harry said. "We profiled,
based on the previous assassinations, that he'd be the next target."

"Hm." That certainly checked out. "And the vampire?"

"What vampire?" Harry asked innocently, and Kingsley sighed, opting to permit that particular instance to be lost in
the midst of everything else.
"Well, this will all be quite difficult to prove," Kingsley reminded them, "seeing as the now-defunct League of
Eternality has, for all intents and purposes, disappeared into a hole in time and space, without so much as bodies for
evidence."

The four of them exchanged tentative glances.

"Are you saying you don't believe us?" Harry asked, somewhat apprehensively. "Belle - or Isabel, or whatever her
name is - sent you a memo, didn't she?"

Yes, she did, though he hadn't needed one. Kingsley would never forget the first day he'd taken office, when he'd
initially met Antioch Peverell. It was then that he'd been introduced to the concept of the Club and subsequently
sworn to secrecy, as all Ministers ostensibly were, as well as given a remarkably accurate prophecy. You're going to
hate this job, the man had said with a darkened laugh, but if you're lucky, you'll never have to see me again.

Kingsley considered himself very lucky indeed.

"She did," Kingsley eventually confirmed, delicately not mentioning his own familiarity, "and I certainly have
discretionary rights myself, though I will have to be very careful how I present it. The public will have the right to
view these events however they wish, and in accordance with their own beliefs. They can be very quick to jump to
conclusions." He paused for a moment, considering this, and then sighed, leaning forward to speak directly to the
former Death Eater, who would be most vulnerable as a suspect.

"Do you swear, Mr Malfoy," he said softly to Draco, "that you are not now, and have never been, a member of the
League of Eternality? You were never recruited by them, nor took any offerings with the promise to join, and you
were exclusively compelled against your will to act only to the extent necessary for your investigation?"

Kingsley thought he caught a twitch of something from Draco's mouth; a smile of sorts, as the others fidgeted on
either side of him.

"I swear," Draco replied, "I have never been a member of the Club, nor have I ever had any interest in it."

Kingsley paused, gauging the truth of the statement, and then nodded.

"Okay, then," he exhaled. "I suppose you're all free to go."

Harry blinked, with all the hesitant surprise of a child getting away with something. Murder, possibly, though
Kingsley wasn't too terribly inconvenienced by the body count. He'd seen far worse, and knew perfectly well it
might have been worse still, had the network of secrets not been successfully disarmed.

"Really?" Harry asked uncertainly, and Kingsley shrugged.

"There's certainly no reason to hold any of you," Kingsley reminded him. "The Club's leadership has died. Their
assassins have all been killed or apprehended. You all prevented significant damage to the Ministry. Warlock
Hawkworth is dead. Ludo Bagman is in custody. Once your investigation closes, I expect we can arrest the
remaining Club members who have committed crimes. But unless there's something you'd like to confess to - "

"No, no," Draco said hastily, rising to his feet. "That all sounds right - "

"Very right," Theo agreed, and glanced down as his stomach grumbled loudly. "Sorry," he offered to Kingsley,
shrugging. "Had a bit of a small captivity problem that I forgot about until now."

"We should go," Hermione agreed. "Shouldn't we? Yes, we should, okay - thank you, Kingsley," she offered, and
then shook her head. "Sorry. Minister Shacklebolt, I mean - "

"Kingsley is fine," he reminded her, waving a hand as they began to process out of the room. "Oh, but Harry?"

Harry hung back, pausing by the door as the others passed into the corridor. "Yes, Kingsley?"
Kingsley took a long look at the man he'd once nearly died to protect, wondering just how many lies he'd been told
over the course of an hour in his office. Kingsley wondered, too, whether he would ever really know the particulars
of what made up Harry Potter, but he suspected he would always be fond of the former Chosen One, whatever they
happened to be.

"Promise me," Kingsley said. "Promise me right now you will never run for Minister of Magic."

Harry smiled slightly, seeming to have understood the statement in a way that Kingsley never had; which ultimately
proved, as Kingsley had long suspected, that the younger man was infinitely wiser, if not also considerably more
clever.

"I can definitely promise you that," Harry confirmed, and then permitted a nod. "Thanks, Kingsley."

Kingsley nodded back. "You're welcome."

And then the Minister of Magic turned back to the pile of paperwork on his desk, contemplating early retirement.

East Corridor
Ministry of Magic
4:15 p.m.

"Well," Harry ventured. "What do we do now?"

"Where's Katie?" Hermione asked, eyes widening. "Shouldn't we make sure she's okay?"

"Ron took her home," Harry assured her. "She's fine."

"Weasley does have an oddly comforting presence," Draco remarked, and Hermione glanced at him, questioning,
but that seemed to be all the information he was willing to offer.

"May I remind you all," Theo announced grumpily, "that I haven't eaten or slept in two days?"

"Well, I could go for a pint," Draco suggested. "Seems like a good idea right about now."

"Oh, that sounds nice," Hermione agreed, nodding thoughtfully. "Though, should I change first?"

"Nah," Draco said, slipping an arm around her waist. "I think the gown suits you."

"Well, let's see, then," Harry murmured, thinking. "What's in Diagon? I guess there's… I don't know. The Leaky?"

"Eh," Hermione said. "Not really where I'd like to be at the moment."

"Or I could just die right here of starvation," Theo suggested alternatively. "And then you could all share my limbs
as a little pre-dinner snack."

"Wait a minute. How long were you fucking Potter behind my back?" Draco asked him.

"How about tapas?" Theo prompted, suddenly incapable of hearing.

"Oh, you know what's surprisingly good?" Harry said, remembering. "Seamus' new restaurant."

The other three, who had never actually eaten there, exchanged a glance.

"That," Hermione declared on behalf of the group, "sounds absolutely perfect."

The Underground
Diagon Alley
5:00 p.m.

It had been more than a little surreal to end the Floo call with the MACUSA president; particularly since it was
broadly understood that the president himself did not make personal calls unless he had made a terrible, politically
devastating error.

"You'll have your job back," President MacArthur had assured her, "of course. The investigation was dropped the
moment we heard from the British Ministry, and of course we can offer you, erm. A large bonus, to uh - "

"To keep me from discussing the fact that you charged me with the murder of my own father, despite having nothing
but circumstantial evidence that would never have held up in court?" Daisy guessed.

"Something like that," President MacArthur permitted weakly, and though it had been hardly much of anything,
Daisy decided the firing of her lieutenant alone would have been more than enough to make up for the
inconvenience. That, of course, and having her job back, which had always been the only thing she'd ever wanted
anyway.

The only thing, of course, until recently, which never would have happened if not for being framed for murder and
essentially exiled for her presumed guilt, so… she figured she didn't need to remain too bitter about it.

"I'll be back in my office first thing tomorrow," Daisy assured him, and President MacArthur had made a variety of
noises in his relief, going as far as to awkwardly bow to her when she ended the call.

Of course, now that meant she would be leaving, and it also meant it was time to say her goodbyes. Harry was busy,
and Ron, and actually, even the vampire Basile seemed to be otherwise occupied, so Daisy had made her way to the
Underground, expecting to see them eventually. She had five extra hours, anyway, before having to be back in New
York. She figured it would be worth it to take her time.

"Hey," she heard behind her, and smiled, catching the familiar voice. "Thought I might find you here."

Daisy turned to see Rhys descending the stairs of the Arsonist, dressed (oddly) in normal clothes, rather than his
usual boxing apparel. "You clean up nice, Hawkworth," she noted, and he grimaced.

"You're being much too kind," he said, "but thanks." He fidgeted at the foot of the stairs, not quite closing the
distance between them. "I take it you're leaving soon, then."

"Tomorrow," Daisy replied, swallowing a mysteriously troubling itch at the back of her throat before nodding.
"Have to get back to work. Deal with my cases. Fire my mutinous subordinates. You know, those sorts of things."

"Right," Rhys said with a chuckle. "Yes, I suppose so." He paused again, clearing his throat. "I take it you saw what
happened to Cadell?"

"Yeah, I did," Daisy said, frowning. "He's serving time?"

"It'll only be about three years, since I think he's being charged with assault rather than murder," Rhys said, "but
yeah. I think it's mostly ceremonial. Can't just let people run around killing other people to no consequences,
obviously."

The corners of his mouth dipped slightly, saddened, and Daisy took the step that he hadn't, figuring it was probably
her turn.

"So," she said softly, "your father's gone, then. And your brother."

"I have five other brothers," Rhys reminded her, though he seemed to grasp the message.

"You know, maybe a change of scenery would be good for you," she suggested. "A quick trip somewhere new.
Maybe a long trip." She shrugged. "Totally up to you, of course."
"Oh yeah?" His expression brightened slightly. "Got something in mind?"

It was sweet, of course, and entirely him, to tease his way into the point. It wasn't very much her, though, and so she
let out a sigh, reaching out to rest her hand on his shoulder.

"Rhys, I'm going to tell you something," Daisy said solemnly, "and it is that I am not an easy person to be around. I
work hard, and a lot. I work a lot." She grimaced. "Like, more than I should, probably, and I don't sleep much. And I
have an overbearing mother that I see about once a week. And sure, I ate a lot of fish and chips while I was here, but
I do eat salad. I'm a salad eater. And as a general rule, I work out every morn-"

She broke off as Rhys kissed her, resting one hand on her hip and curling the other around the back of her neck. She
felt him smile against her lips (pleased, it seemed, that she had been momentarily lost for words) and then he pulled
her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist until she had pressed herself against him, digging her fingers into his
chest.

"If you're trying to get me not to like you," Rhys said when they parted, "it's not going to work."

"Well, it's not just that," Daisy admitted. "It's that I, um. I want you to come with me, but I - " She permitted a
tentative, uncomfortable smile that might have been more of a grimace. "But I want you to know what you're getting
into."

"Oh, I have no idea what I'm getting into," Rhys assured her, "and I couldn't possibly know. Neither do you, by the
way. But isn't that the fun part?" he asked, giving her his easy smile. "I want to know your quirks. I want the good
stuff and the bad stuff, and I want it to be real. I want to know what you look like in the mornings," he murmured,
tucking her hair behind her ear, "and at night. I want to see all the parts of you. I want to know what you look like
when you're happy and sad and scared and stressed. I want to know what makes you feel better, and I want to know
what not to do, too. I want to know you, Daisy Carnegie," he finished firmly, "and no amount of warning is going to
scare me away."

"I - " She stopped, shaking her head, and determined there was really only one thing worth saying. "I really like you,
Rhys Hawkworth," she admitted, letting him tilt her chin up. "And if you wanted, I'd really like you to come with
me back to New York. Maybe for a few days," she said, and he leaned forward, kissing her softly. "And then maybe,
um. A week, if you wanted. And if it goes well - " He kissed her again, teasing her head back this time, and then
kissed her cheek, and then her neck. "Uh," she said, stumbling slightly, "I guess, maybe you could, um. Stay
longer?"

"I'll consult my diary," he said, his lips brushing her clavicle, and she shivered. "Though, I know I'm free tonight, if
it matters."

"Well," Daisy murmured, tangling her fingers in his hair, "then to that I'd have to say - "

"Ah, fuck it all. It's predictably filthy down here," announced a voice behind them.

20 minutes earlier

"So, tell me if I have this right," Pansy mused, her arm looped loosely through Percy's as they made their way
through Diagon Alley. "The legislation you've been chattering endlessly about would mean that anybody who tried
to extend their natural lifetime would be required to serve… how long in prison?"

"Fifteen years," Percy supplied.

"Fifteen years," Pansy echoed, and let out a low whistle. "That's a long time, Weasley."

"Well, if you look at prison time as purely a function of prohibiting crime, then ten years isn't quite long enough,"
Percy said thoughtfully. "A person doesn't necessarily think about a ten year mandatory sentence before committing
a crime, but fifteen years is, statistically speaking, enough to make them think twice."
"But how do you define a longevity-related crime?" Pansy asked. "What if you're not trying to live forever, but just
extend your lifetime?"

Percy cocked his head, considering it. "Under what circumstances?"

"Say you're sick," Pansy suggested. "But you want to live long enough to see, I don't know… something specific.
Your child's wedding, let's say. Is that enough to merit fifteen years in prison?"

Percy frowned. "I hadn't thought about it."

"And anyway, this only works if people think about their possible punishments before they commit the crime,"
Pansy continued, "but it seems to me that only people who aren't actually clever enough to succeed are going to be
the ones imprisoned. Voldemort, for example, kept it a secret. So did the Peverell brothers. If you're going to catch
someone, it's probably just going to be some poor old so-and-so trying to make a fountain of youth and then blowing
up the bathtub in the process. Is that really someone who deserves fifteen years in prison? I think it's really rather
impractical to think that one punishment can, or should, fit every case."

"I - " Percy stopped. "Hm," he said, his fingers twitching at his side. "These are all excellent points. I suppose I
should think about it further. Do you think we could talk about this more?" he asked, glancing at her.

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "You don't have to mock me, Weasley, I'm just saying - "

"I'm not mocking you," he said, pausing her briefly. "I'm quite serious. It's an important issue, and I would hate to
support a policy that was ultimately short-sighted."

"I - " Pansy faltered, caught by surprise. "You mean it?"

"Of course. As I said, it's an excellent point," he said, and continued walking as she stared after him, disbelieving.

It was amazing, she thought, how little people had ever listened to her. People rarely took her seriously, and yet
Percy Weasley, whom she'd thought existed entirely up his own arsehole for the majority of the time she'd known
him, was willing to reconsider his stance on a political issue merely because she'd brought up an excellent point. She
wasn't entirely sure a man had ever said as much; how many times had she and Draco disagreed? And even at his
least begrudging, he'd never said 'I suppose I should think about it further,' or really given any indication she'd
changed his mind.

Nobody had ever listened to her quite like Percy Weasley, and it was astounding to realize that perhaps other people
might spend their careers never listening to him, and consequently, what a terrible misfortune that would be. The
world would be far worse off, she thought, without a man like Percy Weasley to do his job.

"Weasley," she half-shouted, chasing after him as he turned, abruptly startled by her distance behind him. "I just
thought of something," she said breathlessly, and he blinked down at her, waiting. "You should run for Minister of
Magic."

"Oh." He tilted his head. "Yes, well, I suppose I'd be lying if I said I hadn't already considered it, but it's flattering
that you think so."

"You should do it," Pansy said, "for mankind. I think you'd be the perfect person for it. You make mistakes, but you
own them. You fix them." She was astounded how breathless she was; what had she done, run ten feet? Surely she
should be able to breathe, shouldn't she? "You ask questions. You think before you act. You're a terrible politician,
but that's precisely why you should be one. You're better suited for the job than any of those other idiots. And - "

It caught up with her all at once.

"And you should probably date someone suitable, in the meantime," she murmured, dropping her gaze to her shoes.
"Someone the public will like. Someone who, um. Who didn't try to turn Harry Potter over, or run away during the
war." She fidgeted where she was standing. "Maybe Susan Bones or something, or I don't know, surely there's a
Hufflepuff somewhere who - "
"Strictly speaking, I should be married before I run for Minister of Magic," Percy cut in, prompting Pansy to stare up
at him, somewhere between disbelieving and furious. "Generally, people like their politicians to be married. I think
it conforms to their family values. A child would be ideal, too. Either way, I'd want a considerable relationship
beforehand. Wouldn't do for a Minister to act rashly." When she wouldn't meet his eye, he lifted her chin. " Which
means there's plenty of time for you to spend more time in the public eye."

"What?" she asked, staring up at him.

"Well, my background will not appeal to more conservative voters," Percy reminded her. "You're well born, well
educated. A Hogwarts prefect, and a woman with extraordinary social graces. You've proven yourself a capable
professional already," he reminded her. "Your work on the Ministry conference was exceptional, and I'm sure you
could continue to do it, if you wished. You'd have both Ministry officials and society purebloods as clients without a
second thought. And if you didn't want to do it, then - " He shrugged. "We'll think of something, I'm sure."

"You - you've already planned this," Pansy realized, utterly gobsmacked. "You're planning to run for Minister of
Magic when you're married to… me?"

"Of course," Percy told her. "Assuming you still wish to, when the time comes."

"What, marry you?"

"No, run for Minister," Percy corrected. "It'll be a job for you as much as it will be for me, you know. I wouldn't try
to convince you if I didn't think you were capable, but I certainly wouldn't force you, either, knowing how much
stress it might cause."

"Percy," Pansy said, exasperated, "every other person in the wizarding world is going to look at me and see someone
who stood on the wrong side during the war. Look at Draco," she added, waving a hand. "He's far from socially
accepted, and - "

"I didn't say it wasn't a gamble," Percy told her, "but where you see impossibility, I see an investment." His smile
twitched. "Or perhaps I simply cannot see a world without you. One or the other, I imagine."

"Percy." Pansy's voice was shaking now. "What if I'm a mistake?"

"Do you think you're a mistake?" Percy asked quizzically. "If so, perhaps you haven't been paying attention. What
better woman could I want than the one who saved my life? What other woman than the one who, with no previous
experience whatsoever, effortlessly convinced me she was precisely what she said she was? What more worthy
woman than the one who saw me, who protected me, when no one else has ever seen anything worthy in me? Tell
me, Miss Parkinson," he murmured, tilting her chin up again, "what woman could I possibly want, if she were not
you?"

"I - " She blinked. "Well, when you put it that way - "

"I am not the prize, Pansy Parkinson. You are. A prize, and a privilege." He brushed his lips coolly against her
cheek, scarcely touching her and yet dissolving her to a pool of wonder all the same. "It is I who should be asking
you, and not the other way around, whether I am your mistake."

Put that way, she could see it had been a stupid question. If not him, then who?

Who had ever made her feel this way, and who ever would again?

"Damn." Pansy closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. "Well, now you've done it, Weasley. I may hate politicians,"
she exhaled, shaking her head, "but fuck if I don't love you."

He smiled, his lips brushing hers this time. "It's a long way off, anyway," he told her. "We should be dating for at
least two years before I propose, and then a year's engagement, I imagine. I should serve my term on the
Wizengamot, and - " He leaned forward, placing his lips near her ear. "And I should know your every detail. I
should be able to make you come without any hesitation, having already memorized the details of your pretty cunt. I
would not dream of marrying you, Pansy," he breathed in her ear, "until I am able to draw the lips of your pussy
from memory, and compose a symphony from the sound of your sighs in my bed."

Pansy shuddered violently, gripping his arms. "Stop," she said, "or we'll never make it to the Arsonist. I'll have to
fuck you in the street, Weasley, and what will that do for the campaign?"

He laughed, leaning away, and offered her his arm again. "Well, perhaps a good scandal might help my cause. Look
what it's done for Dramione."

"Well, you've successfully ruined the mood," she informed him sourly, and they continued on their way to the
Arsonist, dodging the mayhem of the still-bustling streets and taking the back stairs into the Underground. "Ah, fuck
it all," Pansy declared, glancing around with a disapproving sniff. "It's predictably filthy down here. Carnegie," she
added, nodding to Daisy, "and Hawkworth, good to see this is finally happening - where's Daphne?"

"Fashionably late, I presume," said someone behind them, "which means, of course, I must be abhorrently early."

One hour earlier

"You're getting too good at this," Blaise said, falling against the pillows as Parvati shoved him back, climbing into
his lap with practiced ease. "I mean, I suppose it's not a particularly difficult task, but I'd still like to think I spent
some time refining my craft. You, on the other hand - "

"Just gifted, I guess," Parvati said, though she let him roll over her on the bed, swapping places and lowering his
head to kiss her neck. She closed her eyes, sighing, and he glanced up, watching something of a look of
consternation flit across her face. "I can't believe I told you my secret. I can't believe I told you," she repeated, sitting
up slightly to look at him, "and you're not… I don't know. You're not even - you're just - "

"Patil." Blaise grabbed for her hand, kissing her fingers. "I've killed a lot of people, and for considerably worse
reasons. Your sister's death was an accident, and Lavender Brown's was…" He tilted his head. "A rather merciful
thing in the end, I think. Considering what you saw in the veil."

"You make it sound so insignificant. Oh, just murder," she mimicked bitterly, and sighed. "I don't know how
merciful it was at the time."

"Well, I'm not belittling what happened. Truly, I'm not," he promised her, pulling her into his arms. "It really was
one hell of a secret. I can't imagine," he murmured, drawing a single line across her clavicle, "what it must have
been like. Keeping that to yourself all those years."

She held his hand still, tightening her fingers around it.

"What about the rest of it, then?" Her voice was small now, impossibly so. "Seeing my sister in the veil, and what
she - what she took." Parvati shivered slightly. "Do you believe it? That it really happened?"

Blaise paused, considering it.

"A more cynical part of me does suspect it would be a nice story," he said. "A beautiful way to find peace, to make
something meaningful out of something tragic." She closed her eyes, her brow furrowing with pain, and he stroked
one finger over her lip. "But Parvati, you make me believe in impossible things," he whispered to her. "Because of
you, the world is full of possibilities. Do I believe you saw your sister in the veil? I do." He bent his head, kissing
her collarbone. "Do I believe she took your gift back from you? Yes, I do." A kiss to the hollow of her throat. "Do I
believe your sister is happy now, and even more impossibly, do I believe that I can make you happy? I do, I fucking
do."

He glanced up, then, as he stroked his fingers over the steady rhythm of her pulse.

"You have earned the right to a future," he told her, "whichever one you choose. And perhaps it's not a
conventionally romantic thing to say, but I suspect you'll make a rather good criminal." He glanced up, smiling
slightly. "The black market is not unlike any other, you know. There is a vacancy where Lady Revel once was.
Someone will have to fill it, and soon."

"You want to open a whorehouse with me, Princeling?" Parvati asked doubtfully, and Blaise laughed.

"No, no. Lady Revel was more than that. She was an informant, a valuable pair of ears and eyes. She was a
businesswoman, too, a font of ingenuity. A patron of the more devious arts." He glanced meaningfully up at her.
"Lady Divinia," he suggested. "Or the Divinist. Whichever you prefer. Songbird would love you." He kissed her,
right above her beating heart. "She'll be mad for you. You're like her, you know. Guarded and sharp."

"Sharp?" Parvati echoed drily. "Not exactly pillowtalk."

"It is to me," Blaise reminded her. "Your body, your looks, they're one thing, but you made a fool of me, Parvati
Patil. Took a cynic and wrapped him so tight around your finger he will never budge again." He slid lower, kissing
her torso through the fabric of her shirt. "A woman like that ought to be - "

"Worshipped?" Parvati prompted wryly, and he shook his head.

"Ought to make a fucking wreckage of the world, however she sees fit," he murmured, and slipped lower still, his
kiss just above the line of her skirt. "I let my world burn for you," he reminded her, glancing up. "I gave up
everything, all the walls I built around my heart and my life and my sanity, for you. So let's see what else you can do
if you put your mind to it, Divinist."

He slid a hand up her skirt and she stopped him, holding his hand steady.

"Cassandra," she said, and he glanced up, surprised. "I'll go by Cassandra," she clarified, and he grinned. "Though
you can't start that now," she told him, abruptly sliding from his reach, "or we'll be late. You already promised to
meet the others."

"Well, I'm a liar," Blaise assured her, attempting to gather her in his arms again. "It won't be the first time I've lied,
and certainly not the last - "

"But not to me, right?" Parvati said, letting him catch her long enough for her to look him in the eyes. "Say you'll
never lie to me, Princeling," she whispered. "Say there'll be no secrets between us, ever."

"Cassandra," Blaise promised her, setting her hand over his heart, "I would sooner die than lie to you."

Her lips curled up slowly. "Good," she said, and danced out of reach. "And now let's go, Zabini, before we're late."

But they weren't late, much to Blaise's displeasure, as it meant he might have taken advantage of a few more
minutes.

"Where's Daphne?" Pansy asked.

"Fashionably late, I presume," Blaise said, tugging Parvati along behind him, "which means, of course, I must be
abhorrently early."

"No, no," another voice chimed in. "I'm right here."

Forty minutes earlier

"Isabel signed the papers before she died," Kingsley had said, sliding the employment contract across the table to
her. "It seems she was that eager to have you on board, Miss Greengrass."

Daphne wondered if she could really consider that much of a good thing, considering she'd only known the woman a
day.
"So I can work here," Daphne repeated. "If I want?"

"Yes," Kingsley had replied. "All you have to do is sign."

It wasn't until after Daphne had wandered into the corridor, though, that she realized she wasn't alone.

"So," said a voice, "did you take the offer?"

Daphne spun, wand out, and a man - one of the immortals from the Club - raised his hands in the air, chuckling
slightly.

"You're jumpy," he noted. "Must be a reflex, I presume, having spent time with Cadmus."

"You're Herpo," Daphne said uncertainly. "Herpo the Foul?"

"An old nickname," Herpo assured her. "Though Antioch enjoyed mocking me for it."

Daphne shifted uncomfortably, not sure what to say. "I'm sorry about the Club," she offered; knowing it had once
been his, and now was nothing. "And about, um. About - "

About watching him go, she couldn't say.

She still wasn't sure she believed it, even after watching it with her own eyes. She still half expected Cad to pop up,
his breath warm on the back of her neck, his voice low in her ear: Funny seeing you here, Daphne Greengrass.

She swallowed hard, and Herpo gestured down the corridor. "Let's walk," he suggested, and she nodded, conceding
to wander towards the lifts in step with him. "I don't suppose you know much about me," he ventured, and Daphne
shook her head.

"Only that you were Antioch's, um - "

"Consort would be an archaic word, but an apt one," Herpo supplied for her. "I loved him, and he loved me. For
many years."

"Right." Almost immediately, Daphne felt foolish. She'd known Cad for what, a month? Herpo had lost his lover of
nearly eight hundred years. It seemed silly to think their pain could be comparable. And yet - "I can't believe he's
gone," she murmured, and Herpo nodded slowly.

"Somehow I always knew it would end with the three of them," he said, looking as if he meant it. "It's a strange
relationship they had. Strange, and dysfunctional, to be sure. But they did not know who they were without each
other." He glanced at her. "Can you imagine such a love?"

"No," Daphne admitted, shaking her head. "No, I can't." She paused, tightening her fingers together. "What will you
do now?"

"The same thing I've always done. Exist," Herpo said, shrugging. "Drift. I'm eternally unsatisfied." His mouth
twitched slightly, in humor or nostalgia. "I lived a long life before Antioch, you know. The time with him always
made things go so much faster, though; spun out of my hands. I always felt dizzy with him, unstable. As if the
ground beneath me were nothing very solid at all." He swallowed, glancing at her. "I expect time will move very
slowly indeed, now. And the earth will be as steady as a rock."

It struck Daphne as perhaps the saddest thing she'd ever heard, but she didn't want to say so. Instead she reached out,
lightly resting her fingers on Herpo's arm.

"You're welcome to visit me," she told him. "If you ever want to - to talk about them. To keep them alive." She
managed a faint smile. "It's not the immortality they wanted, but it's something close enough, don't you think?"

He gave her a slow, sorrowful glance; part mourning, part regret, all softness.
"It's a very kind offer, Miss Greengrass," Herpo assured her, "but I don't think you should. I think, perhaps, you
should make use of what remains of your life. You seem far less likely to waste it than I am."

"Still." She stepped into the lift and he followed, standing beside her as she waved her wand for the lobby. "If you
ever need a home, you are welcome in mine. Figuratively, that is," she amended, "as I don't technically have a
structural one at the moment."

"Where will you live now?" Herpo asked, chuckling slightly.

"Theo's, for a bit," Daphne said, shrugging. "I assume he won't even notice. But I'll get a flat, somewhere. Maybe
Diagon. Maybe Knockturn. The rents aren't so bad there, even if the neighborhood's a bit suspect."

The lift dinged, and Daphne and Herpo stepped out.

"You took the job, then," Herpo guessed.

"I did," Daphne confirmed. "It was a very compelling offer, and with quite a lot of promise. Room for promotion."
She gave him a weak smile. "The ability to study all the things the Peverells themselves probably already knew."

"Well, perhaps I can stop by in a professional context, then," Herpo said. "Teach you my secrets."

She nodded, though she didn't believe him. It was a tempting offer, but she suspected she would never see him
again. Perhaps a letter or two while his heart was mending, but she knew he would most likely never come back
here, to England. She was almost certain of it, though she couldn't explain why.

"The Clubhouse," she recalled, giving into a moment of curiosity. "Where is it?"

Herpo spared her a small smile. "It's really an amazing bit of magic," he told her. "Have you ever heard of the
summer and winter castle? It's based on rumors that spread about the Clubhouse, actually. Antioch charmed it so
that each corner of the house exists in a different season. Cadmus' wing was near the winter garden. Ignotus near
spring. Antioch was autumn. Nico was summer."

"And you?" Daphne asked.

Herpo shook his head. "It was never my home."

"It was," Daphne corrected him softly. "He was, wasn't he?"

Herpo flinched slightly, but then permitted his smile to stretch where it had waned. "I made a home in his home,"
Herpo agreed. "I never needed one of my own."

Daphne paused, noticing something about his choice of phrasing.

"His home," Daphne echoed thoughtfully, and hazarded a guess. "It's in Godric's Hollow, isn't it? Probably
somewhere they made untraceable, like Hogwarts. Maybe even where their original house stood."

To that, Herpo's wavering smile broadened.

"You loved him well, Miss Greengrass," he said, "to understand him so completely."

She felt an ache in her heart and soothed it, reminding herself to look forward, and leap ahead.

"I loved him well," she agreed. "I did, and so did you."

They had loved two different men, but the sentiment was the same; the loss was all the same. All three brothers had
been one man, for all intents and purposes. To lose one was to lose them all, and Herpo reached out, taking her hand
in his.

"If I know one thing about life, Daphne Greengrass," he told her, brushing his lips against her knuckles and releasing
her hand after a moment, "it's that it goes on." His mouth twitched, with either irony or sadness, or perhaps both. "It
is perhaps the thing I know best, and I hope it helps you, or encourages you. Or at least remains true for you, if
nothing else."

"I hope you find what you're looking for," Daphne replied. "Whatever that is."

Herpo nodded, turning to leave, and then paused, opening his mouth for a moment and closing it, and then opening
it again.

"I suppose I will have to say this once, because it may haunt me if I don't," Herpo said, and she paused, waiting. "It
took me nearly two thousand years to find Antioch," he finally confessed. "I suspect I could live twice as long and
never find him again."

She nodded, swallowing hard.

"He knows," Daphne promised him. "I'm sure of it."

Herpo nodded again, satisfied, and then turned to leave, gradually disappearing from sight.

Daphne, meanwhile, checked her watch, realizing both that she was going to be late and that Pansy would never
forgive her.

"Where's Daphne?" she heard Pansy say when she entered.

"Fashionably late, I presume," Blaise said, sliding his arm around Parvati's waist, "which means, of course, I must be
abhorrently early."

"No, no," Daphne assured them, "I'm right here - "

"Daphne Elizabeth Greengrass," Pansy said at the sight of her, exasperated. "Always with the dramatic entrances. I'd
like a drink," she announced, promptly heading for the bar, and Blaise hurried to join her.

"The good stuff, Pansy, none of that cinnamon whisky shit you like - "

"Elizabeth?" Parvati echoed, pausing beside Daphne. "That doesn't seem right."

"Oh, yeah, it isn't," Daphne assured her, rolling her eyes. "That's - it's stupid, she just calls me that. Don't tell
anyone," she added, grimacing, "but actually, my middle name is Daphne."

Parvati frowned. "Is it?"

"Yes. My first name is Guinevere," she explained, making a face, "but I always thought the alliteration was a bit
much. I mean, Guinevere Greengrass? It's a bit… stupid, really. And apparently I couldn't pronounce it as a child, so
-"

"Your name is Gwen?" Parvati asked, a surprising look of cognizance suddenly alighting on her face.

"Well, I mean, nobody calls me that, so no, not exactly, but - "

"Ah." Whatever had occurred to Parvati, it played across her face like humor now, as if she knew a secret, or a
hilarious joke. "Well, do you mind if I tell you something? Some people don't like to know what's coming. They like
to live without spoilers, I suppose."

"I - " Daphne almost said yes, but then stopped. "No, actually. No, I think I'll just find out."

"Good answer," Parvati said approvingly, though she leaned closer, and Daphne, helpless to curiosity, did the same.
"I'll tell you this, though: this will not be the end of you, Daphne. Your loss does not define you. Your story isn't
over." Daphne frowned, glancing curiously at Parvati, who smiled. "There's someone waiting for you," she
explained, softening slightly. "There's someone waiting, so be steady. Have hope. Love fiercely, love brightly,
because someone waits for you, Daphne Greengrass."

"I - wait a minute," Daphne said when Parvati leaned away. "Who is it?"

"You said you didn't want to know," Parvati reminded her with a shrug, turning to follow Blaise to the bar.

"Well, I changed my mind!" Daphne declared. "Excuse me, you can't just - "

"Oh, look at this," someone behind her said. "You didn't tell me there was going to be a party."

Thirty minutes earlier

"Well, I just got Katie back home," Ron said, falling into the empty seat beside Mel on the sofa, "and I have to say,
she's had quite a couple of weeks, but I think she's going to be fine. Hopefully. I suppose it can't be worse than the
cursed necklace thing," he added, as Mel grimaced, having heard the story, "but you'll be glad to know I managed
not to mention that out loud."

"Does she remember anything?" Mel asked, running a hand through his hair, and Ron shrugged, closing his eyes
beneath her touch.

"Not much of anything. Says she vaguely remembers an island, and some guy who came to get her. Funny what
sticks with people, isn't it? Though I'm a bit more concerned about Cadell Hawkworth, honestly," he added grimly,
as he opened his eyes and glanced up at her. "Seems unfair he should be punished for killing the Snatcher who killed
his wife. Bloody ridiculous, really, but aside from lowering the charges from murder to assault, I think that's about
all I can do for him."

"Well," Mel murmured, and then sighed fondly, leaning forward to smack a kiss against his temple. "You've done
quite a lot of good in the world for one day, Ron Weasley, believe me. More than you think."

"Just don't tell anyone," Ron told her. "If I do any more good in the world, I'm worried Harry's going to have to
promote me."

Mel laughed, kissing him full on the lips, and then shook her head.

"Dinner," she determined eventually. "It's early, I know, but I'm starving, and none of the kids are home," she
lamented, referring to Basile, Kreacher, and Daisy. "It's been very quiet around here, and my flat's obviously empty,
so I need company."

"Well, we could try out the Arsonist in Diagon," Ron suggested. "Harry seems to like it, although I'm not sure how
much I trust Seamus around open flames - "

"Oh, you mean the place Hermione boxes?" Mel asked, and frowned. "Or, well, I suppose she was banned, actually,
hm - "

"Hermione does what?" Ron demanded. "How did you know that?!"

"Oh, Harry told me ages ago," Mel said. "I thought you would have known that by now."

"She boxes? Like with her fists?"

"Yes, Ron, with her fists," Mel confirmed, rolling her eyes. "Though like I said, she was banned for a bit, and then
Daisy was fighting there - "

"Daisy? Daisy who?"

"Daisy Carnegie? The American who's been living here, with you? Honestly Ron, you call yourself an Auror - "

"She was fighting? With what?"

"Her fists, Ron. Still her fists."

"But - "

"Ron." Mel took hold of his face with both hands, shaking her head. "You're a mess."

"Harry told you all that?" Ron asked, his face smooshed slightly between her palms, and Mel released him with a
laugh, nodding.

"He likes to chat sometimes," she said, shrugging. "You know. From time to time."

Ron frowned. "So do you know about his secret girlfriend, then?"

"He doesn't have a secret girlfriend," Mel replied.

"Yes he does, he's always sneaking back in at all hours - "

"Ron, you're being stupid," Mel assured him, delighting in semantics. "Harry Potter absolutely does not have a secret
girlfriend."

"Well, fine," Ron grumbled, foolishly taking her at her word. "Come on, then - "

They apparated into Diagon, taking the short but familiar walk through the alley past the bustling shops. Twilfitt and
Tattings' display featured Mel's upcoming winter collection; nearby, a shop was already frantically promoting
recreations of Hermione's custom wedding gown. Mel, in a moment of satisfaction, slid her arm around Ron's waist,
letting his arm drape casually over her shoulders. It was a moment of total peace; of complete and utter fulfillment,
and in the moment, she could not imagine herself being anywhere else.

"Hey," she said, giving him a squeeze, and he glanced down at her. "Don't go anywhere."

"What, now?" Ron asked. "I thought you said you were hungry."

"No, I mean - " She groaned, rolling her eyes. "Just, you know. In general. Don't go anywhere, okay? I want you
here." She drummed her fingers deliberately against his waist. "Here, okay? With me."

He lifted a brow, clearly amused. "Melibea Warbeck. Is this your version of a proposal?"

"I mean, if what I'm proposing is that you and I keep doing this - us," she clarified, "you, me, and this life we make
together - for as long as possible, then yes. Yeah, I suppose so," she confirmed, frowning, and his grin broadened,
stretching widely across his cheerful face.

"I accept," he told her, pausing to kiss her swiftly. It was one of those kisses that came and went easily; so practiced
and natural that perhaps it wasn't even worth describing. There had been a thousand like it before, and probably
would be thousands more, all some version of the same thing. All some subtle play on the same sentiment, which
was this: I love you, I will always love you, my love costs nothing, you can have it all, and you can even take more,
only take me with you, keep me beside you, let me be like air to you, and water, and things you need to live, only you
will not have to fight for me, you will always have me, because you have already earned me, and forever, I am
yours.

"Good," she said.

He smiled. "Good."

They were about to wander into the restaurant through the front doors when Ron paused, frowning at something.

"Was that my brother?" he asked, as what did appear to be Percy Weasley ducked his head to make his way down a
back set of stairs. "Where's he going?"

"Oh, that must be the Underground," Mel said, giving his arm a tug. "Come on - "
Downstairs, it seemed, a number of people had already begun to gather.

"Well, I changed my mind!" Daphne was saying to Parvati, who was walking towards Blaise at the bar. "Excuse me,
you can't just - "

"Oh, look at this," Mel said, nudging Ron. "You didn't tell me there was going to be a party."

"I didn't know," Ron told her, frowning. "Also, that's definitely Percy. Hold on, I have a lot of questions - "

"Yes, I too have a question," said a voice from Mel's left. "Where is Harry Potter? I have to see a man about a
vampire."

Twenty minutes earlier

"I 'ave saaaaaaaid," Basile lamented, "zat I cannnoooooot, I 'aaaave maaaade a prooooomise, and eet seeeeeems zat
you aaaaaaaare, eh, 'ow do you say… peeeer'aps not awaaaaaaare of le consequeeeeences - "

"Consequences?" Hortense scoffed. "Please. Consequences are for cowards."

"Cowards and peasants," Thibaut agreed. "Off with their heads!"

"I meant to ask you two, is this one of the Narnia prison guards?" Bastien asked, frowning at Basile. "Because if he
is, you really shouldn't just be letting him wander around - "

"Caaaan I biiiiiiiite 'im?" Basile asked hopefully, giving Bastien's shoulder a firm poke.

"Certainly not," Hortense said. "Not yet, anyway. I'd like him to age a little more first."

"Yes, true," Thibaut agreed, glancing at him. "Janvy would look much better with a bit more silvery tint."

"You know, when you convinced me to testify against Ludo Bagman, you enticed me with much more mutually
beneficial rewards than purely aging for your pleasure," Bastien reminded them, frowning. "What was it you said?"

"That it would be better for the moral fabric of the universe for you to come forward with the truth," Thibaut
supplied, "and that truth itself is a healing salve for all your prior wrongs."

"Yes," Hortense agreed, "that's what I remember saying, too. I definitely mentioned fabric, at least."

"No," Bastien told them, exasperated. "I mean yes, you were definitely talking about fabric, but it was more in the
'ripping to shreds in the throes of passion' sort of reference than anything to do with morals, so -"

Thibaut snapped his fingers. "That's right, I remember now," he agreed. "The other thing was just something I
mentioned to Cornelius Fudge in the late '80s."

"We used to do a lot of drugs. We do now, but we used to, too," Hortense offered to Bastien in explanation, just
before Kreacher the house elf apparated beside Basile.

"Kreeeeaaaachhhheeeerrrr!" exclaimed Basile.

"Master's vampire," Kreacher replied cordially, acknowledging him with a shakily low bow before turning to
Hortense and Thibaut. "Kreacher's Master the Venerable Chosen One Harry Potter be requesting yous be returning
Master's vampire if you's done with round-running."

"'ow kiiiiiiind," Basile crooned, looking starry-eyed. "'e is so thoooooooughtful, so atteeeeeenteeeeve - "

"Well, we're going to have to have a chat with him anyhow," Hortense grumbled, gesturing for Thibaut to follow.
"Janvy, are you coming?"
"No, I have to get to Narnia to make sure Gagnon is moved to a less, ah, horrific sort of place. Though I'm not sure
how I'm going to explain this" - here he gestured vaguely to Basile - "once I get there - "

"Teeeeeell Maaaaariuuus I 'ave diiieeeeeed," Basile replied.

"Aren't you immortal?" Bastien asked.

"Zey weeeeeeeelll not aaaaaask queeeeestions," Basile said with a shrug, resting his hand atop the house elf's head.
"Shaaaaaaaaall weeeee?"

"Well, don't be long," Bastien told Hortense and Thibaut. "I expect there will be riots outside my house shortly
enough, so I'd rather not go back there."

"Ooh, I do hate to miss a riot," Hortense noted, frowning. "You wouldn't have one without us, would you, Janvy?"

"Well, if he does, we could always cause one," Thibaut reminded her.

"True, true," she agreed, and let out a melodic sigh. "I suppose we'll just burn that bridge when we get to it."

"You can always go to our house in the interim," Thibaut added to Bastien. "Uncle Armand is there, along with our
dreadful cousin Lucy."

"Are they going to be inconvenienced by my presence?" Bastien asked.

"Yes, immensely," Thibaut said, "which is why I told you to go there."

"Well, alright," Bastien said uncertainly, as Hortense and Thibaut apparated out with the house elf and the vampire,
promptly reappearing in the Underground.

"Ooh, is this a sex dungeon?" Hortense whispered loudly.

"Oh, look at this," said a woman beside her, nudging her ginger convoy. "You didn't tell me there was going to be a
party."

"This," Thibaut murmured, "isn't exactly a party."

"Well, it's not a book club," Hortense said, and frowned. "Unless it is, in which case, I should really read more
books."

"I didn't know," the convoy replied to the woman, frowning. "Also, that's definitely Percy. Hold on, I have a lot of
questions - "

"Yes, I too have a question," Hortense announced, ruffled with impatience. "Where is Harry Potter? I have to see a
man about a vampire."

"Fuck," said a voice behind them. "I knew this was a bad idea."

5:15 p.m.

"Fuck," Draco announced upon arrival. "I knew this was a bad idea."

Though, truth be told, he was all talk, really. In reality, it was something of a strange relief to wander into the
Underground and catch sight of all of his friends and mortal enemies, as if to remind him that time had gone on. To
remind all of them, in fact, that the world still continued, even if the Peverell brothers did not.

Beside Draco, Harry merely shook his head, giving him a sharp nudge to the ribs.

"Quiet, Malfoy. Have a drink," he suggested, before turning to Hortense. "You said something about bloodletting?"
"Yes, hello, your vampire requires permission to bite me," Hortense replied.

"Well, if both parties are consenting, I suppose that's fine," Harry said, frowning at Basile. "You'll have to use
protection, though."

"You're confusing vampire bites with something else," Thibaut said.

"Am I?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Thibaut confirmed smartly. "The only thing requiring both protection and consent is ice fishing in the Baltic."

"That doesn't sound right," Harry said.

"Of course it doesn't sound right, little boy, liberation never does. In the ring of heteronormativity, nobody wins,"
Hortense replied sagely, as Draco glanced at Hermione with dismay, letting her pull him away with a muffled laugh.

"Come on," she said, falling into a seat at one of the tables and glancing around. "Hopefully Seamus comes down
here with food shortly."

"You know, when we agreed on coming to the Arsonist, I meant the actual restaurant part," Draco told her, though
again, he was quite pleased with how things had turned out. He didn't particularly want to be among the throngs of
people who'd thought he was a murderer this morning, only to find out he was something of a revelatory hero by this
afternoon. It seemed like the sort of thing that would require a fair amount of conversation, which was hardly ever
ideal.

"Yes," Hermione sighed, "well - "

"Oh good, you're finally here," Pansy interrupted, nudging Draco aside and beckoning over her shoulder. "Weasley,
come here - "

"I'm right here," Ron said, appearing behind Hermione. "And by the way, nobody said we were doing this."

"Who's we?" Daphne asked, falling into Pansy's lap. "I knew."

"So did I," Blaise agreed, materializing with Parvati's hand in his, "and Patil here didn't even have to use her magic
powers to do it."

"Actually, this works out," Daisy said, pulling up a chair on Hermione's other side, "as Rhys and I are leaving
tomorrow - "

"Oh, Hermione," Mel exhaled, "the dress still looks so beautiful on you. I can't wait to have Basile model my new
bridal line in my next show - "

"Did you charm it to resist stains?" Rhys asked her. "Because not to be totally uncouth, but I'm pretty sure there
should be a lot more blood on there than there is."

"You see?" Hortense said, waving a hand. "Blood is all the rage, Harry Potter!"

"Have I mentioned how hungry I am?" Theo growled. "Honestly, it's like nobody even cares - "

"Nobody does," Pansy assured him, "and by the way, Weasley, I wasn't talking to you."

"Weren't you?" Percy asked, frowning, and then his gaze landed on Hermione. "Oh yes, of course, congratulations
again on the wedding, Hermione - "

"You know she didn't marry anyone, don't you?" Ron asked his brother. "Actually, while we're on the subject, you
do know that she didn't marry me, right?"

"What?" Percy asked.

"Weasley, for fuck's sake, there was a murder," Pansy reminded him.

"A few murders," Daphne murmured, "though, all in a day's work, obviously - "

"Whatever happened to Nico?" Theo asked, frowning suddenly. "Or hell, Katie - "

"Oh, Nico, is that who that was? She said she remembered him - "

"Weasley, nobody asked you - "

"You know, you're really going to have to start differentiating - "

"Did I tell you I found out where the Clubhouse is? Oh, and I got a job, I suppose that's relevant - "

"Wait, did you two say you were leaving?"

"Not to beat an undead horse, but as for my pending vampirism - "

"Granger," Draco said quietly, reaching out to place a hand on her knee in the midst of the unrelenting chatter. "It
really is a lovely dress."

She smiled up at him, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. "Good thing I'm not one for weddings, or we might
have to do it again. Though, even if I were," she added wryly, "I think they're tainted now. I'd never have another
one again without worrying someone would end up dead or arrested."

A pity, Draco thought. Sure, elopements were romantic in their own way, but he could see the purpose of a wedding.
The reward, that is, and the privilege, of announcing to a group of people (who had somehow stupidly come to
matter) that two lives were as good as one.

"You know, I may be obscenely wealthy, but it's really not in me to be a wastrel," Draco remarked, and Hermione
gave him a puzzled sort of frown, brow furrowed delicately.

"What?" she asked.

"You still have the dress on," he pointed out. "Basile's in my dress robes, but I'm sure he could be convinced to
trade. Everyone's here, and nobody's in danger of being murdered. Why waste it?" he asked, gesturing around the
room, and Hermione blinked, her cheeks flooded suddenly with color.

"But we don't have a minister, or a priest, or - "

"Weasley," Draco said, as Ron and Percy both looked up. "Sorry, I meant the Warlock."

"Yes?" Percy asked.

"You can officiate ceremonies, can't you?" Draco asked.

"Oh, yes, quite so," Percy agreed. "Any legal binding is certainly within the scope of a Warlock's jurisdict-"

"Granger," Draco interrupted, turning to Hermione. "Let's do it."

"What?" she asked, blinking. "Really?"

"You wanted to marry me when you were stabbing someone in the face," he reminded her. "Surely I can offer to
marry you over something as civilized as a round of whiskies, can't I?'

"But - " She seemed to be fighting a smile. "But are you sure?"

"Can you think of a reason why not?" he asked her. "I love you. You love me. We're already fucking bound to each
other, for fuck's sake, so it's not like there's too many more hoops to jump through - "
"And anyway," Thibaut drawled, "you can always burn those hoops when you get to them."

"I - " Hermione blinked, flustered, and then turned to Harry and Ron. "Will you two, um. Give me away?" she asked
hopefully, as Harry immediately looked touched, and Ron looked as if his internal organs had fallen out of his
kneecaps. "I know it's sort of a ridiculous tradition and I'm certainly not a commodity, but I think if you two did it,
then - "

"And you'd stand beside me, of course," Draco added over his shoulder to Theo. "Once you've eaten?"

"Eh," Theo said, shrugging. "I mean, assuming nothing else catches my attention."

"I have the Malfoy book," Hortense offered. "I always carry it, along with a few eyes of newt, in case of
emergencies. Which is to say, it would be an official ceremony," she clarified, "ritually speaking. Though again,
when I say ritual, I do mean blood sacrifice. It's non-negotiable."

"Oh, but her veil," Mel sighed longingly. "Not to make this about me, obviously, but I did really love that veil - "

"Kreacher is knowing where to be finding the veil," the house elf croaked, disappearing and reappearing with a
crack before handing it to Basile.

"ZEES EES ALL LE BEEEAUUUUUTIFUUUUUL," Basile wailed, handing the item tearfully to Mel, who turned
to Hermione.

"Are you sure?" Mel asked her again, and Hermione glanced at Draco, half-smiling.

There was a time, he hazily recalled, when she had meant nothing to him. No, not really. He'd told himself he hated
her, but that was never the opposite of love - only a particularly small-minded variant of it. Now, where maybe he
might have seen her (or seen their past, or his own prejudices) he could see nothing but the hope in her eyes; could
see nothing at all but the future, and the days to come where they would fight (and fuck, and falter, surely) but still,
they would fight for each other, with each other. Her world was the only one he wanted. His world, too, was
incomplete without her by his side.

"Where you go, I go," she told him, and he held out a hand for hers.

"Then let's go," he said, "together."

6:00 p.m.

"Well, to begin," Percy opened curtly, facing the crowd beneath the floating candles Daphne had conjured.
"Webster's Dictionary defines 'marriage' as - "

"Booooooo," Pansy called from her seat.

"Yes," Blaise contributed, eyeing his fingernails. "Stop what you're doing immediately."

"Yes, I agree with the pretty one. Move aside, you flaming beanpole," Hortense instructed Percy, rolling her eyes as
she and Thibaut materialized to shove him out of the way. "Yes, okay, so, you two. Please kneel."

"Kneel?" Draco echoed, scoffing. "Hortense, for the love of fuck - "

"Draco, do not sass me," Hortense warned with a sniff, as Thibaut took a long, loud sip from a crystal goblet,
holding up a finger for pause.

"Okay, listen," Thibaut said, once he had drained the glass of something that was either blood or Bordeaux, "you're
both going to kneel. It's going to be romantic as fuck. Everyone else, sit quietly and pay attention. This is a beautiful
moment, damn it, and the next person to ruin it will be subject to the laws and customs of my goddamn guillotine."
Obligingly, Draco and Hermione knelt. Theo, who was standing off to the side with Harry and Ron, opted to sit
cross-legged on the floor.

"Well, good," Thibaut said, looking relieved. "I didn't want to have to take the guillotine out of storage. But that
doesn't mean I won't," he added, jabbing a finger at the audience.

"Okay, children, listen up," Hortense said to Draco and Hermione, resting one hand on each head like a manic fairy
godmother. "Marriage is sacred. It's a covenant between two people who love each other, but who can also stand
each other. Two people who know what the other person sounds like when they're chewing baby carrots, and who
want to spend the rest of their lives together anyway. Truly, a miracle among garbage."

From the back of the room, Basile sobbed quietly, emitting a low wail as Kreacher kindly stroked his head.

"Draco," Hortense said, turning to him and revealing a slim silver knife in her hand, "please take this dagger."

"What?" Draco asked, alarmed. "Hortense, I did not agree to die today - "

"Take it and she'll let you live," Thibaut supplied, tossing a grape into his mouth.

"But I just - fucking hell, fine," Draco said, reluctantly curling a hand around the silver dagger. "I won't stab you,"
he promised Hermione, who shrugged.

"Shouldn't make promises you can't keep, mate," Theo advised, as Draco turned to glare at him.

"REPEAT AFTER ME," Hortense admonished him, dragging his attention back. "With this dagger, I swear to you
my allegiance, my loyalty, and my defense. From this day forth, I will be your blade. I will keep you safe from
harm, and protect you with my life."

"Oh, that's - wow," Hermione said, eyes widening. "That's lovely."

"Hush," Hortense told her.

"Right, of course," Hermione agreed, obliging.

"Hermione, with this dagger," Draco said, echoing Hortense's words, "I swear to you my allegiance, my loyalty, and
my defense. From this day forth, I will be your blade. I will keep you safe from harm, and protect you with my life."

"And now you accept his promise," Thibaut instructed Hermione, who took the silver dagger from Draco's hand.

"I accept your promise," she said softly, and he smiled at her.

"Now kiss the blade," Thibaut commanded.

"Really?" Hermione asked.

"No, I'm joking," Thibaut told her, scoffing, "which is a thing I famously do when it comes to sword oaths."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but conceded to press her lips to the blade, then offering it to Draco at Hortense's
prompting.

"Now you," Hortense told Hermione.

"Draco, with this dagger, I swear to you my allegiance," she offered, repeating his oath, and he took it back from
her.

"I accept your promise," he replied, and brushed his lips against the silver before handing the dagger back to
Hortense, who beckoned for them to stand.

"Hermione," Hortense said, holding a palm out expectantly, and without thinking, Hermione placed her hand in
Hortense's, eyes widening the moment Hortense held the dagger to her wrist.

Draco nearly stumbled. "Oh fuck don't - "

Hortense sliced a thin line, holding Hermione's hand still.

" - hurt her," Draco finished weakly, looking monumentally squeamish.

"Now you," Hortense said, handing the knife to Thibaut as Hermione balked.

"I really don't know if you should - "

Thibaut sliced a twin wound into Draco's wrist.

" - do that," Hermione concluded, as Hortense turned her wrist, placing it delicately atop the small gash in Draco's
arm.

"Now," Hortense said, as Thibaut conjured a silken tie that wrapped around their joined arms, "repeat after me.
Blood of my blood - "

"Blood of my blood," Draco and Hermione said in unison; half in fear, half in awe.

" - bone of my bone - "

" - bone of my bone - "

" - I give you my body, that two may be one - "

" - I give you my body, that two may be one - "

" - I give you my spirit, 'til our life shall be done."

" - I give you my spirit," Draco and Hermione concluded, both swallowing hard, "'til our life shall be done."

Thibaut flicked his wand, the silk material disappearing, as it had the first time, to settle between them. The wounds
suddenly healed, leaving only thin, barely visible gold rings where the cuts had been.

"You cannot possess each other, for each of you belongs to yourself," Hortense said, translating from the book as
she read, "but while you both wish it, give what is yours to give. You cannot command each other, because you are
both free, but serve each other in the ways you both require, and the sex will be that much b- oh, sorry," she
corrected herself. "The reward will be ever sweeter, coming from your hands."

Hermione smiled at Draco, who smiled back at her.

"Alright, Warlock," Hortense said, slamming the book shut and beckoning for Percy's return. "That's it from me. I
suppose you can finish."

"Oh." Percy blinked. "Okay, well, Hermione Granger, do you take Draco Malfoy to be your lawfully wedded
husband?" he asked Hermione. "And by lawfully I of course mean the laws of the British Ministry of Magic, not the
laws of nature, which we appear to have covered. Though I'm really not sure what the magical signific-"

"I do," she said quickly, cutting him off, and then turned back to Draco. "I definitely do."

"And do you, Draco Malfoy, take Hermione Granger - "

"I do," Draco promised her, squeezing her hand tightly. "Absolutely, I do."

"EEF I WERE NOOOOT ALREEEEEAAAADY DEEEEAAAD, I WOOOOOULD DIEEEEE AGAAAAAAIN,"

Basile wept, curling into Mel's lap as she shushed him softly, humming a comforting French lullaby.
"Then by the power vested in me by the Ministry of Magic, before these witnesses, I now pronounce you husband
and wife," Percy announced. "There's paperwork, of course, obviously. There's a variety of forms - official
licensing, et cetera, I'm sure you understand. It's all a dreadful but necessary process. I believe you can get them on
the third floor, though perhaps for marriage purposes the seco-"

"Weasley," Draco growled. "May I kiss the fucking bride or what?"

"Oh," Percy said. "Yes, of course, legally speaking, you may."

Draco pulled Hermione into his arms, holding her still for a moment.

"Granger," he mused. "Can you dance?"

She sighed. "You're not actually going to - "

He spun her briefly, catching her in an effortless dip, and then bent his head. "When will you refrain from your wild
underestimations?" he murmured, tutting softly in feigned disapproval, and she rolled her eyes.

"Shut up, Malfoy," she advised, "we're kissing."

And then she kissed him, firmly, pulling his lips to hers and taking the first, blissful taste of life with him as he
wrapped his arms around her, spinning her upright to hold her close.

The League of Eternality

Godric's Hollow
October 27, 2003
12:19 a.m.

It had been a long night of celebrating Draco and Hermione's marriage; not that Harry was complaining. Theo was,
obviously, but not really. Not genuinely. He looked happy, in fact. Happier than Harry had seen him in some time,
and he considered that maybe Dumbledore had been onto something with all his love talk.

That, or maybe the whisky had done it. Seamus hadn't been particularly sparing, and by the time Theo whispered to
Harry that there was somewhere else they should go, he hadn't felt it necessary to argue. He'd simply let himself be
pulled away, hands steady on Theo's hips, and then he'd materialized here.

It was a manor house, mostly, though it had a castle-like feel in certain rooms; almost as if the Peverell brothers
could not decide which version of wealth they wanted. The frames were filled with art that spanned as many
centuries as the brothers themselves had, and the paintings and maps were clearly those that had been lost to history
- or perhaps, for some of them, those which history had not even seen.

The Peverells had borne witness to much of the world, and it showed; their library was extensive, like something out
of a film, or better yet, Hermione's imagination. Their workshops were vast, and littered with notes. The pages were
blank, though, and disappearing. Nor did they find any evidence of horcruxes, or aeva, or whatever else Cad had
tried to explain.

"It's all gone," Theo said, frowning, as he looked through the boxes of Cad's notes. "I've tried a few different spells,
but nothing. It's all blank. Do you think he might have kept his notes elsewhere?"

"You knew him better than I did," Harry reminded him. "Would he?"

Theo grimaced. "No. This was all that mattered to him." He set one of Cad's books down, glancing around the room.
"They never did love anything more than each other, did they?" he asked, musing it as he looked around, and Harry
stepped closer, resting his chin on Theo's shoulder as he slid his hands around his waist. "I feel like I should be sad
to lose them, or to lose their work, but I don't think I am. It feels like a fitting end, actually."

Harry nodded slowly.

"I think I used to worry about endings, or crave them," he murmured, his voice muffled in Theo's shirt. "I used to
always think 'when this is over' or 'when all this is done,' but now I think maybe nothing really ends."

"Yeah." Theo reached up to where Harry's hand had settled across his chest, resting his fingers over Harry's. "Still, I
wonder what happened to all their notes. All their magic."

"It's gone," someone said behind them, and they turned, finding Nicholas Flamel standing quietly in the doorway.
"The brothers had something of an emergency system. If they ever all died at the same time, all of their work was
charmed to disappear." He stared off into the darkness for a moment before fixing a more solemn glance at them. "I
suppose the brothers must be dead, then?"

Harry cleared his throat, glancing at Theo before stepping away and turning to Nico. "Yes," he said, and then added,
"I'm sorry to have to tell you that."

"Oh, I've really only been around for a day," Nico said wryly, waving a hand. "Though I suppose you'll want to
arrest me, then."

"Um." Harry glanced at Theo again. "Well, I would have to if you were Nicholas Flamel, member of the Infinity
Club… but you're Nico, right?" he prompted pointedly, fishing around for an alias. "Nico, uh - "

"Capulet," Theo supplied.

"Really?" Harry asked doubtfully.

"What? I don't know," Theo said, waving a hand. "I've been drinking. Thinking about house elves. Et cetera."

"Fine, Capulet, whatever - anyway, you're not Nicholas Flamel, are you?" Harry said emphatically, hoping Nico
would read his intent, and the other man's brow furrowed. "Because of course Nicholas Flamel is dead, which must
mean you're someone else, doesn't it? Someone who can have a life, maybe." He tentatively stepped closer.
"Someone who can start fresh. Don't you think?"

Nico blinked. "Yes, I see."

"You should look up a friend of mine," Harry suggested. "Her name is Katie Bell. I think maybe you two might get
along, and she could probably help you put your life back together. She's very nice."

"Katie," Nico repeated, and nodded. "Yes, okay. Well, then I suppose I should - "

He glanced around the room.

"I suppose there's nothing left here for me, is there?" he asked neutrally, and Harry grimaced, but nodded.

"No," Harry agreed.

Outside, snow was falling. Cadmus Peverell's winter garden was peaceful. Elsewhere, Harry knew, Antioch's
autumn would continue, the leaves floating down to kiss the earth below. In Ignotus' spring, flowers would bloom,
buds would rise to bless the sky. Somewhere, Nico had already watched his last summer sunset from inside the
League of Eternality, but perhaps he could return to life somewhere else.

To life, and to the living.

"Goodbye, then," Nico said. If he remembered them from his past iteration, he said nothing. Harry thought he saw a
glance of comprehension between Nico and Theo, though, and assumed that he did. It seemed to him something the
previous version of Nicholas Flamel would have thought to note for his future self.

"Goodbye," Harry said, and Nico was gone, leaving him alone in the room with Theo.

"Well," Theo said, clearing his throat after a moment. "I suppose that's it, then. The League of Eternality is dead."
"Everything has a season," Harry reminded him. "Even if that season does last several centuries too long."

Theo nodded, stepping forward to join him and lowering his hand, permitting his knuckles to brush against Harry's.

"This is probably yours now, if you want it," Theo reminded him. "You're from here, same as they were, and you're
Ignotus' descendent. I imagine you could have it, if you wanted."

Harry considered it. Godric's Hollow had been where he was born, and where his parents had died. Where Godric
Gryffindor himself, and Albus Dumbledore, had lived such formative years of their lives. It was strange to think this
same place had birthed so many things that meant so much to him - though, in the same moment of strangeness, he
also found a moment of clarity; of finality, precisely when he'd given up on seeking an ending.

Standing in the League of Eternality, Harry Potter decided he was done looking for meaning; for significance, that
is, which he'd spent so long trying to find in things, or places, or in people who'd shared his blood and nothing else.
What good had it done the Peverells? What had ever really been important, in the end?

"You're my family, Theo," Harry said, twining his fingers loosely with Theo's. "You're my home, my roots. My
future. This is all too much history to carry around." He glanced around before shaking his head again. "I don't need
this house, or anything in it. I already have as much as I'm going to need."

Theo returned the pressure against his hand.

"I love you too, Potter," he said, and Harry glanced at him, arching a brow. "What?" Theo asked, shrugging. "I heard
it."

Harry sighed, but ultimately smiled.

"Work tomorrow," he said, turning towards the Floo. "Should get some sleep."

"Wait," Theo said, pulling him back, and Harry stumbled, glancing over his shoulder with confusion. "I just have to
know - would you have lived forever? If we'd stayed. If the Club had continued, if none of this - " he waved a hand.
"Would you have done it?"

Harry hesitated. "Part of me wonders what I would have chosen, if things hadn't gone the way they did," he
admitted. "The Peverell brothers did have a lot of power. A lot of… means for greatness, I guess. I may not agree
with everything they did, but - "

"Because I would have done it, I think," Theo rushed out, wincing a little. "I think I could have done ten thousand
lifetimes and still wanted one more. But I also think," he exhaled, after a moment's pause, "that one lifetime with
you will suffice. If you're up for it."

Harry considered it.

"Should probably figure out what you're going to wear tomorrow," he said, wandering away, and Theo followed
after him.

"What? Potter, that's outrageous. You know I have infallible taste - "

"I'm just saying, you're going to be all over the Daily Prophet," Harry told him, continuing to walk. "I'm the Chosen
One, you know. I get a lot of press. Not to oversell," he added wryly, "but who I date is sort of a big deal. Can't have
you making me look bad, can I?"

"I - " Theo blinked, and fell to a halt. "You - are you - did you just?" He broke off, and then looked pained. "I would
never fucking make you look bad," he eventually managed to swear vehemently, one hand curled in an adamant fist.
"Never."

"Good." Harry kissed him quickly. "And for the record, I love you too, Nott." At Theo's eye roll, he grinned. "What?
I heard it."
"Fuck off," Theo said, but kissed him back, and held him tighter.

It was a happy beginning, Harry thought, leaning into the kiss.

And those were always better than the ends.

Old Black Residence

Palace Gardens Terrace
1:52 a.m.

It was late when she and Draco fell in bed together, which was by then a habit. There was something funny about
habits, though, Hermione thought, letting him pull her closer. Something about habits, and how things that were so
small and repetitive could become the foundation of a life. She remembered the exhaustion in her early days of
training; the weariness and ache she carried in every bone, in every thought, until she'd grown accustomed to the
feeling. Until every mechanization, every motion, began to feel natural. More than natural, even. Second-nature, or
perhaps something even larger than that; as if in some divine way, this is what her body had always been meant to
do. As if this muscle, or this one, was carefully constructed with the knowledge that one day, it would be meant for
this particular motion. A jab. A hook. The swing of a blade, or the curling of herself in Draco's arms.

Loving him was like muscle memory, she realized, and yet she was conscious of it tonight; of each motion, as if she
were doing it for the first time. This is where my hand goes, she thought as she placed it on his chest, and this is
where my lips meet yours. This is where my leg slips between yours. This is how I tilt my chin, so you can kiss my
neck. This is where you meet me when I kiss you, and when you kiss me, and this is where my eyes fall, here, right
here on yours, and this is where I'll find you tomorrow, when we wake up and do it all again.

"Much as I appreciate a good blood oath," Draco murmured, "I do wish I had been able to say some things to you.
Things of my own, I mean," he clarified. "Things I wasn't repeating from Hortense's big book of sword rituals."

"I'm not fully convinced she wasn't just making all of it up," Hermione said, and glanced up at him. "But you can
always tell me now, if you want."

"How about this," he suggested, brushing his lips to her fingertips. "We'll take turns. I'll promise you something," he
offered, "and you promise me."

She nodded. "Okay. I like it."

"Okay." He frowned, considering it. "I promise not to keep secrets from you," he determined eventually. "I mean,
now that we've learned just how destructive they are, I'm thinking that's probably best."

"I like that," Hermione agreed, and kissed him, confirming it. "Let's see. I promise to trust you," she said. "To trust
your instincts, and trust that you won't let me fail. To trust that you'll fight for us when you need to, and that I'll do
the same."

He kissed her, making it true. "I promise to give you space when you need it," he said. "To give you distance when
you need to be alone, and to keep you close when you want to be held. I promise to learn your tides, and act
accordingly."

"I promise to be patient," she said. "To let you run when you need to run, and wait for you to come back."

"And I promise to always come back," he said. "Because I'm your partner."

She smiled. "Yes. I'm your partner."

That seemed enough, ultimately. It seemed to say everything, in fact, to have said those words, and to have chosen
them themselves. To have meant it, without fear of consequences, and then to move forward, knowing it was
something they had decided on together.
"So," Hermione said eventually. "What are we going to do now? Now that the Club is done, and the investigation.
What are we going to do?"

"Be happy, I suppose," Draco said, shrugging. "Or something like it. Be together, I guess," he suggested, brushing
his lips against her forehead, "which is certainly close enough."

She let out a contented breath, sighing out her satisfaction.

"You're being nice to me," she said. "It's weird."

"Your hair is stupid," he replied, and she rolled over him with a laugh.

Muscle memory, she thought. This is where my hair falls around your face, this is where your fingers place
themselves in the vacancies of my spine. This is where you make me whole. This is where our lips touch. This is
where our hands meet. This is where I feel you, all of you, and you feel all of me.

"I love you," she whispered to him, and if they were lucky, maybe it would one day be a habit. Maybe she would say
it one day, without thinking, and never pause to consider how strange it was, because by then, she would have
already known it for so long. Maybe she would have the privilege of forever. Of eternity, however long that was.

He took handfuls of her hair as he kissed her, tangling his fingers in it, giving the rapture of his breath a home.

"I love you," he replied, and it was everything, and everywhere, and all at once.

a/n: Epilogue coming very shortly. I cannot thank you enough for being here. If you are craving more Theo and
Harry, check out my new one shot, Death Wish, in Amortentia. Otherwise, sit tight! A new Dramione coming your
way very soon.
 41. Epilogue: Ships in the Night

Epilogue: Ships in the Night

Three Years Later

Edinburgh Castle
Edinburgh, Scotland
October 30, 2006
11:12 p.m.

Draco crept quietly through Crown Square towards the east entrance of the Royal Palace, turning briefly over his
shoulder. Silence, of course, as they'd planned it. Everything always to the letter, as much as they could help it.
Confident now, he slipped into a shadowed passage at the base of the clock tower, bending to eye the lock.

"Alohomora," he murmured, and as anticipated, the lock turned. The rest of the castle might be heavily warded, but
still, even wizards made mistakes. This was little more than underwhelming muggle security, and Draco smiled,
smugly satisfied. "Theo," he muttered into his tie clip, "you were right about the lock."

"Of course I was," came Theo's voice. "Better hurry up, fucker. You've got less than an hour until midnight."

"Are you sure," Draco began, pausing as he stepped carefully into the narrow side entrance before carefully making
his way through through the back rooms of the Royal Palace, "that she's not going to be here? You know how she's
always showing up right when it would be most - "

"Inconvenient?" came a voice to his left, just as the lights flickered on. "Pity. I do hate to interrupt a perfectly good
heist."

Draco bit back a groan.

"Granger," he said, as nastily as he could manage. "You again, I see."

"Yes, me again, Malfoy," she replied, stepping into view to place herself directly between him and the crown jewels.
"Did you really think I wouldn't find you, Draco? You know perfectly well I'm more familiar than most with your
methods of criminality."

She was wearing the boots again, with the fitted black trousers. Her slim black t-shirt was tucked in, her unruly curls
pulled back; all business. For her, anyway.

"You know," Draco drawled in response, gesturing vaguely to her, "you could really stand to tone it down. I know
you have an aesthetic, but all this leather is really starting to be a touch mundane."

"Whereas you," Hermione sniffed, pursing her lips, "clearly won't give up on the all-black suit. You're not a Bond
villain, you know."

"Sadly, I regret to inform you that despite knowing that reference as a result of our ill-advised union," Draco replied,
"I still don't find it quite as devastating as you think I do."

"Don't you?" she countered coolly, arching a brow.

In response, he scowled.

"Is there something you want?" he prompted.

"Yes," she replied. "I want you to leave the stone alone."

"What stone?" he asked innocently.

True to form, she scowled.

"Surely you know it can't possibly do what they say it does, Hermione," Draco reminded her. "I imagine you of all
people wouldn't believe in a Stone of Destiny, anyway. Aren't such things a bit too preposterous for you?" At her
grimace, he shrugged. "Nor do I imagine I would need it," he added, gesturing again to his suit, which she knew
perfectly well was bespoke. "My destiny seems to be doing just fine, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh really?" Hermione asked, mockingly doubtful. "So a stone that permits the user to possess the content of his or
her dreams doesn't appeal to you? You could dream yourself a perfect future without having to do such loathsome
dirty work, you know," she reminded him, taking a step closer. "That," she murmured slyly, letting her hand drift up
the length of his thigh, "or you could simply dream yourself back with everything you once had in the past, hm?"

"I have no interest in the past," he replied stiffly, averting his gaze and taking a firm step backwards. "Greener
pastures, Granger. I've moved on. Your heroism is exhausting," he added, in case she might have forgotten.

"Ah yes, my morals, so constricting," she scoffed, giving him another impatient glare. "I take it you haven't changed
at all, then."

"Nor have you," he replied, "clearly. And for the record, I have no interest in the Stone of Destiny, Granger, so you
can just run along. I'm just here for the views," he remarked drily, gesturing to the jewels behind her, "which you,
coincidentally, are blocking."

"The views," she echoed doubtfully, shaking her head. "So Blaise isn't trying to get you to steal it, then? I know how
you can't resist a challenge. Stealing an impossible thing," she mused softly. "Always sort of appeals to the both of
you, doesn't it?"

"Who, Princeling? He has no interest in this. Everyone knows the stone doesn't work," Draco reminded her, "and
you know as well as I do Cassandra doesn't waste her time on fanciful myths."

"Her name is Parvati," Hermione snapped, "and she is a fanciful myth, so - "

"I'm here for the views, Granger," Draco said. "Nothing else. Unless," he suggested musically, as her eyes narrowed,
"you came to beg for me, perhaps. Do you miss me, Hermione?" he asked, letting his gaze travel over her slowly.
"Miss the way I make you come? I guarantee no man has touched you the same way since, and if you were to say so
- to confess it - " Another step, as her breath faltered. "Perhaps I might be persuaded to…" He stepped as close as he
dared, chancing a blow to his face and opting to daringly brush his fingers across the top of her décolletage. "Pause
this whole 'irreconcilable differences' thing."

She swallowed hard, but glared up at him. "I wouldn't dream of touching you again, Draco."

"Ah, not even for a night?" he asked, tilting her chin up. "Why?" he breathed against her lips, sliding his nose along
hers. "Are you scared you might actually miss your miscreant husband?"

To his utter rapture, her mouth tightened, and then she wrenched herself free from his grasp.

"Just get out of here, Malfoy," she snapped, "and stay away from the stone. If you steal it, or try to use it, I'll find
you. You know I will."

"Of course you will," he replied, smirking. "You can't help coming after me, can you, Granger?"

She positively flamed with poorly stifled rage, and he released her, smothering a laugh.

"Bye, sweetheart," he said, and she apparated out with fury, vanishing with a loud crack.

The moment she disappeared, he glanced around the room, expectant.

"You can come out now," he called, squinting into the darkness behind the display of jewels. "She's gone. She won't
be back, either - not until she's recovered from her distaste. I know my wife."
Slowly, two silvery figures materialized from the darkness, each draped in the customary ivory robes belonging to
their order of priestesses. The two of them, a set of inhumanly beautiful sisters named Nimue and Evaine, eyed
Draco with matching expressions of luminescent curiosity.

"You know, I thought for a second you wouldn't be able to resist her," Nimue commented, lifting a pale brow. "But
it appears the rumors are true. Dramione really is dead, then, is it?"

"Quite dead, as you know perfectly well," Draco confirmed, and Evaine silently floated over to stand beside him,
resting one cool hand on his chest. "Deader, even, than your ancestor will be, as soon as you tell me how the fuck
this whole ritual works."

"Soon," Evaine assured him, in her low melodic voice. "It's almost time."

"Time for what, exactly?" Draco prompted.

"The Jacobite ritual. I'll dream of our ancestor," Nimue clarified, gesturing to the oblong block of sandstone behind
the glass that Evaine vanished with a flick of her wrist, "while resting my head against the Stone of Destiny. Once
I'm asleep, Evaine will cast the spell to extract her from the dream."

"And what makes you think Morgana will be so helpful to your cause?" Draco asked, feeling Nimue's gaze sweep
across his chest as Evaine brushed her fingertips over his spine, levitating the stone out onto the floor. "As I said
before," he warned them, glancing sharply at Nimue, "I'm not here to play games. You'd both better be right about
this, and even if you're not, my involvement won't come cheap."

"Morgana was the most powerful witch of her age," Evaine reminded him in her usual half-whisper. "Greater than
any dark wizard. She will restore balance to the wizarding world, and restore our right to rule over muggles."

"And when the ritual is complete," Nimue said, her lips twitching up in a smile, "my sister and I will finally be free
to rid ourselves of our goddess-touched virginities, Draco Malfoy, and you can have your payment along with ours. I
find I have waited long enough," she murmured, her attention dropping pointedly to his trousers. "As promised, my
sister or I will bear the pureblood heir your line so desperately needs."

"Well," Draco said, clearing his throat as Evaine nodded her fervent agreement. "That… seems promising."

"Draco," Theo warned from his tie clip, startling him. "Get moving. It's almost midnight."

"Right, of course," Draco said into it, turning to the sisters. "Shall we?"

They both gave slow, contemplative nods, and then Nimue stepped closer to where Evaine had deposited the stone.
She dropped slowly to her knees and placed herself in a serene position of stillness on her back, eyes closed, with
her arms crossed delicately over her chest as she leaned her head against the sandstone.

"The potion?" Nimue prompted expectantly, cracking one eye.

Draco dutifully removed the draught from his pocket, holding it up for her inspection. "You'll be in a lucid dream
immediately," he told her. "All you have to do is find your way through the dream, and then once Morgana has been
extracted, you'll wake."

"Excellent." Nimue glanced at Evaine. "Are you ready, sister?"

"Always," Evaine replied in her haunting whisper, and then, once she and Draco had seated themselves on either
side of Nimue, she drained the potion, falling almost instantly into a quiet, restful sleep.

"Well," Draco said, glancing down at his watch, "there's only about five min-"

He broke off as Evaine suddenly lunged for him, launching herself over her sleeping sister and placing herself on his
lap with a surprising amount of force, considering her diminutive size. It took all of Draco's (not unremarkable)
stamina to hold her back, the heel of his hand pressing into her forehead as he frowned, trying to maintain distance
between them.

"What's this?" he demanded, gesturing to where Evaine sat straddling his lap.

"Haven't we waited long enough?" Evaine breathed, reaching for him again. He redoubled his efforts on the motion
of keeping her head still; a forceful prevention of what appeared to be an attempt at a clumsy sort of kiss, with her
lips pursed out for his. Unfortunately, between holding himself upright and holding her face away, Draco was rather
unable to prevent Evaine's hasty little fingers from wandering to the zipper of his trousers. "You've been visiting us
for nearly two months now, Draco Malfoy, and in all that time, I've burned desperately for you. Surely you and I
can't bear another moment in wait - "

With another burst of strength, Evaine shoved him flat on his back, taking hold of both wrists and pinning them
firmly over his head.

"Well, this is all… well and good," Draco argued weakly, "but according to the deal I made with your sister - "

"Nimue is asleep," Evaine reminded him, gesturing bluntly over her shoulder. "It may be many minutes yet, and
think - just think," she exhaled, "how you could touch me, Draco, with only a minute - "

She placed his right palm on top of her left breast and he let out a rather humiliating squeak of opposition, glancing
frantically at where Nimue remained asleep.

"Well, no, this is - you shouldn't, I mean - we shouldn't," he managed hastily, attempting to pull his hand back and
stifling a groan as she took hold of his left hand, sucking eagerly at one of his fingers. "I - the ritual, Evaine, you
have t- you have to complete the - please don't do that, I really - it wouldn't do, you know, for a servant of the
goddess - "

"Nimue is the one who wishes to be a true priestess," Evaine countered, blithely licking his palm. "It was never my
wish to remain in her service. Once Morgana has been procured - "

"Then we can be together," Draco offered hurriedly, sitting upright as Evaine gave him a slavish look of adoration.
"Right? You'll - er, bear my heirs. My, um. My necessary pureblood heirs," he reminded her urgently, as her eyes
widened, "once the ritual is finished."

"Really?" she asked, softening. "You'll tell Nimue you choose me, then?"

"I - of course," Draco assured her, finding himself well and rightly trapped. "Yes, of course, so just - so let's just
complete the ritual, and then, you know, we can have the sex - "

"And the heirs," Evaine said.

" - yes, of course, all the heirs," Draco assured her. "As many heirs as you want, just as soon as you - "

But at the promise of sex, Evaine's attention was already gone. The silvery witch turned instantly to her sister with
her wand outstretched, no longer sparing a moment of hesitation. She whispered a few words in a sing-song voice,
eyes falling shut, and as her chanting gradually grew louder, Draco took the opportunity to turn away briefly,
muttering into his tie clip.

"Are you getting all this?" he hissed, agitated. The whole situation left him extraordinarily jittery, and he did not
care for the feeling.

"No," Theo replied lazily, "I'm doing other things, Draco. Certainly not my job - "

"What language is it?" Draco asked, trying to discreetly hold the tie clip out for him to hear. "Was the informant
right about the source?"

"It's definitely some crudely modified fae," Theo said after a moment. "They were right. Some of it's Gaelic, but it's
mostly fae."
Draco frowned. "Well, do you think it's going to - "

He broke off as Nimue suddenly seized, her entire body levitating with a strange, silvery glow as a web of sorts spun
from Evaine's lips.

" - work," Draco finished in awe, releasing the tie clip for a moment as something began to materialize in the space
between the two sisters; the web, at first, and a series of threads that manifested into thicker and thicker vines, and
then, from an expulsion of stardust, the silhouette of a very shapely and extremely naked woman, her dark hair
falling in a curtain around her face.

The woman took shape in the air, hovering slightly with her toes above the ground, and then settled down slowly, as
if placed there by the palm of an oversized deity.

"My daughters," she beckoned, her voice a whisper like Evaine's, and in the same moment that Evaine dropped into
a low curtsy, Nimue sat upright with a gasp, straining for air as she surfaced from an unknowable depth. "And what
is this?" the woman asked curiously, stepping forward to reach for Draco. "Have you brought him for the Samhain
ritual, my daughter?" she asked, glancing at Nimue, who reverently fell to her knees.

"Yes, Lady Morgana," she offered, as the woman, Morgana, placed her hand atop Nimue's blonde hair, quietly
approving. "This is Draco Malfoy," Nimue informed her, "born of the pure lineage you requested. He is yours, my
lady, if you wish it."

"Um," Draco whispered, leaning inconspicuously towards his tie clip. "Theo. Theo - "

"Come, then," Morgana said, taking a step towards Draco. "If we are to complete the Samhain ritual, daughters, we
must do so before the midnight hour passes." Her gaze skated hungrily over Draco, prompting him to take a hasty
step back. "I'll start," she murmured, and then reached out, summoning him towards her with a wordless spell.

Draco felt himself lift from the ground with a strangely palpable yank, his chest abruptly colliding with Morgana's
hand.

"Lady Morgana," he began uncomfortably, trying not to flinch as her fingers began roving curiously down his torso.
"I take it you've had a comfortable transport into this realm, and -"

"Quiet," Morgana instructed, her hand sliding down further as Draco tried to step back and failed, unable to do much
other than squirm as her fingers closed deftly around his very, very disinterested penis. "Daughters," Morgana tutted,
disapproving, "has he not been prepared? A draught can be administered, if necessary. Though it should not be," she
added scornfully, arching a dark brow, "if he were a worthy choice."

"He is our choice," Evaine said combatively, stepping forward, and Nimue glared warningly at her.

"Please excuse my sister's youth, Mother Priestess," Nimue offered hurriedly, slipping to Draco's other side and
holding his arms still as Morgana eyed his trousers with curiosity, her fingers tapping experimentally at his zipper.
"He is for all of us, of course. Equally."

Evaine let out a whimper of dismay as Morgana tugged Draco's zipper down, slicing open the front of his trousers
and taking his entire cock (YIKES, screamed Draco's mind) in her hand.

"Are you ready to give yourself to the goddess?" Morgana purred, her magic buzzing distractingly around his face as
he tried desperately not to think about what was happening to his nether regions.

"Uh," he attempted, fidgeting, though the sound emerged a bit more like a near-hysterical wail. "About that, I really
don't - I just, um - "

"Excuse me," came a voice, as Evaine and Nimue turned, wands outstretched in warning. At first, though, there was
nothing to be seen from the shadows, save for a dull red glow - almost as if it were in the shape of an extraordinarily
oversized diamond.
"If I were you, I'd consider taking your damn hands off my husband," Hermione's voice suggested sweetly, just
before a slim silver knife suddenly flew through the air.

The Avalonian Order

Glastonbury Tor, England
11:57 p.m.

Daphne knelt in the small temple, knees aching slightly from a night spent largely in devotion to the goddess. In the
air, the smell of ash from the fire rituals wafted under her nose; it prompted her to a sneeze that she hastily buried in
her sleeve, hoping nobody had noticed.

Nobody had, she determined, though as she looked up, she caught sight of one of the young priestesses who had
been studying in the Avalonian order.

"Goddess bless, Sister Daphne," came Viviane's low voice.

"Goddess bless, Sister Viviane," Daphne replied, both quickly casting their gazes away.

After a few seconds, the sound of Viviane's footsteps faded away and Daphne was left in silence, staring idly into
the flames as she had done for so many nights now. Mundanity aside, life among the Avalonian priestesses was
actually a very soothing change for her. She was surrounded entirely by women, for one thing, which had actually
done marvelous things for her vanity. The clothing was simple, unadorned, and the hours spent in service to the
goddess were actually quite peaceful; contemplative, and full of quiet wonder.

On a night like this, Daphne could half-dream of resurrecting the dead; she could almost remember the faint ghost of
a touch, a caress against the back of her neck, or -

"Daph," came the voice from her locket. "You there?"

She fumbled under her robes.

"Hush," she snapped into the locket. "I'm supposed to be at prayer."

"Well, sorry to interrupt, but I figured you might want to know the psycho twins successfully resurrected Morgan le
Fay," Theo drawled. "They used the Stone of Destiny, as predicted, and Draco and Hermione are apprehending her
right now. Well, they have to get out of there alive first, obviously," he amended thoughtfully, "but they seem to
have a knack for it, so I'm not too worried."

"Oh," Daphne said, blinking. "So I'm done, then?"

"You're done," Theo confirmed.

"Oh," Daphne exhaled with relief, and immediately rose to her feet, casting off her veil. "Montague," she called, and
the Department of Mystery's chief elf manifested with a crack at her feet, looking up at her expectantly. "Draco and
Hermione confirmed the ritual was successful, so this order will be shut down. Can you alert Auror Weasley that his
team may enter now?"

"Yes, Mistress Guinevere," the elf said, and Daphne sighed.

"Must you call me by my real first name?" she asked, but at the elf's vacant stare, she waved a hand. He was rather
stuck in his ways, having previously been the Club's elf for so many centuries. "Nevermind. Go ahead and alert
Auror Weasley, please," she said, and the elf nodded, disappearing with a pop.

Meanwhile, Daphne apparated herself back into her office, exhaling with relief upon arrival. The stacks of
paperwork from her time undercover appeared to have taken up all semblance of her desk, but still, it was oddly
comforting. It was good to be home, or something like it.
"Welcome back," one of the lower level Unspeakables said, popping his head in when he caught sight of her from
the corridor. "I hear the ritual worked."

"It did, apparently," Daphne confirmed. "So when Deathstar's all done there, I'm going to need a few people on hand
to take it back to the Department and secure it somewhere - possibly in the dreams room. Can you get someone on
that?"

"Right away," the Unspeakable confirmed, continuing down the corridor as Daphne shut her door, heading towards
her desk.

She was about to sit down when she noticed a package had been left for her, the card written in Mel's handwriting.

Glad you're home! Or presumably close enough, if you're reading this. Hope to see you as soon as things have
settled down. Was experimenting with my winter textiles and put this together for you; I know you love a wrap dress.

Love, Mel

P.S. pockets!

Daphne smiled, picking up the softness of Mel's signature charmed cashmere blend and delighting again in her
relief. Suddenly, she was incredibly unable to bear one more moment in her plain ivory priestess robes; she opted to
divest herself of them instead, savoring the feel of the dress against her cheek.

"Finally," she sighed to herself, reaching around for the ties at the back of her robes. "This thing is so itchy - "

She'd let the garment fall to the floor in a pool at her feet, eyeing the silhouette of Mel's dress, when her door
suddenly opened.

"Excuse me, Unspeakable Greengrass?"

Daphne spun, horrified, as the man who'd appeared in her office doorway promptly clapped a hand over his eyes,
shutting the door rapidly behind him.

"I, fuck, I'm - I'm so sorry," he exhaled, sounding about as mortified as he appeared. "I was told you were back and
that I needed to come see you right away, but I - "

"It's fine," Daphne said stiffly. She set the dress down with a muffled sigh, opting for convenience and reaching to
hastily don one of the outer robes that sat idly on her coat stand. "You are?"

"I'm the informant for the Avalonian task force. From the Auror office," the man explained, blindly holding out a
file in her direction. "I was told I had to report to you when the investigation was closed. I can come back later if
you want, when you're - when this isn't so, uh - "

"You can open your eyes," Daphne told him impatiently, taking the file from him as he slowly let his hand fall,
permitting each eye to open individually. "Okay, so, let's see, your name is - "

She stopped, swallowing hard, and then glanced up, pulling the collar of her robes tighter around her neck.

"Your name is Cad," she said aloud, and the man's brow twitched slightly.

She shook herself. It wasn't him, of course. He wasn't Cadmus Peverell. This man, whoever he was, was older,
somewhere in his thirties, and leaner, slightly. Cad had been muscled in a wiry sort of way, but this man was almost
artfully thin, and taller, too. His hair was not quite so raven-black, closer instead to mahogany, and was flecked with
bare traces of silver at the sides. His eyes - a wide, warm brown - appraised her with curiosity.

"Cadell," he corrected her, as she blinked, glancing back down at the file. "Cad being not entirely inaccurate, given
my entrance. In Welsh, of course, it means 'battle,' so I'm told it's somewhat fitting - unsure how helpful that is in
this particular case, but - "
"Cadell Hawkworth," Daphne realized, cutting him off mid-rant. "You're Rhys' brother."

At that, he smiled slightly, the arch of it warming his face. "I can't tell you how happy it makes me to hear that," he
remarked. "More often I hear that I'm Ifan's son. Have you seen my brother recently?"

"About a month ago, actually. He's back in New York now, still working for MACUSA - but hold on," Daphne
pressed, frowning. "I thought you were…" She paused, grimacing, as she realized her own cast-off breeding kept her
from saying the word 'imprisoned,' or anything of its ilk. "How exactly did you become an informant?"

To that, Cadell glanced sheepishly at his shoes. "Ah, well, about three months ago I got a visit from Auror Potter. He
offered me an early release if I could provide useful information about the Avalonian order. Coincidentally, I could.
I've been in a Ministry facility rather than Azkaban since then," he explained, "but now that the case is over - "

"You're free now," Daphne noted slowly, turning the concept over in her mind, and the corners of his mouth slid up
ever so slightly, as if he'd heard something she'd been thinking much too loud.

"I'm free now," he agreed, and she bit the inside of her cheek, scolding herself for the little lurch of warmth that rose
up in her stomach.

"How did you know about the Avalonian order?" she asked, bluntly switching topics, and he smiled weakly.

"Three years living… underground, so to speak, is probably enough time to give anyone information about anything
if they're good enough at blending in. And I was initially - " He faltered. "The order was initially of some interest to
me for personal reasons," he amended carefully, "though I later discovered it was an unrelated group of sheltered
zealots."

Daphne glanced down at his file, noticing the brief page of notes. Gwen le Fay, deceased, it said; one of the only
legible things on the page.

"Oh," she said quietly, "I see."

Then she blinked, a rush of memory suddenly coming back to her. Your name is Gwen? Parvati had asked once, in
the midst of an evening that had later overshadowed the brief moment in her memory.

Love fiercely, love brightly, because someone waits for you.

"I - " Daphne cleared her throat. "What would you like from me?"

His mouth quirked again, slightly, and she bit her tongue, wishing she'd opted for more professional phrasing. "I just
meant," she amended hastily, "that since you're here, I presume you want, um. Something. Beyond wrapping up the
investigation, anyway - "

"A job would be ideal," Cadell said, helpfully not addressing the way she'd suddenly become a babbling mess. "I
was an Unspeakable here once, and perhaps even my more sordid past can be useful to you. I have a variety of
former contacts who might be of some interest to you, I imagine," he added pointedly, "and who wouldn't need to
know I was working for the Ministry."

"And why should I trust a criminal-turned-informant?" Daphne asked him.

For a moment, his expression faltered. "It's been many years since I've had any semblance of a life," Cadell told her
eventually, after a brief pause. "First the war, then my time on the run, then Azkaban, now this." He stopped again,
parsing his words carefully. "It's astounding, really, how much things that were once so within reach now feel like
impossible luxuries. A home," he explained. "A job. The right to exist, to live alongside the rest of the world."

He paused again; a palpable hesitation, as if he didn't expect it to make sense. "I have no wish to take advantage of
you," he said eventually, "or the Ministry. For me, it would simply be a new start. An opportunity, I suppose, to - "

"To start over," Daphne finished for him, and he looked up then, a look of gratitude for her sympathy washing over
his face. "I did it once myself," she explained, compelled for whatever reason to say it, and he nodded.

"You do seem like you're familiar with the concept." He paused, toying with his thoughts again, and then added, "I
hear you had quite a meteoric rise through this department. You know, in seedier networks," he added, half a smile
pulling at his lips, "they always say you can determine how powerful someone is by what people say about them."

Daphne arched a brow. "Oh?"

He nodded. "They say by now you're a something of a mystery," Cadell told her. "They talk about the Head
Unspeakable in whispers, as if you might be listening at any given time - which would be flattering enough, even
without the other things I've heard."

"Which are?" Daphne prompted, amused.

"Well, those who've seen you say you're the most beautiful witch they've ever seen," he remarked, as if this were
unimportant, "but I never paid the rumors much attention, because the descriptions are always different. Oh, hair of
ebony, hair of gold, eyes of sapphire or of jade, you know. Men are all poets when describing a woman." At that,
Daphne bit back a laugh, and Cadell smiled easily. "They fail, of course, to mention what it's like to see you, to
speak with you." At that, his smile faltered slightly. "I think I understand now that there are no words for it. They're
not wrong, of course. And beauty is perhaps the easiest to describe of your qualities, but - "

He swept his gaze over her face briefly, and she fought the inexpressible urge to shiver.

"The more important things. Your presence," he attempted, gesturing to her. "Your composure, your poise, it's - it's
something not easy to explain," he exhaled, "or to forget, I imagine." He winced somewhat playfully, as if he'd said
too much, and shook himself. "I just mean that it would be an honor to work with you, if you'd be willing to give me
a chance."

Daphne took a moment to realign her sanity, not wanting to respond to such a weighty admission with helpless
blithering, and then permitted a single nod.

"Well, we'll have our hands full once the Auror side of the investigation has closed and we've acquired the Stone of
Destiny," she murmured, thinking aloud, and then nodded again, decisively. "Come in on Monday," she suggested.
"I'll have sorted through this" - she gestured behind her to her desk - "by then, and we can talk a bit more about
where I'd like to have you. To assign you," she amended quickly, briefly horrified with the slip and opting to turn
away, setting his file down on top of one of the piles on her desk. "It's - it's quite late, obviously, to do so now. In the
meantime I can make sure Auror Potter secured your release, but - "

"Maybe I could see you before then," Cadell said, and Daphne turned back from her desk to look at him, surprised.
"Unless that's inappropriate," he rushed out hurriedly, immediately reaching up to press his fingers to the bridge of
his nose in something of repentance. "I'm so sorry, it's - it's been a long time since I've really talked to anyone, and I
-"

"No, no, it's - " She could feel her own cheeks burning furiously, much to her dismay. "It's fine. We could - we could
speak casually if you wanted, of course, there's - there's other departments in the Ministry. The Auror department,
for example, so you wouldn't necessarily - I mean - you wouldn't have to be - "

"Under you?" he guessed, and winced again at his phrasing. "I'm so sorry, really, I don't mean to be - "

"No, right - yes, of course not," she attempted to assure him, though it wasn't nearly as comforting as she'd hoped,
considering it was mostly rambling. "And I don't - I'm honestly - it's late, and - "

"Let me start over," he attempted, exhaling, and in lieu of a response, Daphne simply let her words stutter to a halt,
waiting. "It's been many years since I felt I could talk to someone. Not just because of Azkaban, or - or anything
before it, I just… I just haven't felt," he began, and then faltered, half-smiling. "I haven't felt much of anything for
longer than I care to admit."

Daphne swallowed, knowing precisely what he meant. It had been three years since she'd felt much of anything
herself, and this, whatever it was, was like the temptation to douse a flame with nothing but the tips of her fingers.
This, among other things, was the sudden compulsion to risk burning. It was the revival of parts of her which had
spent the last three years as little more than ash.

"I came here for a job," Cadell said firmly. "I need to remake my life. I need a fresh start. I'm making a terrible mess
of it," he noted with a sigh, and she stifled a clumsy laugh, "but that's what I came for. I didn't realize you would be -
" He swallowed. "I didn't realize how much I would want to continue talking to you, but I can - if you're not - if you
don't, um - "

"I'd like to," she told him quickly, biting her lip and managing a smile even while she cut him off. "Of course,
maybe it's because I've spent the last two months as a petitioning priestess," she added drily, trying for levity, "but
somehow I suspect it's a bit more than that."

Relief flooded Cadell's features. "So I can see you again?" he asked. She noted he kept his distance, rooting himself
in place with his fingers tapping restlessly at his sides, and she nodded slowly, fighting a smile.

"Yes," she said, pulling her robe tighter. "I just have t-"

She broke off as a crack resounded through her office.

"Auror Potter be requesting yous," Montague informed her, and Daphne jumped at his appearance, but nodded. The
elf, meanwhile, glanced warily between her hastily donned robe and Cadell's position across from her before turning
his attention back to her. "Is Montague be telling Auror Potter yous be arriving soon?" he asked drily.

"Yes, of course," Daphne assured him, hoping she wasn't quite as flushed as she felt. "Yes, I'll be right there,
Montague, thank you."

The elf gave her something of an approving nod. "Montague be meeting yous at the castle, Mistress Guinevere," he
said gravely, and disapparated, leaving Cadell to fix a strange, compellingly curious look at Daphne.

She had a sensation - though she couldn't explain it - that he was hearing the same words she was; love fiercely, love
brightly, because someone waits for you.

"Guinevere?" he echoed.

"Daphne," she corrected him, and extended a hand. "Call me Daphne."

His palm met hers with a careful brush of certainty.

"Daphne," he repeated, and offered his own name again. "Cadell."

"Cadell." She let her tongue curl around the name, finding comfort in the feel of it. "I'll send you an owl to meet
soon, then."

He smiled, as brightly and fiercely as she'd hoped he would.

"I'll be waiting," he said, and by the time the door had closed behind him, the hazy sensation of warmth had long
since seared through her, setting her alight from head to toe.

St. Margaret's Chapel

Edinburgh Castle
12:20 a.m.

"Well," Theo said spiritedly, slipping into the tiny chapel and falling beside Harry, "seems like it's going well. I only
heard one or two hysterical screams from Draco, so all things considered, I think they're doing fine."

"Think they need backup?" Harry asked, offering him access to his bag of crisps.
"Nah," Theo replied, accepting one and tossing it in his mouth. "They've got it covered."

The brief sound of an explosion echoed from Theo's tie clip.

"You sure?" Harry asked.

"Yep," Theo replied.

"Evaine, I'm going to need you to take your damn hands off my penis," came Draco's voice.

"See? Everything's fine," Theo said lazily, turning to brush his lips briefly against Harry's neck before reaching for
another crisp. "You heard from Pansy yet?"

"Not about anything interesting," Harry replied, shaking his head. "Though, frankly, if I have to hear anything else
about Percy's election, I think I might actually lose my mind."

"Nice, Potter," Pansy's voice scoffed from his tie clip. "Consider yourself sacked once he takes office."

"You do know he's the one running for Minister, right?" Harry asked her.

"What can I say? Power suits me," she replied. "I took to it like a fish to water."

"You do have a certain vigorous authority to you," Theo offered obligingly. "Sort of like a mad medieval king."

"Thank you, Nott," Pansy sniffed, "and furthermore, you are also sacked."

"Congratulations," Harry told him, and he rolled his eyes.

"I don't work for you," Theo reminded her. "I work for Deathstar."

"Yes, but with a Ministry contract," Pansy countered, "which is my jurisdiction."

"Percy's," Harry reminded her.

"Can't hear you," Pansy sang, as Montague appeared in the chapel with a crack.

"Mistress Guinevere be arriving shortly," the elf announced, just as Daphne appeared beside Harry.

"Does Daphne have a herald? I need to get one of those," mused Pansy through the tie clip, and Daphne rolled her
eyes.

"Auror Potter," she offered genially, falling into her seat on Harry's other side as he passed her a nod.

"Unspeakable Greengrass," he replied. "Not bad for the first combined Ministry task force, eh?"

"IF ANYONE ELSE TRIES TO TOUCH MY DICK, THERE'S GOING TO BE HELL TO PAY," Draco's voice
growled from Theo's tie clip.

"Is there going to be a recording of this?" Daphne asked, reaching for one of Harry's crisps.

"There is," Harry confirmed, holding the bag out for her. "One of Percy's stipulations when he drafted the concept,
in fact."

"Oh good," Daphne said approvingly. "I was wondering what I was going to get Draco for Christmas."

"Need help, Hermione?" Harry asked, pulling Theo closer to speak into his tie clip. For missions like these, they'd
redesigned the communication devices to be available to only certain people, following a nearly-botched assignment
in which Draco and Hermione had rather lasciviously forgotten their tie clips were on whilst Theo had been trying to
observe a wanted fugitive.
There was another loud slam from her end, followed by the shattering of glass.

"No," said Hermione's voice. "We're fine, Harry - "

"I AM NOT FINE," came Draco's voice. "I AM IMMENSELY NOT FINE, POTTER - "

A blasting curse went off in the background, followed by a series of loud swears.

"Draco's had a rough couple of months," Hermione commented soothingly.

"CONGRATULATIONS, GRANGER, YOU WIN UNDERSTATEMENT OF THE YEAR," he returned, as Harry

leaned away, glancing at Theo with a shrug.

"The fake divorce was even more entertaining than the fake marriage," Theo noted, taking another crisp from Harry.
"Did you read any of the articles? Granger fucking skewered Draco, and all he managed in return was 'this is very
real, I'm very definitely upset, this is definitely happening' - "

"She's much better at this than he is," Daphne agreed, shaking her head. "Though, clearly he's an exceptionally good
honeypot."

"Better even than you," Theo said with a nudge to Harry's ribs, "albeit with no useful vampires to speak of."

"How is Basile?" Harry asked, as Draco let out a yelp.

"I'M NEVER BEING A FUCKING HONEYPOT AGAIN," Draco said furiously. "THIS IS UNFORGIVABLE
TORTURE - "

"You're such a good actor, though," Hermione's voice panted in answer, just before the sound of a punch meeting its
target. "Ouch, hell - anyway, Draco, you did amazing, I love you so much - "

"Fuck, Granger, I've missed you - "

"Gross," Theo said, making a face as Draco's voice was abruptly muffled by the sound of what was almost certainly
mouth-to-mouth contact. "These two are positively revolting."

"Are you two kissing?" Harry said, leaning towards the tie clip again. "You realize you're inside a warded castle
with one of history's deadliest dark wizards, don't you?"

"If you're trying to kill the mood, Potter, you're going to have to try harder," Draco informed her. "I'll kiss my wife
whenever I damn well feel like i- ah, fuck, GET DOWN - "

"Basile's still at fashion week with Mel in Milan," Hermione said, answering Harry's earlier question as something
on her side shattered. "Hortense sent me an owl yesterd- oh, sorry Harry, just have to - " There came a brief, blood-
curdling scream from her end of the communication device. "Right, anyway, as I was saying - "

"Maybe focus on getting out of there," Harry advised, and then, at Daphne's raised eyebrow, he added, "That's an
order, by the way."

"Well, if you insist," Draco's voice muttered. "Ah, fuck. Granger, do you have that knife?"

"Yes, of course, here you go - "

"Okay, I've finished drafting the press release for the morning," Pansy said, her voice ringing from Harry's tie clip.
"So Daph, do you want me to discuss the stone in the article at all, or just the Avalonian order?"

"No, leave the stone out," Daphne said, leaning over Harry. "I don't want the general public getting ideas. Leak it to
Parvati instead."

"Why," Theo scoffed, "are you trying to get it stolen? Even when she's behaving herself, Cassandra's still an
informant for smugglers."

"No," Daphne said, rolling her eyes. "I want people to believe it's been stolen, Nott, honestly. Read the room - "

"Ooh, Blaise'll like that," Pansy said, the sound of scribbling evident on the other end. "Good thinking. He'll
definitely take credit for it."

"Draco, careful with the crown jewels," Hermione's voice rang out.

"WHAT ABOUT MY CROWN JEWELS?" he demanded in response.

"You know, I think all of this worked out really well," Theo noted, leaning back with satisfaction. "You know. Us
being consultants, Blaise and Patil taking over his mother's criminal enterprise, you and Daphne being a combined
Ministry force for good - "

"Good being, of course, extremely relative," Daphne said, as Montague apparated in a second time, handing her a
cup of tea. "Oh, thank you, Montague - "

"What about me?" Pansy demanded.

"Yes, Parkinson, you're an excellent trophy wife," Theo commented, winking at Harry.

"Nott, you'd better fucking hold onto your balls the next time I see you - "

"It really did work out," Harry said, tossing another crisp in his mouth. "Funny how that works, isn't it? I suppose all
is well, against the odds."

"I suppose it is," Theo remarked.

From his tie clip, a loud explosion briefly shook the space between them.

"Think we should go in yet?" Harry asked.

"Nah," Daphne said, shrugging. "Give them a few more minutes."

"Too many cooks," Theo agreed.

"MY TESTICLES," Draco's voice growled, "ARE NOT A TOY."

"Five more minutes," Harry suggested, leaning back to rest his eyes.

"Five more minutes," Theo and Daphne agreed in unison, both opting to lean their heads against his shoulders.

Royal Palace
First Floor
12:30 a.m.

Morgana wrestled Hermione onto the ground, proving herself to be a surprisingly apt opponent despite being both
naked and wandless. Morgana reached back, growing a set of what looked like razor-sharp knives from the slits of
her knuckles, and immediately aimed for Hermione's face, prompting her to roll out of the way as Morgana seethed
with rage and pain, thrusting her fist into hard stone instead. She threw a wild curse at Hermione, who hurriedly
dove behind one of the only remaining tables that hadn't been diminished to shards.

"Damn," Hermione exhaled, swiping at the sweat across her brow and aiming a curse at Morgana, only to have her
wand knocked out of her hand as the other witch grew a set of shiny, deflective fish-scales. "I'm starting to think
wands are really, really overrated - "

"Starting to?" Draco echoed, lunging beside her as an angry curse from Nimue shot directly towards him. "I swear,
if we have to fight one more ancient wizard - "

"Draco," Evaine's voice rang out mournfully, the table lifting from her levitation as he groaned. "You promised me!"

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," Hermione reminded him, tutting her disapproval. "Shouldn't have been
such a good honeytrap ."

"I genuinely thought I was doing a terrible job," he replied, shifting to cover her with a blast from his wand.
"Remember? That's why I needed you to show up here, to convince them we weren't still together - "

Nimue sent a blaze of fire between them, forcing them apart.

"Don't hurt him!" Evaine wailed, slamming the table into the ground.

"Well, clearly you did something right," Hermione shouted, as Morgana came up behind her and lifted her up by the
ponytail, prompting Hermione to let out a loud, strangled yell. "Excuse me," she snapped, reaching for her thin
silver knife and spinning to bury it in Morgana's shoulder, "but if you want to fight, all you have to do is ask nicely -
"

She leapt out of the way as Morgana spun, aiming a kick that would have landed right in Hermione's chin had she
not seen it coming.

"You're good, you know," Hermione panted, darting out of the way, "but you have a tell - "

"Join us," Morgana beckoned, apparently not interested in hearing Hermione's thoughts. In response, Hermione
scolded herself. She'd fought too many egotistical men by this point; she'd forgotten that not everyone was distracted
by a revelatory speech. "Be a priestess of the order - "

"Yeah, no, I'm super not a virgin," Hermione replied, feinting forward and pulling the knife back from Morgana's
shoulder as the other witch lunged, letting out a loud growl of pain. "Thanks, though, I mean - feminism and all that
-"

"Virginity is a man's weapon," Morgana seethed in reply, forcing Hermione to block a sharpened left hook. "It is
nothing but a tool by which to control our wombs, to place monetary value on a woman's worth - "

"I honestly could not agree more," Hermione sighed, ducking another wild jab from Morgana's knife-knuckles and
aiming beneath her ribs, almost hitting her loose left breast instead. "But seriously, this really isn't the time - "

"Granger!" Draco choked out from behind her. "A little help?"

She turned, catching sight of where Evaine had raised Draco from the ground, her magic wrapped tightly around his
throat.

"We could be together," Evaine was saying hopefully, as Draco's face began to turn red with effort. "All you'd have
to do is - is tell Nimue you love me, that we belong together, and - "

"Shit," Hermione sighed, and regretfully threw the knife in her hand, the blade of it burying itself in Evaine's back as
the woman's eyes widened, choking. Evaine fell to her knees, stumbling forward, as Draco dropped from the air in
the same motion.

"Thanks," Draco rasped to Hermione, pulling the knife from Evaine's unmoving body and scrambling for
Hermione's loose wand just as Nimue let out a loud howl of rage at the loss of her sister.

"MURDERESS," Nimue shouted, and aimed a curse at Hermione's chest that Draco lunged to counter, throwing up
a Protego that deflected the spell.

"That was an Avada," he judged with concern, breathing hard. "No more playing around, Granger, get rid of
Morgana - "
"Oh, well if we're done playing," Hermione said, rolling her eyes as Draco scrambled to his feet and joined her in the
center of the room, where she was struggling to fend off Morgana's edged jabs. "Just use a potion, Draco - "

"What happened to not destroying the crown jewels?" he scoffed, pulling her around to switch places briefly, trading
her wand for the knife and delivering a hard slash to the side of Morgana's ribs as Hermione aimed a blasting curse
above Nimue's head, bringing down part of the ceiling. "Don't know if you recall, but 'explosives' have a tendency
to, you know, explode - "

"Eh. Muggle diamonds are replaceable," Hermione reminded him, and he nodded, reaching down to squeeze her
hand once before placing the silver knife in it, spinning her back to where she'd been.

"Get to the other side of the room," he instructed firmly, and Hermione dove, tackling Morgana with her.

"You could be so much more powerful," Morgana told her, struggling forward as Hermione's thumb pressed down
hard on her larynx. "I could teach you," she choked out, gurgling. "I could help you live forever - "

"No thanks," Hermione said, and promptly buried her knife between Morgana's ribs, blindly thrusting it upwards.
"You know, you're not the first person to offer me eternity," she commented, brushing her hair from her eyes with
the sweat from her wrist as Morgana's eyes went wide, "but I think I'll settle for not dying today."

In the same moment that Morgana convulsed and went still, a loud explosion went off from the opposite side of the
room; Hermione ducked, covering the back of her neck and throwing up a spell to slow the rubble that began to rain
down from the walls and ceilings, sending it slowly to the ground. It took a few moments, dust filling the air, and
then Hermione struggled to her feet, leaving Morgana's body among the remnants.

"Draco," she shouted, catching sight of the single pale arm belonging to Nimue that meant his aim had been true.
"Draco?" she called again, waiting, and when there was no response, she ran towards the wreckage, aiming her wand
and struggling to levitate some of the heavier pieces. "Draco, you absolute imbecile, if you're dead - "

"Not today, Granger," he assured her, shoving aside one of the stones and stumbling to his feet, half-swaying until
she caught him, helping him upright. "Not today," he repeated, and drew a slow line across her lips, giving her a
delirious smile. "Though I'll admit, that was a close one."

"You're an idiot," Hermione sighed reprovingly, checking him for damage. "You were standing way too close to the
blast radius, I've told you a million times - "

"Well, I didn't want to chance hitting you," he said, shrugging, and then winced. Scratches, Hermione determined at
a glance; bruises, and maybe a broken bone or two, but he would be fine. No deep wounds. She held him close,
sighing in relief, and he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, one arm loose around her waist. "I missed you," he said in her
ear, and she fumbled to take hold of his jaw, hastily pulling his mouth down for a kiss.

"No more jobs for at least a month," she told him when they parted, tasting the blood and ash on his lips and closing
her eyes with a shudder. "Okay? We're going to stay with Hortense and Thibaut in Bordeaux for one month, and not
one second shorter - "

"Is there a reason my idiot cousins have to be involved?" he asked, but kissed her again, his hand closing beatifically
around the back of her neck as if to hold her there, anchored, for as long as he could manage it. "Chain me to our
bed, Granger," he suggested eventually, letting the words bleed between their lips. "I'll happily stay there for as long
as you want me."

"You do realize we can hear you," Theo noted from the tie clip, as Hermione sighed, pulling it free and tossing it
over her shoulder into the wreckage.

"Draco Malfoy," she told him solemnly, "the minute you've regrown all your bones, you're fucking me into oblivion.
Do you understand?"

He slid his nose along hers, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Done," he promised. "Though, possibly sooner." He
slid her hand down, setting it indiscreetly on the trousers he'd had to hastily re-zipper at least thrice throughout the
span of their oddly sexual duel. Virgins, Hermione thought with a sigh, closing her hand around the shape of her
husband's cock with satisfaction and delighting in his response. "Sorry so many other women touched my penis,"
Draco lamented in her ear. "Occupational hazard, I'm afraid - "

He cut off with a sharp inhale as she stroked her thumb over him, shaking her head.

"Well, say I have my own Samhain ritual I need fulfilled, then," she mused, toying with him as he leaned against
her, sighing into her shoulder. "Any thoughts?"

"Only the one. Potter'll be here any minute," he reminded her, voice muffled, and she sighed.

"So what, I have to wait?" she asked, groaning. "Being a hero has really changed you, Malfoy, and I can't say I like
it - "

"Eh, not exactly," Draco countered with a smirk, backing her up to shove her against what remained of the castle's
interior. "Set your watch," he suggested, diving one hand down the front of her ripped trousers; he slid his fingers
shamelessly under the material of her knickers and she laughed, glancing down at her wrist and leaning her head
back to let him kiss her neck. "Missed you," he said again, gruffly, and held her firmly with his good arm, propping
her up against the wall.

"YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES," her watch squeaked, and Hermione reached back to grab the pale blond hair at the
back of his head, yanking his chin up for her kiss.

"You heard the thing, Malfoy," she said into his mouth, and then tilted her own head back, indulging a moment of
pure euphoria. "Better get started."

During the height of his natural life, Armand Malfoy had been a perfect juxtaposition of humble servitude and
cultivated nobility - or at least, he'd certainly appeared to be. At very least, he'd been a talented and (secretly)
wizarding general in the employ of William of Normandy, who was himself once little more than the bastard son of
an heirless duke. Like William, Armand hadn't been born to greatness; in fact, Armand had not been born to much in
particular in 1030, but William's rise had proven to him that nothing else mattered, short of what a man took for
himself.

Armand had not known, as an adolescent, what William's rise would be; only that it would be astronomical, and
enviable, and that even if Armand were extraordinarily lucky, he would be little more than helpless to watch from a
seat among the other French nobles. At the time, magic was a secret kept on pain of death, and Armand had been
very careful to blend - until, that is, he'd prevented an attempted assassination on the young duke William, whose
useless muggle guardians had by then met all sorts of gruesome ends. Armand had tried to hide it, of course; to
obscure the truth of what he'd done, but he suspected William had known, even then, that it was his doing. In the
end, he knew nothing, really, except that William had survived to summon him one day, and when his presence had
been requested, Armand was happy to oblige.

It wasn't an insult to serve a duke, but because this particular duke was certainly contested, it was not much an
honor, either. Armand was a noble, albeit a relatively low-born one, and might have done better than to associate
himself with the dark-haired bastard who'd clawed his way to the top (during a time when such aims nearly always
skirted treason). Still, the time Armand spent with William was so much more compelling than any prospective
marriage, or even any girl Armand had had the opportunity to bed. His first exposure to sex had been lackluster; the
first time he'd seen William bare, however (innocent enough, with them both bathing in the river) had been another
experience entirely.

It wasn't a surprise to Armand, after a few years at William's side, that the young duke's sights would ultimately be
set on the monarchy of England after having won Normandy. After all, after having seized a duchy, what else was
not within the so-called William the Bastard's reach? It still managed to be a surprise, however, that William would
ask Armand to join him.

"I'll reward you," William had promised in offering. "Land, if you wish it, to fight for me. A title, perhaps?"
Armand had held back the truth, which was that even to ride in William's shadow would be worth any cost to him,
his life included.

"If my lord requires it," Armand agreed, clearing his throat, and William had smiled.

"King, Armand," William corrected. "I shall be King."

Armand never doubted it. He'd seen William on the battlefield; knew perfectly well, whether he used his own magic
to cement it or not, that he was in the presence of someone who would one day rule everything. Perhaps even the
world itself - if not merely Armand's world.

"It would be a pleasure, my King," Armand assured him, and so, at one time, he'd abandoned France without turning
back, following William through his siege of England.

William was, in addition to being an excellent soldier, a brilliant military strategist. He won England by
consolidating power among nobles and then splitting his advancing troops in two, sending half his soldiers to face
relentless invaders while he himself faced the then-reigning monarch. Armand, who would have refused to leave
William's side even if he'd been asked, had joined William against Henry at the Battle of Varaville. William had
almost died from a slash to his belly that day, which luckily, only Armand had seen. Armand healed William in the
tent later that evening, hoping he would not be killed for his abilities.

In exchange for his life, William had thanked him, first with a kiss, and then with… further gratitude. At last,
Armand understood that what he felt for his future King was devotion of the highest order.

It was fealty, and also, it was love.

Battles were won after that, invasion after invasion. It was easy, out in the fields, for them to occupy the same tent,
calling it strategy - and it was that, of course, among other things. It was many things, and for Armand, it was
everything.

Throughout the gains made by William's army, Armand himself earned quite a bit of prestige, gradually being hailed
for his own military prowess. He shrugged it off, at the time; he considered it a point of pride only in that his rise
lent him the credibility to stand beside William. He hoped to do so for as long as possible, fancifully imagining
himself a future where he would not be parted from William's side.

But it couldn't last, of course. Oh, they tried, for a time; once William had been crowned King in 1066, he'd granted
Armand a house in the countryside, but called him back to the castle from time to time for so-called private favors.
These were, according to rumor, dastardly things; heinous dealings for the crown, amid a reign troubled by threats of
invasion.

Armand supposed they were dastardly enough things, depending on one's viewpoint. To Armand, of course, they
were beautiful things; but the more the whispers rose, the less William called for him, until Armand was hardly
called forth at all.

Once Armand lived alone in Malfoy Manor - particularly once William had married Matilda (a marriage historically
considered free from adultery, which was a rather tickling fact in Armand's view) and focused his attention on
political matters and continued sieges from all directions - Armand was able to practice his magical arts more fully.
In the absence of close inspection, he was able to cultivate more of his powers, determining that if he could not share
William's life, then perhaps he could have the benefit of making a life and a name for himself anew. Armand
eventually married a witch, grudgingly bore children, and established a pureblood dynasty for himself and his heirs,
gradually beginning to pursue a foothold within the burgeoning English wizarding society.

It was during this time that Armand commissioned a portrait of himself, enchanting it as others of the age had done,
and this was how he continued to 'live,' though in fact he'd died not long after William. The King had had no such
vanity, unfortunately. For years, Armand pressed his descendents to search, but no portraits had survived of William
of Normandy - or William the Conqueror, as Armand was later desperately proud to hear he was called.

There was nothing to do, then, but exist. Exist, that is, and pine, from time to time. But no matter how fervently he
had searched, no one had ever been able to find a portrait of William, and so Armand's hopeless efforts became
progressively more bleak.

"Oh, cheer up, Uncle Armand," said Thibaut, flashing his too-sharp teeth as he sipped from a crystal goblet. "Kings
come and go, but Hortense and I are forever."

"Too true," Hortense agreed, and paused. "Unless we get bored, and then stakes through the heart it is."

Having vampiric descendents was certainly not unwelcome, given everything, Armand thought, but it seemed that
there was no longer such a need for having any sort of Malfoy patriarch, portraiture or otherwise. The small one
with the unruly hair (married to the snotty, fussy one, who was himself the son of the tired, sighing one) had made
an effort to cheer him up, offering him various new placements about the house to permit him a variety of views, but
it was no use. The longer time went on, the more Armand considered his situation hopeless.

He sighed from his position in the dining room (having been returned there, much to the small one's dismay, so as to
alternately stare forlornly over his descendants as they ate or bark his disapproval of their table manners) and looked
out over the gardens, contemplating the utter cockery of his existence just as the flames rose up from the Floo in the
other room.

"Hello?" the small one's voice called. "Hortense? Thibaut? Janvier?" A pause, and then with slightly more
reservation, "Lucius?"

"Well, they're not home," said the snotty one, after about a minute of silence, "so let's just go back."

"Draco," the small one sighed. "I have to at least drop this off, so be patient. Personally, I'm excited. Aren't you?"

"No," said the snotty one, unsurprisingly. "I've never been less excited."

"You know, it was surprisingly thoughtful of Theo to dig it up," the small one continued, ignoring him to make her
way through the house's corridors, sounding as if she were carrying something heavy. "I suppose Harry's rubbing off
on him - "

"Oi, Granger, phrasing," grunted the snotty one.

" - and I can't believe I never thought to ask," the small one continued. "Of course the Club would have had one.
And to think, if Theo hadn't spotted it, it might have just been lost in that room of artefacts in the Department of
Mysteries - "

"Yes, yes, it's amazing, it's a blessing - mazel, mazel," the snotty one assured her disinterestedly. "Can we go home
now?"

"Hush," she said, materializing in the room and smiling broadly at Armand with a broad rectangle held awkwardly
in both hands. "Hello, Uncle Armand! How are you today?"

"FORLORN," Armand replied, "AND BEMOANING THE STATE OF MY EXISTENCE."

The small one nudged the snotty one, chuckling. "Honestly, and you wonder where you get it from, Draco."

"I never wonder," the snotty one told her firmly. "I know exactly where I got it from."

"TREASON," accused Armand, but his heart wasn't in it. The snotty one barely blinked, opting instead to put his
hands on the small one's hips.

"Can we do this quickly?" he asked her, though she paid him no mind, scanning the dining room briefly and then
identifying a bit of wall space between the high-ceilinged windows, eyeballing it with a nod. "The last thing I want
to do is hear about what any of my loathsome relatives are up to. Or Bastien Janvier," he added, making a face, "who
is, while slightly less loathsome, apparently just as deviant."
"Oh, you had a nice time with your father last time we were here," the small one reminded him, setting the rectangle
down to pull out her wand. "He liked that martini you made him."

"Granger, that's because it was laced with euphorics and sedatives," said the snotty one. "It wasn't a martini, it was a
cocktail of illicit drugs."

"Mm, well, I still thought it was sweet," she told him, levitating the rectangle onto the wall, "and anyway, it's always
nice when Basile's here. Is that straight?" she asked.

"STRAIGHTER THAN ANYTHING ELSE IN THIS ROOM," Armand sighed, as the snotty one glared over his
shoulder.

"You know, she's doing a nice thing for you," the snotty one said. "Not just anyone would put in this much effort,
either. I would think you could at least show a little gratitude."

"COINCIDENTALLY, THAT'S WHAT THE KING CALLS MY PENIS," said Armand, as the small one stepped
back, positively bursting with curly-headed excitement.

"Ready?" she asked the snotty one.

"The stakes for me are immensely low," he told her, "but sure, I suppose I'm in."

"SO SAYS THE KING," lamented Armand, just as another sound emerged from across the room.

"ARMAND?" came a muffled voice. "IS THAT YOU?"

Armand immediately froze.

"ARMAND?" the voice continued. "WHERE AM I? RELEASE ME, PEASANTS, THAT I MAY THRUST MY
WRATH UPON YOU - "

"SO SAYS THE KING," whispered Armand, as the small one removed the white canvas from the frame with a
flourish, revealing the portrait she'd placed upon the wall of a dark-haired man in a golden crown, his dark eyes
widening.

"ARMAND?" asked William of Normandy, as Armand gaped at him in disbelief.

"WILLIAM?" asked Armand, his voice low and breathy. "MY KING, IS THAT REALLY YOU?"

"Come on," the small one whispered, backhanding the snotty one in the stomach. "I'll leave a note for Hortense."

"I really don't care," the snotty one said, following her as she tiptoed out of the room. "For all we know, she's in our
house right now, training the bathtub to swear at my dick in Bulgarian - "

"Shhh," the small one said fondly, taking his hand. "I love you, by the way."

The snotty one sighed, helpless. "And I love you," he assured her, permitting himself to be pulled from the room as
Armand continued to stare wordlessly at the King, who stared back at him.

"I HAVE MISSED YOU, OLD FRIEND," William said softly, and Armand felt his painted pulse stutter and race,
driven from shock to disbelief to the aching realization of time passed, and the warmth of time yet awarded.

"AND I YOU," Armand said, swallowing hard before reverently adding, "I HAVE LOOKED FOR YOU A LONG
TIME, MY KING."

"IS THIS REAL, THEN?" William asked him. "ARE WE FINALLY TO BE PERMITTED OUR LIFE
TOGETHER?"

"SO IT WOULD SEEM," Armand noted, thunderstruck by the consequence of fortune and delivered, for a moment,
to a long breath of awe.

Perhaps the small one was owed some gratitude after all.

After he gave it to the King first, of course.

"ARMAND," William said, gaze falling lustily on his. "IS MY SHIP READY FOR LAUNCH?"

"IT HAS LONG BEEN READY FOR YOU, MY KING," Armand promised, permitting a low bow, and to that,
William smiled.

"THEN ARMAND," said William of Normandy, "AT LONG LAST, LET US FINALLY BRING IT HOME, AND
DOCK IT IN YOUR HARBOR."

And Armand, who could not have wished for anything more, felt at last that the world was precisely as it was meant
to be.

FIN

a/n: Do not—I repeat, do not, under any circumstances—permit me to write fanfiction about William the Conqueror
and Armand Malfoy. That being said, this story was wild amounts of fun; thank you endlessly for letting me do my
thing and coming along for the ride.

Edited 8/6/2018 to add: a Cadell x Daphne one-shot (with appearances from Deathstar and friends) is now
available in my Amortentia collection as chapter 102, Convenient Ways to Kill a Man.

Find me on Tumblr with questions/thoughts, and to keep an eye on future projects, including my original work. On
Spotify, the official How to Win playlist is available, should you wish to have a listen. As always, if you enjoyed this
story, I would be immensely grateful should you wish to recommend to any friends/groups/blogs; it is always nice to
know my work has been appreciated, and please know that I am incredibly indebted to you for your support.

And now, moving forward, my next Dramione WIP: Paradox. The summary is as follows:

Draco Malfoy wakes up one night to find Hermione Granger in his bed. But she's really not Hermione Granger at
all, is she? Dramione, Year 7, Deathly Hallows AU.

I'd explain more, but I think this one you have to go in a bit blind to get the full impact of the plot. The story is now
available to follow, should you wish to do so, and I've left a little preview here as chapter 42. Hope to see you there!

As ever, it has been an honor to put these words down for you; I sincerely hope you enjoyed the story.

xx Olivie
 42. Paradox Preview

Paradox Preview

a/n: And now for a brief look at my next WIP, Paradox.

Draco Malfoy woke up at precisely 12:07 a.m. to a set of overlarge brown eyes and tickle of something soft beneath
his nose, prompting a sneeze that was immediately followed by a frantic scream (his own, unfortunately).

"Shh," warned the unwelcome intruder, smothering his mouth with her palm. "You'll wake someone."

"Getoiergioffgme," Draco muttered indignantly, glaring up at her. Mudblood legend and Potter-loving idiot
Hermione Granger was straddling him in bed, wearing a set of those muggle jeans she apparently loved—tighter
than he'd ever seen her wear, but that was an observation that would decidedly have to wait—and a shirt made of
soft grey material that drifted unpleasantly above his bare torso. She raised one brow, pursing her lips; a warning.

"Don't scream," she whispered, and he felt something cold slip against the sharply pebbled flesh of his abdomen. "If
you do, I promise, I'll leave a mark."

"Whaatuiyifrfuck?" Draco demanded, feeling his eyes widen as he took stock of what, exactly, she'd so casually
pressed into his stomach. "Isiyqfwirvbljknyyf?"

"Yes, it is a knife," Granger replied, looking pleased. "Good on you for noticing, Malfoy."

He made a face—Fuck you, he thought furiously, since she didn't seem to be willing to let him say it out loud—and
she narrowed her eyes. "Promise not to scream?"

He nodded. She slowly retracted her hand and he jerked up, reaching for his wand.

"Ah-ah-ah, nope," Granger said quickly, shoving him down and then shifting the knife's edge from his stomach to
his neck, holding it directly beneath the bone of his jaw. "My fault," she permitted, breathing heavily as she grinned.
"I suppose I didn't give you explicit enough instructions."

She leaned forward, her hair tickling his chin as she spoke in his ear. "If you move," she whispered, "if you breathe,
if you say anything, if you try anything, I will stab you in the chest, pull apart your ribs, and feed your heart to the
peacocks outside." Then she leaned back, satisfied, and spared him an expectant look of finality. "Got it?"

"Fucking hell, Granger," Draco exhaled with difficulty, his heart pounding in his chest. "What on earth happened to
you?"

"I need your help," she replied, glancing around, "right now. We need to get out, firstly, and then I'll explain
everything—"

"Like hell you will," Draco retorted gruffly. "I'm not going anywhere with you, you—" He paused, flustered. "You
intolerable little mudblood—"

"What does that mean?" Granger demanded, and scowled. "Whatever it is," she sniffed decisively, "I certainly don't
like your tone."

"Where's Potter?" Draco pressed, ignoring her. "And Weasley? Are they here?" His pulse quickened at that, finally
registering what her presence in his house could mean. "Because if they are—"

Granger frowned. "Who?"

"Potter and Wea-" He stopped. "What do you mean who?"

"Potter?" she echoed, blinking. "Wait, do you mean Harry Potter?" She sat back, quietly marveling. "Am I friends
with him here?"

Draco gaped at her. "Are you friends with—" He faltered. "Did you just say—"

She sighed impatiently. "I told you I would explain everything," she reminded him, "but we have to get out. There's
something we have to find."

"What do we have t- no. No. You know what?" Draco interrupted himself. "I don't know what you're playing at,
Granger, but I'm not just going to entertain diabolical guessing games from you all night. In case you've managed to
forget, I hate you," he reminded her, "and secondly, the Dark Lord is living in my fucking house, so I really don't
think you can afford to—"

"Dark Lord?" Granger repeated vacantly. "Who?"

"What?" Draco asked, and grimaced. "No, I can't—seriously, I mean it, I physically can't," he snapped, as she made
a face, obviously skeptical. "Even if I were buying into your little game—which I'm not," he added scornfully, "I
can't say his name. There's a taboo."

"Oh, are you talking about Grindelwald?" Granger asked. "And what's a taboo?"

Draco opened his mouth to answer and then, thinking better of it, permitted himself to go limp beneath her blade.
"Actually, just stab me," he muttered, exasperated. "Seems easier."

"God, you're difficult," she groaned, redoubling her efforts on the knife at his throat and prompting him to inhale
sharply. "And apparently this happens to you often," she added, glancing down at his chest with something he might
have flattered himself into thinking was curiosity, had he not known better.

"What?" he asked gruffly. "Being awoken by Gryffindor idiots in the middle of the night? No, frankly, that's new—"

"No, getting stabbed," she corrected, running a hand over the lines of his Sectumsempra scar. He shivered a little at
her touch, hoping desperately that she wouldn't notice; luckily, she didn't seem to, or if she had, she clearly didn't
care. "This looks bad."

"It was," Draco grunted. "And you know what it's from, Granger, so I don't know why you're—"

"Listen," she cut in, rolling her eyes. "If I explain myself, will you be less annoying?"

"No promises," Draco muttered, though at her menacing lean towards him, he shrank back against his pillows.
"Fine, yes," he sighed. "Tell me what's going on and I'll be—I don't know." He offered as close a motion to
shrugging as he could manage while pinned beneath her. "Better, I guess."

"Better?" she echoed doubtfully.

"I'll ask fewer questions," he clarified, and she shrugged.

"Close enough. Well," she began, clearing her throat, "I'm Hermione Granger."

He rolled his eyes. "I know that—"

"I'm not that Hermione Granger," she cut in, annoyed. "Whoever she is."

Draco frowned. "So are you—is this Polyjuice, then? Or—"

"I don't know what that is," she informed him bluntly, "because where I come from, I'm not magic. Well, I am," she
clarified, "or I should be, anyway, but according to—" She broke off, shaking herself of whatever she'd been about
to say. "There's some guy named Grindelwald in charge, apparently, and so I'm not allowed to become a witch."

Draco swallowed cautiously, feeling the edge of her knife once again tease at the arch of his throat. "So where
exactly is it that you're from?" he asked, abruptly finding his mouth quite dry.

She tilted her head, considering it. "I think it's technically a parallel universe. It looks like this," she added, gesturing
around. "Same world, really. Just—totally different, also."

"So apparently Hermione Granger without magic is a total psychopath, then," Draco noted, gesturing to the knife.
"Do I have that part right?"

"I'm not a psychopath," she informed him. "I'm perfectly capable of empathy, I just choose to discard it. Logically,"
she added, as if she felt he needed the clarification.

"Comforting," he scoffed.

"The thing is, I have to steal something," she said. "And I don't have a lot of time—I made a deal with someone."
She shifted slightly, holding up a small silver pocket watch. "This thing," she explained, "is what lets me travel back
and forth. Well, it let me go forth," she clarified. "I assume it will work the same way going back, though I haven't
exactly tried it yet."

"And what is it you're trying to steal?" Draco asked, the gears in his head not turning quite fast enough to process
what was happening.

But then there was a shout from downstairs, and immediately, they both froze.

a/n: Chapter 1 is available for you to follow as of about oh, five minutes ago. Thank you for reading, and hope you
enjoy!