eng ch 3

Love In A Time Of The Zombie Apocalypse
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/28137807.
Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Character: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, Neville
Longbottom, Blaise Zabini, Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Black Malfoy,
Padma Patil, Original Characters, Rufus Scrimgeour
Additional Tags: Angst, scientist Draco, Post-Apocalyptic, Children in Dangerous
Situations, Draco is a BAMF, Horror, Original Character(s), Hermione is
a BAMF, Harry is a BAMF, Guns, BAMFs galore, Gun Violence, Medical
Procedures, Blood and Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder -
PTSD, Explicit Sexual Content, flirtatious southern gentlemen, no one is
safe, Researcher Hermione, Post-Voldemort, non-consensual fruit
molestation, Despots, Mental Health Issues, children facing trauma,
Zombies, Double-stranded RNA Activated Caspase Oligomerizer,
misnomered sex dungeon, purebloods in therapy, Pregnancy,
Attempted Sexual Assault, Bond villaining, Questionable Neuroscience,
mortal combat, Slow Burn, audiofic, trauma-bonding, more like 3 fics in
1, HEA, Light Bondage, wizarding folk without their wands, hyper-
competent MCs, Courtroom Drama, Exposition, Redeemed Draco,
Deflowering, Emotional Sex, significant epilogue, rebuilding themes,
Domestic Dramione, slutty cream puffs, Ensemble Cast, Draco
speaking Russian, Werewolf, pet frogs, Beelzebub the Hellhound,
Malfoy Manor, wizarding folk with guns, Hurt/Comfort, Shower Sex,
integrated muggles and magicals
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of Love In A Time Of The Zombie Apocalypse Universe
Stats: Published: 2020-12-17 Completed: 2022-01-21 Chapters: 84/84 Words:
355784

by rizzlewrites
Summary
After Voldemort, there was this. The clock is ticking to create a cure to the unimaginable
horror that currently grips the world. Hermione finds herself unwillingly allied with the
most hated man in Wizarding Britain. (Alternate ending: 'La Vie En Rose', Audiobook by
ETL.Echo.Audiobooks).
Release
Chapter Summary
Harry and Hermione perpetrate a high risk, jail-break.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Author's Notes
This story was previously on FFnet for a number of years before I moved it across to A03. Just a
quick note to remind readers that the story was written over 10 years, so please excuse any
repetitive exposition and long-windedness. The experience of reading it as a WIP is probably very
different to reading it all in one go. I figure it's kinda like binging an entire show on Netflix, rather
than waiting for weekly episodes and allowing for breaks between seasons.
17/12/2020 - I've decided to swap Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt, as the latter just makes more sense
as Minister for Magic in the story.
22/02/2021 - Because I am the LAMEST EVER, I have decided to SWAP THEM BACK. Sorry,
sorry! This decision was made after receiving constructive feedback from readers which pretty
much said that people had gotten used to imagining Scrimgeour in the role and it would be jarring
to replace him at such a late stage. I have not decided yet what to do about Desmond (whose scenes
I have replaced with Anatoli).
03/03/2022 - OK, Desmond is gone! RIP Draco's temporary butler!
Audiobook on Spotify
Is now complete (by ETL ECHO)
"Do you really think he's still alive?"
"Well, my sensor spell is very clearly picking up someone in the lower ground."
"Someone?"
"Yes. Someone alive. And as expected, it looks like we can't Apparate in. Seamus' wards are
holding, Harry."
"Finnegan ended up being a deft hand at the ol' swish and flick after all… I guess it's the front
door, then? How come no one's realised he's been here all this while?"
"Everyone's dead. There was simply no one left to remember."
"Do you reckon he has absolutely no idea what's been happening?"
"I don't know. It's possible. Solitary confinement is rather, well, solitary."
"You're sure you want to do this? Scrimgeour will have our heads. Well, more mine than yours. He
actually needs your head."
"He'll understand. And please, Harry, no more chainsaw hex at close quarters? The mess took days
to wash out of my hair last time."
"I rather like that hex…"
"I know you do, Harry."
"I invented it, you know."
"Yes, Harry."
"On the count of three?"

"Let's."
"One, two, three. REDUCTO!"
The front doors to Azkaban prison exploded open.
Dust, mortar and bits of pulverised wood bloomed up in the air to form a noxious cloud. It still
wasn't thick enough to prevent the smell of concentrated death and decay from hitting Harry and
Hermione like a battering ram. The scent was strong enough to taste. Coughing and covering their
mouths and noses with their forearms, wands held aloft, they entered the dark foyer.
Harry cast lumos.
There were no teeming hordes. No ravenous undead to fend off. Well, that wasn't exactly accurate
—there were ravenous undead, they were just in such an emaciated and weakened state that most
had been reduced to half-eaten, moaning, twitching torsos on the ground. In the absence of fresh
meat, they had cannibalised each other.
The ones left uneaten were now completely unanimated; vestigial brain functions long gone.
Azkaban had not been spared from the outbreak, but during the worst of it, Warden Seamus
Finnegan had made the call to release as many prisoners as possible before sealing the front doors
and containing what was inside on the inside. That included himself and five remaining prison
guards who were still human and very much alive the last time they had communicated with the
Ministry. Now there was no one. There was just the dark, death and the familiar gut-churning
smell. The smell permeated everything.
Hermione cast the Sensor Spell again, which manifested as condensed, red-gridded blueprints.
There, in Sub Basement C, Azkaban's state of the (magical) art, completely automated, maximum
security wing, was Prisoner E5673. He showed up as a luminous blue, pulsating dot.
They took the stairs. Harry first, with Hermione following behind. There was a small, unexpected
welcoming party in the stairwell—two former prison-guards who still looked rather fresh.
Hermione didn't have time to think about the horrors the pair had probably endured, attempting to
survive the hell of being trapped in a building with two hundred newborn zombies, at least a dozen
of which had been former colleagues. They'd done well to survive, for a time.
Harry eventually took the head off the male guard, who was naked with its stomach gaping open,
and who still kept coming at them. A kick saw the headless torso topple over the railing, landing
with a wet noise in the landing of Sub-Basement A.
The female guard lurched forward toward Hermione. It still wore its uniform, a badge and a blue
hair barrette, though seemed to be missing most of its face and an arm. Its slack mouth opened
hideously wide due to a dislocated, misaligned jaw. A spasming hand reached for Hermione's face.
"Incendio." The thing dropped to its knees loudly enough to crack bone, screeching and tearing at
its clothing as it burned.
"You OK?" Harry called. He was halfway down the stairs.
No, of course not. She would never be ok. Not ever again.
"Yes!" Hermione called back, stepping around the twitching, burning zombie.
They found Draco Malfoy three floors below, housed within a steel-rimmed glass cube — one of
Seamus' designs. He was seated at a small desk and he was reading.
Reading.
Hermione could have hated him for that alone.
For a goodly minute, he stared at them while they stared at him. It was a study in ironic, almost
comical contrasts. The convicted murderer looked rather civilised, almost genteel. He was well-
shorn and tidy in plain black robes. Then there was the rather bedraggled, bearded and slightly
manic-eyed Harry. Beside him was Hermione, liberally covered in dust, soot and why yes, that
had to be viscera in her hair, didn't it?
At the far end of Malfoy's cell were bookshelves groaning under the weight of books. Inexplicably,
she felt the hot sting of tears. Last year, she could have plucked her favourite piece of Muggle
fiction off a shelf at her parents' current residence in Australia, curled up in front of the fireplace in
their den and read until the sun came up.
That was then. It felt like a lifetime ago. Now, most of the world had turned upside down. What
was still right side up was burning. The idea of stories and happy endings seemed so alien and
indulgent.
And here he was. Draco Malfoy. Reading.
Hermione's attention abruptly returned to the situation at hand when Malfoy shut his book with a
loud snap. He stood, looking markedly taller, paler and thinner than she remembered. She observed
the small frown that appeared at his brow. A normal person would have demanded to know what
the hell was going on aboveground that made it impossible for anyone to check on him in months.
But Malfoy was anything but normal. You didn't keep 'normal' in this kind of prison.
Malfoy's eyes catalogued everything with a neat, precise hunger; scanning all the details presented
to him. His gaze eventually stopped at her. A cold smile transformed his face from discreetly
curious to calculating.
"Visitors. My, it has been a while." The words were light, but there was tension. His adult voice
was soft and sibilant, with just the traces of the familiar timbre Hermione recalled from their youth.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You might want to stand back, Malfoy," Harry said raising his wand, but Hermione put a stalling
hand on his arm.
"Remember what Seamus said when they built the prototype?" she reminded Harry. "We can hear
him, but he can't hear anything from inside the cube. Use the communication box."
"The what?"
Both Malfoy and Hermione pointed to it at the same time—a small metal box recessed into a
corner of the cube. There was a slot at the bottom big enough for Hermione to feed through rolled
up, back-copies of the Daily Prophet and The Guardian.
"What's that for?" Harry asked.
"For proof. Would you believe us?"

Harry grunted. "Probably not. Good thinking."
Not in any great hurry, Malfoy retrieved the broadsheets and scanned them. His frown deepened
and. At one point, he stopped blinking altogether. When he looked up, however, his face was
utterly impassive. Hermione hadn't been sure what to expect. Shock, certainly. Perhaps even an
attempt at dark humour. But this ambivalence angered her. Of course he cared. He had to care.
Hermione tried to scry for evidence of this and couldn't seem to find any.
She pressed the button on the communication box and spoke. "Given that the virus originated here,
we've been the worst hit, so the UK and Scotland are currently cut off from Europe and the rest of
the world. Africa, South America, Central, West and North Asia are war zones. North and South
America are about to follow suit. So far, only South East Asia, Australia, New Zealand and pockets
of Oceania are reporting the greatest success in isolating their Infected."
Malfoy processed all this. "Well that would explain why Warden Finnegan hasn't come to see me
in such a long while. Tell me, has he shuffled off this mortal coil? Pun intended, provided these
creatures are of the shuffling variety?"
Seamus Finnegan. Warden of Azkaban. Married to Lavender Brown, deceased. Two children,
Timothy, aged five, deceased. And oh—what was her name? The little one? Hermione dredged up
a memory of a Seamus striding into the Ministry one morning carrying a little girl with blonde hair
and cornflower-blue eyes.
Emily. Also deceased.
It was important to Hermione that she remembered all the names. The two guards they dispatched
minutes ago had been somebody's 'people'. Were they remembered?
She ignored Malfoy's question about Seamus. His other question was much more pertinent. "These
creatures are slow and not terribly strong as more time passes, but then their strength has always
been in their numbers. And unfortunately, the Infected in the UK outnumber us thanks to the
original outbreak wave."
"And how many did you incinerate on your way down here?"
"Not nearly so many that we can afford to waste time talking about this. You need to come with
us."
"Why?"
Harry made an impatient noise and took over at the box. "The Americans are planning a nuclear
strike over London. Frankly, we're lucky it hasn't already happened. What's left of the British
Muggle government has managed to convince the American President to give the magical
community time to bring the situation under control here."
Malfoy laughed. "Are you trying to tell me that this—" he gestured towards Harry and Hermione
—"this is some kind of rescue? Frankly, Potter, I'm touched."
"During the war, you were briefly allied with a wizard who previously worked in virology at the
Massachusetts Institute of Technology in the US, weren't you?"
Malfoy was surprised at the turn in conversation, but didn't miss a beat. "Yes. Hendry Tan. Mad as
a March hare, but undeniably brilliant."
"You killed him. If he was alive, we wouldn't need you." Hermione said, tightly.
"He killed himself, Granger. I just didn't stop him." His grey stare bored into her. "And pray tell
why do you have need of me?"
Hermione sucked in a breath and counted to five before she shoved Harry aside and pressed the
button once more. She'd rehearsed all this with Harry already, but the reality of actually having to
converse with Draco Malfoy, war criminal, terrorist and murderer, was something you could never
prepare for. No doubt the fact she'd known him since he was squeaky-voiced and shorter than her,
added to her anxieties. It seemed a travesty that such an evil, loathsome person was needed to bring
about such good.
"Your task was to create an additional line of funding for Voldemort's cause by selling potion
patents to pharmaceutical companies, yes?"
Malfoy had moved to sit on the edge his desk, arms folded. The long parting in his robes widened,
revealing a pair of slim, black trousers. Every other prisoner in Azkaban wore bright orange. Trust
Malfoy to have struck some kind of deal to avoid what he probably perceived to be an
unfashionable fate. Or maybe it was just that maximum security inmates adhered to a different set
of rules? After all, they didn't socialise with the rest of the inmate community.
In any case, there was no sign of the pompous little bully and fledgling sociopath who never went
anywhere without Crabbe and Goyle. The bully had grown into a man with blood on his hands.
And not the kind that currently stained Hermione's jeans and canvas jacket.
"You Muggles, with your science and technology and your much vaunted human ingenuity.
Voldemort spotted a lucrative, untapped market," he said.
There was a muffled crash from the direction of the stairwell. Harry and Hermione glanced at the
exit. Nothing came through. Malfoy, not being able to hear anything external to his cell, followed
their line of sight. He also observed Harry checking his wristwatch and giving Hermione a pointed
look.
"So you tried selling magical cures to Muggles," Hermione concluded, speaking faster now.
"Synthesised magical cures, Granger. That was our job—to convert the magical to the mundane."
"You and Tan synthesized one of your potions into a serum. An antivirus. Do you remember what
it was called?"
They had to confirm what American Wizarding intelligence had surmised, after going through
every line of Draco Malfoy's ministry files. Otherwise, Malfoy was of no use to them free. She
wondered if he knew his life was at stake. If he couldn't help their cause, they would leave him
there.
For a moment, it looked like he wasn't going to humour her by continuing the conversation, but
then he replied. "Tan named it after me. Double-stranded RNA Activated Caspase Oligomerizer."
Hermione couldn't help it. Her heart leaped a little. Here, at last, was hope after so many weeks of
failure in the laboratory.
"D.R.A.C.O," Hermione said, swallowing the lump in her throat. Harry hated calling it that, but the
longer version continually defeated him. "We need you to tell us how to make D.R.A.C.O so I can
combine it with a standard Regeneration Potion."
"Why?"
She was blunt. "To save the world."
One floor up, there was the sound of furniture scraping along the floor.
"Hermione…"
Malfoy left his perch at his desk and stood before her, separated by four-inch thick, enchanted
glass. He put his hand against the glass, to the left of her face. She tilted her head upwards to meet
his stare. It took effort, but she managed to resist the urge to step backwards. He was contained, but
still crowded her.
"And what do I get in return, Mudblood?"
Harry marched over to the communication box. "You get to live, you bastard! We could just as
easily leave you here to rot!"
Malfoy chuckled. "Potter, the spells that automate my air supply, artificial sunlight, the delivery of
my food and the elimination of my waste will likely outlast us both. I'm probably safer in here than
you are out there."
"Caged like an animal, you mean?"
"We're all animals," Malfoy replied. "Some of us simply belong to a higher stratum than others."
At this, he stared at Hermione. "Where is Weasley? Don't tell me he's succumbed? Did you have
the heart to put him out of his misery or has his mother got him tied to a peg in the backyard of that
lean-to he calls a home?"
Harry growled and slammed the side of his fist against the glass, which shimmered. Malfoy didn't
as much as flinch, neither did he take his eyes off Hermione. The answer to his query was on her
face.
"I see," Malfoy said, speculatively.
Damn him. Damn, damn, damn. Hermione whirled around to the face the wall, away from Malfoy
and away from the damnable concern and regret in Harry's eyes. She looked up at the ceiling,
blinking rapidly in an ineffectual attempt to stifle her tears.
She was startled when Harry grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the exit. "We're leaving
without him."
"Harry, no." She dug her heels in. "We need him!"
"No one needs that! No one can possibly be that desperate!"
"We're that desperate!" she hissed. She extricated her hand from his grasp and ran back to the
communication box.
Malfoy had watched the entire exchange, the smirk gone, grey eyes now very intent. It was time to
end the game and no mistake, he'd been playing one the moment they'd showed up. He approached
her at the box, eye to eye, behind the glass. He stood so close she could see the flecks of blue in his
irises.
"What do you want?" she asked, plainly.
"A full pardon. My title and property restored to me, unconditionally."

Hermione nodded, unsurprised. "You'll have it."
"I am to take your word for it?"
"Yes."
She thought it was a certainty that her promise would not be enough; that he would argue and
bargain some more. But there must have been something in the quality of her reply, because he was
no longer impassive. For the briefest moment, she saw unadulterated wanting. The raw emotion
was as affecting as it was brief.
"Swear it."
"I swear on my life that if you help us from this point, the Ministry will rescind your sentence."
"We need to go!" Harry yelled.
"Do we have a bargain?" Hermione demanded, simultaneously.
Malfoy nodded. "We do."
"Then stand back."
He did so, and she noticed that he quickly walked to the book shelves, plucked a volume and
tucked it away inside his robes.
The spell shattered the glass wall into an ocean of crystalline granules that crunched under
Malfoy's feet as he exited his prison. He didn't bound out of his cell with a triumphant expression.
There was a caution and tentativeness to his movements which almost garnered him some
sympathy from Hermione.
As soon as he was out, Harry grabbed hold of Malfoy's elbow and placed the tip of his wand to his
throat. "I'm itching for an excuse, Malfoy. So don't try anything."
Malfoy held up his hands. "Wouldn't dream of it."
"Tether him," Harry said to Hermione.
She pulled a long, golden skein from the back pocket of her jeans and approached Malfoy.
Impossibly, he seemed even taller outside of his cage.
"Pull up your sleeve and hold out your left arm," she ordered. "You're still left-handed, I assume?"
"You remember that?"
"It's just a detail." She began to tie one end of the skein around his left wrist.
The skin at the inside of his wrist was so pale it was nearly translucent, light blue veins clearly
visible. Hermione's grubby, soot-blackened fingers were a stark contrast. Further up his arm, the
tail end of the Dark Mark was revealed. It was a muted grey, the colour of a faded tattoo. As
Hermione made the knot, she brushed his skin with her knuckles once or twice and saw that it left a
smudge.
He said nothing during this, but she could feel his gaze over the top of her head. She then tied the
other end of the skein to Harry's right wrist. When it was done, Malfoy pulled his sleeve back
down.
"What is this?" he asked, examining his wrist. The skein had vanished. He thumbed the soot marks
away.
"Your leash," Harry said, with some relish. He grabbed the back of Malfoy's robes and shoved him
towards the exit and the stairs. "Up we go. Death Eaters first."
"Oh, this just gets better and better," Malfoy muttered under his breath. "Fortune, on his damned
quarry smiling."
Hermione followed behind, thinking that a Draco Malfoy who quoted from Macbeth was just
slightly discombobulating.
Chapter End Notes
D.R.A.C.O is real
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DRACO
Come poke me on Twitter:

https://twitter.com/rizzle_writes
Project Christmas
Chapter Summary
Draco meets the Brains Trust and Hermione gets a scolding.
Chapter Notes
As per author notes in the first chapter, please be advised that I have undone my
previous swap of Scrimgeour for Shacklebolt. They are now swapped BACK.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was their base of operations, with a few slight tweaks.
Two basement levels, among other things. It served as both a makeshift Ministry headquarters and
laboratory, boasting equipment painstakingly pilfered from medical and scientific facilities all over
England.
The research team comprised of Muggle scientists and magical experts, all of whom worked in
shifts around the clock, surviving on a combination of coffee, camaraderie and junk food. There
were mixed-bloods, Muggleborns, a werewolf, regular Muggles and Purebloods in the bargain.
They worked side by side, slept in bunk beds, ate the same awful food and told the same bad jokes.
As it turned out, there was such a thing as a Japanese 'knock-knock' joke (they were just called
'kon-kon' jokes). It was enough to warm the cockles of a cynical heart. Or alternatively, make
Voldemort turn over in his grave.
"The brains trust," Malfoy called it, as Harry brought him through the lab. Hermione was not with
them, having gone directly upstairs to brief the Minister on their recent acquisition.
Padma Patil looked up from the her station as Harry introduced Malfoy to Project Christmas.
Malfoy didn't need to ask about the origins of the mission's name. Yule—and the Americans'
nuclear strike deadline—was at the end of December.
And as if the team members needed the reminder, some had taken it upon themselves to erect a
plastic Christmas tree, complete with balding tinsel rope, mismatched baubles and blinking lights.
There was plastic holly taped to the tops of filing cabinets and large, glitzy foam reindeer stickers
stuck to the walls. In the far corner was a life-sized, blow-up Santa Claus. Some enterprising soul
had slipped Father Christmas into red, thong underwear and had drawn glasses and a lightning bolt
scar across his forehead.
Padma gave Malfoy a cool once-over. "Is he safe?"
Harry held up his wrist. "We used your tether."
"Goodness, Harry! I haven't even had a chance to test that out properly yet!"
"I have. Behold," Harry said, grinning, though it was hard to tell given his mountain-man beard. To
demonstrate, he made a fist, held out his arm and then gave Malfoy a focused look.
Malfoy was abruptly reeled in at such force that he slammed into the side of Padma's work station.
She managed to snatch up a rack of test tubes before it toppled over.
Having righted himself, Malfoy shot Harry a dark look. For Padma, however, he was all smiles.
"Still wasting your Blood talents on this lot, I see?"
Padma's resulting glare ought to have caused instant frostbite. She blinked once, slowly, and then
completely dismissed Malfoy altogether. "Harry, you may like to know that Scrimgeour's already
had his proverbial kittens and is upstairs attempting to proverbially wean them."
Harry winced. "That bad, is it? Hermione's speaking to him now."
"And that's the last time you give me the job of telling the Minister that you two have gone off to
rescue the most dangerous criminal in the country from a zombie infested mank hole!" Now that
her obligatory bluster was out of the way, Padma gave Harry a conspiratorial look. "So, was it
worth it or what?"
"Padma," Harry began, his eyes bright, "he says he can re-create D.R.A.C.O."
This brought the hubbub of activity in the lab to an abrupt halt. Everyone present had been
surreptitiously listening to the conversation.
Padma stood up from her metal stool and to both Malfoy's and Harry's surprise, grabbed the front
of Malfoy's robes. She was so happy she was practically luminous. "Merlin! So it's true, then?
Your formula exists?"
Malfoy stared down at her rubber-gloved hands. Padma's immediately released him. "We have
everything you need here to make it," she said, with more sobriety. "Of course ReGen's being used
right now to control the progress of the Infection, but that's just the start of what's to come."
There was silence. Malfoy filled it. "Given that I've been stuck in a glass box for six years, ReGen
is…?"
"Oh, yes," Padma said. "Sorry, I forget about the whole incarcerated insane criminal thing."
"I'm not insane," Malfoy replied, with quiet annoyance. This was apparently a sore point for him.
"There were tests."
"We have better tests these days. Perhaps when all this is over, we can have another go at it?"
Padma's smile was sharp.
Malfoy sighed. "So what is ReGen?"
"It's a treatment for the newly infected. It's not a cure, but it buys the Infected some time before
they turn. The plan is to combine it with D.R.A.C.O, to create a state of cellular stasis during which
D.R.A.C.O may be able to gain a foothold."
"And this ReGen has been trialed?"
"Of course." There was professional pride in Padma's voice. "All this may look haphazard, but it
isn't. We have the means to formulate a cure. The cure."
"You have the means to test your cure on human subjects, as well?"
At this, Padma's mouth opened to respond, but she stopped herself when she caught Harry's subtle
look.
"That's enough for now, I think." Harry activated the tether and led Malfoy out of the lab. "Come
on, I'll show you to your room. You'll love it. It's just like home."
The silence was grating.
Also, she was itchy and in dire need of a shower. Hermione remained standing in the middle of the
meeting room on the second floor of Twelve, Grimmauld Place, shifting her weight from one foot
to the other. Scrimgeour was looking over the file on D.R.A.C.O that the Americans had put
together after a careful curation of the Ministry's own records on Voldemort and Malfoy.
The Americans were very thorough. It was a thick file, but Hermione couldn't help but notice that
much of it was redacted.
"Sir, if I could just—"
Without taking his eyes off the page he was reading, Scrimgeour held up an index finger, cutting
her off.
Hermione resumed waiting. Unfortunately, there were other people in the room—the Japanese and
Australian members of Project Christmas, and the two American Wizarding intelligence
operatives, who were unerringly everywhere. The rest of the research team were still in the lab
with Padma, and thank Merlin for it. That meant less people on hand to witness Scrimgeour's
formidable displeasure.
As it happened, all the scientists in the group shared more in common than they shared differences.
This was despite language barriers, differences in age, rank and status, and in the case of their
Swedish microbiologist, the fact that he turned into a seven-foot tall pillar of muscle, fur, teeth and
talons once a month. They all still got inhumanly excited by results garnered from petri dishes.
They were focused to the point of exhaustion and seemed to run mostly on caffeine and crisps.
The two Wizarding agents were a different matter. At the behest of the US government, they
lurked in corners, made notes and held regular, private Floo communication with their superiors in
Washington. There were an impressive amount of levels to the US Wizarding Senate. It was like
bureaucratic layer cake.
Harry called them the Cowboy and the Debutante.
The Cowboy was currently giving Hermione a beady-eyed look. His partner, the Debutante,
observed the proceedings with unconcealed (and rather unprofessional) glee. Some of the other
international scientists may have been used to working under constant government surveillance, but
Hermione was not.
Suffice it to say she and the agents did not get along.
Presently, Scrimgeour cleared his throat and shut the folder. "Alright, I think I'm all caught up. I've
read the official version. Now tell me in your own words why you think Draco Malfoy isn't a
danger to this team and likely to run the first chance he gets?"
He seemed angrier than was reasonable, Hermione felt. She was ready for his questions, reminding
herself that forgiveness was easier to obtain than permission.
"He has everything to gain by cooperating with us," she explained. "Consider that he lost
everything of value to him the moment his sentence was handed down. We've removed him from
prison, promised a pardon and have provided him with a unique opportunity to—"
"Don't."
"Don't what, sir?"
"Don't use the 'r' word."
Hermione was confused. Did he mean 'removed'? "I'm not sure I follow?"
"Redeem. Redemption."
"Sir, I was actually going to say 'earn his freedom'."
"But you're implying a chance at redemption will be his primary motivation, are you not?"
Well, she supposed she was implying that. "If it's not his motivation yet, I'm hoping it will become
so."
"You're foolish to think that."
Hermione bit back a more acerbic retort. Did Scrimgeour know something she did not? The
unnecessary secrets and intrigue that was the way of the British Ministry for Magic was
maddening. "Will you please explain why you don't agree with my assessment?"
"You're applying your own set of values to his likely motivations. Draco Malfoy is not a homicidal
maniac, but he likes to profit from chaos. You were not involved in the effort to capture him. You,
Hermione, and the people that you lead are not trained to deal with the likes of him. He has only
ever had one agenda—his own self-interests. Do not assume Draco Malfoy is in any way moved by
the plight of those around him. This is a Death Eater than ended up double-crossing the Dark Lord.
He is not someone I would want anywhere near this team. There is too much at stake and none of
you are replaceable at this late juncture."
"Then how do you propose we get D.R.A.C.O out of him?" Hermione demanded. "We don't have
the twelve months it takes to ferment Veritas Potion, which his file indicates that he's impervious
to anyway!"
Scrimgeour stood and walked to the blocked-out window that would have overlooked the street
outside. It was impossible to tell if it was day or night when you were inside the house. He clasped
his hands behind his back and for some reason, turned his attention to the Cowboy....
Who caught Scrimgeour look and said, "We can always just ask the son of a bitch."
Hermione did not readily offer up her agreement. She knew what men like the Cowboy did for a
living. It seemed ridiculous to think that she was actually fulfilling the role of Malfoy's advocate.
"What do you mean exactly by 'ask'?"
"We contain him for the duration," the Cowboy continued. "Stick him in a cage until we can
confirm if the formula he provides us is legitimate. If it doesn't pan out, we ask again…only with
more stick, less carrot."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "I fail to understand how a cage is any type of carrot to begin
with."
"What is meaning of luh-jit? Why we use carrot?" asked Professor Yoshida, the Japanese potions
expert. His colleague, an Australian neurobiochemist, assisted by whispering a few less colloquial
synonyms.
Professor Yoshida nodded. He also widened his eyes a little apprehensively at the Cowboy.
The Debutante spoke. "Exactly how volatile is the Subject?"
"He killed a Ministry guard with a plastic dinner tray," Scrimgeour said, his voice flat. "They was
some regrettable manhandling involved on the part of the prison guards that instigated this, but the
point is that he's very volatile."
The Australian scientist, Dr Alec Mercer, rose to his feet. An ever-present open bag of potato
crisps in his hand. "Look, none of the research team came to London to play good cop bad cop with
your pet Lex Luthor." He paused in contemplation for a moment, before adding, "With the possible
exception of Dr Patil. I reckon she'd be happy to go a few rounds as interrogator…."
Hermione nearly cracked a smile. Padma was their resident laboratory Dragon Lady.
Dr Mercer continued, "However you manage it, just get the formula out of the guy and we'll
synthesize it. Or better yet, he can help us make it. Vast quantities of the stuff. We'll need all hands
on deck. Either way, the deadline stands and we're running out of time."
"We'll get it done." Hermione was adamant.
The two experts left the room, leaving Scrimgeour and the American agents. "I'd like a word alone
with Hermione."
This did not sit well with the Americans, as they were meant to have access to any meetings or
activities undertaken within Project Christmas. However, there was no arguing with Scrimgeour on
this point. He waited until the agents shut the door behind them before he spoke to Hermione.
"Who is Lex Luthor?"
The question was unexpected. Hermione blinked for a moment. "Harry say my Muggle pop culture
knowledge is dismal, but I believe Lex Luthor is the villain in the Muggle's Superman stories."
Scrimgeour was silent for a moment. When he next spoke, there was more emotion in his voice.
"This is not a hero story. You put this entire operation in jeopardy today."
"How? Harry and I acted alone."
"Precisely because you chose to act alone!"
Hermione refused to look away from his anger, feeling equal parts furious and ashamed.
"You are not a teenager! This is not Hogwarts and I am not Albus Dumbledore! I do not think it
appropriate for me to merely hover in the background, fulfilling the role of distant, ambiguous
mentor while you undertake dangerous missions that have been cleared by no one. I smell Potter's
influence in all this."
"No sir, he had nothing to do with it," she whispered, staring mutinously at the Minister. It was as
close as he'd ever come to openly disagreeing with Albus Dumbledore's handling of Harry and
Voldemort. Hermione gave up trying to match his glare. She closed her eyes, feeling the
beginnings of an Olympic-size migraine starting up at her temples. "It was my idea. My plan."
And perhaps it was the obvious signs of her fatigue that eventually caused Scrimgeour's anger to
dissipate. He merely sounded tired when he next spoke. "You are valuable, Hermione. Too
valuable to risk your life—and Potter's—like you did today. Many of these people would follow
Potter into fire he asked them to."
He could have been, but she knew he wasn't specifically referring to Ron. Scrimgeour may have
had a temper, but he was never cruel. It didn't matter, anyway. Everything seemed to be about Ron.
The quiet of her room. The empty seat across from her at the kitchen table. The haunted look Harry
wore when he thought no one was looking.
"You have no idea what Draco Malfoy is capable of."
"So you keep saying," Hermione said, with a frown.
"I understand you're using Patil's tether to secure him?"
"Yes. The tether works."
"Good. See to it that it continues to do so. Malfoy's life and our safety depends on it."
He dismissed her.
Hermione made her way to the communal bathroom on the first floor, her feet dragging a little.
The shower could wait until later. She washed her hands, her arms, her face and then stared at her
dripping visage in the mirror. Of course she looked terrible. Fatigue seemed to be hollowing her
out such that she was all cheekbones and clavicles, making her brown eyes enormous. Her fingers
came up and plucked at the bit of zombie guts that was caught in her hair. She flushed it down the
toilet, rinsed out her mouth and brushed her teeth.
And then she went downstairs to see Ron.
Chapter End Notes
References:
Draco's line in the first scene about not being crazy is inspired by Sheldon Cooper's
annoyance in The Big Bang Theory, every time someone questions his sanity.
The Minister's mention of Draco being lethal with a plastic dinner tray in the second
scene is inspired by comedian Eddie Izzard's (2000) stand up show, 'Circle', which
features a segment widely referred to as 'Death Star Canteen'.
Trust
Chapter Summary
Hermione and Padma discuss the most recent addition to Project Christmas. Draco
makes his first move on the board.
Hermione detoured past the kitchens on her way down to the basement. There was usually
someone in there no matter what time of the day. On this occasion, it was Honoria Cloot, one of
the team's mediwitches.
She was making herself a cup of tea. "I just heard about your trip to Azkaban. Is Draco Malfoy
really joining the team?"
"A bit too soon to say, but he's here, anyway."
"Interesting times ahead," Honoria said, stirring sugar into her cup.
Hermione walked to the pantry and took out some bottled water. Her thirst surprised her, even
though she was normally dehydrated after any extended bout of spell-casting. She finished the
bottle by the time she took the set of stairs down to the second basement level, opened a bolted
door and entered a long concrete room that housed three, steel-barred cells. The smell of antiseptic
was very pronounced.
A visit alone with Ron wasn't on the cards that night, apparently.
Padma Patil was checking Ron's central venous line when Hermione approached the first of the
three cells. She paused outside the door until Padma finished replacing the parenteral bag that
provided Ron's intravenous nutrition. When it was done, Padma cast scourgify over the area,
looked up and smiled.
"Hi."
Hermione passing through the sanitisation wards barrier that extended around Ron's cell. The
outline of the cell glowed green for a moment. It stung, but it was less cumbersome than having to
work in PPE.
"How is he today?" she asked Padma.
"Not so good. If his CVP continues to deteriorate, he's going to be hypovolemic. His blood plasma
is…I don't know…his blood volume just keeps dropping." Padma's frustration was evident in her
voice. "He's not hemorrhaging and I know he's not dehydrated because if we give him any more
fluids, he's going to develop congestive heart failure."
"What does our virologist say?"
"McAlister says the symptoms are not dissimilar to advanced rabies, but there's also a whole array
of things going on that no one has seen happen all at the same time. We just haven't had enough
time to study this."
Hermione walked over to Ron and stroked his auburn hair away from his forehead. His skin was
sallow and he'd lost a great deal of weight, but for the most part, he still looked like Ron. She
couldn't count the number of times she'd stared down at him and expected him to open his blue
eyes, corners crinkling, and smile up at her.
Both Hermione and Padma recognised the situation for what it was. Regardless of whether Ron got
better or sicker, they were learning more about the Infection every day precisely because of him.
When they discussed his condition, they weren't just talking about their friend. They were talking
about a living experiment.
Harry didn't understand this, and sometimes, he got angry at what he didn't understand.
When he looked at Ron, he saw his sick best friend and what he wanted to see was Hermione doing
everything she could to save Ron. And she was, but Harry didn't wish to entertain the other reasons
for her efforts. Hermione envied Harry sometimes. In many ways, life was a lot simpler for him.
Padma was now flipping through her notes. "I hate to say this, but I think we may be approaching
ReGen's efficacy threshold."
Hermione peered over her friend's shoulder. "Where are we up to?"
"Three weeks and five days since he was bitten."
Absently, they both stared at the bandage around Ron's left forearm. Beneath it was the bite that
had caused his Infection.
"He's the longest surviving person on ReGen," Padma said.
"Four weeks is not enough time. We need it to last at least three times as long or it's not going to be
of much use to people. ReGen's been relatively easy for us to manufacture and distribute so far. But
the cure is going to be more difficult. It's liable to take months just to get enough quantities to the
Infected communities."
"Hmm," said Padma, tapping her fingernail against a page. "So we go back to the drawing board on
ReGen. Mind you, we didn't have Yoshida, McAlister or Malfoy when we brewed the first batch.
There's every chance we'll be able to create a formula that achieves greater longevity."
"Speaking of Malfoy…" Hermione lowered her voice. "Harry showed him the lab? Was
everything, uh, OK?"
Padma nodded. "Yes. And I gave Malfoy a whole stack of notes to read, so he can catch up on
what we're doing. I still can't believe he attended Muggle medical school while he was hiding out
in Russia..."
"You attended Muggle medical school," Hermione pointed out. "In fact, I think you two are
probably the only Hogwarts-graduated Purebloods to have done so. And I don't actually think he
finished, if that helps."
"Ugh." Parma wrinkled her nose. "The less I have in common with him, the better, thanks."
"Don't worry, he didn't do it for altruistic reasons. If he wanted to sell potions to Muggles, he
needed a particular skill set that traditional Mediwizadry couldn't provide."
Padma considered this. "Ravenclaw didn't share many potions classes with Slytherin. Tell me. Was
he any good?"
Draco Malfoy had tied with Hermione in their Potions OWLs. "Yes," Hermione said, without
hesitation.
Padma was still troubled. "I'm usually adept at reading people, but I can't get a handle on him. All I
can pick up is contempt and the occasional glimmer of murderous rage when he looks at Harry."
Hermione snorted as she bent down to smooth Ron's cotton cellular blanket. "Nothing's changed
there."
The women were silent for a moment, contemplating the metronomic rise and fall of Ron's chest.
And then the SPO2 monitor beeped. Padma walked around the bed to check it.
"He's bloody good-looking though, isn't he?"
"Padma."
Padma looked up from her task "What? I can't notice these things? I'm busy, not dead."
Hermione managed to find her first genuine smile of the day. Or of the month, more likely. "Don't
tell Mercer that. He'll get jealous."
"Mercer! That man is infuriating. What kind of scientist drops crumbs all over the place?"
"He thinks very highly of you," said Hermione, primly.
Padma looked up at Hermione, her expression now very serious. "Mercer also happens to think it's
high time we had a look inside Ron's brain."
"What, you mean EEG? I distinctly remember finding one for you."
"No, we need to look inside."
Hermione frowned. "I hope you mean in vivo?"
"Of course. In fact, Ron's more valuable to us alive than not."
"I hate it when you talk like that."
Padma walked over to Hermione and touched her on the shoulder. "I'm sorry. I care about him too,
you know."
Hermione patted her hand. "I know. So, what do we need?"
"An MRI scanner."
"OK. I'll speak to Scrimgeour in the morning."
"I'm afraid this is not something you can steal and bring back here. If you're thinking of installing
one in this building, forget it. Mercer says the magnet alone weighs about twelve tons."
"If we can't bring the machine to Ron, then you're suggesting that we take Ron to the machine?"
Hermione concluded.
"Yes."
"Merlin. Field trip to a hospital, then."

Padma ran the numbers in her head. "You'll need Mercer to conduct the scan, plus at least four
others. Two to look after Ron. Two to handle unwanted company. I'll come, of course."
Hermione shook her head. "You will not. You need to stay behind in case I get eaten. Besides, you
have no combat training. Shooting random impedimenta at Death Eaters at the Battle of Hogwarts
doesn't qualify."
Padma's hand was on her hip. She was a natural polymath and disliked being told she wasn't good
at anything she set her mind to. "If experience matters, then I guess you'll be taking him?" She
pointed to the cell at the end of the corridor. "He's probably got more experience than all of us,
combined."
That was probably true. But Hermione didn't trust Malfoy as far as she could throw him, and he
was much bigger these days.
"As I said, I'll consult with Scrimgeour."
Padma nodded. "Alright. I'm turning it. Go to sleep. You look worse than Ron."
"Oh, thanks," said Hermione, with a sigh. "Good night."
Hermione watched Padma leave, and then walked over to Ron to give his hand a final, parting
squeeze. She exited the cell, locking it behind her. As she made her way to the stairs, a newly
familiar voice called out, echoing slightly in the large room.
Funny, she'd been expecting it.
"It's a powerful curiosity you have there, Mudblood."
As far as taunts went, it was perfect.
Hermione stopped in her tracks, willing herself to keep walking, to ignore Malfoy and not give him
the satisfaction. But the taunt also happened to be accurate.
She turned on her heel and walked over to him. "And what exactly am I curious about, Death
Eater?"
Hermione saw that he was sitting on his bunk, one knee drawn up, left arm balancing upon it. He
smiled, and even in the darkness, she could see the dull white gleam of his teeth.
"About me. You want answers."
"When it comes to you, Malfoy, somehow I don't think the answers are as important as the right
kind of questions."
He rose to his feet, unhurried, and approached the bars. Hermione took a cautionary step
backwards, mentally locating her wand inside her jacket. The tether prevented his escape, but it
was only their faith in Malfoy's common sense that protected all of them from his violence.
"And what are the right questions?" he asked.
"I suppose I could ask you how many people you've killed, but I think asking why you killed those
people is more interesting."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Would you like to hear my answer?"
Hermione feigned an expression of apprehensive eagerness. She frowned, parted her lips to form
the word 'yes', and then abruptly shut them, giving him a small, satisfied smirk.
"Not really."
There, let him stew in that. Stupid mindgam—
The thought was effectively smothered because his hand darted forward and clamped around her
throat. He pulled her towards him, his free hand taking hold of her right wrist. When she scrambled
to reach her wand with her left hand, he released her wrist and snaked inside her jacket, the top of
his hand brushing the underside of her breast as he acquired her wand.
Hermione clawed at his hand whilst simultaneously bracing her feet against the base of the bars to
push herself backwards. But still he held firm, despite the fact that she was tearing into his hand
with her nails. His grip on her neck shifted until all his fingers were now digging into her trachea,
pinching.
"It will hurt if you move, so if you wish it to stop hurting, stop moving," he said, sounding like he
was speaking to a tantruming child.
The utter normality of his tone managed to puncture her haze of panic. Hermione ceased her
struggles and was rewarded with the slackening of his grip. Still, she could not move without her
air supply being cut off.
Malfoy brought his tall, lean body closer to the bars, such that his lips grazed her jawline and
whispered directly into her ear. "Good. The game's only fun if you play with me." He tipped his
nose downwards, rubbing it against her cheek. She felt the subtle rush of cool air at the spot where
he inhaled, at odds with the warmth of his breath. Through the gap in the bars, she felt his hip press
into her abdomen. "Six years since I've been this close to a woman, and I find she smells like
hospital soap and—" he inhaled again and she felt him smile against her cheek, "—toothpaste."
He retreated a little, and Hermione got the impression that he had gone slightly off-script, and had
to re-focus.
"I don't know how many I've killed. But I can tell you that each death was necessary. Most of the
time, it was to save my life or that of a colleague's. If it suited my needs, I killed. Needs, Mudblood.
Not wants."
Hermione tried to push him away with her hands, but paused when the end of her wand was
pressed deeper into her belly.
Malfoy continued. "It did not suit my needs to be a law-abiding citizen, because I did not live
among law-abiding people. But now I find I have more options available to me. Here and now,
it does not suit my needs to behave...like this."
He removed his fingers from her throat and as Hermione gasped in a lungful of unobstructed air,
she felt him unfurl her tense, fisted fingers and gently slip her wand into her hand.
Now armed, Hermione stepped backwards, furious and coughing. She aimed her wand at him.
Malfoy remained at the bars, an easy, unmoving target. "You're not going to ever trust me. I
wouldn't ask it and anyone who tells you to is a fool or a liar. But I do ask that you put some faith
in my commitment to self-preservation."
His silver gaze dropped from her face, to her mouth, and then lower still…until Hermione felt the
urge to pull her jacket shut. She glanced down at his left hand, and saw that blood from the gouges
she had torn into it was dripping on the floor. She could still feel his fingers on her throat, but the
particular grip he used would not leave any bruises.
She wanted to punish him. He should not be allowed to get away with menacing anyone like that,
no matter that he was trying to prove a point. It was then that she saw the book; the one and only
thing he had taken with him from his Azkaban cell. It was obviously of some value to him, and
here it was, lying on his bunk beside a stack of papers that had to be the notes Padma had given
him to read.
"Accio," she Summoned the book. It flew across the cell, collided momentarily with the bars, and
then was in her hands.
Malfoy did not seem to be in the least bit perturbed by the loss of the item. Instead, he smiled.
"Sleep well, Granger. Pleasant reading."
Hermione practically jogged back to her room. She shut the door and opened the book. Her hands
shook when she realised what she was looking at.
Son of a bitch. Was everything a calculated game to him?
It was the formula to make D.R.A.C.O, only there was one section missing, torn out of the book.
Clever, clever man.

Chapter 4: Taransay
Chapter Summary
Ginny is in trouble. Harry takes off on a refugee rescue mission. Meanwhile,

Hermione observes a most unusual zombie.
Chapter Notes
Ginny Weasley was nearly done running through the list of supplies that were to be sent to the
refugee community on Taransay Island in Scotland's Outer Hebrides.
There were approximately five hundred Magical and Muggle folk living in a tent city on the island.
Magic alone could not provide all that they needed, and so the community relied on monthly
supplies sent from military stores via regulated Portkey. Scrimgeouroversaw the coordination of
the supply deliveries from London.
In many ways, the island was an ideal safe zone considering there were no harbours for large
vessels to moor. Everyone who currently resided there had been given the medical all-clear and
had been transported from different parts of the UK. One of the first containment measures the
Magical community leaders had taken was to disable Floo transportation across the globe, thus
minimising the inadvertent transmission of Infected individuals from one part of the world to
another. Likewise, Apparition was also highly restricted in magically Warded zones. The entire
Weasley Family (bar Ron) had been successfully evacuated to Taransay. There were six other safe
zones around Britain, and Scrimgeour's Grimmauld Place operation coordinated supplies to all of
them—food, medicine, clothing, blankets, shelter, and of course, news.
A person could easily lose sleep if they thought about what a mammoth, all-consuming
responsibility this was. It was far from ideal living in the Magical safe zones, but the conditions
were far worse in the Muggle military-run camps. They tended to be less successful in keeping all
of their sites free of Infection.
The fact was that it just took one Infected.
Just one…
It spread so quickly. Harry would always remember the first time he'd seen it happen. It was like
some sadistic, mad god had clicked 'play' on the plague button and then stuck his finger down on
fast-forward. It took less than a day for an Infected individual to die after contracting the virus and
from that point, reanimation occurred within minutes. ReGen nipped that in the bud, of course.
Every sensible person still hiding out in the city had, by now, collected a supply of the drug from a
drop-off point. It wouldn't cure you, but it would keep the Infection at bay; slow down time, so to
speak.
Ginny paused in her recitation of the supplies list, and gave Harry a gentle, assessing look. "Did
you get all that?"
He admitted that he hadn't, so she ended up repeating the last five items, then paused when she
came to the final thing on her list.
"And a crate of teddies, if you can manage it."
Harry pushed his glasses further up his nose and glanced up from his clipboard. "Silk, lace or
satin?" he deadpanned.
Ginny smiled. This was something she did rarely since Ron got sick. "Teddy bears, I mean. At last
count, we have about fifty children here and not many toys. There was a vote as to what most of
them wanted—teddies, apparently. We conjured up a fair bit of play items, of course. But some of
the twitchier Muggles don't want their kids playing with anything magic. And sadly, this includes
other kids."
"Funny how they seem willing enough to put up with the tents, the food and the medicine…"
"Don't mind them. Remember that they only found out about all of us barely three months ago,"
Ginny reminded. "They're just scared."
"You are as kind as you are beautiful," said Harry, with mock solemnity. "And you shall have your
teddy bears."
"Thank you. Now do write it down before you forget."
He wrote it down. The list was written in triplicate. One copy was dispatched to the military supply
barracks at St John's Hill, for however long it would stand. One copy stayed with Scrimgeour. The
third copy was given to Padma and Honoria Cloot, who packed the medicines.
"Is that all of it?" Harry asked.
"Yes." She eyed him for a moment. "Harry, when can you come? Not permanently, I mean. I know
you and Hermione have the mission, but I'm talking about a quick visit."
Harry wished it was night-time. He wished that most of the people wandering about the house were
asleep and not liable to knock on the door at any minute to come in for a much needed kip on the
old lounge. Or to see if there was time left in the Floo transmission allocation so they could chat
with a loved one.
He wished for some privacy.
Harry lowered his voice and hoped he didn't sound as morose as he felt. "I'm sorry Gin. I want to
go. Very much, but I can't just yet."
She leant closer into the fire. Even tinged Floo-green and skinnier than she ought to ever be, she
was beautiful—bright red hair cut growing out from a a year-old bob, and big blue eyes. It was a
testament to how exhausted Harry felt, that all he longed to do with Ginny was spoon up behind
her, anchor himself to her slender frame and sleep the sleep of the (untroubled) dead. Perhaps he
would dream of waking up to a breakfast cooked by Molly Weasley, who, bless her, thought that
bacon made up three of the five food groups.
"I miss you," she whispered.

"I miss you, too."
"Maybe I could come to London for a bit?" Ginny hazarded. She glanced to her left and nodded to
someone who walked into the room, on her end of the transmission. Harry was reminded that
privacy was also at a premium at Taransay.
"Not a chance! It's called a safety zone for a reason. It's safe. Besides, if you come here, you'll
have to get medical clearance to go back, and you remember how you hated the tests from last—
Ginny?"
She wasn't looking at him anymore. Ginny was frowning at whomever was speaking to her. She
stood. All Harry could see was her denim-clad lower half and her hands, which were clasped
together now—tightly.
"Gin?"
And then he heard the shouting, followed by the familiar sharp staccato bursts of automatic gun
fire. Suddenly she was kneeling at the fireplace to speak to him. The look on her face robbed him
of breath.
"Oh, Merlin. Harry…Harry they're here."
Now he was kneeling at the fire, too, so close to her that he could see every freckle standing out
against the paleness of her skin. "What do you mean they're there?" But he knew what she meant.
And she knew that he knew.
The other person spoke to her again and she tried to wave them off. But they didn't go and Harry
didn't know whether to thank them or hate them for pulling Ginny to her feet and drag her away
from the fire. To safety, he hoped.
After an agonising few minutes, Neville Longbottom's haggard face appeared in the green flames.
"Harry! Is Scrimgeour with you right now?"
"Neville! No, he's upstairs. What in Merlin's name is happening?"
"We don't know how they got here. There was—the guards said there was a barge of some sort
that floated over from the mainland. It shouldn't have happened! We should have been bloody
watching the coast!"
"Never mind that! How many?" Harry demanded. He wanted to reach through the fire and shake
some coherence into his friend. "Tell me! What do you need us to do?"
"Send help! We—"
Neville disappeared. The Floo transmission timed out and the green flames began to fizzle.
The fire snuffed out.
Harry was already sprinting up the stairs.
Hermione knew exactly what he'd do.
She'd known the moment the Minister shut the door and said to Harry to calm down, to sit, to
listen. This is why she ran to the attic just in time to see Harry strap on his flying vambraces and
protective, padded leather vest.
"Leave off, Hermione," Harry said, without looking at her. He pulled straps through the metal
loops and secured them with Velcro. "I'm going."
It was now two hours since Taransay had been compromised and in that time, all Floo
communication attempts to the Island had been unsuccessful. Three owls sent—all returned with
their missives still attached to their legs. Scrimgeour had made his decision and for the umpteenth
time, Hermione was glad she didn't have his job. He would not allow Harry to use the Portkey
because crazy unsanctioned missions were not what the Portkey was for. There were two-hundred
and twenty-five able-bodied wizards and witches on Taransay Island, which was enough to defend
the community from an unexpected zombie horde.
Probably.
So what could one additional wizard do? Even if that wizard was Harry?
But it was precisely because he was Harry that Harry would go. Hermione wanted very much to
believe that Harry truly had the power to overcome insurmountable odds, to make miracles happen,
to be the story-book hero that always triumphed. After all, he had done this so many times in the
past. Though, that had been before the Infection. Here was a problem that could not be conquered
even with Harry's courage and preternatural luck. This was…well, it was quite frankly beyond him
to single-handedly fix.
Hermione walked up to him. "Take this," she said, handing Harry a utility belt laden with what
looked like ampules of absinthe. He gave her an impatient, questioning look, which immediately
softened when he noticed her red eyes.
"It's Zombie napalm," she explained.
"Padma's?"
She shook her head. "No, one of my prototypes. Just remember to keep your distance when you
launch one. Ten meters at the very least."
Harry remained standing beside the open window, broom propped up against the frame. A breeze
was blowing. His hair was ridiculously long, she thought. But oddly, the wild look suited him. His
hair would never take a part, or a combing, without a fight.
"Thanks."
Hermione threw herself into his arms. Ron had once said she didn't know how to hug without
making it seem like it was the last time she was going to see a person. It wasn't her fault. Many of
her hugs seemed to happen at precisely those kinds of moments. And regrettably, there had been
too many such moments in their relatively short lives.
"Please don't go, Harry," she pleaded, just in case he decided to be amenable to reason.
"I have to go," he insisted. "I know I have responsibilities here..." he said, echoing one of
Scrimgeour's reasons for denying Harry the permission he'd sought." But it's Ginny and the
family…" His voice caught.
She squeezed his hand. "It's alright, Harry. I know."
"I'm not taking anyone else away from this operation. Scrimgeour has it right. You and the others
are important. You need to keep working on a cure."
"And you think you're not important?"
He gave her a rare look; a look that said he understood something she did not. "This war is going to
be won with this," he told her, touching her lightly at her temple, "not with this." He palmed his
holstered wand.
"No. We need both. We need you."
He didn't reply. Hermione released his hands and watched in misery as he pulled on his flying
goggles, strapped on the utility belt and picked up his broom. With a heavy sigh, she reached out to
touch him on the arm. Harry turned to face her with a resigned, tender expression and opened his
mouth to reassure her that yes, he would take care.
But that was not all she wanted from him. "There's one last thing, Harry. I'll need the other end of
Malfoy's tether."
The tender look faltered a little. Hermione did not want to have to be the one to remember the
bigger picture, to put the mission above what she really wanted to do and say. She did not want
Harry to look at her this way now, like she was someone he loved, but sometimes struggled to
recognise.
Without a word, he hiked up his right vambrace and after a breath or two of concentration, the
golden skein appeared. Hermione untied it and then waited as Harry knotted it around her wrist
instead.
"Good luck," he whispered. He kissed her on the top of her head and then launched onto his broom.
Hermione remained at the window, watching the sky above the rooftops until she could no longer
see him. And then she allowed herself a minute or so of quiet tears. When it was time to shut the
window, she looked down at the street and was startled to see him.
Corrections—it
One of the Infected.
It had once been a teenager. No more than sixteen or seventeen. Now, it wore the skin of its victim,
including a red hoodie and black shorts. The zombie was in good shape, having retained all its
appendages, eyes and skin, and sported no outward signs of bites or mangling.
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was magically veiled from prying eyes on the street, but
opening the attic window effectively permitted a glimpse into the house. The zombie had probably
been making its way down the street when the ripples in the veil had caught its attention, the same
way a waggling finger could attract a goldfish in a bowl.
Unlike a goldfish, however, it wasn't just looking, it was seeing. Hermione stared back,
disconcerted to find herself the object of its seemingly rapt attention. But that couldn't be. The
Infected were not capable of attention, rapt or otherwise.
And as if to allay her concerns, the zombie turned away and resumed its shuffle down the street.
Hermione watched its progress. She mentally filed the incident away and then went to break the
news of Harry's unauthorised departure to Scrimgeour.
Understanding
Chapter Summary
Mercer and Hermione speculate about Red Hoodie. The prisoner is promised a bath.
Draco's appearance causes a stir in the house (even before he takes his shirt off).
Chapter Notes
After half an hour of searching, Dr Alec Mercer finally found Hermione in the attic.
She was at the window, looking down at the street. There were no streetlights anymore, but it was
a full moon. Everyone in the house was acutely aware of the lunar cycle because Felix Wallen
(resident microbiologist and occasional lycanthrope) was currently occupying one of the cells in
the lower basement level. There, he waited out his transformation with the assistance of Wolfsbane
Potion.
"There you are!" Mercer said, shutting the attic door behind him. His bag of potato crisps was
conspicuously absent. Hermione suspected Padma had had something to do with that. "I've been up
and down the house looking for you. Patil was concerned you'd flown off to join Potter."
Hermione gave him a small smile. "Not likely. I don't really fly much. Or at all, more like it."
"Oh? I thought all you magical folk had broomsticks?"
"It seems I'm missing the aptitude," she confessed. "You said Padma needed me?"
"Yes. Luthor's asking for you."
It took Hermione a moment to remember that Mercer was referring to Malfoy.
"What does he want?"
The Australian scientist overturned an empty crate and dragged it over to the window to sit beside
her. "He won't say anything other than, send for the Mudblood." Mercer effectively mimicked
Malfoy's finely-calibrated, imperious way of speaking. "I asked Patil about him and she said that
you've known him since you were kids. Please tell me that he had a horrible adolescence involving
shortness, bad skin, hand-me-downs and bullying?"
This managed to garner a snort from Hermione. "Sadly, no. As for the bullying, suffice to say
that he perpetrated most of it."
Mercer nodded. "Yeah, I've known guys like him."

Hermione shook her head. "Not like Malfoy, you haven't."
"The name he called you - 'Mudblood'. Does it mean what I think it does? If so, I apologise for
repeating it."
"It's OK. You weren't to know," Hermione reassured him. "And it's certainly not the first time he's
used that particular slur on me."
"The more I hear about how you guys spent your childhood, the more surprised I am that any of
you made it out of school alive."
"You've been speaking to Harry, huh?" Hermione surmised.
"Nah. Honoria told me all about Hogwarts. She was a couple of years ahead of you, apparently.
Sounded pretty rough, to be honest."
"It had its moments."
He peered out the window. "Why are you up here, anyway?"
Hermione beckoned him closer toward the window. "Come and take a look at this. Tell me what
you see."
Mercer stood next to her and stared out onto the street, quickly locating the source of her apparent
concern.
It was the young zombie in the red hoodie again. They were silent for a minute, and then Mercer
whistled low. "'S'truth, he's watching us."
"Exactly," said Hermione. "He was there earlier when Harry left. I think he must have seen the
window open. I assumed that the movement simply caught his attention. But now he's back." She
folded her arms and regarded Mercer with a troubled expression. "Alec, you're the brain expert,
what do you think this means?" Apart from the fact we're referring to it as 'him', Hermione thought.
When did that start happening?
Mercer considered the possibilities. "If he's watching and waiting, this looks to be more than just
implicit memory at work. That's declarative memory. He's processing something semantic—that a
window opened and he's managed to combine that fact with the personal experience of walking
down Grimmauld Place earlier and remembering that a window suddenly appeared in between
numbers eleven and thirteen…"
Hermione frowned. "But that means he remembered! I thought that was impossible?"
"It ought to be given the level of deterioration we've seen in the hippocampus and the lateral
prefrontal cortex."
"So what, then? They're evolving?"
Mercer rubbed his jaw. "Not them, the virus. I'll speak with McAlister. It's likely the virus has
mutated and it just isn't doing what it once did. By the way, speaking of terrifying, underwear-
soiling prospects, I've been hearing talk of an excursion to a hospital."
"You heard right. I've discussed with Scrimgeour the idea of having Ron undergo an MRI scan."
Hermione gave Mercer a sympathetic look. "If we go…"
"I'll have to come," he surmised. "Resident brain expert, and all."
"Look, I'll understand if you—"
"Hell, yes, I'll go! And while we're there, I'm thinking it might be a good idea to also have a look at
one of the Infected, if we can manage it?"
Hermione's eyes widened. "You want to give a zombie in a MRI scan?"
Mercer nodded; a familiar, manic gleam in his eye. Hermione knew she sometimes sported the
same look and vaguely wondered if the expression on her face right now mirrored the one Harry
sometimes wore in response to her own Eureka moments.
Oh, Harry. She couldn't handle thinking about him without her stomach doing summersaults. Still
no word.
"Think of all we could learn!" Mercer was saying.
He then proceeded to list, in painstakingly fine, neurobiochemical detail, all that they could learn.
He didn't really need to do this, because he had her at, "It could be the key to helping Ron."
Shortly before midnight, Hermione made her way downstairs to the containment cells.
A few minutes were spent looking in on Ron (no change), a further minute spent checking on a
slumbering Dr Wallen (who was making bone-chilling, growling noises in his sleep), before she
finally stopped at Malfoy's cell.
He was pacing—no—prowling, his long legs eating up the floor. Hermione sensed extreme
annoyance. She also sensed it was directed at her tardiness in responding to his demand to see her.
She took out her wand and this time, kept a safe distance. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
He didn't smirk at her. Oh yes, he was most definitely annoyed. "What do I want? Let me see… A
city? A house? A room? Maybe a bed?" He paused. "How about a woman?"
The shining joy and jewel of all my kingdom, Hermione silently completed the last line of the
Sanskrit poem he was alluding to. And then promptly wanted to kick herself. Romantic poetry and
Draco Malfoy was a match made in lunacy. He excelled at making her distinctly unsettled on
levels she didn't want to give any further thought to.
"We're fresh out of all the above," she said, in a flat tone. "What else?"
Malfoy walked to the bars and Hermione surreptitiously double-checked that she was well out of
arm's reach. He saw that little flicker of concern and of course the bastard rewarded her with a
small, knowing look. He was markedly less presentable than he'd been four days ago, now sporting
a dark blonde shadow over the lower half of his face, and still wearing the same set of black, prison
robes. Only now they were wrinkled and dusty at the knees. Padma had given him some salve and
a bandage for his injured hand. The scratches she'd given him probably stung. Good.
He toyed absently with the bandage now." Let's start with a bath," he said, and she believed him.
"That I can do, but I'd like the missing section of your D.R.A.C.O formula."
He snorted. "Hardly a fair trade."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How long has it been since you've had a bath?"
Six years, she'd wager. Hermione had read the specifications for Seamus' automated prison cell.
The cell's magic meant that a daily cleansing charm refreshed the bedding and the prisoner's
clothing. It also eliminated dust, grime and dirt on everything—prisoner included. Basic grooming
spells were set to operate at the start of each day. Hair and nails maintained at a pre-programmed
length. The only source of non-drinking water present inside the cell was in the toilet, which had no
flush. Waste was automatically transferred to a septic management facility outside the prison.
"Allow me a bath and perhaps my mood will be so significantly improved that I may just provide
you with an additional page?" He raised both eyebrows in eagerness, and this wiped about five
years off his face. "What do you say?"
She'd probably say that he must really want a bath. After years of 'dry cleaning', even a cold
shower would be high on anyone's list of superficial wants.
"Frankly, I doubt I'd notice or care if your mood improved."
He regarded her with amused quizzicality. "I don't remember you being quite so flippant."
"I don't remember you being quite so completely at my mercy."
Malfoy laughed—short and sharp. "Touché, Mudblood."
"Don't call me that."
He watched her, carefully. "But it doesn't bother you, does it? How curious. You realise I
can see that it doesn't. The others turn purple and apoplectic. You merely roll your eyes. Tell me, is
it the word, or is it just me? Don't say I've lost my edge since Hogwarts?"
"No, more likely I've gained one." Hermione took in a breath, stepped forward and prepared to
unlock the door to his cell.
He remained within the cell, still watching her with the assessing gaze of a predatory bird. It was
now or never. Eventually, he would have to be tamed enough to venture upstairs to work with the
others in the lab. His previous attempt to convince her that she should trust his commitment to self-
preservation had provided Hermione with much food for thought over the past few days. She
hoped she wouldn't live to regret her decision, or the fact that Malfoy was tethered to her now. Like
so much else, Draco Malfoy had become her responsibility as well.
"Let us be clear, Death Eater. Escape and your pardon will be withdrawn. Hurt me or anyone else
and your pardon will be withdrawn. It's martial law on the streets for both Muggles and Magicals.
Law enforcement and vigilante mobs have been known to execute looters. So consider what they'd
do to a convicted murderer and terrorist." She slid the door open. "That's if you're not killed by the
Infected. Do you understand?"
He stepped out of the cell, walked around her, crowding her again. Hermione suspected he could be
on the other end of the corridor and still manage to crowd her. She tightened her grip on her wand
and remained stock-still. Malfoy walked the length of the basement corridor, pausing at both
Wallen's and Ron's cells, respectively. Having been incarcerated in the basement for four days, he
was likely well aware of both Ron and Wallen's respective conditions.
There, lying in that hospital bed, was her Achilles' heel. Hermione could steel herself against any
manner of barbs Malfoy threw at her about her blood, her intellect, her worthiness, but not about
Ron. Now with Harry at Taransay, she felt even more vulnerable, more exposed, less…strong.
Curiously, she didn't feel more alone, though. Being an only child and caught between two worlds
for so long, alone was a state of affairs she was accustomed to.
She steeled herself for Malfoy's comments and the cruel, calculated jibes about Ron.
They didn't come.
Whatever he was thinking, Malfoy kept his thoughts to himself. Hermione wasn't naïve enough to
believe it was due to any regard for her feelings. Rather, she suspected he knew her charity and
patience had limits.
His curiosity about his immediate environment now appeased, Malfoy finally walked over to her.
The top of her head barely reached his shoulders.
"I understand," he said.
Despite being unwashed for four days, he didn't exactly reek as Ron or Harry would most certainly
have. She supposed he just smelled more strongly of himself. It wasn't unpleasant. She didn't know
what it was, but she seemed aware of it, all the same. It was probably her frayed nerves. Frankly,
part of her was still expecting him to snap her neck the first chance he got.
Hermione led him up the stairs and past the labs, where several staff members were still working.
Music drifted out. Someone was playing Michael Bublé. One of the younger mediwitches
appeared, took one look at Malfoy before scurrying back inside the lab. Hermione thought she
might have even detected a squeak. A moment later, there were five people standing outside the lab
entrance, all gawking.
The British wizarding members among the staff were well aware of Malfoy's identity. Those who
did not know—and this comprised their Muggle and overseas experts—had since been filled in
through the rapid information transfer of gossip.
"Evening, everyone," said Hermione, tersely. Honestly, she's expected a little more
professionalism.
There were distracted nods and a few mummers. The group parted to make way for Elizabeth Kent,
one of the Wizarding Intelligence Agents from the US. She exited the labs and came to a halt
before Hermione and Malfoy. Hermione sighed, sensing the imminent application of liberal
quantities of red tape.
"You're not authorised to release the Subject," Kent said to Hermione, as predicted.
Hermione was in no mood to be diplomatic. "The Subject would like a bath. Go and run to
Scrimgeour if you have a problem with it. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to be woken up in the middle of
the night after being awake for two days straight."
"You must be the Debutante," Malfoy said, in a honey and cinnamon voice that made Hermione
roll her eyes. "I've heard quite a bit about you."
Kent was young, tall, lithe, blonde and severely proper, along with possessing the warmth and
charisma of a metal stool. Nevertheless, and to Hermione's resigned fascination, the Agent flushed
bright red under Malfoy's calculated scrutiny. It was a completely superficial point, but Hermione
felt twice as short and frumpy, standing beside the lanky pair.
"Malfoy, this is one of our associates from the US Wizarding Senate, Agent Elizabeth Kent.
Elizabeth, this is Draco Malfoy. Or the 'Subject', as you prefer to call him."
"Shouldn't he be shackled?" Kent had regained her alabaster complexion and was looking down
her perfect nose, at Hermione.
Hermione counted to five before replying. "He's not going to be able to work in the laboratory if
he's handcuffed, is he?"
"And what about the tether? How is it going to work if Potter's not here?"
Damn it. Hermione had not been intending to reveal to Malfoy just yet that she was his tether-
partner, or that Harry had left London. Oh well, it was inevitable that he'd find out.
"He's tethered to me now," Hermione said.
"Am I?" Malfoy drawled, almost under his breath.
"Yes."
He stood very close to Hermione, giving her a smile without teeth. "Interesting."
"I think the word you're looking for is necessary."
It occurred to Hermione that everyone was watching them. Kent, especially.
She cleared her throat. "Agent Kent, if there is nothing further, I'd like to show Malfoy the
bathroom?"
There was a bathroom on the laboratory level, though it was seldom used except in the event of
someone catching fire (a fascinated Mercer had asked Harry for a demonstration of incendio), or
when large pieces of equipment needed to be cleaned.
The claw-footed tub in the middle of the green and black tiled room was large and therefore would
suit just fine. There was no mirror in the bathroom. A minute or so was spent checking that there
was also nothing sharp, pointy, blunt or heavy to be found in the only cupboard. There were just
towels, soap and a tin of shoe polish. Hermione pocketed the shoe polish. She took soap and a
towel from the cupboard, paused, and then grabbed a second towel. Malfoy would probably need
two, she decided.
She handed him these items, which he took in one arm, without thanks. "I'm locking you in,"
Hermione said, her voice echoing off the tile in the cavernous room. "Will one hour suffice?" She
checked her wrist watch. It was almost one in the morning.
"An hour is plenty," Malfoy said. He had already unfastened the cuffs of his prison robes and was
making quick work of the buttons down the front.
Hermione discreetly turned around, walked out the door and shut it behind her. She locked it and
then leaned against it, closing her eyes. The day could not possibly get any longer.
She was wrong.
There were three quick knocks from the other side of the door. Her eyes snapped open. Frowning,
she removed the locking charm and opened the door.
"The taps aren't working," he said.
The top half of Malfoy's robes were on the floor, which left him in a pair of black trousers with the
waistband already unbuttoned. His body was as pale as the rest of him, with a light, sparse dusting
of golden hair across his chest and forearms. He was very lean, but there was a surprising amount
of muscle on him, considering the fact he'd been confined to a room for six years.
But it was the latticework of scars along his abdomen and back that caught her attention. There
were, quite literally, dozens of fine, raised, diagonal white lines bisecting the taught skin of his
belly and back. The longest ones ran over his hip muscles, disappearing beneath the waistband of
his trousers. The scars were obviously healed now, but the sheer number of them meant that at
some point in time, his torso would have been a raw and bloody mess. A life-threatening mess,
perhaps. Hermione's sterling imagination supplied the likely image of the fresh injuries and she
couldn't help but wince.
To her annoyance, his expression was unreadable. Being Hermione, she took the express route to
assuaging her curiosity. "What happened to you?" A likely suspect popped into her head. "Was it
Voldemort?"
He was silent for a moment, and then, "Would you prefer that it had been?"
She didn't understand his question. "I would prefer an honest answer."
Almost absently, he looked down at his belly, running the tips of one long-fingered hand over the
white scar tissue. She wondered if he probably forgot they were there most of the time.
"I was nineteen. Three Aurors captured me and another Death Eater. Unlike my colleague, I was of
no use to them, so they shared a bottle of gin and took turns with a flat razor."
Hermione was somewhat relieved to note that she was not so desensitised to not be affected by
what Malfoy had just told her. Even if was him doing the telling. There had always been rumours
of bad eggs within the DMLE. The thing about old, entrenched systems was that they tended to
develop a life of their own. After a while, the system became a living breathing thing and it
defended itself at any hint of an attempt to cut off a necrotic arm or leg, even at risk of poisoning
the rest of the body. It was a different kind of slower, more insidious Infection.
"You said you were of no use to them. Do you mean you had no information that would have been
important enough to bring you into custody?"
"No," he said. "I was of no use to them because unlike my more unfortunate colleague, I wasn't a
girl."
Hermione felt ill. She glanced down at her hands for a moment, which she had clasped around her
wand, before looking up. "Bad people are to be found anywhere, if you care to look." There
seemed to be nothing else suitable to say.
He smiled at her. There was nothing friendly about it. It was a cold smile, full of swirling darkness.
"Indeed. There happens to be one right here in this room."
The moment of shared humanity between them dissipated like so much smoke. Hermione supposed
it may have only happened in her own mind. The sinister look faded, and he went back to being
impatient again.
"Are you going to fix the water supply or not?"
Oh. Right.
She removed the default water rationing spells over the plumbing, and then twisted the brass, hot
water tap. The pipes bellowed for a moment, before gushing hot water. "There you go."
Again, there was no 'thank you', just the unnerving, ever-constant, damnable, watching. Not
completely unlike the zombie in the red hoodie, Hermione thought, with a mental shudder. His
hands were on the waistband of his trousers when Hermione hurriedly shut the bathroom door
behind her and locked it for the second time. She scowled down at her own hands, which were
shaking slightly. With an hour to kill, Hermione thought she might sneak a much-needed swig or
two from Kate McAlister's supply of Equilibrium Restorer (a.k.a aged whiskey) in the kitchen
cupboards.
It was that kind of night.
Chapter End Notes
Here is the poem it its entirety. Author unknown.
Although I conquer all the earth,

Yet for me there is only one city.
In that city there is for me only one house;
And in that house, one room only;
And in that room, a bed.
And one woman sleeps there,
The shining joy and jewel of all my kingdom
Goldilocks
Chapter Summary
After acquiring a zombie specimen, a dangerous mission to a hospital is planned.
Chapter Notes
"Baby Bear to Mama Bear, I'm in the cottage," came Emily Finch's static-tinged voice through the
headset. The student nurse was loitering conspicuously at the mouth of an alley.
"I hear you and see you, Baby Bear. You're doing brilliantly. Just sit tight until Papa Bear gives us
the signal, OK?"
"I think you're meant to say 'copy that'," Padma suggested.
"Oh?"
From their vantage point over a terrace roof top, Padma and Hermione were watching their
morning mission unfold.
Padma rolled her eyes. "Are the call signs really necessary?"
Hermione shrugged. "What's life without whimsy?" She was fully occupied watching Emily's
position through a pair of binoculars.
"Whimsy?" Padma muttered. "We're about to use an eighteen year old girl as bait!"
It occurred to Hermione that she, Harry and Padma often applied vastly different standards of
maturity to the younger team members in their charge. She supposed they could be accused of
being slightly hypocritical, considering that Hermione and Harry, in particular, had regularly put
themselves in dangerous situations since before puberty. Albus Dumbledore had been either very
confident in their abilities, or he had some rather relaxed views regarding child endangerment.
Neither theory was palatable, frankly.
"She volunteered for this," Hermione pointed out to Padma.
"I suppose the field of contenders for the two-hundred meter zombie dash was rather thin," said
Padma.
"Emily was a track and field star at her college back in the US. She thought she could help."
Agent Richards' gravelly baritone came through the headset. "Papa Bear now in position. We're
ready."
"These headsets are posh."
Hermione was in agreement. "Got to hand it to the Americans—they don't do things by halves."
The two women sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying a rare dose of unimpeded mid-morning
sunshine, already a rarity in London under normal circumstances. Padma took a sip from her water
bottle and then offered it to a grateful Hermione, whose fair skin was already sunburnt.
"Why call this operation Goldilocks, though? I always found that story rather disturbing."
"The Cowboy's idea," Hermione said. "Apparently Mercer wanted the specimen to be 'just right'."
"And how are we going to guarantee that?" Padma asked. "We're not going to have much choice in
whatever Emily manages to lure into that alley."
Hermione sat up in rigid attention, adjusting the binoculars "Speaking of—here we go! Baby Bear,
Goldilocks in on approach. Merlin, we have ten! No, make that twelve! Richards? I mean, Papa
Bear, do you see this?"
"Yeah, I see 'em," said Richards. "More importantly, Baby Bear, they see you. Goldilocks is on the
move! Finch, you get on your starting block, you hear?"
Everyone could hear Emily's ragged breathing. "Oh, Jesus," the girl whispered. A few profanities
followed. Hermione concurred heartily with them all.
"I don't like this," Padma said.
"Nor I," admitted Hermione.
One minute.
"Closing in…" Hermione told the team.
"Now?" Emily hissed.
"Not yet," said the Cowboy. "Wait."
Thirty seconds.
Hermione was practically hanging over the roof parapet now. "Papa Bear, are you sure? They're
speeding up."
Twenty seconds.
"Now?" Emily implored.
"Almost," said Richards. "We don't want them to quit the chase as soon as she's out of sight; their
vision is based on movement. Like T-Rex, remember?"
"That's not technically accurate," Padma said. "The Tyrannosaurus Rex's vision was actually more
sophisticated than—"
"NOW! NOW! NOW!" shouted Richards, nearly perforating Hermione's ear drum. "Baby Bear,
GO!"
Emily ran, blowing a whistle as she went. As predicted, the zombies gave chase. The noise and
movement was impressive for a relatively small group. They snarled, goose-stepped and lurched.
The scene might have been comical if it weren't straight out of a nightmare. All of the team
members had seen what happened when even the most lumbering, seemingly inept horde got a hold
of fresh meat. They ripped into it like day-old bread.
"Damn, she's fast!" Padma observed.
Hermione's chest hurt from holding her breath. "Good thing, too! They're nearly at the fence!
Wallen! Yoshida! Are you ready?"
Felix Wallen's soft, steady, voice sounded over the radio. "We're ready."
Emily hit the fence running, fairly leaping onto it. She scrambled over with impressive athleticism
and was met on the other side by the ever stoic Wallen and Professor Yoshida.
The zombies collided with the metal fence so violently that some of the pack members at the front
were crushed; pulpy, severely decomposed bodies splitting against rusted metal, spilling putrid
viscous fluid that was the colour of pus. Their feral bloodlust destroyed any sense of culinary
discretion they might have had and the remaining pack members began to feed on their
incapacitated counterparts. The weight pushing against the fence intensified. It began to creak and
buckle.
"It's going to fall over," Padma predicted.
"Now, Wallen!" Hermione yelled.
Wallen and Yoshida went on a petrificus free-for all. In short time the entire pack was frozen in
place. Many lay on the ground, in pieces. The remainder of the team Apparated into the alley,
regrouping on the other side of the fence.
"That was close!" Padma said, clutching Hermione's arm in relief.
Professor Yoshida gave Emily a high-five.
Hermione approached the fence, trying to make out where one creature started and another began.
Unfortunately, there weren't many viable specimens left. Nearly all were sporting serious mangling
from the feeding frenzy. In due course, however, an intact specimen was located. They carefully
levitated it over the fence. Padma slid a stretcher beneath the petrified creature, before wrapping it
up with a tarp.
The team (now heavy one zombie) Disapparated for Grimmauld Place.
Back in the laboratory, Alec Mercer's eyes widened as he inspected the captured specimen. To say
they had acquired a large zombie was putting it mildly.
"I ask for fun size, you bring me Thor."
Hermione tilted her head to the side, as if the new angle would allow the enormous zombie to fit
better into her field of vision, "It's not about size, Alec. It's what you do with it."
Mercer chuckled.
"Were you concerned about it being too big for the machine?"
"I just thought a small specimen would be easier to transport. Technically, all that needs to fit in the
MRI is its head."
Hermione was halfway out the door. She had a mission briefing to plan. "Good, because he was the
only member in that group that still had one left."
Following the successful capture of the zombie behemoth, the mission briefing for the hospital
visit the next day was well-attended.
Research and medical staff, Ministry clerks, two government agents and one Minister for Magic
gathered in the meeting room on the second floor. The Minister handed out copies of the mission
plan and route diagrams. There was about ten minutes of silent reading. Hermione stood in a
corner of the room beside the blacked-out windows.
Scrimgeour waited until everyone was looking at him again before he spoke.
"As you can see we've selected Welwyn Clinic at Devonshire Place. It's a small radiology
operation with two MRI machines and I am told boasts an impressive array of backup generators
that are partially fed by solar power. Agent Richards and Hermione Granger have already been to
the site this morning to inspect the machines and they assure me that both are still functioning, and
more importantly, they are turned on."
"If the hospital still has power, why would it have been a problem if they were switched off?"
Honoria Cloot asked.
"You can't simply turn on a MRI machine that has been powered off," Mercer explained. "It would
take too long."
"Timing is very critical. It's imperative that we complete the scans quickly," said Richards. "Every
additional minute spent there puts us at risk and we will already be moving a damn sight slower on
account of lugging our two specimens around."
"One specimen," Hermione corrected, coolly. "One patient and one specimen."
Richards' returning stare was just as cool. "Sure."
"You'll be Apparating to the clinic in two teams," Scrimgeour continued. "The first team will arrive
at the designated entry point to ensure a clear path to the nearest machine. Once a safe route has
been established, the rest of the team, who will be carting Mr Weasley and the specimen, will
follow."
Here, Scrimgeour addressed Mercer, the only Muggle on the mission. "As you are aware, Dr
Mercer, Apparation can only be undertaken if the Apparator has already been to a destination once
before. This, of course, does not apply to side-long Apparation. I am assured that our London
regulars, Hermione and Honoria, are already quite familiar with the street and the clinic, so you'll
be travelling side-along."
"Great," said Mercer. "I threw up over Dr Patil's shoes last time."
Padma nodded vigorously. "They were suede. I had to throw them out."
"There are two last-minute additions to the team. Jason Lam, being the only other person with
experience in…" Scrimgeour looked to Mercer for assistance with the phrase he had only recently
been introduced to.
"Medical imaging," he supplied.
"Medical imaging," Scrimgeour echoed, "will therefore assist Dr Mercer with the machine
operation. Provided there are no objections from Mr Lam? Needless to say, this is a voluntary
mission."
"No objections," said Lam, who was a Muggleborn mediwizad student and a protégé of Mercer's.
"Dr Mercer, you are certain one person will be sufficient to assist you in your task?"
Mercer nodded. "Jason's as capable as two technicians."
"Good," said Scrimgeour. "Our mediwitches, Honoria Cloot and Mira Khan, will transport Mr
Weasley." Scrimgeour addressed Aisha Malik, a young trauma nurse in a bright yellow headscarf,
"I'm sorry Ms Malik, I know you expressly volunteered, however, wands are a necessity as Mr
Weasley will have to be maintained in a stable state of magical petrification during the course of
the mission. We need all we can supply. You will remain behind."
"I understand," said the nurse.
"Mr Lam and Dr Mercer will be responsible for the specimen. Agents Richards and Kent, Miss
Granger and myself will be on security detail."
Both Padma and Hermione raised protests at the same time.
"With all due respect," Padma began, "I distinctly recall you saying that at least one senior security
officer is to remain at this facility at all times. What if we receive word from Taransay while you're
away?"
Clearly irritated, the Minister turned to the Cowboy. "Agent Richards, it appears you were correct
in your estimation of the likely reaction to my inclusion on the team. Translate, would you?"
"You can't come because you're lame. You'll slow us down, at best. Put us all in danger, at worst,"
said the Cowboy.
Hermione scowled at Richards' bluntness.
Scrimgeour sat down heavily, propping the aforementioned lame left leg out in front of him.
"Hermione, this is true?"
"You're needed here," was all she said.
He sighed. "We need a fourth on the security team. In all my years of planning missions, I
have never sent out a team of only three."
Emily Finch spoke up. "Sir, if I may?"
"No, you may not, Miss Finch, you've done quite enough for us this week. Besides, I have an
alternative in mind."
Scrimgeour's eyes met Hermione's. Her look of disbelief told him she knew exactly whom he was
planning to volunteer. It was clear he had already discussed the candidate with the Americans.
"No," Hermione said.
"Malfoy will be your fourth."

The room erupted into protests.
Hermione was incredulous. "The only way Malfoy can break free of his tether is if he kills the
person he's tethered to, and that's more likely to happen if he has access to a wand. How is he to be
of any use on the mission if he can't defend himself, let alone any of us? I mean, you're not
seriously proposing we allow him to have a wand?"
Scrimgeour shood his head. "Not a wand." A slight nod from him sent Agent Kent to a large
cabinet, which she unlocked and then entered. The front of the cabinet was clearly the façade of a
Reduced storage vault. She emerged moments later, walked over to Scrimgeour's desk and none too
gently placed a large, pump action shotgun upon it.
"We propose that the Subject be allowed use of a Remington 870 instead," she told the assembled
group, with the ghost of a smirk directed at Hermione.
Alec Mercer's hand tentatively rose into the air. "Um, can I get one of those?"
Greater Good
Chapter Summary
The Cowboy tells Hermione about an uncomfortable theory. The Project Christmas
Team visit a clinic to use the MRI machine, accompanied by a gun-toting, Draco
Malfoy.
Chapter Notes
Still wearing her pajamas, Hermione blew over her mug of tea as she walked to the back of the
house and let herself out to the small patch of garden. Mediwitch Mira Khan had tried her best to
grow medicinal herbs there, but the ground was more clay than dirt. Hermione had been
anticipating spending a quiet minute or two sitting on the back steps, contemplating her worn
bedroom slippers and then watching the sun rise.
When she got there, however, she was surprised to see Professor Yoshida standing barefoot in the
half-light, wearing pristine robes that were as white as his hair. He had his eyes closed and his lips
were moving in what looked like silent prayer. Thinking he probably wished to be alone, Hermione
made to retreat back inside the house, but the Professor turned around and gave her a bow.
"Hallo Hermione."
She set her mug down on the step and walked out to greet him. "Good morning, Professor. You're
up early."
He smiled the smile of kindly grandads everywhere. "I make this." He held up two, small wooden
plaques, on which Hermione could see etchings of horses in gallop, accompanied by beautifully
intricate Japanese calligraphy. "I make ema for Harry Potter and for team today," Yoshida
explained.
Hermione understood that it was impractical for her to walk around feeling anxious to the point of
incapacitation about what had happened (or was happening) to Harry and the Weasleys. Hermione
had never been the sort to catastrophize. And good thing, too, else she and the boys would likely
not have made it to their fourth year at Hogwarts. So she was good at putting her fears side until
she was alone and able to give in to the panic at the very idea of losing Harry. The consequence of
compartmentalising her fears was that when someone else unexpectedly brought it up, it caused the
bottom to drop out of her world very briefly and it took small doses of concentrated effort to put
herself to rights again. Sometime she failed at this. This was one such time.
A lump settled in her throat as she took one of the little plaques from Yoshida and ran her thumb
over the etchings he had carved. "What is it?" she whispered, not trusting her usual speaking voice
to not crack.
Yoshida thought for a moment, harnessing his relatively recently command of English. "It
is Shinto," he said, gently. "I write wish for Harry Potter come home. And you and team to come
home. Today. All safe. All happy. I make my wish to kami, you see?" The Potions Master traced
one wrinkled finger across the calligraphy. "Kami is..." he gestured around the garden, pointed at
the house and the neighbouring terraces, and looked up at the sky, spreading his arms wide, "all is
kami. You. Me. Good. Bad. Grass. Tree. You see?" Professor Yoshida put the talisman in her
hands and closed her fingers around them.
She did see. This was a magic that was common to Muggles and wizarding folk alike, a magic of
talismans infused with the force of hope. If you lived, then you probably wanted, needed and
loved. You knew what it was like to have something to lose and therefore a great deal to also
hope for.
She hoped with all her might that Harry would come home.
After Yoshida left, Hermione finished her tea on the back steps as planned. She slipped Yoshida's
talisman into the pocket of her pajama pants and started up the stairs.
The Cowboy stopped her at the third floor. "Just the lady I wanted to see," Richards said. It wasn't
even six in the morning yet and he was already wearing his hat, set down low over his salt and
pepper hair. Hermione imagined he probably slept next to it. "I thought I'd take the liberty of
briefing Malfoy about the mission, today, if that's fine by you?"
Hermione's eyebrows rose. "You're asking my permission? Usually you just go over my head to
Scrimgeour." She instantly regretted her words. She didn't mean to sound petty.
"You don't like me very much, do you?" Richards asked, looking amused.
The blunt question surprised her, although it shouldn't have. The Cowboy was not one to skirt
around sensitive topics.
"I have the utmost respect for what you're trying to do here," she clarified. "I just don't always
agree with your methods."
"Scrimgeour trusts me. You should, too."
Hermione bristled. "Likewise, Agent Richards. You don't seem to trust me to handle Malfoy."
Richards sighed. He folded his arms and stared at her, eyes narrowing. Hermione stared right back,
an impatient, questioning expression on her face.
"You haven't been around men very much, have you, kiddo?"
Well, that certainly caught her off guard. How absurd. She'd been surrounded by men
—strong men—her whole life.
As if he could read her thoughts, he said, "I don't mean Potter, or the sick kid in the basement that
used to make puppy eyes at you, or the Minister, or your old man, or teachers and instructors. I
mean real, grown up boys. Nice ones and not so nice ones. And ones that don't treat you like a
vestal virgin or co-saviour of the world."
"Agent Richards, if you have a point, please come to it."
"Malfoy's got designs. Scrimgeour and I, we can smell it on him. Master villainy or even just the
potential of it, it's got its own special stink, you know? And that man you got locked up
downstairs…well it's coming off of him real strong. And that's fine," Richards said, holding up a
hand, "understandable even, seeing as he's just working out a way to bust out of jail without paying
for it. But the thing is he seems mighty interested in you, which makes me worry because you're
meant to be his handler I don't reckon you're aware of it."
Hermione hoped she didn't look as thrown as she felt. She chose her words very carefully when she
replied. "Malfoy and I have history. Perhaps that's what you're sensing?"
The Cowboy laughed. "Oh, this isn't history, darlin'. This interest is very much rooted in the
present."
"Oh, for goodness' sake! Even if any of this is true, what does it matter?"
"Use it," said Richards, simply.
She opened her mouth and then shut it, frowning. "Explain."
"Look, I'm pretty sure Malfoy thinks he's got the jump on you, so you go on and let him think that.
You have a chance here to play him right back. Keep it in mind the next time you see him, with
your curly hair and big brown eyes and that same Chosen One attitude that Potter has. To someone
like Malfoy, who's spent his formative years living in a reptile's nest, you're about as wholesome as
American Pie."
Hermione turned bright red. "I don't...I'm not like that."
Richards gave her a lopsided smirk. "Sure you are, and I'm not asking you to change a thing. I want
Malfoy to be reminded of the fact he's just about as different from you as it's possible to be.
Different is interesting. He likes interesting. So you use what you have and let's hope it gets us that
formula quicker. Because maybe...and mind you this is a pretty big maybe, if the villain in our little
story ain't batshit crazy just yet, sometimes it pays to give him a weakness. Something unexpected
to care about besides himself. Internal conflict can be a powerful catalyst for change. You
remember that."
"And if you're wrong? If he won't give up the formula?"
Hermione didn't like the look in his eyes when he replied, "Like I said before, we take the kid
gloves off. And I step in."
"Listen to me, Richards. No one, not even Draco Malfoy, is going to be tortured for information in
this house. Certainly not while I'm here."
"Is that preferable to people dying out there because one man won't give us the information we
need?"
"Not everything can be justified by the greater good."
And just like that, Hermione realised she had put herself in Harry's shoes. Merlin, this must be how
Harry felt most of the time. A good chunk of her indignation evaporated.
"Miss Granger, I would justify a great deal considering that it is humanity's survival we're dealing
with," Richards said, utterly serious.
She gave him a canny look. "If what you're saying is accurate, then shouldn't I be handling his
mission briefing this morning?"
Richards' response was brief. "How many shotguns have you fired recently?"
"None."
And there was her answer.
The lower ground of the parking garage was deserted when the security team of four Apparated
into the western corner, behind an earmarked blue sedan that had all its windows smashed in.
Hermione, Malfoy and Elizabeth Kent crouched down between the car and a concrete wall while
Richards undertook a quick scan of the parking level.
Fortunately, just as it had been the previous day on the scouting visit. The parking lot was empty.
Overhead, the lights were still on, though other lit sections flickered on and off with a dull clinking
noise. Otherwise, the city was so very quiet. That had been one of the hardest things to get used to,
Hermione thought—the mausoleum silence of Infected London after the initial cacophony of
sirens, gunfire, helicopters…and screaming.
"Kent and I will secure the MRI clinic," the Cowboy reiterated. "When I give you the word, you
bring Malfoy first and then you go back for the rest of the team."
"Understood," Hermione said. As much as she disliked the Cowboy, he was in his element on field
missions and that kind of obvious experience was confidence-inducing. This was why Scrimgeour
found him to be an asset.
Richards addressed Malfoy next. "And I don't need to remind you to play nicely with everyone
today."
Malfoy didn't even bother looking up, let alone replying. He was mildly preoccupied inspecting the
Kevlar vest he was wearing.
Hermione wanted to throttle him. It was impossible to tell if he was taking any of this seriously. He
seemed unconcerned to the point of boredom. Malfoy's inappropriate ambivalence was at complete
odds with the rather intimidating figure he cut—dressed in a pair of the Cowboy's black military
fatigues, utility belt packed with ammunition and a pair of combat boots (which he complained
were too small). The single-point slung Remington 870 shotgun was strapped across his chest.
Guns were a foreign and unpleasant concept for Hermione. At least wands had multiple purposes.
Guns had a comparatively narrow range of uses; to hurt, or to deter others from hurting.
"You good?" Richards asked her, meeting her eyes. He looked beadily from Hermione to Malfoy
and then back to Hermione again.
She nodded.
"Alright, we'll be in contact very shortly." Richards Disapparated with Kent. As promised, a
moment later his voice came through loud and strong over Hermione's headset. "We're in. The
room is secure. Bring him."
Hermione took her wand out to Disapparate both her and Malfoy directly into the MRI clinic to
join the Agents, but Malfoy chose that moment to speak to her.
"What happens to the tether if you die today?"
God damn him. The morbid question was startling, but relevant, she supposed.
"No one is going to die today."
"Ah, but you know what they say about best laid plans," he replied cryptically. He took hold of the
shotgun, grimaced down at it briefly, and then began to fill the magazine tube with shells from his
utility belt. His gloved hands were surprisingly deft at a task that was still extremely new to him.
Hermione stared, thinking how very surreal it was to watch Draco Malfoy handle a dirty great
Muggle gun. "I doubt you'll have need of that today."
"I hope very much that you're right," he replied.
And there was that word again—hope. They both shared this particular hope. In a side pocket of
her cargo pants, was one of Professor Yoshida's ema. She reached down to feel it through the thick
canvas of her trousers. Malfoy was giving her an odd look now and Hermione realised she
probably seemed worryingly distracted. She blinked, refocusing her attention to the mission at
hand.
He held out his hand to her, palm facing outwards, as if he was soliciting permission for a dance.
"Shall we?"
Hermione's early morning conversation with Richards was fresh in her mind. She still wasn't
entirely sure there was any substance to Richards' claims about Malfoy's interest in her, or indeed,
any merit to his argument that Hermione play along with it. She looked at Malfoy and could
discern nothing more than mild urgency in his silver-grey eyes. Also, he needed a shave. No one
had seen fit to entrust him with a razor in the past week and a half. And yet ironically, here he was
now, a team member—holding a loaded shotgun between them and crouched so close to her she
could smell the lemon soap she'd given him to use.
Ignoring his offered hand, Hermione took hold of his wrist instead, and re-materialised them inside
the clinic, three floors up.
Best Laid Plans
Chapter Summary
The mission to Welwyn Hospital starts to unravel.
Chapter Notes
Thirty-five minutes after the security detail first arrived at Welwyn Hospital, the entire mission
team of eight, plus Ron and the captured zombie, were gathered outside the MRI clinic.
Alec Mercer was already configuring the computers that would process the scans. Inside the MRI
suite, Mira Khan prepped the area to receive Ron first, followed by the zombie. As planned, Ron
was put into medically induced Petrification. Both Ron and the zombie had been transported on
stretchers via Leviosa, though markedly greater care had been taken in moving Ron.
Malfoy was leaning against a wall, one leg bent under him, booted foot leaving a black mark upon
the powder-blue wall. His fingers idly drummed against the stock of his shotgun. Hermione
sincerely hoped he had remembered to put the safety on.
She walked over to inspect Ron, who had blankets tucked around him. He was pale and very still,
but discernibly breathing. "Did Padma say how long it's safe to keep him like this?" she whispered
Honoria.
"Three hours."
"That should be more than enough time provided you take him home as soon as Dr Mercer is done
scanning him," Jason Lam added. The medical student produced a pair of scissors and began
cutting the zombie's clothing off. It was a hard, disgusting and sticky task.
"Well, that's the plan," Richards confirmed. He turned to Elizabeth Kent and Hermione. "I'll be in
the lobby. As discussed, I want you two ladies positioned at stairwells at either end of this floor.
Anything moves, you let me know. Anything tries to come up here, you torch the shit out of it, do
you understand? If it makes it out of the stairwell, do not use Incendio or it's going to be like
chasing down burning piñatas."
This image required a moment of quiet contemplation to truly appreciate.
"What's a piñata?" Honoria Cloot whispered to Hermione.
Hermione explained.
"Oh," Honoria said, wrinkling her nose. "Well that sounds nothing like a zombie."
At that point, Jason Lam had succeeded in peeling off the zombie's trousers. The sound of this was
nearly as bad as the ensuing stench. The creature's bloated body had apparently escaped the
confines of its ripped trousers and had swollen around and through the fabric. Removing the fabric
caused small sheets of skin to come off.
"Oh, wow. I can smell that from here," Mira Khan informed them, from inside the scanning room.
Mercer left the observation room to speak to Jason. "Don't forget to check for ferromagnetics. He
may have piercings that have been covered up by bloated or injured flesh. While you're waiting for
Ron to finish, run a Garrett wand over the big guy, here. Just to be doubly sure."
"Look at this haircut," said Jason, "I think he goes to the same barber as Richards. If he's military. I
don't think piercings will be a problem."
Hermione was frowning down at the zombie's bloated, suppurating lower torso. "Is that going to be
an issue when he's scanned? Apart from making the chamber really sticky?"
Mercer slipped on his glasses and had a closer look. "Nope. His head is perfectly intact. The
injuries to his lower half look like high-impact trauma. Judging from the positioning, he was
probably hit by a car. See here? His hips are out of alignment."
"I can't even see where his hips should be," Hermione muttered.
"The room's ready!" Mira Khan called out. She was holding her forearm up over her nose to
combat the smell. "You can bring Ron in now."
"Alright, people! We all know what we have to do," Richards said. "The sooner we're out of here,
the better."
Hermione set off for her end of the corridor. She turned to see the Cowboy speaking to Malfoy.
Richards must have temporarily turned off his link to the communication system, seeing as
Hermione could not hear what he was saying. In due course, however, Malfoy raised his eyebrows
and then looked up at Hermione, bemused. If she were a betting person, she'd put down money on
Richards just threatening Malfoy with death and dismemberment if he tried anything sneaky.
Worryingly, Malfoy gave her a small smile and a jaunty salute just before she closed the stairwell
door behind her.
As it turned out, Richards sent Malfoy to the roof.
"Because we need a pair of eyes up there and he doesn't need a wand for that," was all the Cowboy
said, when Hermione questioned the wisdom of that decision.
She had opinions regarding this particular idea, but she trusted that Richards knew what he was
doing. Over the communication system, Mercer was speaking to Jason Lam, the two men quickly
and quietly discussing 'ROIs' and 'functional overlays' and other things that were well beyond her.
In the scanning room, Ron was already in position on the table, his head inside a coil and noise-
cancelling headphones on his ears to protect them from the loud drumming inside the scanner.
"Report," Richards barked through their headsets.
"It's as quiet as a mouse pissing on cotton, sir," said Kent.
Hermione reported the same, though with less flair for simile. For a moment, she didn't think
Malfoy would make a contribution, but then he said, "I think I can see my house from here."
"You mean the one in Wiltshire? That's some good eyes you got there, Malfoy," said Hermione.
She thought she could hear the smile in his reply. "One of many houses, Granger. I have a
townhouse here in London, but I do miss the Manor."
"It's still there," Hermione told him, as she peered down the stairwell and once again noted the
thankful bounty of nothing.
"An acquired Ministry asset, I presume?" Malfoy asked. "It's a wonder you haven't taken it apart
and sold it off, piece by piece."
"Well there was that whole business about the DMLE team that was sent in to catalogue your late
father's vast collection of Dark Arts goodies. They went missing for three days and then re-
emerged, understandably distraught, in Jamaica. After that, the DMLE put the equivalent of
Muggle police tape around the place until they could figure out what to do with it."
The communication system relayed his low, soft laughter. "The wards are holding. That is
gratifying to hear."
"We're ready," Mercer interrupted. "Commencing scanning now."
Elizabeth Kent spoke at nearly the same time. "Sir, we have some movement on the west end. I can
hear it, but I can't see what it is. Sounds like it's coming from the ground floor, though. Are you
picking up anything?"
Through her headset Hermione could hear the sound of a door opening and closing in a cavernous
space and thought it could have been Richards going to investigate the lobby stairwell.
"Gotcha," said Richards. He then cast a spell Hermione was unfamiliar with. The effects, however,
were all that mattered. There was a brief moment of inhuman screeching, a dull thump, and then
Richards's voice again. "People, the hospital's deserted, but we may have some free-range visitors
wandering the corridors. Keep a sharp lookout and let's dial it down a notch, OK? No loud noises."
The remaining forty minutes passed by without incident and Hermione was relieved to hear
Mercer's update. "We're done with Ron! Richards, unless you require anything more of her,
Honoria would like to Evaporate back to Grimmauld Place with Ron in tow."
"That's Disapparate, Doc. But yeah, Cloot, you get that boy home."
"Good luck, everyone," said Honoria, and then she and Ron were gone.
"Alright, please bring in the big guy," Mercer requested.
Only, the specimen proved difficult to move. The original levitation spell cast by Wallen and
Yoshida was wearing thin, causing the stretcher under the zombie to bow from the immense
weight of the creature. In the waiting area outside the scanning suite, Mira re-cast Leviosa to
stabilise the load, but then began to have difficulties in pulling away the stretcher. It had adhered to
the zombie's exposed flesh. The team listened to several minutes of Mira's laboured breathing
before Mercer spoke.
"Jason, I think you'd better give her a hand."
Lam presumably joined the young Mediwitch, but after about ten minutes, he said, "Richards,
we're going to need a third person to help Mira move and position the specimen, while I get the
scanner ready."
Richards didn't sound entirely happy with this arrangement, but agreed. "Granger, you go. I'll move
up to your location."
Hermione opened the heavy stairwell door and then gently shut it behind her. She quickly jogged
to the waiting area and assisted Lam and Mira by removing the stretcher first. It took yet more skin
off their specimen, but that was of no consequence. Lam then left to go inside the scanning room to
ready the table and head coil. Hermione noted that it was extremely difficult maneuvering the large
zombie through the narrow corridor leading to the scanning suite
"Jason?" Mercer asked. "What's the hold up?"
"Nearly there!" Lam called out. He opened the double doors for Hermione and Mira, as they
slowly levitated the zombie into the room.
A substantial quantity of fluid was leaking from the creature's torso, creating a slimy, slippery mess
along the carpeted floor. Mira trod in a puddle and grimaced. "My trainers," she moaned.
"Hold up." Hermione stopped cold. She was frowning down at the zombie.
"What is it?" Mira whispered. But now even she could see the problem. The zombie was moving,
seemingly convulsing in mid-levitation. "Oh my God."
Lam was standing by the machine, watching. "I'm coming over."
"Jason, stay where you are!" Hermione ordered. "Petrificus!"
It didn't work. Petrification wasn't the problem. The zombie lurched upwards, while still remaining
mostly horizontal. It began to spasm wildly, its large body fighting the confines of both the
levitation and petrification spells. More fluids ran out of the body, dropping to the floor in a slimy,
yellow cascade. It was like turning the tap on a beer keg.
"What's happening in there?" asked Richards.
The zombie's abdomen distended upwards; the skin stretched to the point where it was tented.
There was a hissing noise of escaping internal gasses and then something small ripped out of its
stomach and hurtled towards the twelve-ton magnet housed at the opposite end of the room. The
thing narrowly avoided embedding itself into Jason Lam's startled face.
Plink.
"What the hell…" Jason said, as he approached the item, which was trying desperately to burrow
inside the machine.
Mira sagged against Hermione. "That was scary."
"Damn it, Granger! What's going on?" Richards demanded.
"It appears there was something metallic caught inside the specimen. It came out as we entered the
scanning room. No one was hurt," Hermione said, with a sigh of relief. She addressed Lam. "Jason,
what is it?"
He was peering very closely at the item in question. "I'm not sure. It looks like…some kind of
metal loop? Like a broken key ring or something?"
That meant nothing to Hermione, but Richards was suddenly screaming at them.
"Get out of there! Run! Move! GRENADE!"
Hermione grabbed Mira and practically threw her back out into the corridor.
Mercer was shouting. Richards was shouting.
The world exploded.
Chapter End Notes
References:
Quiet as a mouse pissing on cotton is from Heist (2001).

Safe
Chapter Summary
Disaster strikes the team. Can Draco be trusted not to capitalise from the chaos?
Chapter Notes
This is my favourite chapter.
There was a thump-thump noise, quick and incessant.
It was obscenely loud and Hermione wished it would go away, until she realised it was the sound
of her blood pumping; roaring past her ears. Everything else was muffled as if she had pillows
strapped to her head. Her head certainly felt that heavy. She couldn't move, couldn't see, but that
was because her eyes were shut.
Well, that was easily remedied. Hermione opened them.
The blast had thrown her an impressive distance away from the scanning room, nearly halfway to
the stairwell she'd been stationed at minutes earlier. Portions of the ceiling had caved in over the
corridor directly outside the MRI suite. Light panels were blacked out and exposed wires hung
down, sparking occasionally. There were voices coming through her headset. She could barely
make them out, but that was an improvement to the earlier deafness. One trembling hand rose to
touch the wetness at her ears. She didn't need to look at her hand to know that it came away stained
with blood.
Mira lay just outside the scanning room. Hermione recognised her blue and red trainers.
"Mira," Hermione wheezed. Her streaming eyes were having trouble focusing now. She squinted,
blinking away dust, blood and zombie pulp. Her vision focused. She choked back a sob as she
observed the meter-long shard of metal that nearly bisected Mira's head. The Mediwitch lay on her
back. Her right hand twitched.
She was alive! There was hope. Yes. Mira Khan was alive and there was hope and she was barely
twenty-two years of age and she wanted to apply for a Potions apprenticeship after Medimagic
graduation. Her hand was moving and therefore she would be fine. They would take her home and
fix her.
Hermione realised her wand was missing. Panic belatedly descended and other realisations along
with it. She looked down at her legs and saw that about ten centimetres of observable steel bolt
was embedded in the side of her left thigh. The fabric of her trousers below both knees had been
shredded by shrapnel and she was currently lying in an ever increasing, warm pile of her own
blood.
Best laid plans, indeed.
She sat up, whimpering in pain, and then began the task of scrambling around for her wand. It
could be anywhere between the doorway to the scanning room and where she lay now. Her
sweeping, searching hands were soon liberally coated with her own blood, but sweet relief
descended when her fingers came into contact with the familiar, slender length of wood. A short
moment was spent contemplating whether or not she should remove the bolt in her leg, but
Hermione thought against it. Instead, she rolled onto her stomach, openly sobbing now at the pain,
and began crawling towards Mira. Hermione made it about three meters, leaving a wide, bloody
smear behind her, before she started to grow dizzy. She put her cheek down against her forearms
and concentrated on breathing. The urge to vomit was strong.
Someone was speaking—a voice more familiar than all the others that currently jostled for her
attention. The voice was tense, but so very calm in the face of what had just happened. That was
plain wrong, Hermione thought. How dare anyone be so calm?
Malfoy.
His clear, business-like voice penetrated the haze caused by shock, likely concussion and blood-
loss. Hermione blinked, listening in rapt attention to every single syllable he enunciated as if they
were little life buoys in a sea of terror and panic.
"—two maybe three dozen. You have about forty Infected already inside the building. I'm picking
off as many as I can from up here. There is another horde congregating at an intersection in the
next block. They may have missed the original explosion, but they're definitely taking notice of my
gun fire."
"Don't you dare stop shooting!" Richards roared. "Keep at it! Kent, how many you got on your
end?"
"Ten, sir! About five before that. They're pressing in!"
"Hold them off for as long as you can! I'm going to get Mercer and Lam. We'll have to be quick.
Once I leave my post, they'll swarm up the east end of the corridor. Granger and—"
"I'm here," Hermione said, weakly. And with that, it felt like all her senses were suddenly switched
back on. The world came back into focus. There was blasting, screaming, gun fire, smoke.
"Well, hell! Good to hear your voice, girl. I've only been yelling it out for the last twenty minutes.
Report!"
"Mira's…" Hermione looked at Mira. Properly looked, without hope clouding her assessment.
"Mira's dead. I can't see Lam or Mercer."
"Are you injured?"
Hermione suspected she was slowly bleeding to death.
"Some. I have my wand."
"Good! Can you get to the boys? Mercer's fine. I've told him to stay put inside the observation
room. Lam says he's pretty badly hurt. Either you or Lam get Mercer and that data out of here, you
got it?"
"Yes," she said, "got it."
Hermione gritted her teeth as she continued to drag herself to the scanning room. In the distance,
she could see the tell-tale red aura of Reducto fired in rapid succession. Kent was having a time of
it defending her allocated stairwell. If the horde broke through, they would all be dead in minutes.
She reached the doorway, which now resembled a charred, smoking maw. There was nothing left
of their zombie specimen, but there was plenty of splatter. And smoke. Hermione sucked in a
lungful of air to shout, but then broke out into a coughing fit. She tried again.
"Jason! Jason, can you hear me?"
"Hermione!" Lam called out.
"I can get to him!" Alec Mercer said. The neuroscientist was in the adjacent observation room, the
glass wall between both rooms now shattered. Hermione could just make out the top of his head
over the partition wall.
"Alec, no! Stay where you are! I'll get Jason and then we'll come to you, alright?"
She could only see Lam if she got to her knees and that was not a posture she could maintain for
longer than a moment. He was pinned beneath part of the scanning table. The trouble was that
there was a few tons of MRI machine between her and him, and neither of them were in a state to
be climbing over obstacles. She would have to try and move it by magic.
Hermione cast Leviosa and wasn't terribly surprised when the spell failed. She could feel the force
well up inside of her, but releasing and directing the magic proved impossible. If Hermione was not
mistaken, she was now bleeding profusely. The equipment was too heavy and she did not have the
strength to fortify the spell. Apparation, perhaps? Hermione hesitated. It was much more costly
magic than levitation. The odds of splinching were very high. Perhaps with Lam's assistance…
Lam must have guessed she was considering this. "I tried Disapparating already. I can't…
Hermione, please help me. Oh God, I can see my insides…"
"It's OK, Jason! You're going to be fine!" she shouted, trying to sound reassuring. "I'm coming to
you, OK? Look, I'm going to try and Apparate over there."
"Granger!" Elizabeth Kent's voice was piercing over Hermione's headset. "They've breached! There
are about ten or so, more coming your way. I'm handling what I can, but be ready! They're almost
there! Richards, do you copy? Richards!"
The small horde had in fact arrived by the time Kent concluded her warning.
She heard Mercer swear, and then she heard him fire his gun. Richards had obviously provided the
neuroscientist with something less cumbersome than a shotgun. And thank goodness for it too,
because zombies were currently swarming the observation room.
"Hermione, look out!" Lam yelled, pointing to the doorway. He began firing off spells, some of
them whizzing dangerously close to Hermione's head.
There were three zombies, and more still in the corridor. Some of Lam's spells contacted and
several heads exploded. Hermione dragged herself behind an overturned table and joined the spell-
casting. There was a short reprieve as some of the creatures were attracted by Mercer's much
noisier weapon and descended upon the adjacent room. Alarmingly, Mercer picked that moment to
stop shooting. Through her headset, she heard him muttering.
"Oh dear," said Hermione. From her vantage point, she could only make out the taller zombies
over the partition wall. Hermione raised her shaking arm, took aim and began firing to assist
Mercer. She was soon joined by Mercer, who had re-entered the fray after presumably stopping to
re-load his gun.
Lam let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Because she couldn't actually see him, Hermione had to abandon her hiding spot behind the table to
inch around the collapsed MRI machine. She saw a small child—one of the Infected—tearing into
the medical student's injured torso. Lam's right arm and chest were pinned beneath machinery. His
legs kicked and thrashed in an ineffectual attempt to throw the small zombie off. It dug into him
like a rabbit digging a burrow, pulling out viscera and shoving its blood soaked face deeper into the
gaping wound.
"Your wand, Jason! Use it!" Hermione screamed. She fired several times around the MRI machine
with a wildly shaking hand, and missed. The small creature spun around and hissed before
scrambling across the floor towards her. Hermione quickly cast Harry's chainsaw hex and shut her
eyes as the small zombie was sliced in half, diagonally, falling into two pieces on either side of her,
pigtails and all.
Lam was now making small, mewling noises. It looked like he was trying to put some of his
intestines back together again. He spotted his wand lying amidst his spilled entrails and picked it
up. More zombies came through the door, some a few months old—slow and sluggish. Others were
newly dead and much quicker.
"Granger, I'm nearly there," Richards spoke into her ear. "You keep Mercer alive, you hear me!"
Hermione propped herself up against the MRI machine and with both hands holding her wand,
blasted everything than came through the threshold. She used every suitable spell she knew and a
few novel combinations. Some worked better than others. "Alec…" she hissed, hoping Mercer
could hear her. She hadn't the strength to shout.
He heard her. "You get the kid out first, you hear me?" Mercer yelled.
"You will do no such thing!" Richards interjected. "Is Lam…viable?"
Hermione didn't need to look. She could hear terrible noises the young man was making. "No."
"Then get to the Doc," Richards ordered.
She glanced at Lam and saw that he now had a firm grip on his wand and had closed his eyes. At
that point, a small group of zombies rushed the doorway, causing a minor bottleneck before two
slipped through and hurled themselves onto the nearest target—Lam. He tried to blast them off, but
he missed at close range.
Hermione began firing at the remaining creatures. One managed to grab her feet and drag her, but
she kicked it off with her uninjured leg. "Richards! I think...I think Jason's trying to Disapparate!"
"No! Lam, if you do that, you'll be taking these sons of bitches back home with you. Don't do it,
son."
"F-f-ffuck you," Lam's said, in a shuddering voice. The zombies attacking him were wholly
focused on consuming what was spilling out of him. Hermione now had less faith in the accuracy
of her more complex spells, due to her depleting strength. She hit one of them with Petrificus just
as the air around Lam began to faintly shimmer—the beginnings of imprecise Disapparation.
"He's trying!" Hermione said. Tears cut through the blood and grime on her face. "Oh, Jason…"
"Granger, you take him out!" Richards roared. "You take him out now!" There was no mistaking
his meaning.
"Don't you dare!" Mercer yelled, in between gun shots.
"Granger, God damn it. DO IT NOW!"
She wasn't going to survive. Hermione knew this. Richards would have to be the one to get to
Mercer and take him home, but Hermione would do what she could to make sure the scientist
stayed alive, along with everyone else back at Grimmauld Place. She stopped defending the
doorway and turned her wand on Jason Lam.
He looked at her as he was being eaten alive, in agony, terrified. Hermione was sobbing. She could
not save him, but she could help him.
"Av…avada Kedavra," she said. Nothing.
She repeated the same Unforgiveable three more times.
It didn't work. With a cry of defeat, her wildly shaking arm fell.
There was a blur of movement at the doorway and she half-heartedly raised her wand again. But it
was no zombie. Draco Malfoy crouched down beside her, grey eyes so very intent and fierce in his
pale face.
She was so astounded to see him there that she doubted he was real. Her hand came up, clumsily.
Her wand still loosely clutched within it. She brushed her bloody knuckles against his face to check
that he wasn't just a figment of her imagination.
Malfoy grasped her wrist, wand and all, and pointed it at Lam.
"Once more, Granger. With feeling."
"Avada Kedavra," she whispered again and it was like turning on a water faucet to full blast. She
could feel the borrowed force of Malfoy's magic flowing through her arm, like an injection of
electricity. The magic was all his, her arm and her wand merely the conduit. The sensation was
remarkable, culminating in a sharp tingling through the tips of her fingers. She stared at him,
blinking in wonder.
The spell hit Jason Lam square in the chest. He died instantly.
Hermione slumped over. She watched what ensued through half-lidded eyes. She saw Malfoy
stand, saw his booted feet walk a short distance from her before the thunderous noise of the
shotgun began. Four, five…six shots in succession. He reloaded, emptied and reloaded again
before crouching down beside her once more. He had taken his gloves off. She felt his warm
fingers press against the pulse point at her neck. It was then that Hermione realised everything had
gone quite dark.
Malfoy put his arm around her and propped her up. "Mercer, can you hear me? I've shot out all the
lights. They seem to move slower in the shadows. I figure in the dark they won't be able to find us
if they can't see us."
"I hear you, Luthor. Good move."

"We're coming to you. Be still. No more shooting. At last count, I think there are at least eight of
them in that room with you."
Malfoy turned his attention back to Hermione. "I know it hurts, but I need you to be very quiet.
Can you do that for me?"
She nodded against his shoulder.
"Good girl. Up we go."
Oh God, it hurt like localised Cruciatus. Hermione bit on her fist to keep from crying out as he
lifted her.
Malfoy carried her easily, resting his slung shotgun against his hip. He walked with great care
towards the observation room. It was impossible to avoid all the broken glass on the floor, but
thankfully the ventilation system in the hospital provided a not-insubstantial droning hum.
Hermione's eyes had by now adjusted to the darkness and it was possible to see the silhouettes of
the creatures. As Malfoy had said, they fared less well in the dark, stumbling over each other and
moving with less purpose.
There were indeed eight zombies in the observation room, mere meters from where a stricken
Mercer was standing. The trouble was that they were standing in between Mercer, and Malfoy and
Hermione.
"The data disc," whispered the neuroscientist, "is in the computer on your right."
Malfoy gingerly walked over to the computer and ejected the disc. The ejecting tray made a minute
'swoosh' sound, which caused every zombie in the room to clamber towards the bank of computers.
The creatures' movements provided enough noise to mask Malfoy's footsteps as he quickly backed
away to a corner of the room.
However, there was still no clear route to Mercer.
"Granger," Malfoy whispered, "look up. Can you see Mercer?"
"Yes."
"Good. This is going to be two-point Dissapparation. We're going to get over there, grab him and
then leave. Do you think you can do that?"
Hermione was fading and she knew it. She could no longer keep her eyes open. The bottom half of
Malfoy's clothing was soaked with her blood. So she placed her wand against his chest.
"I'll splinch us. You'll have to do it."
There really was no point worrying about him harming the team now. It was either trust him and
possibly die, or don't trust him and probably die. And she also held Mercer's life in the balance.
Curiously, just as he had been so tentative in leaving his Azkaban cell, Malfoy didn't immediately
do anything besides merely hold her wand.
She tried to goad him into action. "Whatever you do, please, please don't leave Mercer here. He's
too valuable."
"I don't know about that," he drawled. "He's a terrible shot."

Hermione smiled. It didn't matter because it was a dark, he couldn't see her face and she was
delirious, besides. She remembered what Scrimgeour had said about her being irreplaceable. She
didn't agree with him.
"No. We can't replace him."
"And we can replace you?"
She sighed. Her hands and feet now felt like they were made of ice. There was no feeling there.
Hermione nodded, bumping his chin. "Many more like me. Soldiers."
"No. None quite like you, Mudblood," Malfoy murmured into her hairline.
"I trust you," she slurred, patting his chest. "Don't make me regret it."
He was warm, so wonderfully warm. She would very much like to go to sleep now and not have to
endure the insanity of having just euthanized a colleague, and then playing murder in the dark with
eight zombies, a former terrorist and a neuroscientist with a gun.
Hermione's last coherent thought was that if Malfoy got them home in one piece, the least they
could do for him was give him a razor so that he could have a decent shave.
His beard was scratchy.

Suspicion
Chapter Summary
Suspicions arise after the Welwyn mission. The Cowboy has a private word with
Harry.
Chapter Notes
Hermione opened her eyes.
Above her was the ceiling. Unpainted rendered cement with exposed ventilation ducts and cables,
because they weren't intending to win any interior design awards when they erected the
subterranean additions to Grimmauld Place. The rhythm of the nearby beeps and the whirs of
medical machinery was familiar, as was the sterile antiseptic scent. Hermione flexed her left, and
then her right hand, feeling the stiffness of the tape that held a cannula in place on the latter. Her
legs were more difficult to move, weighed down by a generous quantity of blankets.
Oh, good. Her legs were still…well, there.
The measuring and weighing part of her mind that worked studiously in the background even when
all hell was breaking loose had registered the possibility that she might lose her legs from the
shrapnel wounds.
Shrapnel wounds because of...of…
The information was there, slowly coalescing.
Because of the explosion caused by the grenade that had been lodged inside the body of the zombie
they had been intending to examine via MRI.
She was back at Grimmauld Place and she was on a hospital bed in one of the basement holding-
cells. That much was easy to absorb. The rest was…the rest could wait. She turned her head to the
right, where a soft snoring could be heard.
Happiness; bright and frothy burst within her as she observed a sleeping Harry. He was sitting in a
chair with his chin dropped down against his chest. For a moment, she just stared, soaking up the
blessed sight of him. Harry, in a fresh, but creased shirt and one of the two pairs of worn jeans he
owned. The only thing noticeably different about him was that he'd had a shave. He looked
painfully young without the beard. Sometimes, Hermione wondered if he had kept it for that
precise reason.
"Harry," she said. No voice came out, just a hoarse whisper, but he awakened with a small jump
nonetheless.
He dragged his chair closer to her bed, took his glasses off to rub the sleep from his eyes before
putting them back on and peering closely at her. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I could do pirouettes of joy," she told him, beaming. She tried to sit up. Harry tried to push
her back down. "When did you get back?"
"Lie down," he scolded. "You're meant to be recovering."
"How long have I been out?"
"Almost five days."
"What! That long?"
"Hermione, you nearly died. I got back three days ago. Suffice it to say the house was in a state."
The happiness evaporated, sucked out by the vacuum of returning memory. The space it made
remained, however, filled now by Mira Khan and Jason Lam Hermione's eyes screwed shut. A
lump took up residence in her throat. Harry seemed to understand. He squeezed her fingers, careful
not to jar the cannula.
"It wasn't your fault."
"I know."
"Uh-huh," he said, with a half snort. "You knowing it and you feeling it are two different things. I
repeat, it wasn't your fault."
"What about Richards and Kent? We lost contact with them. And how is Ron?"
"They're all fine. Kent Disapparated back first. The Cowboy made it to the MRI suite to find you
and Mercer, but Malfoy had got you both out by then."
She practically deflated with relief. "So Mercer and Malfoy made it back in one piece?"
"Well, technically two pieces," Harry confirmed. "Which is a relief considering the risks of
Disapparating when one third of your party is unconscious, the other a Muggle, and you're using
someone else's wand. Speaking of which…"
Harry reached into his wand holster and pulled out her wand which was nestled next to his own.
He placed it in her left hand. "I believe this belongs to you."
Hermione stared down at it, and then back up at Harry. She didn't know what to say. Neither did
Harry, it seems. He inhaled audibly, before speaking. "Few things manage to surprise me anymore.
Malfoy actually doing what he did is very surprising."
"You expected him to run."
Harry nodded. "Didn't you? Frankly, I've been expecting him to run the moment he got here."
Honestly, she didn't know what she'd expected. In any case, common sense had evidently
prevailed. It didn't need to have anything to do with moral epiphanies or atonement or anything so
clichéd as that. Perhaps this time Malfoy had simply decided to back the winning horse? The Light
held such promise. More so than whatever uncertainties and bad pension plan escape had to offer.
"What happened on Taransay?" Hermione asked Harry. "We sent Owls. All of the missives came
back unread."
Harry sat back heavily in his chair. "That is a conversation we need to have with Scrimgeour
present. And maybe Mercer, too." He gave her a quelling look when she opened her mouth to
protest. "Trust me. They'll help me explain it much better than the way I tried to explain it to them
the first time. There's quite a bit to tell. For now, all I really give a damn about is that the Weasleys
are safe and you're safe. Oh, and Ginny's here."
That explained the missing beard.
"Ginny! I'm dying to see her!" Hermione made to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but she
didn't even get that far. The effort required to simply shift the heavy blankets rendered her dizzy.
"Oh," she exclaimed, as dark spots begin to obscure her vision. She felt Harry's hands on her
shoulders and then she felt nothing at all.
When Hermione regained consciousness for the second time that day, she opened her eyes to find
Padma Patil looking down at her; dark, almond-shaped eyes staring at her reproachfully. Although
it seemed she wasn't angry at Hermione, exactly.
"I said not to over-exert her, Harry."
"Sorry," replied Harry. He was hovering at the door, looking doleful.
Hermione licked her lips. Her mouth tasked like cotton wool. A bendy straw gently prodded at the
edge of her mouth, and she gratefully sucked up the cool water Padma offered her.
"Thank you," she said, with a sigh. "Don't blame Harry. It was my own fault. I wanted to see
Ginny."
"And Ginny wants to see you," Padma assured, "but on account of the fact I recently put a couple
of liters of blood into you, I'd prefer that you take it easy for a while."
"That bad, was it?"
Padma raised an eyebrow. Without a word, she walked to a chest of metal drawers at the corner of
the room and took out a small, zip-locked plastic bag. Inside, Hermione recognised the wooden
talisman that Professor Yoshida had given her to take on the Welwyn mission. The pale, yellow
wood was now stained a dirty maroon from what Hermione assumed was her blood. Just off the
center of the plaque was a hole roughly the size of a bottle cap. Padma reached into one of the
pockets of her lab coat and pulled out a disconcertingly large, steel bolt.
"I took the liberty of cleaning this for you," Padma said. She slipped the bolt into the hole in the
middle of the talisman. It slid through easily, all the way to the head. "Thanks to that little sliver of
wood, this monstrosity of a bolt managed to only nick your femoral artery, which is why Malfoy
was practically dripping with your blood by the time he got you to my operating table. A few
centimetres deeper and…" Padma blinked rapidly, her eyes overly bright. She smiled stiffly at
Hermione.
Padma never cried. No one, except obviously her late twin, Parvati, could probably have recalled
seeing the formidable former Ravenclaw shed so much as a tear. Padma was as stoic as Parvati had
been sentimental. Hermione saved her friend's pride by quickly changing the subject.
"Speak of the devil. Where is Malfoy?"

"I've put him to work in the labs. It's hilarious. Well, as much as anything can be right now. He's
been inflagrante delicto with our electron microscope ever since I informed him we actually have
one. Malfoy's quite willing to share, but house-trained or not, no one else has been game enough to
be within three meters of him."
From the doorway, Harry snorted. "No need to wonder why. Constant vigilance, as Moody used to
say."
Hermione had to agree. Even in the small moments when she thought she could actually read
Malfoy, there was always something extra behind his eyes that made you slightly anxious. He was
like a wolf Hermione had once seen in a BBC documentary. The animal's handler had reared it
since it'd been a pup. It played, chased, loved to have its belly scratched and even fetched, but God
forbid you tried to take away something it had caught, or was eating. There was a wildness that
was a part of the animal that no short-term domestication could weed out. Malfoy was like that. He
was their captive wolf.
"Off you go, Harry. I'm going to check Hermione's stitches," Padma said, as she pulled on a pair of
latex gloves and began prodding at a cut near Hermione's temple. "I'm sure I saw Ginny helping
Honoria in the garden."
"You mean our clay garden?" Hermione added. " Scrimgeour said the only thing we're likely to
grow there is an urn."
"Mira never gave up on growing some Wolfsbane for Wallen," Padma said, quietly. "So we'll keep
trying."
Harry obediently left. Hermione sat in thoughtful silence as Padma finished applying some of
Yoshida's home-brewed healing unguent to the cut before applying a fresh butterfly bandage. She
pulled aside the blankets to check the wound at Hermione's thigh, which she declared was coming
along nicely.
"Granted I'm awfully good at stitching people back up, but I'm afraid that cut on your forehead will
scar. Not badly, but you'll see it in certain light."
Hermione tentatively prodded at the cut, and then instantly felt guilty for bothering.
Padma must have caught the look on her face. She tut-tutted. "You're allowed to care, Hermione."
"There are other more pressing things to grieve about than another scar."
Padma shook her head. "It doesn't have to be one thing or the other. You're allowed to
acknowledge the general fucked up-ness of the past five days. New scars included."
Hermione was impressed. The other thing Padma never did was swear. "Did we at least get the
data we needed?"
At this, Padma brightened. "Indeed, we did. The mission wasn't all for naught. Mercer's been
looking at the data since we got back. It's quite something, he says. We've sent it off to the
Cowboy's colleagues for their people in the States to have a look at as well."
"And do we know why our specimen had a sodding grenade lodged in his gut?"
"I have no idea," Padma confessed. "Harry's tried asking the Cowboy, but so far Richards is
keeping mum."
It was apparent that Agent Richards was the man holding most of the answers Hermione sought.
Perhaps there was another, easier way. "I need to see Scrimgeour," Hermione told Padma.
Padma snorted. "Get in line. You'll have to wait until tomorrow, at least. He's currently not
permitted to leave his bed."
"What? What's wrong with him? Is he ill?"
"No, being the only one with your blood type, he donated blood for your transfusion. But as he's
three times our age, he's not bouncing back quite so quickly. So for the love of Merlin, lie down,
rest and make the most of his generous gift by getting better."
It was a most persuasive argument.
Richards found Harry in the garden. The erstwhile hero of the British wizarding world was smiling
beatifically at Ronald Weasley's kid sister—a sassy redhead that Richards had immediately taken a
liking to within moments of being introduced to her.
Ginny Weasley, assisted by mediwitch Honoria Cloot, was attempting to stab a trowel into the
compacted ground. The ladies had a few packets of seeds to plant and were impressively optimistic
about their prospects.
"Hand me that watering can, would you, Harry?"
Potter did as asked (Richards had no doubt he likely did most things Miss Weasley deigned to ask
of him) and the small group of adults observed the water that Ginny poured into the flower trough
completely fail to be absorbed by the clay-congested soil.
"Hmm," Ginny said. She was not to be thwarted, though. "Perhaps we could drill a few holes into
the ground to let the water drain in?"
Richards had dallied enough. "Potter, walk with me."
Harry Potter would have rather stayed outside in the sunshine with his girlfriend, but he recognised
Richards' tone.
The two men wiped their feet at the back step before re-entering the house. Richards led Harry up
the stairs, pausing along the way to tip his hat in greeting at their virologist, Kate McAlister, before
proceeding to Scrimgeour's office. He shut the door behind Harry.
"What's on your mind?" Harry asked.
"This," said Richards. He walked over to the corner of the room that housed a large cabinet, the
one where Malfoy's Remington 870 had come from. He pulled out a key attached to a gold chain
around his neck, and opened the cabinet door wide enough for a person to step inside. He
proceeded to step inside.
A moment later, a light turned on and a surprised Harry joined him within what appeared to be an
ammunitions storage vault. Harry gawked for a minute or two. There was much more than just
shotguns. There were an array of semi-automatic pistols and rifles, all manner of body armour,
what looked like riot-squad gear, gas masks and canisters of what Harry could only assume was
crowd-dispersing gas of some sort.
Richards bent down to slide a large, matte black case from under a shelf. He flipped it open and
stood back so Harry could see inside. Harry found himself staring down at rows of hand grenades
embedded in custom-fitted foam. There were four rows consisting of five grenades each.
Only…
Harry got down on his haunches to have a closer look.
"The ordnance list I brought with me when I arrived in London indicates that we had twenty
separate M67 fragmentation grenades," said the Cowboy.
"One is missing," Harry concluded. He frowned up at Richards. "Why didn't you tell us there was a
ruddy arsenal in the house this whole time?"
Richards smiled thinly. "These supplies are here on a need to know and more importantly, a need
to use basis."
"But the Minister knows about it?"
"He's the one who insisted I bring it."
Harry's shock registered clearly on his face.
Richards sighed. "I understand that not many of you British wizarding folk like Muggle weapons
all that much."
"Understandably," said Harry, with some anger. "Most feel that wands are a more civilised option."
The Cowboy's returning gaze was sharp. "A wand can eviscerate just as well as a hand grenade, but
if death and injury is what you want, you can't beat a wand for precision. You throw a grenade,
hoping for the best. Or worst, in this case. Maybe it knocks a bunch of people off their feet or
maybe it takes someone's head off. Who knows? Maybe it does none of that. But when you cast
Laceratus, for example, and you aim it…just so," Richards sliced his hand across Harry's
abdomen, just grazing the younger man's shirt, "you actually mean to cut someone open. No
dicking about. So don't say guns are more brutish. They just allow more unknown variables."
Still on his haunches, Harry stared down at the grenade case. "You're suggesting someone stole a
grenade from here and put it inside the zombie that exploded on Jason, Mira and Hermione? Do
you realise how that sounds? It's insane. It's sabotage."
Richard's stare was piercing now. "I'm not suggesting it, son. I'm telling you that's what happened."
Harry got to his feet, an expression of pained disbelief on his face. "No. It can't be someone from
this house! Who else has access to this room?" He stared pointedly at the chain around Richards'
neck. "Besides you."
"Scrimgeour, Agent Kent and myself."
"Fantastic," muttered Harry. "As if the prospect of there being a second schemer and murderer in
our midst isn't nauseating enough, I find out our prime suspects are the security personnel who are
meant to be protecting us in the first place!"
"I'll widen the pool of suspects for you, if it makes you feel better," Richards said. "On the day of
the mission, five people were inside this room at one point— Scrimgeour, Agent Kent, Dr Mercer,
Draco Malfoy and me."
Harry's mouth dropped open slightly. "What in Godric Gryffindor's name was Draco Malfoy doing
in our ammunitions vault?"
"The consensus among the group was that Malfoy should not be allowed to carry a wand. We gave
him a shotgun instead—"
"Because shotguns are less precise at causing death," interrupted Harry, dryly.
"—and suited him up in some protective gear," Richards continued, unfazed. "He was in here with
Alec Mercer for all of ten minutes. Supervised by Agent Kent, of course."
"Mercer got a shotgun, too?" Harry asked, looking slightly incredulous.
This seemed to amuse Richards slightly "No, but it wasn't for lack of asking for one. We decided
the good doctor was better off with something smaller."
Harry ran a hand through his hair. "Does Scrimgeour know about the missing grenade?"
"Yes, but this stays between you and me. The last thing we need now is for word to leak out and
suspicion to spread unchecked. We've just lost two people. If morale dips any lower, we'll be in
trouble."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I'm just one person, Potter. I need an additional pair of eyes and ears. Especially eyes that aren't
busy looking into test tubes. And I need you to keep an eye on Granger."
"Hermione can't possibly have anything to do with this! She nearly died on that mission!"
"She may not have anything to do with the sabotage," the Cowboy said, "but she's going to be
working very closely with Malfoy, isn't she?"
"I still think it was a mistake to bring him here," Harry said, his expression dark.
"You could be right," Richards allowed. "Which brings me to this—you grew up with the guy,
didn't you? What was he like back then?"
Harry made a sound to convey his contempt. "He was a spoilt bastard and a bigot. Just like his
dad."
"Is he really like his old man, though?" Richards asked. "I've looked at his file. He's led a pretty
privileged life right up to the point he graduated from Hogwarts."
"So?"
"So, when I see him, I don't see a history of wealth and privilege. I see a pragmatist. I see a man
playing a long game. I see patience. I don't like it because it doesn't square with what I read in his
file."
It looked like Harry was going to provide further Malfoy-specific insults in response, but then he
appeared to properly consider what Richards was asking.
"Let's see….four years on the run followed by capture and then six years in solitary confinement."
Harry shrugged. "I think there's your answer."
"Suffering," Richards postulated. He actually stroked his chin.

Harry nodded. "Nothing like an extended bout of suffering to put things into perspective."
"Hmm. That's what I was afraid of. What sort of perspective are we talking about here? What
matters to someone who has had it all, and then lost it?"
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, frowning.
"I'm not sure yet, but there's something missing here. Some aspect of his motivation for helping us
that I can't account for. But I'll work it out." Richards led Harry to the door. They paused just
inside the threshold. "Oh, and Potter, one more thing? If you ever leave this house without clearing
it with either Scrimgeour or me, I'll treat you like the deserter you are. And where I come from,
we shoot our deserters. All of us have family out there. None of us give in to the luxury of taking
off on personal missions when we feel like it. You don't get special treatment just because you
managed to take down your local Dark Lord once upon a time. Do you understand me, son?"
Harry was silent for a moment, his troubled gaze fixed on a spot to the left of the Cowboy's head.
"I should have been here to go on that mission to Welwyn…"
"Yeah, you should've. But then maybe you'd be dead like Khan and Lam. For what it's worth, I'm
glad you didn't go. We've got a house full of jittery scientists, an ex-con who plays hero when he
isn't playing mind games, a Minister for Magic who's currently out of commission…and you."
"And what am I?"
"You, Potter, are a living, breathing reminder of triumph over insurmountable odds. We need that
right now."
Executive Decisions
Chapter Summary
In an effort to get more pages of his D.R.A.C.O formula, Hermione takes Draco on a
little trip down memory lane, literally and figuratively.
Chapter Notes
"Speak to him," Alec Mercer said to Hermione, after a week of analysing the MRI data they had
risked their lives to collect.
"Because now we know that he can hear us."
So she made a point of going to see Ron every day, sometimes twice a day, for at least half an hour
on each occasion. Hermione wasn't the only one. Honoria was often there in the late mornings.
Padma was another frequent visitor, no longer performing her routine check-ups and administering
medication in silence. She would tell Ron about her day, complain about Mercer messing up the
labs and about Scrimgeour being an unexpectedly cantankerous patient. Harry was becoming
concerned that everyone was starting to use Ron as a captive Agony Aunt. Once, Hermione even
found Felix Wallen sitting beside Ron's bed, reading aloud some Terry Pratchett (bonus points for
doing all the different character voices).
As for Hermione, she told Ron of Draco Malfoy's addition to their team and how in a mere
fortnight of being introduced to the labs, Malfoy was in the middle of successfully augmenting
ReGen. This was their most pressing task at the moment. Without effective, longer-lasting ReGen,
even the successful production of D.R.A.C.O would be rendered pointless.
What Hermione didn't tell Ron was that it had taken Malfoy a mere fifty-three hours to create the
new test batch of ReGen. Padma had timed him, as a lark. It stopped being amusing after the first
twelve hours when Malfoy declined to retire for the night and only left his designated corner of the
lab to eat or to attend to calls of nature. By the end of the second day, Padma was concerned he
would collapse from exhaustion and would require medical attention that no one in the house could
spare him at this point in time.
Malfoy ignored her.
On the third day, Kate McAlister attempted to intervene, complaining that he was monopolising
their valuable equipment. He spoke not a word to her, but merely gestured at the computer monitor
on which he was analysing a microscopic image display of their reconstructed regeneration serum.
Moments later, a wide-eyed McAlister had marched up to Hermione and Padma and said that they
needed to: "Leave the man alone to do his work!"
The test batch was synthesised not too long after that, and it was Hermione who had administered
it to Ron. There had been no time for testing, as Ron's initial dose of ReGen was on its last legs.
His improving condition was the current happy outcome. Yet more work was needed on the serum,
but it was no longer a matter of if they were able to perfect it, but when.
There was much more to tell Ron.
Hermione explained how Harry and Ginny, with Neville Longbottom's off-site assistance, had
taken over management of Taransay Island and the other UK refuges in order to give Scrimgeour
additional time to recover from his anemia. In contrast (and to her enormous guilt), Hermione was
almost back to her usual fitness, save for a limp that would take a little longer to disappear. There
were lots of other things to feel guilty about if one chose to wallow in that particular mire.
Seventeen Muggles and three wizarding citizens had died in the attack on Taransay Island.
Harry didn't want to talk about it, so Ginny spoke for him. She told them of the pyres they had lit to
burn the dead, of the smell that lingered for days, followed by a deep, pervading silence. For a
while, even the children—previously resilient in the way that innocence and blissfully ignorance
allowed—had forgotten how to smile or laugh.
"This is why your scan data was so timely," Hermione told Ron, as she sat cross-legged in a chair
beside his bed. It was very late. She was wearing faded, plaid flannel pajamas, bedroom slippers
and one of Aisha Malik's shawls around her shoulders. It was warmer upstairs, but the abundance
of concrete in the basement tended to trap the cold.
"We've discovered that the Infection affects magical people differently. Analysis of blood alone
could never tell us this. We had to look inside. Inside your head," Hermione explained to Ron,
touching two fingers to his temple. "It appears that witches and wizards don't become zombies in
the traditional sense of the word. Mercer speculates that they're able to retain more cognitive
functions. They can reason, to a certain extent. Which basically means they can remember, plot,
plan." Hermione drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them. "Cooperate."
It was a major discovery. And in hindsight, explained the apparent unpredictability of certain
encounters with the Infected, not to mention Hermione's recent observations of the comings and
goings of the zombie in the red hoodie. The finding had been relayed to the other Infected
countries and was received with great scepticism at first, followed by a new wave of distrust and
blame-mongering directed at magical folk.
No one was overly surprised by this.
When there was nothing else to be said, when she had smoothed down bed coverings that Honoria
Cloot had already meticulously seen to, and when she had given Ron's hand a quick, final squeeze,
Hermione bid him goodnight and shut the cell door behind her. It was the start of a full moon
again, which meant that their resident werewolf occupied the second cell.
This time, Dr Felix Wallen was awake. It was impossible not to be affected by the sight of two-
hundred kilos of bona fide monster, even if the eyes that watched her still recognisably belonged to
their mild-mannered microbiologist. His gaze was blue and baleful as she stopped to say hello. He
quit his bipedal pacing, dropped to four legs and retreated backwards into the shadows of his cell,
until all she could see was a silhouette that was the stuff of childhood nightmares. There seemed to
be a lot of that going around.
Hermione took the hint and continued towards the stairs. She headed for the labs.
A light was still on.
According to Harry, who hovered over the labs in the daytime like an over-protective mother hen,
Malfoy had finally managed some sleep (four hours), a shower and a shave, and then had picked
up right where he left off. Harry had impressive stamina, but not even Harry was capable of
remaining awake for days on end. He'd been relieved of the late-night 'Malfoy-sitting' shift by the
Debutante.
Agent Elizabeth Kent was at Padma's desk, her long legs propped up on the work surface. She sat
in a chair, swiveling slightly from side to side. Across the room was Malfoy, working with his back
to Kent.
"You should be asleep. You're rostered to manage the next lab shift in six hours," said the
Debutante, without preamble. Kent managed to avoid referring to Hermione by her name.
Hermione couldn't tell if it was a concerted effort or just part of the Agent's abrasive
communication style.
"I know when I'm rostered. I made the roster," Hermione replied. "Right now, I'd like a word with
our houseguest."
It was some progress, Hermione supposed, that they had stopped referring to Malfoy as 'The
Subject' following his assistance on the Welwyn Hospital mission. 'Houseguest' was the new
euphemism of choice. Also, Kent really should not have her feet up on Padma's desk like that,
where there was equipment and notes, all meticulously organised.
Kent must have caught Hermione's look of disapproval, because she removed her feet. "Be my
guest, although I think you'll find he's about as talkative as furniture."
"Clearly you've never encountered Hogwarts' furniture," Hermione muttered. "And thank you, I'll
take it from here."
The Debutante narrowed her eyes. She may have also given Hermione's rustic pajamas the once-
over. "You want me to wait outside." It was a statement.
Hermione's answering smile was tight. "Please."
The space of a few breaths passed. Kent shrugged. "Fine. Yell if you need me."
"Thank you, I'm sure that won't be necessary."
Kent left, but she didn't go far. Hermione could see her standing just outside the lab's frosted glass
double-doors, and it galled Hermione to admit that she was slightly glad for her presence. She'd
seen Kent at work and was aware that Richards himself had trained her. As much as Hermione did
not like the woman, Grimmauld Place needed both Agents.
Hermione walked over to Malfoy's designated work station. It was—Hermione noted with some
amusement—the antithesis of Alec Mercer's workstation, which was jam-packed full of junk food
wrappers and empty cans of soft drink. The state of it drove Padma up the wall.
Malfoy's blatant eschewing of the standard white lab coat was another thing that annoyed Padma.
Her reminders regarding of contamination, cleanliness and the reassuring comforts of uniformity
fell on deaf ears. Malfoy was not there to make anyone comfortable. He did what he wanted, within
the narrow parameters they had set for him. That evening, he was dressed in the same black,
military BDU trousers and one of Harry's shirts, a slate grey, cotton, button-down affair that was
more formal than Harry desired or required.
He did not acknowledge her presence, so Hermione cleared her throat and said his name.
Upon hearing her voice, he looked up from his sitting position, looking at her but not seeing her.
His hair was noticeably longer now. He was all dark blond stubble, shadows, angles and pallor. His
face bore the mark of intense, all-consuming concentration. Hermione noted the slight frustration
and a thrall that was its most acute when the solution to a conundrum was just within reach…
should one choose to add yet another metaphorical piece of Jenga to a swaying tower of theory and
questions.
Malfoy's mind was very much elsewhere.
And ironically, even as Hermione recognised her capacity to be exactly like this at times, in that
moment, she did not know him. There was no history between her and this particular, here-and-now
version of Draco Malfoy; this man who had managed to eke out Muggle medical research expertise
while on the run from the British wizarding authorities. And to her growing concern, Hermione
realised that applying any absence of history to Malfoy meant that while his motivations were sill
suspect, Malfoy himself was not inherently detestable or loathsome or evil. Add to this his
surprising actions at Welwyn, and he was unfamiliar to her.
Hermione Granger did not fancy being unfamiliar with concepts or things that intrigued her.
This was her innate nature. If she deemed it worth knowing, then by golly, she would set out to
know it. She had briefly pondered telling Harry about these unsettling thoughts, but simply
imagining the look of horror on his face was enough to dissuade her. Harry would not understand
about curiosities that burned a hole through your mind. And the further irony was that Malfoy
would probably understand. Hermione recalled what the Cowboy had said to her just before
Welwyn.
"Different is interesting. He likes interesting."
In the first few days when a still-healing Hermione had hobbled into the lab to take her position at
her desk, her contact with Malfoy had been minimal. Nevertheless, she had felt his gaze on her as
she limped around on crutches, felt it settle on her leg or at the cut on her forehead, taking stock of
the injuries that had (according to Padma's account) soaked him in Hermione's blood, right to the
skin. Apart from a seriously belated team debriefing by Richards about the disturbing theories as to
why there had been a grenade buried inside their zombie specimen, neither Hermione nor Malfoy
had once mentioned what had occurred at the hospital. Team sabotage was difficult enough to
contemplate without having to consider it with Draco Malfoy who might have been the culprit. To
what end, though?
Malfoy was speaking to her now. "What?" he had said, distractedly.
It was a response born purely of impatience, nothing more. He wasn't using his Mudblood-baiting
voice. He could have been responding to Kate McAlister or Alec Mercer.
"How much longer before you're done with this?" Hermione asked.
He massaged the bridge of his nose as he responded. "About a day or two. I'm not as productive as
I was at the start of the week."
Yes, well. Exhaustion tended to do that. "You're going to drop if you don't take a break," she told
him. They needed him working at a constant, manageable pace. There was nothing manageable
about burning out at the end of every week.
And it was then that he folded away the thoughts that preoccupied his mind. She could see it,
could see the owlish, neutral stare gradually replaced with the narrow-eyed, canny look that was
the Malfoy she had more experience with—the one that called her 'Mudblood' and smiled his game
show host smile.
He looked at her until the silence became uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable than
everything already tended to be around him. And seriously, would everyone please stop eye-
balling her god damned pyjamas? They were in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, not London
Fashion Week.
"What?" she said, in a tone much sharper than the one he'd used on her.
A ghost of a smile flittered across his face. "You're right. The current batch of serum seems to be
working for now. Weasley will keep for a few days longer." He glanced across the room at the
spot where Kent had been sitting. "The Debutante's on a break?"
"I asked her to wait outside."
"Why?"
Hermione pulled out a chair and straddled it. Her injured, upper thigh twinged. "Because like last
time, I think you're liable to bargain with me without an audience around."
The corner of his mouth lifted. He turned back to his workstation for a moment, saved the work
that was currently on screen, before returning his attention to Hermione. "And pray tell what are
we to bargain over?"
"I want those missing pages from your notes, and as we've already discussed, you will receive an
official pardon once you hand over the lot."
"I believe the deal was, and I quote, if you help us, the Ministry will rescind your life sentence."
"Yes."
"There is a chance that D.R.A.C.O will not work. What then, Mudblood? Do I still receive my
pardon?"
"Of course. If you honestly helped and it didn't work—"
"Honestly helped?" he scoffed. "And who decides how 'honest' my assistance has been, hmm?"
"We all do! Me, the team, Scrimgeour..."
"And I believe you. However, you do not hold the majority vote here, do you?"
That was it then, she realised, and could have kicked herself for not understanding Malfoy's
concerns sooner. He did not trust Scrimgeour's tacit approval of the pardon. But the Minister had
already given his consent, albeit grudgingly.
Ah, but he'd been forced into it, hadn't he? Harry and Hermione had not sought prior approval
before bringing Malfoy into their operation. It had been worth it, clearly, but Scrimgeour's mercy
was apparently not perceived by Malfoy to be a sure thing. Hermione cared for Rufus. She knew
Harry felt the same way. But like the Cowboy, the Minister for Magic did have his secrets and
hidden reservoirs of unflinching ruthlessness. You had to, to make the kinds of decisions he did.
Malfoy seemed to read her mind.
"Richards would beat the formula out of me if given the chance. I suspect he's offered that to you
as a suggestion. And I also suspect you've declined."
Hermione was silent.
"Not so much on my behalf, I'm sure." He was watching her very carefully, almost scrying her
face. "Rather, I think you couldn't stomach the thought of being responsible for anyone's torture."
"You really don't believe you'll be pardoned outright?" she asked, returning to their original topic.
"No, Mudblood. Not for what I've done."
"I know what you've done!"
He stared at her, suddenly looking sceptical. "You've accessed my file, haven't you?"
"Yes."
His eyes narrowed. "Hmm."
She was growing impatient now. "Go on."
"With Richards' help, you may be successful in bleeding the original formula out of me, but you'll
be hard pressed using that same 'technique' to get me to continue working on it. Do you see now?"
She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the vertigo of epiphany. She did see, and she also saw
how painfully naïve she'd been about the motivations of the people at the center of this game. "It's
going to be a staged release of your formula. And you're going to make sure it works first. That's
why you're nearly killing yourself perfecting ReGen now, because D.R.A.C.O won't take without
it, and you don't completely trust that Scrimgeour will really pardon you for your past crimes," she
surmised.
He didn't reply; didn't need to. He took a blank piece of paper and a pen from the table and then
spent a minute writing on it. When he was done, he handed it to Hermione. Her eyes quickly
scanned his neat, slanted handwriting. Of course, she would need Kate McAlister to confirm
without a doubt what was written on the paper, but Hermione knew enough to understand what it
contained. It was another missing page of the D.R.A.C.O formula, following on from the first page
he had already given them in exchange for his first bath.
Hermione blinked at him. "Thank you."
"I don't want your thanks," he said. "This is a bargain, not a token of my goodwill. It will be the
start of many more bargains to come. You get that page and another, tonight. After I get
what I want."
"And what do you want?"
Oh dear. He appeared to be thinking.

Elizabeth Kent looked at her as of she'd lost her mind. Hermione couldn't blame her.
"No! Absolutely not! You're nuts to even consider it! You do realise there's nothing to stop him
from killing you, severing the tether and escaping?"
Hermione had expected this. She pulled up her sleeve. "You're right. I can't possibly take him for
this little jaunt if I'm the one he's tethered to. So here—" She unknotted the golden skein that
appeared at her own wrist and took hold of Kent's.
Malfoy leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching this exchange with interest.
"What are you doing?" Kent demanded.
"If he pushes me off a cliff or something, the tether will remain unbroken because you can still
track him, yes?"
What could Kent say? She wouldn't say no because the alternative would be to allow their precious
prisoner the means of permanent escape. Malfoy could kill Hermione and abscond, but it would
only be temporary so long as the tether was intact. They would always find him, no matter where
he went. And when they did, it was a surety that whatever tentative mercy Scrimgeour had once
extended would be ancient history.
Kent scowled as Hermione tied the tether off. "This is a mistake," she insisted. "You're being
reckless with what doesn't belong to you."
"The formula doesn't bloody belong to us. I'm working on changing that. If anyone else has any
better ideas that won't do more harm than good, be sure to let me know." Hermione shoved the
single page Malfoy had given her, into Kent's hands. "Give that to Kate McAlister in the morning.
She already has the first page. There'll be another upon my return."
"I'm going to have to report this, you realise."
"I expect you to, Agent Kent," Hermione replied, without any malice.
She had already taken Malfoy by the elbow and was leading him up the stairs, towards the kitchen.
They would have to quickly grab whatever they could carry, before Kent ran tattling to Scrimgeour
or Richards. She selected two apples—both green, some hard cheese, sliced bread and two bottles
of ginger ale. She threw the lot into a canvas bag hanging in the pantry and then stood in the
middle of the kitchen.
"Ready?"
She held out her hand to Malfoy, expecting him to offer her his wrist, as was all side-along
Apparation required. He stared at her with a bemused expression, and it might have been her
imagination, but she thought he looked just a tad impressed.
And tall, Merlin, he towered over her. Shoving her off a cliff, should he choose to do so, would
present no problems to him whatsoever.
He didn't offer his wrist, but took her hand instead; his grip strong, warm and dry. That threw her
off a little, but not enough to distract her from Apparating them right into the middle of Hogwarts'
Quidditch pitch. She honestly wished she was dressed in something other than her ratty old
pajamas and bedroom slippers.
The Necessary Things
Chapter Summary
An impromptu trip to Hogwarts results in a useful Herbology find. Hermione scores

her first point against Malfoy.
Malfoy said he wanted a bit of time on a broom. Hermione had deemed that do-able.
He'd then added that he wanted a bit of time on a broom at Hogwarts' Quidditch pitch. She'd
mulled it over for a short while before decided that yes, that too was do-able provided she got
Agent Kent to take over as Malfoy's tether-mate for the duration of the trip. Even though Malfoy
was speaking to her in full sentences, with his inbuilt cryptic-o-matic turned off, and he hadn't tried
to strangle her once in the last three weeks, he was still a convicted killer.
Hermione was not a fool. She knew that her life was at risk every time she was alone with him. Ah,
but the risk was small enough that it did not outweigh the benefits if he continued to hand over
additional pages of D.R.A.C.O. At this rate, this would have it all in a matter of a days.
Malfoy was no fool, either. His endgame made a lot of sense, if you happened to be Draco Malfoy.
It wasn't like anyone was expecting him to transform into Mother Teresa overnight. He would give
only so long as they gave back, and by all accounts, what he was asking of them was relatively
minor. The big ask was trust, however. Hermione did not trust him, but she trusted her instincts and
those instincts were telling her that murder and mayhem was not on the cards currently.
They Apparated into the middle of a humid Scottish summer. The pitch was predictably deserted.
Months of neglect meant that the grass reached Hermione's knees. She noticed that Malfoy was no
longer at her side. He was cutting through the green, heading purposefully towards the edge of the
pitch. Hermione rubbed her upper arms to rid herself of goosebumps. Despite the school's
legendary external wards now rendered defunct, it seemed immensely wrong to Apparate so
casually onto Hogwarts grounds. The castle itself was a different matter, of course. The wards
around the stones were ancient and unlike the outside, did not require manual maintenance. They
were a permanent feature and as such, it was still impossible to Apparate directly inside the castle.
It was so very silent on the pitch. The air was unmoving. There were no night bird calls and no
droning insects venturing from the muddy banks of the lake. It felt like they were inside some kind
of hermetically sealed history lesson. The house flags and banners that adorned the Quidditch
stands lay dark and limp. A full moon provided light, though just barely. Hermione's memory of
Hogwarts was undoubtedly embellished. She recalled the grass being so vibrant that it hurt to stare
at it in the full sun, while the Slytherin green was a couple of shades darker. She remembered the
scarlet and deep gold of the Gryffindor colours on flags that flapped in the breeze so energetically
that they made a noise. The pitch was never meant to be seen like this, bleached of colour as it was.
Everything was in monochrome.
Malfoy's borrowed combat boots crunched over the sand and gravel that bordered the pitch.
"Where are you going?" Hermione asked. She didn't have to shout. The silence meant her voice
carried without any effort.
He replied without turning around. "To find a ride."

Hermione had no idea that the Slytherin team maintained their own separate set of practice brooms
housed in a locker in the school's broom shed. The most recent team's brooms were still there. She
was unsurprised. While every other Quidditch player made do with a geriatric school broom in the
event their own stick was in the shop, Slytherin House made up its own rules. That had been part
of Hogwarts' dubious charms—the small, mean inconsistencies. Looking at it through less
idealistic eyes, Hermione wondered why some of the other Houses never kicked up more of a fuss
about these injustices. Hufflepuff, for instance. House Hufflepuff often found itself at the dodgy
end of last minute points or rule changes, often to the benefit of Gryffindor or Slytherin. They
seldom complained, and you began to understand that that, too, was part of the system of assigned
character. And if one subscribed to the notion that in many cases free will was actually an illusion,
then it became easier to see why Malfoy had become who he was, and not…and not any of the
myriad other things he could have been.
Like a gifted research scientist, for example.
Malfoy's departure from the UK had certainly been 'off-script'. Perhaps he'd glimpsed previously
impossible options? Maybe that accounted for why he had seemingly rid himself of the petulance
and resentment of his youth? The malice that made him Harry's Hogwarts nemesis was still there,
though. Perhaps that would always be part of him?
Hermione climbed to the top of the Ravenclaw stands, because they were the nearest. It was a long
and sweaty climb to the top, and she was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration by the time she
settled into the front row of benches. Padma had recommended exercising her injured leg to
prevent muscle atrophy, and so far, there hadn't been many opportunities for a workout at
Grimmauld Place. The short curls at her hairline stuck to her damp skin. Hermione pushed her hair
back, gathering the thick mass into a tighter ponytail.
She took one of the bottles of ginger ale from the canvas bag and unscrewed it. The ale was perfect
for the weather—dry, crisp and still very cold. She ate her apple as she watched Malfoy fly, for
there was nothing else to do and the sight of the empty castle in the immediate background made
her feel all sorts of melancholy.
It was truly odd to note that she remembered his flying style, so to speak. This knowledge had been
borne from the many Slytherin versus Gryffindor matches he had played in, whereby it would only
be just a matter of time (and opportunity) before he executed a foul against a member of the
Gryffindor side—usually Harry. After years of watching for that with a keen eye, it was no wonder
she remembered that Malfoy flew like he was riding his favourite horse. He didn't crouch over the
broom, like Harry, who kept his ankles tucked up tight like a jockey on a tall racehorse. Nor did he
observably 'hang' from it, which was Ron's particular, dangling style.
No. Malfoy sat with his back straight; heels fixed at a forty-five degree angle, as if they were
placed in invisible stirrups. His left hand held the broom neck, directing the stick with motions that
were largely indiscernible, while his other hand rested on his thigh. When Harry came about, he
grasped the broom with both hands and the tip of the broom would dip south and then level up
again. When Malfoy did this, he did it one-handed, pulling the tip of the broom nearly up to his
nose, such that he and the broom were nearly vertical in the air.
Harry had pointed out once or twice that it was a difficult maneuver to master at full speed, but if
you could manage it without throwing yourself off your broom, it meant you made less of a target
as you turned. Most collisions and Bludger Kisses (as Ron euphemistically called them) happened
when players turned their brooms around.
After about twenty minutes in the air, Malfoy dismounted. He stepped onto the levelled top of the
safety barrier, before jumping down to join her at the benches. His legs were long enough that he
was able to brace his feet against the barrier. There was colour in his cheeks. Wordlessly, she
passed across the canvas bag. He took it, pulled out the ginger ale and drained half the bottle in one
long, continuous swallow. They sat—in not quite companionable silence—watching the few sparse
clouds pass across the moon. Hermione was so tense that it was nearly anticlimactic when he
eventually did speak to her.
"How did it start?"
She knew what he was talking about, of course. "No one knows for sure. But they traced the
source of the Infection to London. Patient zero, whoever they were, lived and died here."
He leaned back, resting his elbows on the raised, second row of benches behind him. "When he or
she made it to a hospital, the treating doctors would have diagnosed it as encephalitis. Probably
thought it was meningitis."
Hermione sighed. "Yes."
"And then when more cases presented, they would have been motivated enough to conduct PCR on
brain samples post mortem," he speculated.
"PCR?"
"Polymerase chain reaction," he explained. "It's a technique used to detect the presence of
infectious diseases."
She had to ask. "What on earth prompted your interest in virology?"
He angled himself slightly to the right, such that he was now facing her. It was now too dark to
make out the expression on his face. "I'm not just interested in virology."
"Then...?"
"Then why did I spend several character-building years in Russia learning about it?"
Hermione nodded.
Malfoy took a swig from his ginger ale, watching her over the base of the bottle. "I told you."
She located the memory in question, from the day they had released him from Azkaban.
I spotted a lucrative, untapped market.
"For the money," she concluded. "For the challenge, too."
He held the bottle up at her in mocking congratulations at her deduction. She waited for the
inevitable elaboration. It wasn't a long wait.
"Muggles fear mortality in ways we do not."
She made a derisive sound. "Magical folk are hardly immortal."
"The average life expectancy of a Western European wizard is a hundred and twenty. In Japan, it's
two-hundred and five. How old does Professor Yoshida look to you?"
"I'd say about eighty-five?"

He smiled, took a sip and then licked his lips. They glistened briefly in the low light. "Try two-
hundred. He's been brewing potions since my great-grandfather was in swaddling clothes. Compare
that kind of longevity to the average Muggle life expectancy and to Muggles. It's no trifling
matter."
"What about Voldemort? Did he approve of your little side-projects?"
At mention of Voldemort, the air between them cooled significantly. Malfoy's smile was still there,
but now it was only for show. "Let's just say that what the Dark Lord did not know, ought not to
have bothered the Dark Lord."
"Ah, but he did find out, and it did bother him. He betrayed you to the authorities before Harry
killed him. That's how you were eventually caught."
"I took a risk. It seemed worth it at the time. I expect you understand all about risks worth the price
of entry, seeing as you're spending the small hours of the morning with someone who could hurt
you in a hundred different ways before the sun rises."
She felt a stab of anxiety in her belly, but tried for nonplussed. "If I thought you were going to kill
me, I wouldn't be here."
"But killing is not hurting, is it?"
"I have a wand."
"And a good thing too. We're going to need it."
She tensed when he took the bag, located the other green apple and began to demolish it in quick
bites. He never did anything tentatively; they were mostly concerted, precise actions.
"So what's your story, then?" he asked, gesturing at her with his apple. "Why are you here?"
"Here with you?"
He used a smile she had never seen before. This one was sleet-melting. "No, kiska. I know why
you're here with me. What I don't know is why you're helping your team."
"I'm helping them because they need help. And was that Russian? How fluent are you? We may
need to trade supplies with a convoy soon."
"You know what I think? I think you're helping this team because of your misguided need to assist
Potter. I don't think you'd even know what it's like to have a project all your own," he said. "And
my Russian happens to be as fluent as my French."
She knew he was purposely goading her about being Harry's perpetual sidekick. It was an old
insult. "Actually, ReGen is my own undertaking. I was working on it before the outbreak, which is
why it was available to use."
It was apparent Malfoy had not been aware of this fact, and now looked genuinely impressed.
"ReGen is a bloody work of art, I hope you realise that?"
She shrugged.
Malfoy shook his head. "Honestly, Granger. I don't know if it's a lack of imagination that's your
problem, but there are about a dozen commercial applications for something like ReGen."
"Right now, the only application I'm interested in is whether it can combine successfully with
D.R.A.C.O."
He tossed his apple core over the railing and left the Quidditch broom leaning against the safety
barrier. "How amusing to think that our respective inventions may actually have the capacity to
save the world. On that note, no time to dawdle."
"Where are we going?" she asked, reaching for the bag.
"The library. It was good to be back on a broom after these many years, but we're here for
business, not pleasure."
The darkness inside Hogwarts Castle was the sort that had weight to it. It settled around Hermione
and around the two square meters of light created by her Lumos.
She stood in the middle of this circle of light, using her memory of the castle to find her way
around. The perimeter of the light orb didn't taper off into the darkness, it was sucked into it. So
despite being inside Hogwarts and traversing its corridors and staircases, all Hermione got to see of
her beloved, old school was minute portions of illuminated space.
Malfoy hovered at the orb's perimeter, sometimes walking out ahead into the thick blackness. He'd
stop for her to catch up and she nearly ended up walking into him once or twice.
"This was perhaps not the best idea you've had," she commented.
"I've had far worse. I'm pretty sure seventh year was more or less twelve months of Bad Idea."
Hermione paused for a moment to get her bearings. They had to be at the third floor corridor by
now. She couldn't see him, but she could hear his footsteps if she kept the noise of her own
footfalls to a minimum. "We've overshot the stairs to the library," she whispered.
He stopped walking. There was a brief pause, followed by, "I think you're right. We should
backtrack."
A moment later, he entered the confines of her Lumos. When he spoke, his breath stirred the hair at
her forehead. She could smell green apples. His light hair and eyes rendered him colourless and
ghostly in the golden glare of the spell.
Hermione took a step backwards to put some distance between them. There was something on the
ground, however. Her left heel caught against it and she would have fallen over if Malfoy hadn't
caught her about the waist. He swung her back up, and as her wand arm dipped low, it revealed the
desiccated remains that had tripped her. The shock was pronounced enough that she momentarily
forgot it was Malfoy's shirt and arm she was clutching.
It wasn't so much what it was, but whom it was.
"Oh my God. Is that…is it…?"
Malfoy extricated himself from her white-knuckled grip and dropped to his haunches for a better
look.
"Light," he requested.
She aimed her wand at the ground.

It was Hogwarts' caretaker, Argus Filch. Or what was left of him. Of Mrs Norris, there was no
sign. With any luck, she'd run off into the safety of the forest. Hermione had seen her fair share of
half-eaten remains, but this was different. She joined Malfoy for a close-up examination of the
corpse.
"Look at this," she whispered, pointing to the spot where the top of Filch's head ought to have been.
His brain was gone, scooped out. "That's a clean cut. This was no feeding frenzy. His head's been
cut open like the top of a boiled egg."
Malfoy grabbed her wrist and guided the wandlight lower down over the corpse's torso. His hold
was light, but Hermione's entire body recoiled. If he noticed, he was too preoccupied to comment.
He released her hand and then turned the stiff corpse onto its side.
"Keep the light right there."
"What are you doing?"
"Having a good, old-fashioned rummage…"
He frowned in concentration as he palpated the corpse's abdomen. It looked intact, which was odd
as viscera was usually a zombie crowd-pleaser, but she soon reassessed this assumption when she
watched his hand disappear inside. There was definitely a wound.
"You really should be using gloves for that."
"It's alright. He's mostly dry. And—ah yes, it appears he's also missing his liver." Malfoy took his
hand out and proceeded to wipe it on the remains of Filch's clothing.
"Hold out your hands," Hermione instructed.
Malfoy did as asked and Hermione took the liberty of casting a sanitising charm over his hands.
"Hmm," said Hermione. "So they took his liver and his brain. But left everything else?"
"They ate his liver and brain," Malfoy emphasised.
Hermione was perplexed for only a minute, before she joined Malfoy at his apparent conclusion.
"Wizarding zombies must have done this, and they were damn near surgically precise. They picked
the bits they fancied best. The brain is standard zombie nosh. But the liver is full of nutrients—
iron, potassium, zinc, Vitamins A, D and C, masses of thiamine and riboflavin. Things you won't
find in similar quantities anywhere else."
"All the things required for cognitive functioning," Malfoy surmised. "You're saying the human
liver is like the smart zombie's salt lick?"
Hermione nodded. "I'll raise this with Mercer. See what he says." Suddenly the darkness that
surrounded them was about ten times as ominous. "Um, I'd feel a lot better if we hurried this up."
"I concur."
They proceeded to the library at a much quicker pace.
Their destination was the Herbology wing of the library, which occupied a sloping alcove on the
fourth floor, west of the Restricted Section. Some of the more valuable reference books were
missing and several more littered the floor. Hermione suspected the teachers had taken what they
could with them when the Hogwarts had been evacuated. The shelves gradually diminished in
height as they ventured deeper inside the alcove. Malfoy peered at several titles, eventually pulling
out a book. He flipped it open and grimaced at the cloud of dust that billowed forth, visible in the
golden light.
"This spot was Neville's favourite place at Hogwarts, second only to the greenhouses," Hermione
commented.
"Oh?" Malfoy said, as he rapidly scanned pages. "And where was yours? I imagine it was also the
library. I need more light."
Hermione walked towards him, holding her wand just above eye-level. "Mine was the Prefects'
Bath. What is it we're looking for, exactly?"
He stopped turning pages, looking down at her with a raised eyebrow. "The bath?"
The darkness concealed her blush. Of course he had to be prurient about it. "An hour of
uninterrupted soaking in a fragrant, bubble-filled tub that could fit twelve people would be
anyone's idea of relaxing," she said, primly.
"Twelve people, eh? Is that just a random number or based on experimentation?"
She rolled her eyes. "Sod off, Malfoy. You were a prefect. You used the bath too."
He turned his attention back to the book. "Indeed I did. And it's more like eight people."
The pages continued to turn.
"Comfortably, anyway."
She ignored him whilst simultaneously trying to see what was inside the book.
"Maximum of ten, I'd say. It depends on how much splashing you intend on doing."
Hermione groaned. "Trust you to be lascivious at a time like this."
"I'm always lascivious. We've just never really got to know each other before now."
Hermione eyed him warily. He was standing close enough to count eyelashes, as Ginny was known
to say. "What's in this book that we need so badly?"
"A list of herbs that if prepared correctly, should boost ReGen's staying power even further. If
Longbottom is as good a Herbologist as you say, I'd like to bring him in to consult, as much as it
pains me."
"Excellent. Let me see." She dropped the canvas bag and reached for the book, but he held it away
from her.
"The book you get for free. My work on ReGen is also yours, gratis."
This time, it was her eyebrow that rose. Her voice was flat, however. "Goodness, your generosity is
boundless."
He ignored her sarcasm. "And you may also have another page of the formula."
Two pages in a day? Boundless generosity, indeed. But as always, there would be a price.
Hermione watched as he patted down the many pockets of his trousers, before asking if she had a
pen on her. She replied that she did not.
"No matter." Malfoy stuck out his left index finger. "Here, cast Scribbulus."
She did as he asked, watching as the tip of his finger began to glow. It would bug her for the rest of
time if she didn't say it. So she did.
"E.T phone home."
Malfoy paused in the act of raising his hand, his expression quizzical.
"You can work an electron microscope, but you have no idea about E.T?"
He proceeded to write in the air—a floating paragraph of chemical equations, runic symbols and a
diagram to explain their confluence. Hermione took a step backwards to observe the notes. Even
after nearly two decades of life in the Magical world, with all the attendant marvels that she
witnessed on a regular basis, there never failed to be something new and oftentimes rather simple,
that would momentarily take her breath away.
On this occasion, it was silver writing suspended in a foggy cloud of Lumosgold, bordered by
seemingly endless darkness. She touched one of the runes and it wavered slightly in the air. It was
beautiful enough to make her eyes shine with reverence, but its utility far surpassed its beauty. She
turned on the spot and was dismayed to realise Malfoy was against her back. He looked down at
her; at her face and then at the sheen in her eyes, for which she felt foolish.
"How much do you want this?" he asked her, his voice soft and low.
"Very much," she said. "You want something for it, don't you?"
He didn't reply, merely stared at her. She thought he looked faintly disgruntled.
"What do you want?" she prodded. This was the second time she'd asked him the question since
he'd joined the team.
"I want you to kiss me."
Hermione was too self-aware to fool herself into thinking that this new request was unexpected or
shocking. There would be no morally outraged How Dare Yous, no slaps to the face, because
Hermione suspected she and Malfoy had mutual recognition regarding their odd new relationship.
As much as she wanted to insist that he was out of his damned mind, that his request was
completely inappropriate, she knew it would be a waste of time.
And time was in very short supply.
She looked up at him, straight in the eye. "You really don't care what I think of you, do you? To
ask this of me is to invite me to think the very worst of you."
Hermione held her breath as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. As usual, humidity wreaked
havoc on her hair. He observed the progress of his hand, looking everywhere but at her eyes. "I
doubt I can do much more to sully my already black reputation."
She caught his hand, pulling it away from her. Her heart was beating double-time. "Then why not
try to improve it?"
He shrugged with one shoulder. "A good reputation is too much work to maintain."
"You're insufferable."
"And you're stalling," he said, with a smile in his voice.
Hermione turned away for a moment, her hands balling into fists. Damn him. It was all a game.
"Fine," she snapped, not looking forward to the conniption Harry was going to have when he found
out. "A kiss in return for that page."
It was then that she noticed he still held the very large, unwieldy Herbology tome between them.
And that detail suddenly opened a door to new insight. Malfoy was nothing if not precise.
Bartering for something as ambiguous as 'a kiss' meant that he was effectively relegating the
decision regarding the parameters of the kiss to her.
What was a kiss, then? A kiss on the cheek? A kiss on the forehead? A kiss on the hand?
Technically, they all qualified. He expected her to pick the option that she found least disagreeable.
Malfoy waited, watching. And it irked her to see the amusement on his face. He knew she was
mulling over her options. This was an exercise designed to discombobulate and to take power.
He expected her to kiss him on the cheek.
Hermione felt a surge of adrenaline. Sod him. Oh, yes. Power would be lost, but Malfoy
underestimated her if he thought she would be one to cede it. She didn't need to fake her
nervousness as she approached him, it was all too real. He looked on, smug and silent and with the
Herbology book still tellingly between them.
Breathing hard, with her arms and her wand held stiffly by her side, Hermione raised herself on her
toes and tilted her head to make it look like she was going for a quick peck on the cheek. The
bastard was that sure of himself that he assisted by lowering his head slightly to give her better
access to the side of his face. Hermione experienced a flash of second, and and then third-thoughts,
but the silver glow from the formula hovering behind them spurred her on.
She took a step forward, no longer merely in front of him, but now walking into him. Before he had
a chance to register her intentions, she took hold of his face in her free hand, feeling the rough new
growth of beard at his jawline, before sealing her mouth over his. The entire length of his body
stiffened. She sensed his desire to back away, almost as keenly as her own. But of course he would
realise that if he did that, he would be the one to extricate himself first and as a result, lose the
game.
Kissing Draco Malfoy was a rather one-sided affair. His lips were tense, his breathing now sharper,
his mouth sealed shut. She ran the very tip of her tongue against the seam of his lips and they
parted with a soft whisper of inhalation. Kissing on the mouth was one thing, French kissing was
quite another. She didn't think the latter was necessary, so she focused instead on gently catching
his lower lip between hers, before doing the same to his upper lip. It was a brief, quick foray.
Hermione tasted sharp, green apple and mellow ginger ale, idly wondering if she tasted the same to
him. She pulled away and the natural adhesion of partially moist lips kept their mouths connected
for a moment longer. Her hand now rested on his chest, where she could feel the wild hammering
of his heart. There was a victory to be savoured from that alone.
She opened her eyes. Despite the clamminess in her palms and the tingling along her scalp and
various other random nerve endings, she could not contain her own smugness when she looked at
him.
There, she thought, there's your kiss, you god damned, manipulative bastard.
But then she saw his expression. And she saw that it consisted of more than just the realisation that
he'd been out manoeuvred. His pupils were blown wide and his breathing was soft, but ragged.
Instinctively Hermione held out her wand to ward him off. It didn't work because she didn't use it.
The book dropped to the floor. He splayed a warm hand around the nape of her neck, two fingers
slipping into her hair, just under her ponytail, while his thumb rested beside her cheekbone. His
other hand caught her about the waist as he walked her back into the bookshelf. Hermione's mouth
opened and he caught her muffled protest in a kiss that made her previous attempt look chaste in
comparison. She pushed against his chest, but it was like pushing at a wall. The back of her head
met the bookshelf. One of his thighs parted her knees so that he could more effectively pin her
against the shelf. She couldn't bring either knee up if she wanted to. He wasn't stupid enough to put
his tongue inside her mouth, or else she would have bitten down on it. Instead, he ran his mouth
along her jawline, down to her throat, stopping to suck lightly at the frantic pulse that was beating
at the side of her neck. Her mind reeled. She was shaking so heart her teeth were chattering.
"You have your wand, Mudblood," he reminded her, his voice gruff and hot against her neck.
Hermione placed the tip of her wand against his chest, temporarily dulling her Lumos.
"Go on, use it. End our little kiss and I'll have that page back, thanks."
"You bastard," she hissed. Her panic had very nearly boiled over, but she would not yet capitulate.
"I'm not the one balking here. Finish your manhandling."
He smiled against her neck and then pressed his hips into her. Her breath caught as she felt the hard
length of his arousal nestle against her belly.
"No, I don't think I'll finish it here and now. Not while there are still so many more pages for you
to acquire..."
Despite his words, her shaking had now progressed to trembling. She was gripping her wand so
tightly; it was a miracle the thing didn't snap in half. A dozen spells were poised on the tip of her
tongue, but none of them came out. She had no idea how serious he was about his threat to keep
the page, but she could not bring herself to play his game any longer.
Hermione loathed how small her voice sounded when she did speak. "Draco, please stop."
It was probably the first time she had ever called him by his given name. He immediately stopped,
so suddenly that she slumped down along the bookshelf. When she rose to her feet, she saw that he
looked utterly furious. It was the strongest display of emotion she'd ever seen from him since he'd
joined the team. His anger was confusing.
Malfoy picked up the book and bag, and then let her lead the way back out to the school grounds,
beyond the castle's Anti-Apparation barrier. They did not speak to each other. When they
Disapparated from the middle of the Quidditch pitch, he did not take her hand.
Conflict
Chapter Summary
Harry is a none-too-gentle welcoming committee. Padma has a quiet word with Draco
about his intentions.
Chapter Notes
It was still dark when Hermione and Malfoy Apparated into Grimmauld Place's back garden.
Hermione belatedly realised they were standing in a newly-planted row of Wolfsbane. Ginny and
Honoria would not be pleased. Further to that, her beloved tartan bedroom slippers probably
needed to be thrown away now. They were soiled and soggy after her trek across a damp Quidditch
pitch, through Hogwarts' dusty, deserted corridors and over deceased school caretakers.
This was the least of her troubles, however.
She released Malfoy's wrist just in time to see Harry come barreling at them from the back door,
his mouth open in a snarl. He caught Malfoy around his midsection and both men landed heavily
on the ground, scattering the herbology book.
There was always a moment of disorientation following Apparation, no matter the distance.
Hermione frantically tried to speed up her re-orientation, so she could better grasp just what the
hell was happening. She shook off the customary woozy feeling and stepped out of the flower
trough just as Harry began to throw punches.
"Harry!" She ran forward to pull the back of his old t-shirt, which promptly ripped, tearing at the
neck hole. It was a stark reminder of how much stronger he was compared to her. There had been a
time, many moons ago in first and second year, when this had not been the case. Hermione
honestly could not recall the last time she'd grappled with Harry, though it had probably also been
in an effort to restrain him. She grabbed his right arm. He shook her off, along with the remains of
his ruined shirt.
"Damn it, Harry! Have you gone mad?"
He didn't look at her. He didn't even seem to register that she was there. This, too, was an
annoyingly familiar aspect of male rage—the red-hazed, tunnel vision. It occurred to Hermione
that Malfoy was not fighting back. He blocked the fists that were aimed at his head, but seemed to
be doing no more than standing his ground. Harry lunged for Malfoy's throat. Malfoy slapped his
hand away. The sound was loud enough to make her wince.
"No soft words and wooing? Straight to the main course like the predictable creature you are. If
you fuck like you fight, Potter, it's no wonder you have trouble hanging on to your girlfriends."
Hermione groaned. Trust Malfoy to stir a pot that had already boiled over. Harry growled and made
to grab Malfoy once more. It looked like Malfoy had likely been about to side-step Harry, but
unfortunately, this never eventuated.
"Petrificus totalis!" Elizabeth Kent called out. She was standing at the back step with Padma Patil,
who was sleep-mussed and dressed in a white, terry-cloth bathrobe. Both women were holding out
their wands, though Padma looked markedly more disgruntled than the Debutante.
Malfoy froze in place, just in time to receive the full force of Harry charging into him for the
second time that night. The pair went over into the already squashed Wolfsbane. To Hermione's
disbelief, Harry straddled the now helpless Malfoy and began laying into him.
"Harry!" Padma yelled. She tossed her long braid over a shoulder, tightened the belt on her
bathrobe and entered the fray.
Agent Kent raised her wand again. "Should I just—?"
"No!" said Padma and Hermione. It took the combined strength of both women to pull the spitting
and swearing Harry off of Malfoy.
"Enough!" Hermione shouted, shoving Harry in the chest. "What in the blazes is wrong with you?"
To her astonishment, Harry turned his anger back on her. She didn't think she had ever seen him so
furious, and certainly never this furious at her.
"What the hell is wrong with you!"
"Me?"
"Yes, you!" Harry said. "What kind of mental case takes off for Merlin knows where, in the middle
of the night, with Draco sodding Malfoy? I thought Kent was joking when she woke me up to tell
me. But no, you actually went! Do you have any idea what could have happened to you!"
Hermione put some distance between them before she addressed him, slowly and calmly. She used
her best, Head Girl's admonishing voice; honed to perfection while at Hogwarts. "Harry James
Potter, you either want to have a conversation with me or you want to scream at me. If it's to be the
latter, then I'm saying goodnight."
Some of the bluster leached out of him, leaving a weary and slightly sheepish Harry, but Hermione
could still see the anger simmering just under the surface. It was probably just as well that Malfoy's
sharp tongue was Petrified along with the rest of him. She watched Harry turn away from her, take
two steps and then whirl back towards her with a frustrated expression.
"He's bad, Hermione! Bad for this operation and certainly bad for you! I didn't protest enough
when you hatched the plan to break him out of Azkaban! That was my mistake. I should have told
Scrimgeour. He might have talked some sense into you about how dangerous it is to have Malfoy
here! I don't know how else I can get this fact across to you! I can't watch you all the time—"
"Whoa, hang on a minute," Hermione interrupted, hotly. "I don't need you to watch me."
"If not me, then who?" Harry demanded. "If not Ron then it bloody well falls to me now!"
Hermione gaped at him. "Oh my God, that's it, isn't it? You think you've taken on the mantle from
Ron. Is this some kind of macho bullshit thing? Watch over your best mate's girl because he can't?"
Harry stilled. "Are you my best mate's girl, then?"
During the ensuing silence, Hermione could practically feel the heavy stares of Kent, Padma and
Harry. She was supremely annoyed to be the focus of what was essentially Harry's unreasonable
behaviour. "What Ron and I are, or are not, isn't what is under discussion here," she hissed.
"Too right." Harry nodded vigorously. "It's about you Apparating to parts unknown with a man that
could kill you without hesitation. I've nearly lost one of my best friends. I'm not losing the other
one because Draco Malfoy happens to have a super duper secret formula. I don't bloody care!"
Hermione saw red. She would have grabbed on to the front of Harry's shirt and hauled him closer if
he'd still been wearing one, no matter that he was half a head taller than her. "That 'super duper
secret formula' may very well save Ron, you dolt! It may save Taransay and every other person in
the world who has been touched by this horror! So you think about how utterly selfish you sound
when you say you don't bloody care! Our situation cannot possibly be more desperate than it
already is! I will do whatever I need to do!"
"That includes playing mental footsie with Malfoy, does it?" Harry spat back at her. "I'm not
blind."
She reclaimed space between them, such that they were nose to nose. "Really? Then tell me what
you see is happening out there. No one else, not even the Americans are any closer to a cure.
Millions are dead and you have the audacity to be angry at me for putting myself at risk if it means
we acquire a cure? Get used to it. You're going to be angry with me quite a bit before we're done. I
love you, Harry and I know you love me, but what we're doing here trumps how we both feel."
Harry's jaw tensed. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and scowled down at his feet. "You
lecture me about selfishness and about necessity and yet you pander to the one person who is
deliberately obstructing what could be a cure." His head came up and even in the darkness,
Hermione could see the green blaze of his eyes. "Tell me, have you lectured him?"
She was silent for a moment, and then, "No."
"Why not?"
Hermione sighed. "Because it wouldn't work," she snapped. "Not with him."
"Then he really doesn't care?" Harry asked.
"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "But what I do know is that he's working on ReGen. And I've
got three pages of his formula. I believe I have the means to secure the rest of it."
Harry snorted. "By jumping through hoops? By taking him on midnight joy rides?"
"I'll join the bloody circus if it's what it takes, Harry."
Harry attempted to respond, but Padma materialised between them and put a stalling hand on
Harry's arm. He was fairly vibrating with anger. "I'd like to get back to bed at some point seeing as
I have to be up in two hours. Also, I'm pretty sure Malfoy's nose is broken. If he's to stay pretty, it's
best I mend it sooner rather than later."
"Shall I cut the spell, then?" Kent asked. She'd been so silent and so still that Hermione had nearly
forgotten she was there. The Agent was standing over Malfoy, staring down at him with an
expression of amused interest. The herbology book was in her arms.
"Do it after Harry's gone," Padma said. She looked pointedly at Hermione. "Take Harry and go.
I've got this."
Harry and Hermione made to protest, but Padma cut them off with a quelling look. "Go! The
sooner I mend Malfoy, the sooner I can get back to bed."
Hermione closed her eyes. Belated exhaustion settled over her; the aftertaste of the night's
adrenaline roller-coaster. She opened her eyes and looked at the book that Kent was holding, and
then she looked at Kent.
"May I have that?"
Slightly too much time passed between Hermione's request and Kent handing her the book. But she
gave it up, nonetheless. Hermione had no doubt the agent would have preferred turning it in to
Richards, instead.
Speaking of the Cowboy…
"Are Richards and Scrimgeour back from their Taransay visit yet?" Hermione asked.
"They're due later this morning," Kent replied.
"Then would you please send them a message to bring Neville Longbottom with them?"
"Neville?" Harry said. "Why do we need him more than Taransay does right now?"
Hermione's tone was still a little cool when she spoke to him. She was already opening the back
door to enter the house. Beyond the rooftop, the sky was starting to take on a pink tinge.
"Because like Malfoy, Neville be able to help us."
Padma directed the re-animated Draco Malfoy to the chair at her workstation. "Sit."
He sat. Only, he didn't just sit. Rather, he arranged himself with a straight-backed formality that
had probably been acquired through very expensive deportment lessons, or perhaps it was
something built into his DNA. Padma knew all about very expensive deportment lessons, but the
difference between her and Malfoy was that she couldn't be buggered keeping up the pretense.
Slouching and slovenliness was not part of Malfoy's repertoire. To Padma, this trait was not
something to be admired. Padma admired range in people, and Malfoy's was decidedly narrow.
Padma was even shorter than Hermione, which meant that the swivel chair was a little too low to
the ground for him. His bent knees were nearly at level with her hips. With his hand under his
streaming nose, he watched with forensic intensity as she took first-aid supplies from a shelf, put
the items on a small metal trolley and wheeled the trolley back to her workstation.
"Tip your head back."
He did as asked. Blood ran down the side of his face, dripping onto the collar of his shirt.
"Try not to bleed on my notes," said Padma, as she slipped on a pair of latex gloves. She used both
her thumbs to prod at the bridge of his nose, which was out of alignment.
"Ow."
"I see you've broken your nose before," she observed. "Fight?"
"Bludger."
"I hate Quidditch," Padma said. There was the sound of peeling plastic and the scent of
disinfectant. "I know it's a shocking thing for any British witch or wizard to admit, but if I can't
confess to that at the end of the world, then when can I?"
"It's not the—ow—end of the world quite—ow!" Malfoy caught her wrist and glared at her. "Do
you know what you're doing?"
Padma snorted. "Of course. Do you?" She resumed poking and prodding.
He watched her from under her hands. "To what are you referring?"
"Your reasons for being here." Padma cast an anesthetising charm over the affected area, and then
rubbed in one of Professor Yoshida's topical analgesics. "Sit still. Your nose is going to feel like it's
not there in a moment. Just breathe normally."
She reached up with both hands and applied pressure. "There," she said, looking pleased with her
work. "The swelling should go down in a week or so, but you're going to be sporting black eyes for
a while longer." She moistened a wad of gauze with antiseptic solution and began to clean away
the dried blood from the grazes on his cheeks.
"My reasons for being here are simple enough to discern. There's a pardon at the end of the
tunnel," he told her.
"Tilt your chin up, please. Do you want the pardon?"
"I'm a fugitive without it."
"Let me re-phrase. Do you need the pardon?"
There were two possible answers to that question—the one that was seemly and the one that was
true. Or perhaps for Malfoy, they were one and the same. Padma doubted it, which was why she
had posed the question in the first place. Also, he was taking some time to reply, which she hoped
meant he was contemplating being honest in answering.
"No," came the eventual reply, without even a skerrick of lament.
"I didn't think so. You were never very good at remorse when we were at school. Regret when you
got caught maybe, but never remorse. Alright, you can lower your chin now. Your eyes are
swelling up already, but that's to be expected. Are you experiencing any dizziness, headache,
nausea or loss of vision?" She shone a light into his eyes to check for pupil response.
He shook his head.
All seemed normal, so she turned off the light. The silver eyes that watched her were as cold and
foreboding as a glacier. Padma idly wondered how Hermione could possibly see something of
merit beyond this. Or perhaps Malfoy just looked at her differently?
"What does the personal value of my pardon have to do with anything?"
Padma nearly smiled at the question. He was curious about her reasons for asking. Maybe Malfoy
was human after all?
"Because I'd feel better if you were helping us because you want to and not merely as a means to an
end. Because I worry that you're looking for a hundred different ways to break this agreement as
soon as you find out how to get what you want without paying for it. Hermione can't seem to tell
the difference between you wanting the pardon and you needing it."
"And I gather you do?"
Padma shrugged. "I was always the quiet, introspective twin, remember? The more noise Parvati
made, the easier it was for me to sit back and observe."
"Parvati," he said, as if testing the quality of the word. But she knew he was simply dredging up
his dim memory of her sister. "How did she die?"
Padma tossed the blood-soaked gauze and latex gloves into a bin. She began packing away the
supplies. "Like so many others in this mess—badly. We're done here. You're free to return to your
cell."
He stood and reached up to touch his now perfectly re-aligned nasal bones. He was tall, menacing
and once again, blood-stained. Though, this time it was from his blood, not Hermione's.
"A cure is coming," he said. She wondered if this was his cryptic way of extending his
condolences.
"And you and Hermione are going to be the ones to find it for us, I suppose?"
"My full expertise remains an option your team has yet to fully explore. As for Granger, she was
and continues to be…" He searched for a word.
"Optimistic," Padma said, almost under her breath.
"Resourceful," he finished.
And then he smiled. Padma realised that he had done this very rarely when they were all at school.
Mostly, he'd sneered. Sneers were not smiles, but they could pass for smiles when they were the
only outward displays of pleasure you chose to show to the world. He didn't verbally thank her, but
dipped his head in acknowledgement of her healing work, and then made to leave.
"Malfoy," she called out to him. It took every ounce of willpower not to demand more concrete
answers from him. Padma was not meek by any stretch of the imagination, but she knew she was
out of her depth when it came to Malfoy. You probably only got the truth out of men like Malfoy
from men like Agent Richards. Likely, it involved a concrete room and a very loose interpretation
of the Geneva Convention.
He paused at the door. Elizabeth Kent was hovering outside, waiting to escort him back to his cell.
"Keep in mind that if you hurt Hermione, I'll help Harry finish you off. And I don't need to use my
fists. I have much more insidious methods at my disposal. Even you need to sleep some time, yes?"
His impassivity was inhuman, though Padma thought she could detect amusement. "I assure you,
Dr Patil. Hermione Granger will not be in any peril, mortal or otherwise, in which she herself will
not willingly engage."
Land of the Living
Chapter Summary
Neville Longbottom joins Project Christmas, and makes plans to acquire a rare
magical ingredient needed to improve the Team's ReGen serum. Ron awakens, with
unexpected consequences.
Chapter Notes
Neville Longbottom did not want to be at Grimmauld Place.
The small refugee community on Taransay Island had just been through hell and back, and they
needed every working wand available to help put things to rights again. Harry and Ginny's recent
departure from Taransay had been hard enough on everyone. He didn't quite know how, but after
they left, Neville seemed to be calling more shots than following orders.
He was not used to being the guy behind the clipboard, but if Taransay wanted…no, needed him to
point and direct, then he would be that man for them. This was why Rufus Scrimgeour's
unexpected visit and subsequent request to have him go back to London on a herbology consulting
mission, of all things, was met with some resistance.
"No," Neville said to Scrimgeour, which was a word Neville was quite sure the Minister did not
hear very often.
Scrimgeour's lips thinned. And then he said, very reasonably (damn the man). "Tell me of another
Magibotanist who can help."
Neville thought long and hard. Possibly too long and not quite hard enough because Scrimgeour
eventually grunted, as if they had reached the same conclusion.
"Pack your things, lad. You leave for London within the hour."
"Minister, I cannot simply leave these people right now."
Scrimgeour disagreed by nodding, which was very disconcerting. "Yes, you can. I'll remain behind
to look after Taransay until you're done at Grimmauld Place."
A small, tentatively curious crowd was already gathering in the makeshift 'village green' in the
middle of the tent city, where Neville was speaking with Scrimgeour. This space was used for the
occasional haphazard bout of soccer or cricket, and in one unfortunate experiment—badminton.
Not even an enchanted shuttlecock could withstand the Hebridean version of 'breeze'.
The magical folk stepped forward from amongst the assembled gawkers, recognising their
Minister. Several senior citizens were looking misty-eyed to see him there. Everyone was still
slightly emotional, Neville realised. Molly Weasley had suffered an acute case of Wobbly Chin
when Harry had left and taken Ginny with him. Like her mother, the youngest Weasley had a way
with people and had been a favourite of both the Muggles and the Magicals. She promised to keep
the rest of the Weasleys updated on Ron's progress.
There was another man from Grimmauld Place who had accompanied Scrimgeour—an older man
whom Neville did not know. He wore a cowboy hat, cowboy boots and was leaning against a tree
with his arms folded, watching them. All that was missing was a sheriff's badge and a six-shooter
at his hip. A small Muggle boy approached him and pointed at his hat, at which point the man took
it off and set it atop the boy's head. It covered the lad's eyes, but you could still see the beaming
smile just under the brim.
Scrimgeour introduced him as 'Agent Richards', from the US Wizarding Senate.
And if that wasn't newsworthy enough, the Minister proceeded to explain it was best that Neville
and Agent Richards hurry back to Grimmauld Place as soon as possible.
"I'd rather not leave my team alone with Draco Malfoy any longer than necessary."
Draco Malfoy, Neville thought, and then snorted. "Ha-ha. Good one, Minister."
A week later, Neville was seated cross-legged on the faded rug in the middle of Scrimgeour's
temporary office at Grimmauld Place.
Around him were stacks of books and several scrolls—one of which he was having trouble keeping
unfurled. After several frustrating minutes, he looked around for a paperweight and eventually
settled for using one of his shoes. The fireplace sputtered, burned green for a moment and then a
crouching Ginny Weasley stepped out into the room. She straightened, brushed the soot from her
clothing and walked towards Neville. In her hands was a framed Chinese watercolour featuring a
mountainous, tree-covered landscape.
"This it?" she asked, without preamble.
Neville took the painting from her. He produced a magnifying glass and peered closely at the
artwork "Oh, well done, Ginny! Looks to be it! Was it hard to get to?"
Ginny sat on the floor beside him. "Thankfully not. Kew Gardens Library is a ghost town."
Neville gave her a commiserating look, noting how dejected she sounded. "Harry said you'd never
been to the Gardens before."
"No," she confirmed. "Neither has Ron. We both have always wanted to go. And trust me, you
don't want to see them in the state they're in now. Overgrown is putting it mildly. But the
Herbarium and Library are pristine."
"And the Millennium Seed Bank?" Neville asked, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.
"Intact, as far as I could tell," Ginny said. "As well it should be. It's meant to be able to withstand
one of those Muggle nuclear explosions, isn't it?"
He blinked with relief. It was embarrassing to admit, but occasionally Neville had nightmares
about something untoward happening to the Seed Bank. Like someone leaving the door open and
letting the moisture in, for example. For botanists (and Magibotanists alike), the Seed Bank was a
botanical Noah's Ark. Only he was no Magibotanist, not really. It was just a hobby, which was why
he really needed to be concentrating on what was in front of him right now. Professor Sprout
would, of course, have been the ideal person to bring in on the Grimmauld Place operation, but she
was not available. Neville would have to do. It was almost amusing how many times he'd been
thrust into unwitting responsibility.
Unlike Hermione, thought Neville, who seemed to be inherently responsible for most important
things.
"It's very pretty," Ginny said, tilting her head to the side to observe the painting.
Neville agreed. They both stared in silent, aesthetic appreciation. And then he picked up his shoe
and smashed the glass frame.
Ginny winced, but looked on eagerly to see if what they were looking for was there. Neville picked
away the broken glass and then very carefully peeled the painting from its backing board. He
turned the parchment over and there, in minute script, but still clearly visible, was an inscription in
English.
"A-hah," breathed Neville. He held the inscription up to the light, running his lamentably grubby
thumb gently across the writing. "This inscription adds to the dozen other similar references we've
now collected on how to extract the Nectar from our specimen."
"You mean this Majestic Mountain Peach in that book Malfoy and Hermione brought back from
Hogwarts?" Ginny asked.
"Kunlun Mountain Peach," Neville corrected, with a smile. "And yes, the text lists the Peach as the
most powerful preservative known to magic. Its famous Nectar is exactly what Hermione and
Malfoy need to augment ReGen. There isn't anything more potent. Apart from the Philosopher's
Stone, of course."
"And I imagine that would be much harder to get seeing as Philosopher's Stones don't just grow on
trees," Ginny commented, then frowned. "So where do you find this special peach tree? Kunlun
Mountain, I assume?"
Neville shook his head. "Kunlun Mountain is about as real as Mount Olympus. And I suspect the
plant in question is not, in fact, of the prunus genus at all. I think it's really some kind of tuber—
like the Mandrake."
Ginny made a sound to convey her growing impatience. "Where do we look for it, then? Is there
even a specimen to be found? How is it going to help Ron if we don't even know where it is or
what it looks like?"
"Oh, I know exactly where to find the only Kunlun Mountain Peach to still exist," Neville said.
And then he looked distinctly troubled.
"Well?"
"See, this is where it gets a little tricky."
Hermione tossed the old copy of Time magazine onto the kitchen table, where the Cowboy was
presently going through a stack of supply requests—a task that needed to be taken over in
Scrimgeour's absence. Richards picked up the magazine, glanced at it and then gave Hermione a
curious look. His gaze moved to Neville, who stood at the doorway, eating a piece of toast.
"I prefer Cosmo, but thanks for thinking of me, Miss Granger."
Hermione rolled her eyes and then pointed one nail-bitten finger to the figure on the cover.
"Neville says this is the man who has our Kunlun Mountain Peach."
Richards frowned down at the picture of a striking, black haired man in his early-thirties. He was
seated sideways across an artfully distressed baroque armchair, a lopsided crown on his head and a
scepter in his hands. The smirk on the man's face had a disturbingly Malfoy-ish quality to it.
"This…peacock?" Richards asked, incredulous. "Are you sure?"
"Poshitif," said Neville who was demolishing his marmalade on toast. Taransay had unfortunately
been a marmalade-free zone and Neville was making the most of . "Alexander Amarov is the
world's foremost collector of magical oddities. Among those in the know, it has been rumoured for
many years now that he has managed to acquire the famed Peach."
"Right," Richards said. "He's one of those eccentric Muggle billionaire, isn't he? What the hell did
he want it for?"
"I think he knew what it was, but he has no idea what to do with it. His family originally made their
money in botanical pharmaceuticals and somewhere along the line, Amarov developed a
fascination with magical flora," Neville explained.
"Allegedly magical flora," Hermione corrected. She was leafing through the article. "Before the
Infection, he was never able to prove any of his claims regarding the existence of Magical folk. Or
else I'm sure the Ministry might have had something to say about it."
"Alright, so Alexander Amarov probably has the Peach," Richards said, standing up. "Let's pay the
man a visit."
"Do we know where he is?" Hermione asked. "I mean, he might not even be alive, right?"
Richards was already heading toward the kitchen stairs. "I can find out easily enough. Let me
speak to my people on the Floo."
When the Cowboy was gone, Neville began preparing what was his fourth or fifth piece of toast.
He'd lost count. "Who are 'his people', anyway?" he asked Hermione.
"I don't know, Neville. But they seem to have lots and lots of guns."
The lights in the basement ward were flickering.
There was no electricity supply to be sourced off the grid, but a second-hand generator had thus far
been used to supply Grimmauld Place with power to all non-essential systems. The clinic and
laboratory were rigged to run off a smaller, uninterrupted supply that was magically operated and
as such, would not fail. Despite its decrepit state, the larger generator had been running well for the
past six months, but had lately begun to develop problems. Harry was looking into it, or so he had
promised.
The ward was pitched into momentary darkness, with nothing but the beeping red, blue and yellow
lights and numerical displays on the equipment in Ron's room.
"Damn these lights," Padma complained. She was about to walk out into the corridor to turn the
main switch off and back on again, when the ceiling lights returned.
Emily Finch was sitting in the chair beside Ron's bed, seemingly unperturbed by the intermittent
blackouts. "You look dead on your feet," she told Padma, and then pulled a face. "Oops. Bad
choice of words…"
Padma had enough energy left in her to laugh. "True. On both counts." She had been about to
commence Ron's nine p.m. check-up. Emily was on a lab break, but dropped in for a visit with Ron
just as Padma had arrived.
"Go and have a cup of tea or something," Emily said. "I've got this."
"His CVC needs to be looked at. And Mercer noted his blood pressure was slightly elevated
yesterday, also—"
"Jesus, Padma, I can read the notes. Don't worry. Take a break or I'll tell Granger on you."
That made Padma snort. She removed her stethoscope from around her neck and groaned when the
lights flickered again. "Hermione happens to be the Patron Saint of Overtime."
"Yeah, but she gets super annoyed when any of us take on a double shift without running it past her
first."
Padma pondered this. "I think that may have more to do with messing up her roster. Hermione's
ideal world is a world that runs on rosters. But I am going to take you up on your kind offer." She
began to pack away her med-kit. "A cup of tea would be very nice. And these lights are giving me
a bloody migraine."
"You know, Dr Mercer's on his break, too," Emily said, with a conspiratorial smile. The student
nurse took a pair of latex gloves from the wall-mounted dispenser and began to pull them on. "I'm
sure he'd love your company. Last time I saw he was in the kitchen trying to drink coffee through
something called a Tim Tam."
Padma's eyed widened. "Don't play with me, Emily. Did you say there are Tim Tams in this
house?"
"Uhuh," Emily said. "Neville Longbottom apparently had some stashed away at Taransay."
"Merlin, that's it. I'm definitely clocking out for Tim Tams!" Padma picked up her med-kit, but
paused just outside the sliding, grill door, "Are you sure you're fine here with Ron?"
"Positive! Go!"
Padma went. Emily still wore a faint smile as she went about performing a routine check of the
equipment, before approaching Ron. She removed the sheet entirely and pushed aside his hospital
gown so that she could inspect his central line, as Padma had advised.
Emily immediately frowned. Something was very wrong. The skin around the catheter was the
colour of an old bruise—yellow, black and purple—and it looked like it was beginning to
suppurate. Already the flesh around his sternum was taking on a viscous sheen. And there it was…
the smell. They all knew that stench so well by now. Emily hurriedly flicked through the patient
notes to check when Ron had received his last dose of ReGen.
Could it be that someone had forgotten to administer it?
No. It was only three hours since his last dose and it had been given to him by none other than
Hermione.
Hermione and Draco Malfoy talked about the ReGen Threshold like it was some kind of bogeyman
lurking in the not-too-distant future. They were working themselves to exhaustion currently to find
a means to stave off that dreaded inevitability. It was all for nothing, because Emily was quite sure
she was looking at the Threshold currently. And that was bad news for everyone else on the
outside who was currently surviving via ReGen.
"Shit," Emily hissed. She ran out to the corridor to see if Padma was still there.
She wasn't.
Emily walked back to the cell. Apart from Ron's outward appearance, nothing much had changed
besides his blood pressure. The beeping and soft, rhythmic whispering of the equipment calmed
her, somewhat. Nothing was going to be achieved by her running upstairs to call everyone to Ron's
cell. Kate McAlister was on duty soon with Professor Yoshida. Emily decided to take a blood
sample to their virologist first, and make absolutely certain of her suspicions before Harry,
Hermione or Ginny Weasley were informed. It would be the prudent thing to do.
With shaking hands, she took a syringe from the supply cabinet and approached Ron. The
clipboard of notes had been left on the edge of the bed. Emily's hip brushed against it and the
plastic clipboard clattered to the floor. She instinctively ducked down to reach for it.
The lights flickered again and then the room was plunged into darkness.
The clipboard had fallen somewhere under the bed. Emily crawled on her hands and knees now,
still holding the capped syringe. She stretched her free hand out as far as it would go, moving her
palm over the floor to feel for the clipboard. Her fingers found it just as her cheek came into
contact with Ron's hand. It had been hanging over the edge of the bed.
Not at all where Padma had left it. His skin was warm.
Ever so slowly, holding her breath, Emily crawled backwards—retreating from the bed and from
Ron. Her eyes were opened wide and her mouth had gone completely dry. She was too terrified to
even swallow because of the sound it might make. She stood, rising inch by inch, unfortunately
coming into contact with an unused IV stand in the corner. It rolled across the floor briefly. In
response, there was a quick, soft noise from the bed—like sheets being pulled sharply across the
mattress. Emily wanted to run, and damn it she could run so very fast, but not in this darkness,
possibly into a wall or a pillar or into whatever it was that was moving around the—
Another sound; a long rattling breath that seemed to go on for eons.
Lights. Pleasepleasepleaseplease….
She was not Magical, she did not carry light with her like Padma or Hermione or Harry.
Suddenly, it was bright again. Too bright. Emily winced and covered her eyes with her forearm, but
not before she saw the tall, hunched figure standing beside the bed. It took a few seconds for her
pupils to adjust, but when they did, she uncapped the syringe with wildly shaking hands and held it
out defensively in front of her.
Ronald Weasley's eyes were wide open. They were not brown, like his sister's. Emily had forgotten
just how blue they were.
And they were staring straight at her.

Held Hands
Chapter Summary
The saboteur is revealed. Project Christmas loses four members in one horror-filled
evening.
Chapter Notes
Hermione stared at the monitor; at the output from the six hours of modelling they had conducted
using the computer. She frowned. And because she was just that frustrated, she shook her fist at it.
Malfoy's low laugh was almost inaudible, but she heard him because she was standing directly
over him as he sat in a chair in front of the computer. "If threats don't work, you could try bribery
next."
And you would know all about such unscrupulous methods, she thought. It took effort not to cast a
glance at the whiteboard to their left, which contained a summary of the D.R.A.C.O notes he had
thus far ceded to them. It was a slow process which frustrated Kate McAlister even more than it did
Hermione. That made sense because McAlister was a virologist and it was a special kind of torture
to be offered mere fragmented glimpses of the Holy Grail, so to speak. Malfoy was as good as his
word—more pages had been forthcoming over the past week and a half, and so far he had traded
them for seemingly inconsequential things. And despite Harry's dire predictions, none of those
bargains had involved Hermione.
"Not yet," Harry warned. "Give the bastard some time to work up to it again."
But then D.R.A.C.O had been temporarily put out of their minds as their most recent augmented
batch of ReGen began to fail. Given the rate of failure, it was no longer appropriate to keep testing
the drugs on Ron. This was why Mercer had introduced the SVM technique, which allowed them
to run computer models of the various permutations of ReGen to see how each fared against an
Infection that continually mutated.
Hermione picked up the report and scowled. "Why do we keep getting different results? Are we
even using this thing correctly?
"Get Mercer to check," Malfoy suggested. His broken nose had now healed completely, although at
close quarters, you could still see the shadow of the awful bruising.
"No," Hermione said, "Alec's on his break right now. Let him be."
"It could be input error," Malfoy suggested. He picked up a mug of what smelled like brandy with
a splash of coffee.
"You drew up the data set."
A shrug. "I'm not infallible."
"Really?" Her eyebrows rose. "You act like you are."
Malfoy gave her a snooty look which might have been endearing on any other person. "I am not to
be blamed for your flawed perception of me."
Hermione was pretty sure if she lit a match, the space between them would be set alight by the
alcohol on his breath. He was not yet close to being drunk, but there was potential for it. It had
been a slow, frustrating day.
So what did you do when your work and productivity was taking a nosedive and you'd been up for
thirty-six hours straight and the last time you had anything to eat was when Neville Longbottom
gave you a piece of toast and right now Draco Malfoy was looking at you like you were the chess
board in a game he was playing with a master?
"Give that here," she muttered, taking the cup from his hands.
Hermione drained the remainder of its corrosive contents, very aware that he had turned his chair
around to completely face her. She was standing between his legs as he sat, sprawled and relaxed.
He was no longer smiling. There was something of the odd anger she had witnessed in him on their
recent jaunt to Hogwarts. It wasn't anger at her, per se. Rather, she suspected it might be self-
directed. He didn't seem to enjoy intimacy that he didn't have complete control over. She wondered
if, like her, he sometimes forgot himself when they were together. Whatever 'himself' was…
These musing were soon waylaid by the burning in her throat. "Bloody hell," Hermione wheezed,
her eyes watering.
Amused, he took the mug from her. There was silence. It was impossible to turn her attention back
to the computer screen, not with the way he was contemplating her. "What would you want to do
right now, if you could do anything you wanted?"
Hermione was immediately flustered, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol. Coming from
Malfoy, that was like asking her to name her favourite song. She searched his pale face and was
very perturbed to find genuine—dare she say it—friendly curiosity there? And a languor that
seemed to be stealing into her, too. She ought to be pleased that his opacity was not a permanent
state of affairs. There were depths to him, obviously, and she seemed to be staring into several
layers right now.
"I'd rather be looking at outputs that confirm we've permanently fixed ReGen," she said, stiffly.
She picked up a stack of old reports and walked to Padma's unoccupied desk, several meters away.
It was strange how proximity was never an issue when they were working. At all other times, she
couldn't be far enough away from him.
"I don't mean what you want to happen right this minute, in this room, in this reality. I mean if all
this never happened, what would you want to do?" he persisted.
She shrugged. "I suppose I'd be back at the Ministry working in R&D."
"That's what you did before the Infection?"
"Yes." Sometimes, it was easy to forget he'd been out of the loop for years.
"But was that what you wanted to do?"
Hermione opened her mouth to say yes, but then caught herself. She'd always had the aptitude for
research, but was it really her chosen vocation? Was it her calling? Goodness, she'd never
really thought about it. There had been no real alternative career, certainly not when Voldemort had
been a threat. Just thinking about Voldemort put things back into perspective.
"Some of us don't have that have the luxury of options when dark wizards and their idiot followers
decide they're going to try to destroy everything."
He apparently disagreed. "Oh, you had options. You're Muggleborn. Voldemort was not part of the
world you were born into. You could have walked away."
That made her furious, and inexplicably disappointed with him. "Voldemort would have ended up
being a Muggle and Magical problem. You're either delusional to not know that, or your being
deliberately disingenuous. And if you think I would have just left Ron and Harry to deal with him,
then you've learned nothing about me these past few weeks."
He stood and walked across the room to her. As usual, the clothes he wore were borrowed—on this
occasion, Felix Wallen's blue jeans and a plain, black t-shirt. It was ironic how well he wore
clothing that did not suit him in the slightest. But then she really had no idea what suited Malfoy
anymore. Not formal robes, seemingly. Not the combat gear he'd worn to hospital mission, and not
his prison uniform.
"I said you could have walked away, not would have," Malfoy said, when he was standing before
her. "My knowledge of what that distinction means when it comes to you, Granger, demonstrates
just how much I do understand you."
She didn't reply, instead fixed her eyes on a spot across the room.
Malfoy's head dipped low. "You're angry," he concluded, sounding almost cajoling. "Why?"
Hermione looked him in the eye. "Because when you're like this, you make me forget who you
are."
She remembered their macabre conversation in the bathroom shortly after he had arrived at
Grimmauld Place. It felt like years had passed since the dangerous tension of those early, difficult
days.
"Bad people are to be found anywhere, if you care to look."
"Indeed. There's one right here in this room."
"So tell me if I have the right measure of you, Granger. You care because it is your nature to do so,
and you help because you can."
"Because I have to!" And Merlin, the resentment in her voice shocked her. When she finally
mustered up the temerity to look at him, he was watching her with something akin to pity.
"It must be utterly exhausting being in that head of yours," he said, sounding exasperated on her
behalf. To her dismay, he raised a hand and tucked a curl behind her ear. This was the second time
he touched her in such a manner; the first time being during their outing to Hogwarts. His fingers
lingered around the shell of that ear, causing her skin to flush from her hairline to her décolletage.
"Even now you're worried that you're being selfish by merely thinking that you might be selfish."
She caught his hand and was thrown off guard, once more, when he threaded his fingers through
hers. What was even worse was that she let him. His larger hand was warm and strong. She
relaxed, letting him take the load of perhaps more than just the combined weight of their hands.
The idea of sharing her burden was suddenly so painfully delicious that she momentarily reeled
from it. For the first time in a very long time—years, perhaps—she felt tempted to articulate a dark,
shameful thought.
Maybe I don't want to do any of this anymore?
The idea was taboo. To think such things was forbidden and she would die before she gave in to
such indulgence. And yet there was something about Malfoy that made her long to simply say it.
He seemed to sense how close she was to admitting it. "Let me ask you this, then—what do you
want?"
It was wrong how quickly the answer came to her. She was starting to feel the hot itch of tears,
which went along nicely with the lump of shame in her throat. "I want to not be needed."
"Yes." He nodded. "Spread the load, Granger. You carry it all and you are splintering beneath the
weight. I am equal parts baffled and amazed that something so small and fragile could have lasted
so long."
That annoyed her. She had enough prejudice to contend with, being Muggleborn and a woman. "I
am far from fragile."
His hand slid to the back of her neck, under the heavy weight of her hair. Using his thumb and
middle finger, he pressed deeply into the base of her scalp, massaging. Good God, it was bliss. Her
eyes shut and she told herself she should move away now…soon…
Oh, bloody hell that felt good.
"Your breaking points are all too easy to discern. You wouldn't have survived a week in
Voldemort's ranks."
Despite the fact it was insanity to offer any form of encouragement to him, she could not summon
the willpower to pull away. Her forehead fell forward to allow him better access to her neck. She
felt his lips at her hairline, felt his warm breath there. What was happening?
"What are your breaking points?" she asked him in return. "How are we so different?"
"I'm pragmatic," he said. She could feel the low rumble of his voice. "Flexible."
"I'm not?"
"Not like Scrimgeour and Richards. And you won't even let them do their jobs."
Hermione understood what he was saying and was alarmed enough to lift her head and stare at him.
He didn't release her. Instead, she felt his hand slide around to her spine, kneading all the way. For
weeks now she had watched those same, strong, long-fingered hands at work—writing, typing,
measuring, dispensing, administering. He was meticulous, hard-working, startlingly intelligent and
inherently intuitive when it came to his research.
He possessed all the qualities she admired and yet he was also Draco Malfoy. The world had gone
crazy, clearly. And why not? It was on the brink of annihilation.
"You think I should have let Richards torture you for the information?"
"It's what I would have done and it's not too late to change your mind."
"You're mad."
His left hand was threaded through her right hand and his right hand was now cupping her cheek,
tilting her chin up to meet his mouth. Malfoy was treating her like fine, bone China, like she was
every bit as fragile as he purported her to be. He was going to kiss her, and this time, there had been
no bargain laid out regarding D.R.A.C.O. This was just him and her and quite possibly too much
stress and too much brandy on empty stomachs.
Alarms went off at both Padma and Hermione's work stations. They were not loud, but they were
urgent.
Malfoy's head came up sharply. "What is that?"
Hermione had already gone pale. "Ron!" she said, by way of explanation. She rushed to her
computer and searched through the numerous windows on the desktop until she found the one that
displayed the readings on the equipment monitoring Ron's status. "Odd. They're not registering
anything," she said, frowning.
"Do you mean—"
"No," she replied, knowing what he was going to suggest. "They're not indicating he's in trouble."
She blinked in puzzlement. "It looks like he's been disconnected from all the equipment. Or there's
been some kind of catastrophic power failure. I'm going down to have a look."
Hermione hurriedly opened her desk drawer to pull out a med-kit and then ran to the lab entrance
just as Honoria Cloot was entering.
"Oh, good!" Hermione exclaimed, relieved to see the Mediwitch. "We have to get downstairs to
Ron! He's—"
"Imperio," said Honoria.
"Put down your kit and give me Malfoy's tether," Honoria demanded.
Hermione dropped the bag on the floor, but then remained motionless.
"I said—"
"You're wasting your time," Malfoy said. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were trained on
the wand Honoria held out towards Hermione. "I'm tethered to Agent Kent at the moment."
"Oh," said Honoria, looking momentarily put out. "Hermione, be a dear and find Elizabeth Kent for
me. Bring her back here. Tell her you need urgent assistance. Wake her up if you have to. Do you
understand?"
Hermione nodded.
"Excellent. Go."
Honoria waited until the laboratory doors had fallen shut, before she turned to look at Malfoy.
"You," he said, folding his arms.
Honoria smiled.
Hermione raged, trapped in a tiny portion of her own mind where she was permitted to see, hear,
feel, touch and even speak, but her actions were not of her own volition. She was a puppet. The
sadistic thing about Imperio was that it made you feel like you were pulling your own strings as
soon as the spell-caster's instructions were relayed. There was also a very slight feedback loop
between Hermione and Honoria. If Hermione dulled her panic, she could only just make out that
Honoria was anxious, but excited. Happy excited. That was good. That meant no one needed to be
harmed or killed just yet, including Malfoy.
"Hi," Mercer said, as he passed her on the landing.
Alec, help me! Hermione wanted to shout. Of course, nothing came out.
"If you're looking for Tim Tams, you'd better hurry. Padma's demolishing the last packet." He
bounded on ahead, taking two steps at a time.
Hermione looked down at her feet and willed them to stop. They didn't. So she continued along the
landing, past the room where Professor Yoshida was speaking energetically with Richards. The
Cowboy was chuckling. It was such a rare and pleasant sound, coming from him. She walked past
the room that Neville shared with Harry, and finally stopped at the last room—the one used by
Padma and Agent Kent. Hermione turned the door handle. It opened. Padma was in the kitchen, as
Mercer had said, but Agent Kent was asleep. This was not surprising considering she had recently
finished a twelve-hour duty shift. As it happened, Hermione did not need to speak to wake her. The
Debutante roused as soon as the door opened. Groggy and with sleep-creases on her cheek, she still
looked like a fairy-tale princess.
"Granger? Is everything alright?" she asked, her voice still sleep-rough. Her wand was already in
her hand.
Hermione wanted to weep. Elizabeth Kent was formidable; as good as Harry and perhaps as
ruthless in a fight as Malfoy. But even she would not think to defend herself against one of her
own; against a friend.
"Please come to the lab right away. I need you," Hermione heard herself say.
Don't listen to me!
Kent frowned. "What is it?"
"Please come with me now."
It took Kent all of two minutes to pull on a t-shirt over her tank top and sweat pants, and follow
Hermione back down the stairs. There, they ran into Harry. Hermione wanted to scream from
frustration when Harry didn't ask them where they were going in such a hurry. And damn it, Kent
did not offer up an unsolicited explanation.
HARRY! HARRY! HARRY! Hermione bellowed, silently and desperately. HELP!
But he kept on going.
Hermione reached the lab doors first and pushed them open. She tried to do a hundred different
things to stall, to send subtle signals to Kent that a trap lay beyond those doors, but none of it
worked. Inside the lab, Honoria stood with her wand held out, her lips slightly parted in
anticipation.
And then there was Malfoy. He looked very serious. Minutes ago, he had been holding her hand.
Now, she barely recognised him. The dubious ally and scientist was gone.
She was now looking at the Death Eater.
Harry paused. He turned around slowly, assailed by the oddest feeling as he watched Hermione and
Kent walk to the end of the corridor and disappear into the lab.
Honoria cast the Killing Curse as soon as Elizabeth Kent shut the lab doors behind her. A bright
burst of green light briefly illuminated the room. Hermione stood beside Kent's body, looking
directly ahead at nothing in particular.
Kent fell rather gracefully to the ground, all things considered. Her long, blonde hair fanned about
her head and her wand lay in her slack hand. The golden tether materialised around her wrist, now
vividly corporeal. Honoria picked it up and knotted it around her own wrist. After that, she snapped
Kent's wand in half.
"Are we clear on what needs to happen now?" she asked Malfoy.
"Crystal," he enunciated.
In the short time Hermione had been on her errand to find Kent, Malfoy had already gathered all
their records regarding ReGen. Honoria took an empty document box from the shelves and
instructed Malfoy to fill it with the notes and data.
"Quickly," she snapped, looking anxiously at the door. "We have less than half an hour before the
next shift commences." She began frantically cleaning the whiteboard notes.
"Done," Malfoy informed. He dropped the box on the floor, none too gently.
"Now wipe the computers."
That made him laugh, though there was no real amusement there. "Your faith in me is humbling,
Miss Cloot. But you do realise that if I fail to create a vaccine, this team will effectively be
humanity's last hope? If we sabotage them, we may very well be sabotaging ourselves."
"My employer is willing to take that chance."
"But are you?"
Honoria pointed her wand at him. "I go where the advantage goes, as do you. You're a survivor
first and then a scientist. Now, are you going to see to the computers or do I have to get creative?"
Malfoy did not move. Honoria rolled her eyes. "Fine."
She extended her wand towards each of the laboratory's nine machines and cast a spell that slowly
crushed them. It wasn't as precise as manual deletion of the data, but it would have to do. The room
filled with the sound of crunching, twisting metal and an acrid, chemical stench. When this task
was completed, Honoria walked to the laboratory's bank of portable hard drives and did the same to
them.
"There will be backups elsewhere," Malfoy pointed out.
"No doubt," Honoria replied. "This isn't going to stop Project Christmas, this will merely slow them
down and provide my employer with a healthy lead. And speaking of slowing them down…" She
turned to Hermione. "Come here."
Hermione obediently walked to Honoria, stopping just beside Padma's desk.
"Hermione, I want you to take a scalpel from Patil's med-kit."
"What are you doing?" Malfoy hissed. "We don't have time for this. If you want us to leave, we
need to do it now."
"Indeed," said Honoria, "but I'm going to ensure we have a head start if they choose to pursue us.
Hermione, hold the scalpel against your neck. Now, I want you to—"
"Think this through," Malfoy interrupted. "If you harm her, I guarantee Potter will be doubly
enthusiastic when it comes to tracking us down!"
The soft 'pop' of Apparation was audible in the tense atmosphere of the lab, but the brief warning
did not provide sufficient time for Honoria to defend herself.
"You should listen to him," Harry said. He had appeared directly behind Honoria. "He's known me
far longer than you have."
In short order, Honoria was brought to the ground. She fired a Hex once, twice. The second spell
glanced off a wall, narrowly missing Hermione, who remained transfixed with her hand clenched
around the scalpel. It was pressed lightly to the side of her neck, but with enough pressure to cause
blood to bead from a small puncture.
Harry locked Honoria's arms behind her back. She trashed and bucked briefly, but with a final
whimper of pain, threw down her wand.
"Malfoy, get it!" Harry called out.
Malfoy sighed. "Oh, Potter. You really should take more care in selecting your allies," he said,
before he kicked a stunned Harry under the chin. "That's for breaking my nose."
Harry was laid out flat on his back, staring at Malfoy was incredulous horror. H wand skidded
across the laminate floor, stopping just under Padma's desk, beside Hermione.
Now released from Harry's hold, Honoria scrambled madly for her own wand. She grinned when
she retrieved it, but the look of triumph died on her face as her gaze travelled past Malfoy, to the
lab entrance.
Ronald Weasley stood just inside the doorway, looking hollow-eyed and emaciated. His posture
was hunched and rigid and he was leaning slightly to the left. The entire left side of his hospital
gown was stained with blood, as was the lower half of his face. In his fisted right hand, he held a
clump of short, blood-matted, blonde hair that was still attached to a patch of scalp. There was a
syringe sticking out of the base of his neck.
Harry lifted himself up to a sitting position. He was bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose,
such that blood burbled over his lips when he tried to speak.
Malfoy remained very still, his body in a defensive stance, his hands held tensely at his side. He
spoke to Honoria without looking at her. "Release Granger."
Honoria did not respond. She remained stunned as she gaped at Ron.
But it appeared that Ron only had eyes for Hermione, who was closest to him. With sharp, jerking
movements, he stepped over Kent's body. His bare feet left faint, bloody footprints along the floor.
He stopped in front of Hermione and raised a clenched hand. Hermione's expression was serene,
her eyes fixed at a spot over Ron's shoulder. However, a single tear slid down her cheek.
It required apparent effort for Ron to open his trembling fist, one stiff finger at a time, and then
place his curled hand against Hermione's face. It left a bloody trail along her skin. His movements
were clumsy as he tried to stroke her cheek. A look of acute frustration contorted his face at his
inability to refine his movements. His wrist bumped the scalpel Hermione held, and it cut her.
Blood pooled just below her clavicles. Ron made a low, keening sound and bent his head down to
Hermione.
"Ron," Harry yelled, spluttering blood from his nose. He looked horrified. "Ron, mate…you're not
well. Come away from Hermione. You need to let us help you." Harry tried to get up, but stopped
when Ron turned his head toward Harry and released a soft, threatening growl.
"Potter, I strongly suggest you remain very still," Malfoy advised. At the sound of his voice, Ron's
gaze briefly flickered to Malfoy, but it was obvious his attention was fixed on Hermione.
"Do something," Harry whispered to Malfoy and Honoria. He stared at his own wand, under
Padma's desk.
Another tear slid down Hermione's cheek. Ron flicked out his tongue, the colour of eggplants, and
licked at the salty trail. He began to nuzzle her while making a low, whining sound.
"Malfoy, help her," Harry said, openly pleading this time. He was struggling to stay upright.
"Honoria, you will end the spell immediately or I will not leave with you," Malfoy threatened, his
diamond-hard stare attempted to bore holes into the back of Honoria's head.
But she wasn't looking at him, or apparently hearing him. Malfoy then began walking towards
Hermione, but stopped short when Ron's head snapped towards him. The tender expression he
wore was now replaced with a feral snarl. The warning was clear—keep away.
"Finite incantatum," Honoria finally said, although she made no attempt to assist Hermione any
further. She gave Malfoy a pointed look before slowly crawling across the floor and taking hold of
the box of records.
When the spell was ended, Hermione shuddered and then seemed to collapse in on herself. The
scalpel fell to the floor. Her eyes shut momentarily, but when they opened she stared at Ron with a
mixture of grief and horror, and then tried to step away from him.
His hands clamped around her upper arms, fingers digging into her flesh, clawlike,
"Ronald…" she said, "it's me. Hermione."
But that was precisely the problem. He knew her, but he did not appear to know what he wanted to
do with her. He hauled her closer, shaking her. And then suddenly, he stopped. The look he gave
Hermione was full of agony. His mouth seemed to work for a moment, his lips forming the
required syllables.
"Hermione?" he whispered. And this was Ron. This was the boy from the train with the smudge on
his nose who had looked with envy at Harry and had hoped for his friendship. It was Ron, who
fought alongside Harry and was ashamed for all the times he had not. Ron, who loved Quidditch
and his mum and was bad with girls, but always knew he would ask Hermione Granger to marry
him someday, when Harry did not need them to fight for him anymore.
Hermione tried to push him away, but Ron held fast. And then he moved his hands from her arms
up to her face, holding her head in a constricting vise. If there had been the light of reason in Ron's
eyes before, it was beginning to fade as Hermione struggled in his grasp. The humanity
disappeared, leaving wildness in its wake.
Her snarled, opening his mouth wide, bringing her head to him.
Honoria was utterly frozen in fascinated horror. Harry staggered to his feet.
It was Malfoy who darted forward; a quicksilver blur. He picked up the scalpel Hermione had
dropped and ran it across the back of Ron's Achilles tendons. Ron immediately collapsed to the
ground. Thick, viscous blood pooled around his feet. Malfoy's hand moved again and Padma's
scalpel, always so exquisitely maintained, sliced across Ron's throat, through blood vessels and
tendons, stopped only by bone. Ron twitched once as the blood supply to his Infected brain was
severed. There was a long, soft wheeze of escaping breath before his eyes closed.
Hermione sagged down against the side of Padma's desk.
Malfoy crouched down beside her. "Granger," he said, quickly, urgently. "Look at me."
She complied, though her eyes were wide and unfocussed with shock. "You killed Ron."
Honoria appeared beside them, carrying the box of notes. She placed a shaking hand on Malfoy's
shoulder. "Time to go."
It was another ten minutes before Professor Yoshida arrived at the lab for the start of his shift with
Kate McAlister. He was in good spirits after a rather rousing debate with Agent Richards.
The Potions Master found young Elizabeth Kent on the floor, dead and cold. Harry Potter was
unconscious not far from her and Hermione Granger was sitting in a pool of black blood beside the
grisly remains of Ronald Weasley. She was holding his hand.
Armada
Chapter Summary
Honoria plays her hand. Draco arrives at Amarov's fleet to learn that the man himself
is missing.
Chapter Notes
Draco stood on the dock watching the approaching storm. The air was humid and heavy with the
scent of rain. Stretched out before him was the North Sea; currently the colour of charred iron.
He contemplated his new companions.
To his right was Ivan, who seemed to be wearing leftover fabric from the type of lounges you
would find at a brothel—the kind you could wipe down easily. On the left was Anatoli, who was
enormous, quiet and nervous. There was a third, an angry and agitated fellow who hadn't given up
his name yet. Details were important in situations like these, and so:
"What's your name, friend?" Draco asked the man, in Russian.
The man opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Ivan. "Don't speak to him or look at
him," Ivan warned.
Draco responded with amusement. "I'm a wizard, not Medusa."
"Oh, we know about weezards," countered Ivan. He spat on the ground in front of Draco's feet, a
universal declaration of 'fuck you'. His dumpy face twisted up into a sneer. "You are a crime
against nature!"
"That suit is a crime against nature," Draco muttered, in English now. He would like very much to
kill someone that evening. Well someone who wasn't already the walking dead.
Ivan took a cock-strutting step toward Draco. Impossibly, his suit managed to make more noise
than the wind. "What you say?"
Close-up, Draco could see the tell-tale scars on Ivan's face; the old cuts above his eyebrows and
the misshapen nose and cauliflower ears. Ivan was no stranger to pugilism. All he needed was an
excuse.
"I said I really like your gold chain. Very Eastern bloc mafia."
Ivan's hand went up to his chest, to the aforementioned chain, but then he caught the look on
Draco's face and the cautious confusion due to his stunted English turned into a sneer. "Shut up,
weezard! I think you not be so brave without wand, yes? You wait until we are on the sheep!"
Draco decided to let that one pass. Low hanging fruit, etcetera.
"Are there no wands on your vessel?" Draco inquired, wisely switching back to Russian.
It was the unnamed man who answered this time. "Yes. Mr Amarov's rules. We have many
wizards…and some witches," he added, with a level of smarminess that made Draco want to shove
him off the dock. "But no wands. Magic does not rule our fleet, Alexander Amarov does," he
finished, with chest-swelling pride.
"Magic always rules, my dull-witted Muggle friend," Draco said. "We've just been content to let
you lot think you've been running the show all this while."
The man predictably raised a hand and Draco felt the familiar, welcomed flutter of adrenaline,
along with a keenness and focus that only came when he wreaked violence or played Quidditch. Or
when he was on the cusp of a hard-earned breakthrough in his research. It was a strange mania that
he had seen perfectly reflected in Hermione Granger's eyes.
"Your magic cannot help you now, freak!" The unnamed thug wasn't a terribly large man nor did
he have terribly large hands, but the heavy gold watch he sported could probably concuss.
"Igor!" snapped Honoria, who had finished making a radio call in the dilapidated shed beside the
dock and had now joined her associates. She looked extremely troubled and Draco did not think it
was due to Ivan's and Igor's fashion sense.
"Where is the boat?" Igor demanded. He tapped at his hideous watch.
In response, Honoria pointed to the water. A white luxury cruiser cleaved out of the darkness,
stopping beside the dock. The pilot looked harried from having to navigate in such atrocious
conditions.
"Quickly! Before the storm comes!" he called out.
Draco was taken below deck, where he was pushed into a butter-soft, modular leather lounge and
gruffly asked if he wanted anything to eat or drink. He declined. The thugs, with the exception of
the quiet one—Anatoli—played with numerous remote controls and Ivan eventually whooped with
delight when the correct button was accidentally pressed. An enormous, flat screen TV appeared
from inside a recessed mahogany wall panel. Of course, there was nothing broadcasting from the
commercial stations other than pre-recorded, emergency announcements, so the men selected
music from a media centre.
Ignoring the too-loud music and the cavorting bodyguards, Draco took his time taking proper stock
of Honoria. Despite the whole scenario appearing to be something out of an Ian Fleming novel,
Honoria Cloot was far from a typical Bond villainess. She was plain, almost mousy. Easy to
overlook both physically and professionally in a house that contained such formidable women as
the late Elizabeth Kent, Kate McAlister, Padma Patil and Hermione Granger. Everything about her
was nondescript, which essentially made her an ideal spy. She was no Severus Snape, but she was
good. Very good. This was just as well because an incompetent spy was a dead spy. Honoria rested
her elbows on a breakfast bar, looking down pensively at her clasped hands. She was favouring her
left leg, Draco noted. The injury had probably been earned from her brief scuffle with Potter.
Soon enough, she felt the weight of Draco's gaze. "You have questions, Malfoy," she stated, having
to shout a little over the music. "Ask me."
He obliged her. "How long have you been working for Amarov?"
"Not questions about me," Honoria said, tiredly. "Ask about your new appointment."
"Very well. Amarov has the Kunlun Mountain Peach, doesn't he? Just as Longbottom's been
saying?"
Honoria nodded. "Yes. And given that Agent Richards and Granger are planning to track down my
employer, it seemed like the right time for me to take my leave. Especially when it seems Amarov
already has in his possession the very thing that may assist in creating a cure. It was serendipitous,
you could say." She smiled. "He'll be pleased when I tell him."
"He has the Peach, but he has no idea what it can do?"
There it was again—she looked worried. "He hasn't been available for me to speak to recently, but
he'll know soon enough."
"I gather Amarov has his own scientific team," Draco concluded. "Which means your mission was
to infiltrate us and see how far we get with a cure. And sabotage the project if we came too close.
Is that about right?"
Honoria was now drumming her fingers on the breakfast bar. "Suffice it to say that Amarov means
to control the supply of the cure."
Draco snorted. He leaned back into the lounge and propped his right leg over his left knee. "You
mean charge governments for it."
She smiled in response. From the corner of his eye, Draco could see that Anatoli was watching and
listening a little more intently that his comrades.
"And what if I fail?" Draco said. "There is no guarantee I'll do any better than Scrimgeour's team.
Or Amarov's, for that matter."
Honoria went to a refrigerator and pulled out a chilled bottle of champagne. She uncorked it and
then filled a pair of tall, crystal flutes that she retrieved from a soft-closing cabinet.
"Of course you'll do better. You'll give us all you have and I know you'll do that because as I've
already promised, I will obliterate the Grimmauld Place operation and everyone who resides there
if you don't. As soon as I told Amarov that Scrimgeour had you, Amarov decided he wanted
D.R.A.C.O for our cause. The cure will be our invention. My latest priority has been to find the
right kind of motivation for you to work with us." She walked across to the lounge and handed
Draco a champagne flute. "You're a Death Eater," she told him, with a smirk. "I think you
understand the importance of proper motivation."
"Finally." Draco exhaled with mock relief. "Someone who appreciates a good torture threat."
"Oh, but we're not talking about the threat of pain." She perched on the armrest at the other end of
the lounge, as she sipped her champagne. "At least not yours. How curious that a Death Eater
should be so concerned about the very people that helped put him in prison. Or is it just the
one member of that team that makes you engage in all manner of foolish heroics?" Her fingers
played with the stem of her champagne flute. "Do you know? If I had help, I might have brought
Granger along with us as added insurance. What do you say to that?"
She attempted to outstare him, to bait him into responding, but Draco's gaze was unflinching. He
sipped at his champagne very slowly, letting a full measure of cold, contained rage seep into his
eyes. "This is very nice," he said, the simple words pregnant with malignancy.
Honoria blinked. She looked away abruptly and drank deeply from her own glass until there was
nothing left. "Perhaps Alexander will gift us with a bottle when we've cracked the cure."
He regarded her with genuine curiosity now. "You're only a few years older than I am, aren't you?
Which means we might have been at Hogwarts at the same time."
And it seemed that further unsettling Honoria was as easy as asking her about her schooling years.
She set her flute down on the stone counter, too hard.
"What House did you belong to? Definitely not Slytherin. I don't remember you and I make a point
of remembering."
A tight smile stretched across her face. "Perhaps for people like you, some details are not worth
noticing."
Draco also smiled, but his was predatory. "Oh, this is just precious. You're Muggleborn aren't you?
Are you? I think you are. All this—" he gestured to everything around them, "is because you felt
slighted at school? What happened? Were you bullied? Did no one ask you to the Yule Ball?" His
eyes narrowed. "Was it a case of unrequited love with a Pureblood?"
"Ivan," Honoria hissed. And apparently that was all she needed to say.
He moved quickly, but Draco had been expecting it. Ivan reached down to haul him from his seat
by the front of his t-shirt, but Draco used his lower position to his advantage. He made a pointed
fist and drove two knuckles into the front of Ivan's throat. The man's eyes bulged as his grabbed at
his neck with both hands, making desperate, wheezing noises. With his abdomen now exposed,
Draco punched him hard and then, as an afterthought, picked up his champagne flute before Ivan
careened backwards into the coffee table, which promptly collapsed under his weight.
Igor had predictably brandished a handgun by now, but Draco was well aware that no one was
going to shoot him. And a gun was only as threatening as its owner's willingness to utilise it.
Honoria did not look concerned as much as resigned. She began shouting at Anatoli to help Ivan up
from the wreckage of the coffee table, but paused when the obnoxious music abruptly stopped.
There was a short, sharp crackle of static and then the pilot's relieved voice sounded over the
intercom system.
"We're here."
Still holding his champagne flute, Draco was unceremoniously shoved up onto the deck by Igor.
Ivan had one arm looped around Anatoli's shoulders, staring daggers at Draco. Honoria stood
beside Draco as the pilot maneuvered the cruiser alongside the hull of a larger ship. The ocean
ought to have been a blanket of darkness, but it was ablaze with the twinkling lights from what
looked like a stationary armada.
Honoria openly savoured the look on Draco's face. She plucked the flute from his unresisting grip
and drained its contents.
"How many ships in the fleet?" he whispered.
"Sixteen, and that's not including the three hundred smaller vessels that sail with us. We have five
ULCC super tankers laden with enough oil to make an Arabian sheikh have a seizure. Refining
equipment. Two cargo vessels, one decommissioned battleship and the rest are ocean liners. This
one, however…" she looked up affectionately at the enormous cruise liner they were about to
board, "is Home Ship. This is also where you will work."
"Safe from the Infection," Draco said, staring at the other vessels in the distance—Alexander
Amarov's floating city.
Honoria nodded. "Men have sold their own children for a ticket."
There was purposeful shouting coming from the cruise liner now. The smaller vessel's engine cut
off. Igor and Anatoli began to carry crates from where they had been stored below deck. Draco
recognised the box of data and research he'd been ordered to take from Grimmauld Place.
He turned to Honoria now. "That's the kind of company Amarov prefers to keep? I'd watch my
back if I were him."
There was a flicker of...something in her eyes. Not fear, not quite. "Malfoy, granted you are a
dangerous man to keep, but you haven't met anyone quite like Alexander," she said, with a brittle
smile.
"I've yet to meet anyone who still manages to surprise me," Draco said.
"That's not entirely true. Hermione surprised you, didn't she?" Honoria asked, as they walked
across the gang plank that extended from the cruiser into the belly of the cruise liner.
If she intended to push for a response, the opportunity was lost in the commotion of boarding.
They walked through dark, plush-carpeted corridors that smelled of fresh paint, brass polish, carpet
shampoo and in some areas, cigarette smoke. Eventually, they stopped in a glitzy foyer with a
curving, twin-branched staircase and an enormous chandelier. When there was enough light to
actually see the interior, everything was awash in gold and plum, across embossed wall paper and
velvets and brocade upholstery. It was eerily silent on the ship. Amarov seemed to like his space.
"This is where we part ways, Mr Malfoy," Honoria said to him. She was still holding his
champagne flute. "Anatoli will see to your needs." She gave him a weary salute before
disappearing at the top of the staircase.
Anatoli re-appeared. "Let me know if you want anything, weezard," he said. His Russian was soft,
his voice oddly gentle for such a large man.
Sometimes, the truth was the best joke you could tell. And Draco has always been a fan of dark
humour. "I'd very much like a wand right now, Anatoli."
"Ya? So you can kill me and escape?" They were now walking down a carpeted corridor.
"Oh, I'd kill everyone and then escape. Don't take it personally. It's my prerogative as a captive,
isn't it?"
"Honoria said you came willingly."
"I suppose that's one way of looking at it. So how about that wand?"
The bodyguard snorted. "Let us start with a place to sleep. Wash. Food. Tomorrow I will take you
on a tour. You will meet the team and start work."
No response from Draco. Indeed, he seemed lost in thought. So Anatoli added. "Excuse me for
saying, weezard. You look like death."
Draco gave him a look that was almost sad. "It's been an inordinately long day, Anatoli."
"They are all long days, these days. Please, weezard. Follow me."
Draco followed. The evening's earlier fight and flight gave way to bone-deep exhaustion. Perhaps
it was an acceptance of current inevitabilities. Or perhaps it was just Anatoli's contagious
quiescence. It occurred to Draco that if he blinked for too long, it was probably possible for him to
fall asleep in mid-step. It didn't help that he'd had too much to drink with Hermione in the labs,
right before the whole mess had begun.
One floor up was Draco's assigned stateroom. Keeping in theme with everything else Draco had
seen that evening, the quarters were opulent and enormous. There was even a conservatory;
modern and oddly minimalistic compared to the baroque splendour of the rest of the room.
Desmond indicated a walk-in closet with a pile of folded clothing on a burgundy velvet settee. Most
of the clothes were dark-coloured and therefore, agreeable.
"I will have a meal sent," Anatoli announced. He walked into the bathroom, ignoring the whirlpool
tub that was recessed beside panoramic windows. Instead, he turned on the taps in the hexagonal,
white marble shower instead. Steam billowed from the bathroom. The guard took note of the blood
splatters across Draco's clothing. "My mother used to say, never go to bed before you wash away
the toils of the day."
Draco stiffly sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing his boots. His hands were stained with
dried blood—Ronald Weasley's blood. He flexed his right hand momentarily, feeling the tightness
of the caked blood, which fell off in flecks. "Not all toils wash off. When do I speak to Amarov?"
"You don't," Anatoli informed, and then sighed loudly enough to stir the drapes at the other end of
the room. "Because Alexander Amarov has been...taken."
Draco paused with his left boot in his hand. "All that effort to drag me here and the man's been
bloody kidnapped?"
"I'm afraid so. It is fortuitous that Miss Cloot has returned. Things have gone quite bad here."
Draco had a variety of questions (and sub-questions, with bullet point offshoots and possibly a
diagram or two) but did not trust that he had the mental stamina to ask them correctly. It would all
have to wait.
"Thank you, Anatoli."
Again, the same low nod, and then the big man left. And if Draco was not mistaken, the click and
scrape he heard beyond the doors meant that the stateroom was a luxurious prison nonetheless.
That was fine. Draco knew how to be in a luxurious prison. He'd had most of his life to practice.
He peeled off his clothing, dropping them piece by piece on the floor as he walked to the shower.
More than just clothing was stripped away. The water pressure was strong. Draco hung his head
low, letting the water cascade down his neck and back. He shut his eyes as he placed his forehead
against the cool marble of the shower wall. He took in a long, shuddering breath, before drawing
back his arm and ramming his fist into the marble.
The wall escaped unscathed, but the thin skin over his knuckles split open. There he remained,
until he was sure that the blood stains—old and new—were gone; that the water no longer swirled
red around his feet
Chapter End Notes
So, uh, funny story - the original version of this chapter featured an elderly butler,
'Desmond', who had been assigned to look after Draco's needs in the fleet. As can
sometimes happen when you're writing a story over a period of years, you can
occasionally forget about minor OCs you created for very specific reasons (e.g.
butlering). They appear once and then poof! Gone. This was Desmond's sad fate. In
this version, I have replaced Desmond with Anatoli, which makes much more sense
because of the relationship that eventually develops between Draco and Anatoli as the
story progresses.
Light the Pyres
Chapter Summary
Scrimgeour seeks a deadline extension from the Americans. A funeral is held on

Taransay Island for the lost members of Project Christmas. Harry exchanges angry
words with Hermione, and Draco learns more about the eccentric Alexander Amarov.
Chapter Notes
Richards and Scrimgeour stood before the fireplace in Scrimgeour's office. The Floo transmission
came through on time despite some earlier problems establishing a connection on the heavily
regulated US channels.
Presently, a man's face appeared. There were no salutations, merely instructions. "Secretary
Beaumont will be with you momentarily. Please wait."
There were voices, the sound of a door closing and then a new face; a statuesque black woman
with short, steel grey hair. Her eyes were a sharp gold, a perfect match for the brooch that adorned
her cream, Chanel camellia suit.
"Rufus," she said, her feline gaze cutting directly to the Minister. "It's been a while."
Scrimgeour nodded in greeting. "Hello, Rebecca."
The manner of the exchange and the unique tension that sprung up between the pair caused
Richards to give the Minister a curious, side-ways glance.
"I wish we were speaking under more pleasant circumstances," Beaumont continued, "but it seems
that Project Christmas is in a bit of pickle."
Scrimgeour sighed. "An understatement, I assure you. You've received my brief and are aware of
our situation?"
"You want to extend the deadline."
"Yes," Scrimgeour said. "Of all the many risks we considered when we commenced Project
Christmas, sabotage from a competitor was—"
"Unforseen," Beaumont supplied. "There isn't a corner of the world that hasn't been touched by the
Infection. It seems unthinkable that anyone would want to thwart the race for a cure. My Office
receives daily messages from constituents, asking how close your team is to finding a cure. People
have moved well beyond desperation." She looked at her agent now. "Richards, have you
discovered anything more about this saboteur?"
"Not very much that is different to what we already knew," the Cowboy replied. "Honoria Cloot is
a Hogwarts graduate who went on to Salem to specialise in Mediwizadry, graduating with
Distinction. She's well-travelled and came with excellent professional references."
Beaumont slipped on a pair of frameless spectacles. She was handed a report by the assistant who
had appeared earlier, and was now flipping through flagged pages. "No family?" She looked up. "It
says here she's an orphan."
"Her parents were killed by Death Eaters in Voldemort's Second Coming when she was ten,"
Richards confirmed. "That unfortunate fact was to her advantage when we were assessing
applications for the mission."
"So why does a promising young Mediwitch decide to blow up one of your specimens, destroy
your equipment and directly or indirectly kill members of her own team?"
"That's just it, Madam Secretary," Richards said. "I don't think we were really her team to begin
with. She abducted Draco Malfoy and took our data with her. Therefore we suspect there is another
team out there who wants to create the cure first."
"Abducted?" Rebecca Beaumont frowned. "Refresh my memory, gentleman. Weren't you extorting
Draco Malfoy? The reasonable assumption is that this Honoria Cloot made him a better offer. I was
under the impression given the details of the altercation between Malfoy and Harry Potter in
particular, that Malfoy left willingly?"
Richards and Scrimgeour exchanged a look. It was Richards who answered his boss. "Actually, it
was Harry Potter who raised an alternate theory with us. The Minister and I have interviewed the
rest of the team and discussed this theory at length, of course."
"Oh?" Beaumont said. She removed her spectacles. "Enlighten me."
"We speculate that Draco Malfoy may have developed an attachment to our project, if not an
allegiance to it."
"I see," said Beaumont. "If that's true, then the loss of Malfoy is a pity. Though I'm struggling to
understand why it matters who develops a cure first, so long as it is developed at all."
"I suspect this competitor wants to sell it, or acquire some sort of political advantage," Scrimgeour
said. "Rebecca, the Infection may have brought most of the civilised world to its knees, but there
are some who would profit from it; who see it as an opportunity."
"Who?" she asked, sharply.
"We don't know," Richards admitted. He sounded immensely weary. "The fact is that all our usual
intelligence networks are crippled. We have bits and pieces coming in. Rumours. Nothing
conclusive."
Beaumont considered the idea. "I suppose it doesn't take a great leap of imagination to consider
what an enterprising soul could do with a cure to the Infection. It's a heinous thought. I don't like
it."
"Indeed," said Scrimgeour. "Nations would pay anything, barter anything. Borders could be re-
drawn for the powers that hold the cure. The world is at a standstill right now. The clock has
stopped and whoever has the cure has the means to re-start it again."
"Then, gentleman, it really is a race to create a cure that is available to all, not just to those few
who can pay or trade for it," Beaumont said. "It saddens me to tell you, Rufus, that none of our
own in-house teams are as close to success as Project Christmas. My people were quite literally in
tears when we told them what happened."
Scrimgeour's voice was low and soft when he next spoke, "Then you will you give us the
additional time we need? The December deadline is… unworkable."
"I'm afraid I cannot."
The Cowboy made to speak, but Scrimgeour got there first. "Why?"
"Because my hands are tied by my superiors. Because the West is being overrun." Her voice was
heavy with regret. "Other countries have had some success in containing their outbreaks, but that
feat continues to elude us in the developed world, despite our greater resources."
Scrimgeour contemplated this for a moment. "You are concerned about the balance of power
shifting away from those who currently still have it. Or are seen to have it."
Beaumont did not reply. She didn't need to.
Richards swore. "So you're going to wipe entire sections of Britain off the map to show you mean
business? Madam Secretary, with all due respect, that's fucked up."
"The outbreak passed beyond the limits of control three months ago, Agent Richards," Beaumont
said, and her tone hard now. "The Infection strain currently running rampant across the United
Kingdom is the oldest and is mutating far beyond what we've seen outside your borders. Minister
Scrimgeour knows this. This is why we've agreed for you to set up a base of operations in London,
to be onsite to monitor the spread of the Infection. We can't waiver from that deadline and I hasten
to add that the Wizarding Senate has the Minister's word and signature on the Project Christmas
agreement. You deliver a cure or we deliver a localised solution." She was looking at Scrimgeour
now. "Do you remember this?"
"Yes," Scrimgeour said.
"It's not a solution," Richards protested. "It's a death sentence for thousands of survivors! Millions,
even when the fallout starts to take a toll!" He glared to the Minister. "Tell her!"
"We need more equipment," Scrimgeour said, tiredly. "Are you going to provide assistance in that
area?
"Yes," said Beaumont. "And we will send you the terabytes of new data that our teams have
accumulated. Hopefully that will assist in the rebuilding of your lab." Beaumont addressed a
seething Agent Richards now. He was content to scowl at the floor, so she waited until he was
looking at her again. "I have some good news if you want it, Richards," she said, more gently now.
The Cowboy's head rose. "Always."
"Our satellites have located Alexander Amarov for you. The good news is that he's not far from
London. The bad news is that approximately one week ago, it seems he was kidnapped."
Richards was openly baffled. "Why? Money is useless right now."
"Nevertheless, he is still being held captive," Beaumont said. "Amarov controls a fleet of ships. He
is in possession of vast reserves of oil that he has rather cleverly kept on the move and far away
from the mainland. It might be the oil that these kidnappers are ransoming. There are organised
criminal factions in Eastern Europe who feel he should share some of this wealth. All the money
and gold in the world is not going to fuel a car or a plane. People readily go to war over fuel
without the threat of zombies. It's certainly no better now."
"Madness," Scrimgeour muttered.
"It's a breakdown of all civil and martial law," Beaumont said. "This, as it happens, will make it
much easier to use whatever force you feel is necessary to rescue Mr Amarov."
"Us?" Scrimgeour asked, incredulous. "You want me to lead a team of Muggle and medical staff
on a mission to extract Amarov?"
Beaumont nodded. "I am not permitted to remove any more agents from their current posts here or
overseas. The truth is, we have none to spare. Therefore, the Senate is giving you the authority to
use lethal magical force, if required. It feels unseemly for me to state the obvious, but in these
types of situations, wands do tend to prevail when no limits are placed as to their usage with respect
to Muggles."
"No doubt, but we will be breaking a few dozen international Wizarding conventions if we aggress
upon any Muggle association, wartime or not," Scrimgeour pointed out. "These rules are a
thousand years old, Rebecca. They are there for a reason."
"Let me handle the paperwork," Beaumont said, with a sigh. "Just find Amarov. Obtain his
assistance regarding this medicinal herb you say you need and resume work on the cure. Keep me
posted if you require anything specific for the extraction. I have every faith in Agent Richard's
tactical expertise. My Office will be in touch shortly to provide you with Amarov's coordinates.
Now, if that is all, gentleman," she glanced down at her wristwatch, "I have already exceeded my
Floo allowance." Beaumont gave them a small smile. "I wish you all the luck in the world."
The connection terminated.
Richards and the Minister stood in silence for a moment, until Scrimgeour spoke. He sounded
immensely weary. "You wish to ask me something?"
The Cowboy grunted. "You and old Battleship Beaumont, eh?"
"It was a very long time ago. I trust 'Battleship Beaumont' has no idea her agents refer to her by that
atrocious name?"
Richards managed a short, sharp laugh. "I think she probably started the nickname herself." He
checked his watch as Scrimgeour went to fetch more Floo powder from the urn above the fireplace.
"What time does the service start?" Richards asked.
"In five minutes. It's best we leave immediately."
The Cowboy was in agreement. Everyone else had already travelled to Taransay earlier. It was
poor form to be late for a funeral.
There are many types of silences—uncomfortable ones, heavy ones, expectant ones—but the one
that presided over the large group at Taransay Island was decidedly a noisy one.
The weather was foul. In the midst of the storm, no one spoke, which was probably just as well
because they were unlikely to be heard above the howl of the wind. There were plenty of
meaningful glances exchanged between Weasley family members and friends, looks of shared
sympathy, sorrow, confusion and pain. And there was shock and anger too, despite Ron's Infection
being common knowledge. The circumstances surrounding this death were as startling as they were
tragic.
They waited first for the Cowboy to arrive. He came with the Minister. Both men walked up the
hill, met halfway by Neville Longbottom who held a large, black umbrella over their heads. It
didn't make much difference. The rain was coming down sideways. They joined the congregation
under the wildly flapping black marquee. An outdoor congregation seemed an ill-conceived idea,
given the storm, but there was to be funeral pyres in the old Wizarding custom adhered to by the
Weasley family, and custom dictated that the parting words had to be spoken where the bodies
would be consecrated to the elements.
Richards spoke briefly and kindly of Elizabeth Kent, whom he declared the most promising young
agent he had ever had the pleasure of mentoring. Kent had been a dedicated supporter of the
principles of the US Wizarding Senate and an exceptional agent. At the eulogy's conclusion, the
floor was relinquishing to the Minister for Magic.
Rufus Scrimgeour frowned down at his clasped hand for a moment, before raising his head and
addressing the congregation in a voice that was carried by Sonorous.
"Mira Khan, Jason Lam, Emily Finch, Elizabeth Kent and Ronald Weasley have left us," he said.
From within the congregation, supported by Ginny Weasley, Molly Weasley openly sobbed.
Scrimgeour's eyes met Molly's and as difficult as it must have been, he held her gaze as he
continued. "They are gone, but not forgotten. Never forgotten."
He turned his gaze to the Muggle refugees who had chosen to attend the funeral, addressing them
now. "It is customary for Wizarding folk to speak of death in terms of the gifts the deceased have
imparted unto us. The gifts of these brave young people have been many-fold—their love and
friendship, their loyalty and their unique talents. They have helped to take us closer to a cure that
will benefit millions. To our great sorrow, they have left us. But they have not died in vain. We will
see to that by remembering them and by honouring their sacrifice."
The crowd parted under the marquee and Harry came forward, Hermione walking behind him. He
suddenly stopped short. She turned him around and spoke to him. He nodded with his eyes closed.
Presently, he straightened up, took in a long breath and continued onwards to where Scrimgeour
and Richards waited to shelter him under the black umbrella. Fortunately, the wind had calmed
down enough for Harry to address the congregation without great effort.
"Um, so I was asked to say something about Ron,"' Harry began, his hand scrubbing absently at the
back of his messy head. Only I've never been good with words and this time I can't copy off
Hermione." He looked at the crowd, into the crowd and saw that more than a few were smiling at
him in encouragement.
"What can I say about Ron to those of you who didn't know him? Well, there's loads, I guess. The
first time I saw Ron, I felt more alone than I'd ever felt in my life. Even more alone than I'd been
with my Muggle family. You see, shortly before I got my Hogwarts letter, I had the benefit of
knowing exactly what I was—a small, slightly underfed, very ordinary eleven-year old boy with
bad eyesight." He paused to push his spectacles higher up his nose.
"I had a bit of a rough time with the Muggle aunt and uncle," Harry said, looking at the ground.
Molly Weasley gave a small sob at this point and Ginny tightened her hold around her mother's
shoulder. "And when that happens, you find yourself feeling helpless and angry, and then you think
maybe you're actually quite special, only no one can see it yet. You think maybe you'll become a
big success one day and they'll look at you differently." Harry smiled wryly.
"And then…and then well I got my letter, didn't I?" He looked up at the congregation now. "I held
it in my hand, read it out loud and it was undeniable proof that I was something 'other'. Not
ordinary at all. Only it wasn't a huge relief. Quite frankly, it was terrifying. I no longer knew who
or what I was.
"A short while later, I slid open that compartment door on the Hogwarts express and there was
Ron. He didn't treat me like Harry Potter or a freak that didn't quite belong. He treated me like a
kid who had walked into his compartment and who seemed just as nervous as he was. Ron may
have come from one of the most loving and close families I have ever met, but that didn't mean he
had it easy. It's hard coming from a prominent family in the fight. It's hard coming from a magical
background and having two of your best friends come from the Muggle world.
"You see, we're all the heroes of our own stories, children especially. But Ron…well Ron was the
hero's best friend from Day One, whether he wanted to be or not, whether I wanted him to be or
not. He had no choice in the matter. He was the support crew. And that can be a hard pill for any
child to swallow. But he did. Ron did," Harry said, with a nod. "With loyalty and integrity. The
great thing about Ron was that he was always himself. He was authentic.
"Now, I can't speak for Hermione." Harry looked at her as he said this. "But I haven't always
been…myself. I still feel like I'm floundering around in someone else's shoes and they're always
too big. I've never met someone who was so true to themselves even when that meant acting like a
git on occasion." This garnered a few, quiet chuckles from the crowd.
"He was brave," said Harry. "Incredibly brave. The day he was bitten, he was very matter of fact
about it. The first thing he said to me was, 'Sorry, mate.' OK, well maybe not the first thing. There
was quite a bit of swearing first. He was sorry because he thought he'd been taken out of the game
too soon, and he'd previously promised that was something he would never do to me again. But
this time…this time, it was out of his control.
"So these are the things I have to say about Ron. As the Minister said, some of us speak of our
departed loved ones in terms of the gifts they have given us. Ron's loyalty, honesty and
steadfastness have been his gifts to me. But there are other, more personal things I want to tell you
about. It's just that I can't find the vocabulary because they don't have much to do with words.
"I don't know how to tell you how much he meant to me and Hermione and to his family and
friends, how much I'm going to miss him and how sorry I am that he will never get to see his first
grey hairs, or his children, or grandkids, or have someone offer up their seat to him on the Knight
Bus. If Ron were here now, he'd crack a joke about how shite I look when I cry and he'd smile and
tell me that everything will work out." Harry was silent for a moment, he opened his mouth and
then closed it, unsure of how to continue.
George Weasley assisted, in a voice that sounded like it'd been attacked with sandpaper. "Blimey.
He was right, Harry—you do look awful when you cry."
Harry wiped his face on his shirtsleeve and laughed. "Shut up, George." He then turned to the
Minister and quietly said. "That's it. I'm done."
Scrimgeour, assisted by Neville, stepped forward to light fires that would burn even in the rain.
There were only three pyres, for they had not recovered the bodies of Mira and Jason.
It was over. The Minister gave instructions for everyone to return to the encampment for hot tea
and sandwiches. Well wishes and condolences were given and received. Hermione stood to the
side, waiting until Harry had embraced each of the Weasleys, before she stepped forward with an
umbrella to walk with him down the hill.
"It was OK?" Harry asked.
She linked her arm through his as they made their way along slippery, wet grass. "What a thing to
ask. Even some of the more hard-lined Muggle were looking a bit watery, and not from the rain,
mind you."
"I still think you should have done the eulogy."
"No." Hermione shook her head. "It had to be you."
"I was clunky," he admitted.
"So was Ron," she said, with fondness.
Harry was watching her closely now. "What now?"
Hermione pulled out a tissue from her coat pocket and blew her nose. The tissue was unfortunately
soaked before it even reached her nose. "Now we get back to work."
He stopped. So did Hermione, who had walked on several steps ahead with the umbrella. Harry
stood in the rain and stared at her. "How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"How do you not break like the rest of us? I shudder to think what it would take for you stop
being…like this. It would have to be no less than the end of the world, I assume."
"Being like what?" she demanded.
He couldn't say it, but she read his expression and guessed. "Cold? Is that what you want to say?
Unfeeling? Uncaring? Is that it?"
Harry scowled.
She marched up to him, sheltering them both under the umbrella once more. "Are you saying I
don't feel this? That I don't feel like my heart's been ripped out of my chest ? Tell me I don't feel
like that and I swear, Harry, I will slap you."
He looked away, unwilling to meet her eyes. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm sorry."
"You should be," she spat. "I'm hurting just as you are! But we don't have the luxury of losing our
momentum. Otherwise Mira, Jason, Emily, Agent Kent and Ron really would have died for
nothing! Now, are we done here or was there anything else you wanted to say to me without the
benefit of you putting it through some kind of internal filter first?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact. You haven't mentioned Malfoy once since Ron died."
Hermione blinked at the unexpected change in topic. She ran the back of her hand across her face,
wiping away the rain. "That's because there is nothing to say."
"Really? We didn't just lose Emily, Kent and Ron the day Honoria betrayed us. We lost Malfoy as
well. You seem keen to erase the last couple of months from your memory."
"The last couple of months where he waited for the perfect opportunity to leave?" Hermione
pointed out. "And I don't recall the two of you being the best of friends."
"Despite my not liking him and despite everything that happened in the lab that night, I don't think
he wanted to leave. Padma doesn't think so either. Just ask her! What if—Hermione, where are you
going?"
She had shoved the umbrella handle into his hands and was walking away. "I'm going to get dry!"
"Why won't you consider that he was forced to leave?" Harry shouted.
She whirled around, her eyes blazing, tendrils of wet hair clinging to the sides of her face. "Because
I cannot handle any more hurt, Harry. Not one bit more. This—" she slapped her hand across her
heart, the wet fabric of her black robes making a smacking noise "—is all used up. I am balancing
on a razor's edge of control right now and I cannot allow myself to think that Malfoy was taken
against his will because if he was…" her voice broke, "we don't have a way or the time to find him
and get him back. I just…I can't. He's gone, Harry. Just leave it." She walked away.
Silently, Harry followed, unsettled to discover the depths of Hermione's focus on the mission and
the fact that there actually was something that threatened to destroy her formidable focus.
And it had not been Ronald Weasley.
Draco slept for nine hours.
A minor miracle considering he was in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar, hostile people. Not
that Anatoli could be called hostile. The guard was professional and seemingly unperturbed by the
fact that his employer was the Floating Despot of the North Atlantic. Anatoli was a living,
breathing case of pragmatism in action.
Adaptability was what you needed. In an emergency, that was what delineated the survivors from
the panicked, confused masses. And that was what Draco liked about science. Science evolved and
adapted when presented with new evidence; new situations that called for reassessment of old ways
of thinking and doing.
He had come to science rather late, but when he arrived, it felt like a seat had been left just for him.
Lucius, contrary to popular belief, had not been in a state of crippling fear and distrust of the
Muggle world. No. Rather, he'd been in a state of wariness. He was not xenophobic in the
definitive sense.
Oh, Lucius detested Muggles and the blood-pollution they brought with them, but he was not so
myopic as to remain willfully ignorant of their overwhelming numbers, their progress and their
achievements. To deny humanity's ingenuity was folly and Lucius had not been a foolish man. He
determined that it was always a good idea to know as much as possible about one's enemies. And
so the books (and papers and more papers and eventually a computer) arrived at Malfoy Manor. A
tutor was located—a small, nervous mouse of a man whose job was to render Draco as
knowledgeable as possible in all things Muggle. The tutoring was to be kept a secret, of course. It
was a dangerous secret. Lucius understood that the purposeful exposure of his only child to the
Muggle world would not be viewed kindly by their peers. Or by the Dark Lord, for that matter.
It had been a hard task not just because of that, but because Draco had initially refused the learning.
For a young Draco, the world was black and white. It was Us and Them and Us was better, wasn't
it? Us was pure and noble and worthy. Why did he need to know about Them? He'd stormed into
his father's study one sticky summer afternoon, cross and irritable from having to sit in the library
with his tutor to learn about the wretched Muggles.
"Why do I have spies in the Ministry?' Lucius had countered, bluntly.
Draco had been twelve at the time. He'd looked at his father—imposing, intent and very serious.
The answer had long since been drilled into his head.
Scientia potentia est.
Knowledge is power. All of it, even the stuff you didn't think worthy of consideration. Not all
knowledge ranked equally in terms of utility, of course, but that didn't mean it was useless. Science
was useful. And what made Draco even more conflicted once he'd accepted the lessons was that he
found science nothing short of mesmerising. It wasn't a complete surprise; he had already proven to
be a natural scholar, but what he had went beyond mere aptitude. It was an affinity.
One morning, his tutor brought On the Origin of Species for Draco to read and if he'd harboured a
mild infatuation with Muggle science before then, it quickly progressed to a full-blown romance.
He came to realise that it wasn't about the perceived quality of your blood that mattered. Nor was it
about strength, although that trait would see you see well through a disaster. It wasn't about the
survival of the fittest, it was always about adaptability. When he realised this, he began to
recognise that prized trait—the antithesis of the Pureblood philosophy—everywhere he looked.
And to his shock and disgust, he recognised it most of all in the Muggleborns and mixed-bloods
that walked the halls of Hogwarts.
And he despised them even more for it.
Draco was awake a good minute before he opened his eyes. Anatoli had come into the dark room
and flicked a switch, silently retracting the shades from the spotless, curving windows. Sharp,
clean sunlight filled the room. Outside, the ocean was calm. The gaurd stood at the foot of the bed,
holding a silver tray laden with food. At the doorway were two more guards, presumably to lend
Anatoli assistance if Draco proved to be uncooperative.
"Good morning, weezard," Anatoli said, in English. He sat the tray down on a bedside table and
then stood with his arms clasped behind his back. "Your breakfast."
Draco sat up against the padded leather headboard. He was naked under the covers. As the crisp,
white sheet slipped down to his stomach, Anatoli's gaze was drawn to the latticework of scars
across Draco's abdomen. There it was—damnable pity mingling with curiosity. Most people
reacted similarly.
Except Granger, of course. She excelled at being the irritating exception. Nothing was simple
about that frustrating female, not since they'd been children. When she had seen his scars for the
first time, there was the usual pity and curiosity, but there was also fascination that bordered on
disturbing. What she knew about him, which wasn't very much to begin with, was old and out of
date. As such, he probably just intrigued her.
It's a powerful curiosity you have, Granger...
"Weezard." Anatoli interrupted his thoughts. He was holding out a dressing gown in a hand the
size of a tea kettle.
Draco accepted it and then went to the bathroom. There, he splashed water on his face and assessed
his reflection. His hair had grown considerably since his release from prison, almost as if in
celebration from being free from automated grooming spells. After six years of having it very
closely cropped, it was odd seeing his fringe reach his eyes now. He needed a shave, but not
surprisingly, a razor was not to be found on the marble bathroom counter or in the cabinets and
drawers below. The knuckles of his left hand were a swollen mess, but they would heal. Nude, he
walked to the closet. A quick rifle through the drawers of a cabinet revealed underwear—dark, like
the rest of the available clothing.
He spoke to Anatoli in Russian as he dressed. "So what's on the agenda today?"
"After breakfast, I will take you to the research labs. There, you will meet your new team."
Draco selected a pair of charcoal trousers in his size, pulling them on. "Will Honoria be joining
us?"
"Miss Cloot is occupied this morning with plans to recover Mr Amarov from his kidnappers."
"What is the ransom?"
"What they all want - oil."
"The one thing that moves Muggle civilisation," Draco noted, "literally.
A long-sleeved cotton t-shirt came next, and then a cable-knit jumper in black. It was sunny
outside, but they were on the ocean in autumn. It was best to dress warmly. The shoe rack
produced two pairs of lace-up, leather loafers, though only one was in his size. A pair of olive
green hiking boots was also in his size, but he settled for leather ankle boots instead, pulling them
on over black socks.
"And Miss Cloot is going to give up this fuel in return for Amarov's safe return?" Draco asked, as
he shut the closet door behind him.
"No."
The quickness of Anatoli's response garnered Draco's curiosity. "No?"
"Alexander has a plan to guard against kidnapping and attack."
"What plan?"
Anatoli hesitated. "It's better if one of the research team explains the details to you. It is...very
complicated."
Draco folded his arms. "I think I'll cope. Please explain."
The guard sighed. "Alexander has something fixed into his body that can tell if he is killed, hurt or
taken too far away from the fleet. The machine in his chest will send a signal for explosives in the
fleet to explode."
It was properly horrific, of course, and a testament to Alexander Amarov's sense of self-importance
that he would risk the lives of everyone in his fleet in such a way. But Draco was impressed,
nevertheless.
"So Amarov has a biofeedback mechanism surgically embedded inside him which is designed to
trigger a series of detonations in the fleet if he's taken or hurt. If it's set to go off outside a set
perimeter that implies he can't be too far away from the fleet and the fleet cannot leave without
him?"
"That is what I just said," said Anatoli, testily.
"Where are the explosives? Which vessels have been rigged?"
"No one knows for sure but we think it's most of the larger tankers. The bombs will explode and
the oil and lives will be lost."
"So what happens if he falls dead from a heart attack? Draco asked. "What, then?"
Anatoli's expression indicated that this was by no means an unconsidered risk. He said nothing.
From the doorway, Draco could feel the other guards' rapt attention, or maybe a better word was
tension. This was clearly an unhappy topic.
"A billionaire megalomaniac who is treated like the sodding last emperor." Draco ran a hand
through his hair. "What else? A gladiatorial arena?"
There was something in Anatoli's expression that made Draco stop and stare at him. "You can't be
serious?"
Rules
Chapter Summary
Draco sees the infamous Pit for the first time, and comes face to face with an old
friend.
Chapter Notes
I actually have quite a soft spot for Renauld. He reminds me of a much more evil
'Associate Bob' from Demolition Man.
His breakfast was cold by the time he got to it, but lately, Draco tended to treat meals as more of
re-fueling exercise rather than something to consciously savour. Admittedly, there was good
sourdough, toasted lightly, and black coffee which was unfortunately sweetened. He glanced
around the tray for milk.
"If you're looking for the cream, we have none at the moment," said Anatoli.
Draco tore a slice of bread in half. "No dairy cows in the fleet that has everything?"
"No dairy cows," Anatoli confirmed. "Managing livestock is difficult. Plenty of chickens, though,"
he added, inclining his head to the scrambled eggs.
As the meal was consumed, Anatoli continued to hover beside him. Draco drank the remainder of
the coffee and set down the empty cup back on the tray. To say he felt restored was putting it
mildly.
"Thank you, Anatoli. That was much needed."
"When was the last time you ate?"
Draco thought back.
Brandy and coffee in a chipped mug. That had been the last thing he'd consumed at Grimmauld
Place. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell the brandy, feel the cool weight of the mug and…
Hermione Granger leaning over him as she stared at the computer screen, her long hair escaping
from a twelve-hour old ponytail, stray curls occasionally brushing against his face as she frowned
down at outputs from their Re-Gen effects modelling. She was not a creature of large habits, at
least beyond her formidable work ethic, but she had many small ones—worrying her lower lip with
her teeth, tapping her nail-bitten index finger against her desk or keyboard when she concentrated,
and the way she absolutely beamed like she was lit from within on the rare occasions she had good
news to report. Her ability to be that excited could make a person feel rather old and jaded.
"Weezard? Anatoli prodded.

"A while back," Draco belatedly replied.
He dusted crumbs off his trousers and stood up. Now that he was rested and fed, it was time to run
the numbers, so to speak. It was an old habit acquired from seven years of attending a boarding
school full of dark corners where ninety-five percent of the student population wanted to throw you
down the stairs. When you grew up surrounded by that knowledge, you worked out where the exits
were real quick. Anatoli might come across like a gentle giant, but there was probably a very good
reason why he had been a part of Honoria's initial entourage. At full height, Draco was as tall as the
man, though nowhere near as wide. But what Draco lacked in bulk, he probably made up for in
speed. Hmm...
Draco gave Anatoli a predatory, assessing glance. I reckon I could take you.
To Draco's amusement, Anatoli returned the stare with a subtle raised eyebrow. Try it.
After his meal, Draco was escorted from his quarters, ostensibly on a tour of the fleet's scientific
facilities located elsewhere on the same vessel.
It was a big ship. All in all, it took twenty minutes to walk to the opposite end, two floors down.
They passed through the lavish foyer from the night before, where Draco half expected to see
Honoria again. She did not make an appearance this time, but there were plenty of other people;
some in starched white uniforms, some in plain clothing. They all seemed very busy. Of other
fellow 'passengers', there was no sign, but Anatoli confirmed that the home ship did have other
residents.
Eventually, Draco was shown inside a laboratory that was three times the size of the one he'd been
working in for Project Christmas. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the sterile whiteness of the
place. Amarov's setup didn't possess the mismatched, patch-and-make-do quality of the Grimmauld
Place operation. But then Project Christmas wasn't staffed by a team of scientists who looked like
they were about to pass out from fear.
There were over a dozen of them, standing like statues in their white lab coats. A member of the
group stepped forward. There was hesitation on his face, but he was not nervous.
"Dobreyah ootrah," Draco said to the man, who was small, wiry and completely bald. "I'm Draco
Malfoy."
The man held out a hand to shake. Draco took it, glancing down at their joined hands. He noted the
fading bruises around the man's wrist and the characteristic chaffing calluses that came from
handcuffing. None of this was surprising, unfortunately.
"We were told you were coming," the scientist said. He inclined his head to a stainless steel bench
where notes and data from Project Christmas had been neatly laid out and ostensibly inspected. "I
am Professor Vadim Belikov. You can use English, Mr Malfoy. We all speak it in the labs."
"You are in charge of this operation?"
Belikov shrugged. "I am the most senior scientist and the first to be enlisted, shall we say?" His
smile was wry. "And occasionally, I speak for the others."
Draco surveyed the pale, stricken faces in the room. He saw the shaky stares and he saw the ones
who didn't stare at all; their gazes firmly affixed to the floor. He saw the way the three women in
the room were nearly obscured from view, protectively herded to the back of the laboratory by
their male colleagues. The group was painfully silent and still, almost as if audible breath could
potentially single them out for attention.
Anatoli watched on from his favourite haunt—the doorway—looking tellingly unhappy and
uncomfortable. Draco felt the familiar tingle run through the tops of his hands, dancing across the
metacarpals, culminating in a heated vibration in his fingertips. He delicately ran the pads of his
thumbs over the whorls of his fingertips. He could feel his magic pool around him, fueled by his
darker emotions. But there was no conduit to unleash it. No wand. No shower wall to assault.
He'd experienced this before, of course. All Azkaban prisoners did. This was what it felt like to be
stripped of your magic for too long. After the initial adrenaline of capture wore off, it came first as
an itch, then a constriction that made you want to claw your way out of your own skin. All that
magic and no way to expend it. You couldn't die from it, but on bad nights, you wished you could.
Draco felt it now. After the past few weeks of carefully monitored wand usage (invariably
Granger's) he felt its unanticipated absence acutely. He breathed in slowly and flexed the fingers of
his left hand, aware of Belikov's speculating stare.
"You are a wizard as well as a scientist," the Professor noted. "They didn't tell us that."
"You don't need to be afraid," Draco answered, perhaps with too much grit in his voice. He was
still trying to quell the itch for a wand.
To Draco's surprise, Belikov shook his head. "No, young man. I am not afraid of you. I am
afraid for you."
"Why?"
In response, Belikov glanced down at his wristwatch and then at Anatoli, switching back to
Russian for the guard's benefit. "If you take our guest there now, he can see for himself."
Anatoli gave the scientist a look of disbelief. "And you think showing him the Pit is going to
encourage him to work with you?"
Belikov snorted. "He will work for the same reason you work. For the same reason we are all
here." Belikov turned his attention back to Draco. "Do you have family with you? Family that
Amarov has threatened to feed to the wolves if you decline to help us with the cure? "
Draco responded with another question. "Is that why you're here? In exchange for your family's
safety?"
"I have two grand-daughters, Mr Malfoy. They are all that is left of my family." Belikov smiled
sadly. "What would you do to keep safe that which is most precious to you?"
There was a pregnant pause.
"Fine, I will take him," Anatoli announced, sounding surly.
Belikov nodded. "Be aware that Honoria will probably be angry that you're showing our guest the
fleet's less civilised diversions so soon after he's arrived."
The guard shrugged. "If Amarov returns, he'll make the weezard see it sooner or later, no?"
"You mean when Amarov returns," Belikov corrected. "The man has nine lives."
Anatoli snorted. "If he does come back, it won't be from the lack of my praying that the lives are
all used up."
Draco looked from the Professor to the guard, intrigued by what was revealed from their banter. "I
get the distinct feeling none of you are overly fond of your resident sociopathic billionaire."
Belikov appeared to be choosing his words wisely. "Amarov has many friends here from his
former life; friends he has acquired from his travels and his business dealings. They are drawn to
him because like knows like, and like him, they are spoilt, cruel and sadistic. Even with the
endemic corruption they thrived in before the plague took hold, there were still some rules that
even the wealthy had to follow."
"But now there are no rules," Draco surmised.
"On the contrary, Mr Malfoy. There are many rules that Alexander Amarov expects us to abide by.
He thinks of himself as our Leviathan. To his companions, he is their Prince and they are his
courtiers. He rules with impunity here."
There really was nothing else for it. And considering that it was apparently something
Honoria didn't want him to see… Draco walked up to Anatoli. "Alright, take me to this Pit."
This required a brisk boat ride and a blindfold.
Draco saw nothing of the ocean except the slivers of sunlight that slipped through under the scarf
Anatoli had tied around his head, but he could feel the dip and the lurch of the smaller vessel on
the water and he could smell the salt in the wind. There were birds, which meant they were not far
from land. Anatoli spoke briefly with the skipper of what was presumably an intra-fleet transport
vessel.
There were other passengers aboard, though no one spoke much and when they did, the banter was
stiff. No doubt the presence of a blindfolded man was a bit of a mood killer. The skipper attempted
to fill in the silence. He talked about the weather, the state of the fleet's supplies, the perpetual
fresh milk shortage and how one of the other vessels had recently seen an outbreak of head lice.
It was a short ride to their destination vessel. The other passengers disembarked first and then
Draco felt Anatoli grab him by the back of his shirt and push him forward. Once they had boarded,
the blindfold was taken away.
Draco immediately noted the intense humidity, the staleness of the air and the metal grating under
his feet—no muffling, plush carpet here. There was the metallic creak and groan of what was
presumably a cargo vessel or a tanker. It was dark in the ship's corridor with only sickly amber
pilot lights dotted above the narrow walkways. Other men milled past, their shadowed faces grim.
"What is this?"
"The games," Anatoli said.
Draco raised both eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate. Even without Anatoli's hesitant
explanation, the growing stench was explanation enough.
Zombies—nearby and lots of them.
And then they entered what had to be the central hub of the ship. There were four levels arranged
around a square arena. Levels two to four consisted mostly of men, none of whom looked thrilled
to be there. Many were dressed in work gear; grease-stained overalls, steel-capped work boots,
rolled-up sleeves and the occasional hard hat. Draco surmised that some sort of fleet-wide notice
had been issued and the men had come to attend the games. Some leaned over the metal railings,
waiting. The rest were stony-faced, looking down at red tickets in their hands, smoking and
checking their watches.
The lowest level was roughly five meters from the arena floor and the twenty or so spectators on
that level were the most colourful and boisterous. They had to be Amarov's friends, judging from
their attire, conduct and the fact this was the only level to have lingerie-clad servers bearing food
and drink on trays. The women looked riddled with anxiety, nervous smiles stretched across
heavily made-up faces.
Anatoli and Draco entered at the fourth level, amidst openly hostile stares. They took a metal
staircase down to the first level and were greeted by an enormous man, perspiring profusely in a
suit and a white silk cravat.
"The Fatman," Anatoli whispered in Russian. "Although call him that to his face and you're be a
braver man than I. He is Louis Renauld, the fleet's games master. Do not cross him."
"Who do we have here?" exclaimed Renauld. "Honoria mentioned to me that she'd brought one of
the British scientists back with her from her mission in London. Does she know you've taken him
to the games today?" The man's English was very heavily French-accented and Draco could tell
Anatoli was struggling to understand him.
"Not yet," Draco spoke for Anatoli, "but I have a feeling word travels fast in the fleet."
Renauld smiled. "That it does, especially if I have anything to say about it." He beckoned to one of
the serving girls. "Go and fetch Honoria. Tell her that our new guest is with us at the Pit." Renauld
proceeded to untie his cravat and used it mop the sweat from his face. When that wasn't enough to
cool him down, he extracted a sandalwood hand fan from inside his jacket, opened it with a sharp
snap and proceeded to vigorously fan himself. "My, my. They don't make all wizards like you, do
they?" Renauld said to Draco, his cataloguing gaze was one of frank appreciation.
"I imagine they don't make all Muggles like you, either," Draco replied. "Or they'd have to double
the bus fares."
Anatoli groaned, but Renauld merely snorted. "You're highborn aren't you? I can smell the
entitlement. Alexander once told me that some of your kind can trace back their magical lineage
across ten generations. What is the word you use? There is a term for it, but I cannot now
remember…" Renauld's fanning became more vigorous as he pondered.
Draco assisted, if for no other reason than to eliminate the compulsion to take the annoying fan
away from the Frenchman and assault him with it. "Pureblood."
"Yes! Pureblood. At any given time, we keep about a thousand Magical people on this ship and
we've managed to learn quite a bit about your kind. You are a secretive bunch, but it is astounding
how forthcoming you can be when we ask the right questions, oui? Some of your brethren told me
about a rather nasty chap by the name of Voldemort. He was apparently obsessed with blood
purity. Did you know him personally?"
Draco shrugged. "Rings a bell."
All trace of pleasantness vanished from Renauld's perspiring face. "Of course it rings a fucking
bell, my handsome friend. He was a genocidal war criminal, but he wasn't a Pureblood, was he?"
The question was rhetorical, so Draco did not bother responding.
"And yet he was still one of your most powerful and feared wizards," Renauld continued. "Explain
this to me."
"The alleged superiority of pure magical blood is an idea, Mr Renauld. Some find it a very
motivating idea, but it has no basis in reality, in science."
Renauld's eyes were fever-bright. This was clearly a topic that fascinated him. "And you believe
your magic can be explained by science?"
Floodlights switched on. Draco's gaze flickered to the arena floor. There was no mistaking the
debris and stains on the ground, or the putrefying remains that were splattered across the walls.
"So many questions flowing in one direction. Am I not permitted a few of my own?" Draco asked.
"No my dear boy, you are not. On this, the games ship, I decide whether you live or die. But given
that you so brighten up these dreary confines, I implore you to behave yourself. Don't make me ask
one of my men to carve the Russian word for 'humility' into your pretty face."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "It's a long word. I'd be surprised if your thugs can spell it."
"The game start now," Anatoli blurted, likely in an attempt to diffuse Renauld's rising anger.
Renauld was still staring beadily at Draco as he beckoned a serving girl forward and took a drink
from her tray. "You speak of ideas that galvanize. Well, this fleet is one such idea. It is Alexander's
idea and a powerful one at that. The occasional games are merely a small part of it. You're in for
quite a show today." He raised his drink. "Enjoy."
A loud buzzer sounded.
Anatoli pushed Draco closer to the railing. From that vantage point, they could see two hatches on
opposite sides of the circular arena. One hatch swung open following a long, electric buzz that
vibrated through the metal railings. A man stepped into the arena, dressed in the ragged remains of
black wizarding robes. His forearm shielded his eyes from the bright floodlights above.
Presently, the arm came down and Draco gripped the railing before him with white knuckled
fingers.
Blaise Zabini. And he was carrying what appeared to be a small child—a little boy.
"Chyort voz'mi," Anatoli said. "They bring children this time!"
Three levels of spectators erupted into protest. Men shouted and cursed, waving their arms and
hurling tickets down into the arena. Blaise stood in the middle of this maelstrom, either resolute or
terrified, or perhaps both. Red tickets rained down around him.
Draco turned to see how the inner circle was reacting. They looked apprehensive at the crowd's
obvious disapproval, but their mood lifted when Renauld was handed a palm-held microphone on a
long cord. He sauntered to the railing and glared at the upper three levels. The intercom system
crackled once, before a blast of feedback caused the spectators to quieten.
"May I remind you that you are all here because of the generosity of Alexander Amarov?" Renauld
spoke in flawless Russian, and his drawling, low voice seemed to crawl through the ship. "Yes or
no?"
Silence.
"Yes!" he answered for them, and there was a smile in voice. "You have been delivered to safety
from the plague and the ungodly monsters that walk the streets of our cities. You and your families
are fed and clothed. When you are sick, our doctors attend to you. Your women and children are
safe here. Yes or no?" he asked, and this time, there was no mistaking the anger in that question.
Silence.
"Yes!" he said again, "and all because of Alexander Amarov! If any of you wish to decline my very
good friend's generosity, let that man or woman step forward. Come now, I want to see you. Let us
all see you."
Draco looked from the Renauld to the crowd, noting that not a single person among them moved.
"Your berth here in this fleet is not free, comrades. You pay for your passage, as do I. That price is
that we work to keep this city afloat and that we follow the rules, for a city without rules will soon
descend into anarchy. Yes or no?"
This time there was an answer from the crowd. It wasn't loud, but there was a general muttering of
agreement.
"Good," Renauld finished. He set his corpulent body upon a chair and tossed the microphone back
to a serving girl in exchange for his drink. "Resume the games," he ordered, taking a long, noisy
slurp. He stared at Draco as he spoke, a smirk on his face. "The common folk need their games."
Another long buzz sounded and the second hatch opened. Draco watched as Blaise adopted a
fighting stance, one arm wrapped protectively around the child. He looked up at the crowd and
held up his other arm. The expression on his face was easy enough to read.
Please.
"He cannot bring weapons into the arena with him," Anatoli whispered to Draco. "It is up to the
crowd to give him what he needs."
"Then give him your gun!" Draco hissed.
Anatoli shook his head. "No guns. Amarov's Rules."
Three steel rods were tossed to the ground with a loud clang. Someone had been industrious
enough to sharpen them into precise points. Additionally, there was a length of chain, a rusted saw,
two crow bars and a baseball bat.
"This is murder. You cannot do this."
The guard snorted. "What do you want me to do, weezard?"
Calm yourselves, gentleman," said Renauld, who was observing Draco's agitation with relish.
"This particular champion has been in the Pit before and he's survived."
"Apparently not with a child to protect?"
Renauld shrugged. "Despite our instructions, he finished the monsters off too quickly last time. It
made for a rather dull show, I'm afraid. Maybe his son will add a bit of interest to the spectacle,
no?"
Draco took a step towards Renauld. "Stop this now or I will refuse to work for Amarov."
"Threaten me again, young man, and I'll make sure Honoria disposes of your friends in London,
one by one. I believe that was the deal she made with you—your cooperation or the certain death of
your friends? And after we're done with them, I'll cut your legs off and use it for feed. We don't
need your legs, just your head."
Draco felt Anatoli's hand on his arm. "This is not the way," Anatoli said into his ear.
The noise of the crowd picked up and Draco reluctantly returned to the railing to look.
Three zombies had shuffled out into the Pit. They were slow and extremely decomposed, with one
soon collapsing under what appeared to be a broken leg, splintered bone protruding just above its
thigh. The other two, both females, continued towards Blaise, arms outstretched, mouths agape.
Blaise's son clung to this father like a baby koala, face buried tightly against Blaise's neck. Of the
offered weapons, Draco noted that Blaise has chosen one of the steel pikes—a weapon that
afforded the maximum damage at maximum reach.
Blaise didn't hesitate. In a double handed grip, he raised the pike high above his head and brought
it down right on top of the nearest zombie's skull. It pierced the creature's cranium and exited just
below its chin. There wasn't even a gurgle. With its brain badly damaged, it fell over. The second
zombie had nearly reached him by now. Blaise picked up the baseball bat beside his feet and
swung it in a wide arc. It smashed into the side of the zombie's head with a dull, wet thud. The
thing howled, scrabbling at the spot where its eye used to be. The eyeball had popped out, still
dangling from the mangled eye socket by the optic nerve. It keeled over to the ground, rolling
around in disorientation. Blaise stepped away from it, swaying slightly on his feet.
"Finish it," Draco said under his breath.
"They don't feed the prisoners well," Anatoli commented. "Look at him. He's weak."
But then Blaise appeared to refocus. He stood over the creature and brought the baseball bat down
on its head over and over until it was a dark, gelatinous mess. And then he sat down heavily on the
ground, looking dazed. He peeled his son from him to inspect the boy, wiping away blood splatter
from the boy's arms using the hem of his robes.
A third buzz and the second hatch opened again. Four more zombies entered the arena; fresher this
time. They moved with greater purpose. Blaise scrambled back on his feet.
Draco turned to glare at Anatoli, who had been expecting the unspoken question. "Three rounds,"
the guard clarified. "That's the rules."
"He's not likely to survive the second bloody round!"
"That's the point, weezard. This champion's been in the Pit three times before. He's been winning
for too long."
"And what happens if he survives this and the next round?"
The guard stared at him. "He won't."
Draco looked down into the arena again to check on Blaise's progress. Zabini had now driven the
second steel pike into one of the new zombies, but it was lodged in the creature's neck, which
merely slowed it down. The crowd shouted advice and suggestions in about a dozen different
languages. Blaise was clearly tiring. Draco could see it in the sloppy swing of his bat, in the
trembling of his arm and the way his feet were starting to drag. He was running on empty.
To make matters worse, Blaise's son was beginning to lose his hold around his father neck, no
doubt because of the blood and sweat that liberally covered his father.
Two of the zombies advanced, one managing to grab a portion of Blaise's long robes. Blaise's son
screamed and began kicking out at the snarling creature.
Draco leaned over the railing, examining the drop. He turned back to Anatoli and had to grab the
guard by the front of his shirt to pry Anatoli's attention away from what was happening in the
arena.
"These rules," Draco said, shouting over the cacophony of the crowd. "A champion can only use
what is given to them by the crowd, correct?"
Anatoli nodded.
"But no guns?"
"No guns. Nothing automatic, no fire power, just….no, you cannot be serious!"
"Would it be against the rules?"
"Of course!" said Anatoli, but then contradicted himself. "But man is not gun." He was stunned
enough to momentarily switch to English. He blinked at Draco. "So maybe is not against rules?"
"Man is not gun," Draco repeated, nodding. "Has anyone tried it before?"
"Nyet! No one is so crazy!"
"The purpose of the game is to entertain and to serve as a reminder of our good fortune, isn't it?
These friends of Amarov want a good show, and they think that's what the fleet needs,
yes? Amarov's Rules."
Anatoli merely blinked. "Weezard, you are going to die."
Draco shook his head. "No, I'm just going to give them a show."
And then Anatoli watched with sheer incredulity as Draco climbed over the railing and dropped
soundlessly onto his haunches, inside the Pit.
Survival
Chapter Summary
We meet Henry Miles Greengrass Zabini. Alec Mercer provides an explanation for the
wizarding 'smart-zombies'.
Chapter Notes
One of my other favourite chapters. Not sure why. Just is.
The length of chain was the nearest weapon.
Draco bent down to scoop it up without stopping in his advance towards Blaise. As he walked, he
slammed the chain around the neck of the first zombie that came staggering towards him. It was
fresh, and quicker than the rotting corpses from Round One. The force of the wrapping blow sent
the zombie careening backwards into a wall. The back of its skull smashed and it slumped to the
ground, leaving a dark red streak against the wall. The crowd erupted into deafening cheers and
whistles.
One down, three to go.
Blaise had successfully extricated his steel pike from the throat of one zombie and had skewered
another through its eye-socket. The thing had been female, at one point. It was still wearing a
stained, pink terry-toweling bath robe and had three curlers clinging to the matted remains of its
hair. Helpfully, it managed to collide into the zombie that had been pulling on Blaise's robes.
Almost in slow motion, both zombies went over, one on top of the other with the exposed end of
the steel pike getting caught in the metal grating on the floor. The creatures were effectively
pinned in place. They moaned and rocked from side to side, but were as coordinated as overturned
turtles.
Draco swiftly picked up the baseball bat and made short, quick work of the creatures' heads. About
a dozen blows in total did the trick. He was panting from the exertion by the time it was over.
"Hello," Blaise said to him, dark eyes wide with confusion, relief, wonder. The bleakness left his
gaze. Now, there was calculation.
Slytherins, thought Draco, with approval.
Blaise glances over Draco's shoulder, inclining his head to the remaining member of Round Two.
This specimen had been a soldier, judging from the military fatigues. The main problem presented
itself in the form of a helmet, which the creature still had strapped on to its head.
Oh, well. So much for handy, blunt force trauma.
"Here it comes!" Blaise warned. They only had the baseball bat between them. Draco spotted one
of the crow bars on the ground. He snatched it up and then threw it to Blaise.
The zombie charged in a straight line, predictably going for the larger and more obvious target of
Blaise and his son. Draco swung the bat directly into the creature's knees with such force that the
zombie's legs folded inwards at a right angle. It hit the ground, its helmeted head bouncing against
the metal grating. Blaise quickly jammed the crowbar into the creature's face, but because he was
still holding his son, it was only a one-handed thrust and so the crowbar did not penetrate all the
way through the brain. With the crowbar sticking out of its head, the creature thrashed and snarled.
Blaise attempted to hold it down by standing on its chest.
Draco went across to the opposite end of the arena to unwind the chain from around the neck of the
first zombie. He then looped it around the neck of the former soldier that Blaise was standing on.
Draco pulled hard on the chain. The zombie's neck broke with a loud crack and the crowd roared
with approval.
Heedless of the stinking muck and gore that littered the ground, Blaise sank to the floor, cross-
legged and visibly shaking. His son no longer hid his face in the crook of his father's neck. The
little boy was wholly occupied staring up at Draco.
"Get on your feet," Draco ordered.
An exhausted Blaise did not appear to hear him. The little boy attempted to shake his father back to
attention. "Daddy, get up!"
Blaise's head lifted. He blinked, as if only just noticing Draco. "Malfoy, how are you here?"
"Because of a serious lapse in judgement, apparently." Draco gave him his hand. It was testament
to how fatigued Blaise was that even with Draco's assistance, Blaise still had trouble getting to his
feet while bearing the weight of the boy.
"You need to put the child down."
Blaise shook his head. "I am not abandoning my son."
Draco closed the distance between them, hauling Blaise to him until they were face to face. The
little boy was sandwiched between them, watching the exchange with wide-eyes.
"I only have time to say this once, so listen well," Draco hissed. "Do anything else other than what
I tell you to do, and I swear to you I will walk out of here without hesitation. Amarov and his
people need something only I have and they are not about to let me die in here with you. If you
want to leave this arena with your insides still on the inside, I suggest you pay fucking attention."
"Language," Blaise said, with a glare.
Draco stared at his old friend. He understood that Blaise was probably functioning on his last
reserves, both physically and mentally, and so he tried a different tack. "Our lives will depend on us
working together," Draco said, more gently. "You cannot help me to keep you alive if you're
carrying your son. We will put the boy in a corner and we will defend that corner. You take the
left, I'll take the right. One of us falls, that's it. No backup, no second chances."
"I thought you said they wouldn't let you die?"
"Do you see them storming the arena right this moment to come and get me?" Draco asked, with
increasing annoyance.
"No."
"They may do at any moment, so why don't you make the best use of me while I'm here?"
Blaise hands were shaking as they pulled his son closer to him. "Malfoy, if anything happens to
him…"
"If anything happens to him, you can still live, even if you may not want to. If you die, on the other
hand, he's dead by default. Run the numbers Zabini. That was always your talent."
Slowly, but surely, Blaise release his death grip over his son. He set the boy on the ground and
pushed him back into a corner.
The buzzer sounded again. It seemed to be louder and longer this time, but that was probably
because the spectators had gone silent. It was quiet enough for Draco to hear both his and Blaise's
laboured breathing. They stood, makeshift weapons held tightly in their hands, feet braced apart.
"These will be different from the ones before," Blaise said.
"How so?"
Blaise gave him a look of dread. "They were like us."
Wizarding zombies. The ones that were likely also responsible for cutting into Filch's body at
Hogwarts. Capable of planning, coordinating, thinking. It made sense that Renauld would save the
best—and worst—for last.
From somewhere on the fourth floor, a shouted litany could be heard, "May the three enfold you,
Father, Son and Holy Spirit! Hold you safe and strong! May the Three watch over you, Father, Son
and Holy Spirit! Still your heart and calm all fear!"
Someone else yelled out. "You're wasting your time! These are a godless people!"
"Over here!" shouted another voice from the second floor. Draco and Blaise glanced up, squinting
against the floodlights. They saw a female spectator leaning over the railing. She threw down a
long bundle at Draco's feet. "We've just had this sent from The Cassiopeia! More useful right now
than prayers!"
Draco dropped the baseball bat and unwrapped the bundle. There were more than a few cheers and
whistles when he pulled out a wicked-looking scythe, followed by a sheathed katana. He looked up
at the woman and nodded his thanks.
"Which one?" he asked Blaise, holding both weapons aloft.
Blaise pointed to the katana. "The sword. I have no idea what that other thing is."
"Give the boy your crowbar," Draco instructed, after handing Blaise the katana.
"He's only four-years old!"
"Then he'll be a four-year old armed with a bloody crowbar in the event that one of these creatures
makes it past us!"
The noise from the crowd suddenly increased. There was movement from deep within the darkness
beyond the hatch. Blaise crouched down beside his son, hurriedly handed the boy the crowbar and
explained what to do with it. The boy, to his credit, took the weapon with both hands and nodded,
his small, serious face grimacing in concentration at his father's instructions.
"Zabini…" Draco warned. He could see a silhouette emerging from the darkness. No, make that
two.
"We're ready," Blaise said, taking his place at Draco's right. He unsheathed the katana and tossed
the scabbard.
"Either of you speak Russian?" bellowed a gruff male voice from either the third or the fourth
level.
"Yes!" Draco called out, not taking his eyes off the hatch.
"Don't go for the head first with these ones," advised the anonymous spectator. "Don't even think
about going for the chest or gut. It won't slow them down."
More voices chimed in. "Get them off their feet just like you did with that last one! Go for the
knees and then the head!"
"Four is too many for them…"
"God save us all..."
"Shut up! Renauld will have our rations taken away!"
"No!" said the woman who had given them the new weapons. "They can do it! And let the Fatman
take my fucking rations!"
"What are they saying?" Blaise demanded.
"In summary? Hobble the bastards and then cut their off," Draco said, raising the scythe high
above his head. He sent his old friend a reckless smile. "We survived seven years of Snape. This
will be a moonlit stroll in comparison."
But then, rather anticlimactically, the familiar droning buzzer sounded and the door to the hatch
promptly came down with a loud bang. In addition to the flood lights that illuminated the games,
every single light beyond the arena was switched back on.
The reason for this new development was not a surprise to Draco. He looked up the first floor
viewing gallery and saw that Honoria had arrived. She looked utterly livid. It was gratifying to see
a nervous Renauld beside her, in what appeared to be rapid explanation mode. Renauld raised a
microphone and addressed the crowd, sounding markedly less pleased with himself than before.
"Game's over for today!" he shouted. "Go home, all of you! And get those wizards out of there!"
Anatoli and three additional guards entered the arena, stepping over the elaborate, wet mess of
dismembered zombies. One of the guards waved a handgun lazily at Blaise and his son. Blaise
didn't need to be able to speak the language to understand what was about to transpire. He tensed.
"Send the dark one and his boy back to the hold. Honoria wants to speak to the blond one."
"My friend and his son stay with me," Draco said to the guard, and the quality of that edict made
the guards acutely aware that Draco was still holding the scythe.
Anatoli stepped in, raising both palms up in a diplomatic gesture. "Put it down, weezard. Your
friend can come."
"That freak and its vermin offspring are supposed to go back to the hold with the rest of the
magical scum!" spat the guard with the handgun.
Draco's temper ignited. Both he and the guard took a step toward each other, but an altercation was
forestalled by the guard abruptly howling in pain and grabbing his shin. All six adults looked down
to find Blaise's son (still) holding on to the crowbar his father had given him. He had apparently
just swung it at the guard's leg and looked in danger of following through with another blow.
The expression on the boy's face could best be described as indignant.
"My daddy and the man won the game," said the lad, with an icy haughtier that was Zabini
through and through.
Blaise cleared his throat and wisely plucked the crowbar from his son's grasp.
"What is your name, leetle boy?" Anatoli asked.
"Henry Miles Greengrass Zabini."
"That is many names."
Henry shrugged.
"Ok, Henry. You and your papa come with us, yes?"
The guard with the handgun opened his mouth to predictably protest, but was interrupted by
Anatoli, who thankfully switched back to Russian before unleashing a string of blistering
profanities and threats to neuter the man if he so much as uttered another word to delay them.
Grimmauld Place, London.
"Neville said you were looking for me?"
Alec Mercer glanced up from his computer screen to find Hermione standing at the doorway to the
laboratory.
He slipped off his spectacles. "I was. Come in. I hope I haven't taken you away from anything
important?"
"Not really. I was helping the Cowboy wrap up his report on Honoria."
Mercer made a 'pfft' noise. "If that's even her real name..."
"It is," Hermione assured. She pulled a chair next to Mercer and sat down. "Her history and her
expertise were real enough. It's her employer we have no idea about. She can't have been working
on her own."
"And we're sure she was the one who put the grenade inside the specimen we brought to the
hospital?"
"Actually, considering she had no direct access to the weapons vault, the Cowboy suspects she
used Imperio on someone else who did. She was unnaturally good at that spell," Hermione added,
remembering her utter inability to throw off the Unforgiveable, not even for a moment.
Mercer was giving her a blank look.
"It's one of three Unforgiveable spells. There's Avada Kedavra, the killing curse. Crucio, which
inflicts pain. And Imperio."
"What does that last one do?"
"It controls you," Hermione said. "You become a puppet, effectively. In many ways, it's the most
heinous of the Three."
"Charming." Mercer gave her an uncharacteristically cold look. "You know, I was in that vault
when the Cowboy picked out a gun for me. I might have been the one to steal the grenade."
Hermione considered this. "It's possible, but not likely. Kent was there at the same time. She didn't
report anything untoward about your behaviour. Richards thinks it might have been her who was
under Imperio. Kent had knowledge of the vault's weaponry, the access and the opportunity. Plus,
she wasn't exactly popular. If someone wanted to arouse suspicions about her, it would have been a
good way to go about doing that."
"Malfoy was there, too, remember?"
Hermione's expression darkened. "Yes, he was. But then he had practically zero access to the
specimen." She stared at Mercer for a moment. "You blame yourself for what happened at
Welwyn, don't you? For Jason and Mira's deaths?"
The neuroscientist began leafing through numerous printouts on his desk, searching for something.
"Bloody oath, I do. The trip was my idea. We could have run a metal scan over the specimen
before we left Grimmauld Place. The grenade could have been discovered."
"If I recall, you asked Jason to run the scan precisely before the specimen was to be brought into
the MRI room. Did he do it?"
"No."
Hermione sighed. "We can't control for every eventuality, Alec. Let it go. If you want to blame
someone, blame Honoria."
"The power you people have," Mercer said, quietly, "to seemingly bend the laws of nature, to kill
with just a phrase, to control people. It's frightening. I don't blame your government for trying to
keep it all a secret."
"And I don't blame Muggles for being worried about it now that they know we're real," Hermione
said. "I felt the same way when I found out."
"But you're one of them. What do you have to worry about?"
"I'm Muggle and Magical. I straddle both worlds and bear their respective concerns, as does Harry
and Richards. And remember that we have a few Purebloods working here with us, too. Dr Patil,
for instance," she added, knowing Mercer's affection for Padma. "We're all on the same page—
we're here to help. There's been a lot to take in. Seven months ago the idea of a zombie outbreak
seemed ludicrous. Five months ago, you found out Magic and its People, exist. And two days ago,
well… Two days ago Ron was still alive."
Mercer put his spectacles back on. "That's actually the first thing I wanted to talk to you about.
McAlister and I only had a chance to look at Ron's most recent blood analysis after the funeral."
Mercer had by now located the printout he'd been searching for. He handed it to Hermione.
She recognised Dr Kate McAlister's handwriting in the dramatic red circles and annotations on the
page's margin. There were also a few exclamation marks. After many weeks of helping Padma look
over Ron's blood work, it didn't take a great deal of expertise to notice that the serological figures
were startlingly different.
"When was this sample taken?" she asked.
"Dr Patil drew the last sample just before Emily went in to check on Ron."
Hermione frowned. "Help me out, Alec. What am I looking at here?"
"You're looking at regeneration. All of his vital systems were coming back online. Liver, kidneys,
pancreatic functions were all still well below normal, but they were improving."
"What are you saying? Are you telling me Ron was getting better?"
Mercer saw Hermione's growing distress as she contemplated the notion that Ron had been killed
when he had been on the cusp of recovery. He was quick to allay her fears. "No. Granted, ReGen
had staved off the Infection for weeks, but eventually it wore off. He was still Infected when he
died. We didn't get a chance to do an autopsy, because there was no indication that one was
warranted. But I'm guessing that if we had a look at his brain, we would have seen extensive
neurogenesis."
"So he was a different kind of zombie?" Hermione speculated. "A smart zombie?"
Mercer nodded. "Eventually, yep. Although maybe 'smart' is overkill, if you'll pardon the pun.
More like a precisely programmed zombie. Like toxo-infected mice, perhaps?"
Hermione blinked. "Alec, I know Australia has some rather exotic fauna, but you're going to have a
fill me in."
"Toxoplasma gondii. It's a single-celled parasite that can only reproduce inside the digestive tract
of cats. About a third of all people carry the parasite. Mice who contract it behave…differently.
They become bolder, essentially engaging in more cat-attracting activities. It's quite fascinating,
really."
She had no doubt. "The mice end up getting caught and eaten by cats, thus enabling the parasite to
reach its spawning grounds, so to speak?"
"Exactly," said Mercer. "But in this case, the Infection doesn't make a magical zombie take more
risks, it just uses the parts of the brain required to further the Infection's needs."
"And what does the Infection need?"
"In a nutshell? To spread. To do that it needs to keep its hosts safe, nourished and viable until such
time they can come into contact with new, healthy people to Infect and to feed on."
"Malfoy and I saw evidence of tool usage on the remains of a victim at Hogwarts. Are you saying
that's part of the Infection's agenda?"
"It depends. What were the tools used for?"
"Our old Hogwarts' caretaker's brains and liver were removed." Hermione remembered the
precision of the wounds. "Neatly," she added.
Mercer thought about this. "If magical zombies did that, then it could be that they were targeting
the most nutritious parts of the body. The liver fits that description, certainly. The brain doesn't
possess any distinctive nutritional value, so that might have just been for the, uh, taste."
"That's what Malfoy said."
"I'm inclined to concur." There was a short moment of silence. "You know, we could really use
Malfoy's help right now. If he hadn't run off with the enemy, of course."
She patted him on the arm. "We'll manage. Now, you said there's something else you wanted to
talk to me about?"
Mercer nodded. "Our creepy friend in the red-hoodie is back. Let's go upstairs for a better look."
He opened a drawer at his desk and took out a packet of crisps. "I was going to take a break
anyway and Patil hates it when I eat in here."
From the elevated vantage point of the attic window, they observed the zombie in the red-hoodie
for a few minutes. It was raining again outside, not that this thwarted their visitor. In between
handfuls of crisps, Mercer jotted down notes.
"I suppose we now know why he can see the house so easily—he's magical," Hermione speculated.
"He's so…still," Mercer said. "What do you suppose he wants?"
Hermione put her hand on the window pane, leaning in for a close look. Her breath fogged up the
glass. Each time the fog dissipated and the blurry, rain-shrouded image of the zombie re-appeared,
she half expected it to have moved even closer to the house.
"I think he wants to come inside."
"Christ," muttered Mercer. "Can he get in?"
"Not without an invitation."
"I thought that was only vampires?"
"Vampires can't get in either," Hermione said, slightly confused at the turn in conversation.
"There are vampires?" Mercer asked, looking horrified. Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but
he held up a hand. "No, wait! Don't tell me. I don't want to know. I suppose if there are zombies
and werewolves, there must be vampires. What about Bigfoot? Oh my God. Is Bigfoot real?"
Whatever Hermione had been about to respond with was interrupted by the attic door opening. It
was Harry.
"Thought I might find you two up here," he said. "You're wanted downstairs. House meeting."
"What's happened?" Hermione asked.
"Richards' sources just called in on the Floo. They've managed to find out where Alexander
Amarov is being held." Harry was wearing a purposeful expression. It was a good change to the
detachment she'd seen in him since Ron's funeral. "Looks like we've going on a rescue mission."
They were ordered to clean up first before seeing Honoria.
Accordingly, Draco, Blaise and Henry were taken to a makeshift decontamination shower, stripped
and hosed down with tepid water. Draco could only assume that Blaise and his son hadn't had a
good wash in quite some time because Henry's delighted giggles could be heard over the next
cubicle.
The resilience of children, thought Draco, with no small measure of wonder.
After the wash came the inspection. The clothes Draco had previously worn were ruined,
obviously. It was put into a hazmat bag and disposed of. Blaise and Draco were given rubber boots
and rough, beige overalls to wear, while Henry had to make do with a guard's jumper, which he
had to wear like a dress. They were then inspected by a doctor with the bedside manner of a soggy
biscuit. The humourless man peered at their collections of cuts, scrapes and bruises, applying
stinging antiseptic where required. Henry was not so happy when they had to have their blood
taken.
"Doesn't like needles," Blaise said. It was all Blaise had said to Draco since they'd exited the arena.
When it was done, they waited in the doctor's office. The doctor took their blood to be tested for
Infection, while Anatoli and the three guards stood by the door in silence. An exhausted Henry
was, by now, fast asleep in his father's arms. The door opened and Honoria walked in. She paused
for a moment to consider the two wizards in their identical attire and bright red, rubber boots.
Amusement briefly showed on her face. "You two make quite the couple." To the three guards, she
said, "Take Mr Zabini and his son to Mr Malfoy's room."
Blaise cast Draco a wary look, but complied when Draco gave him a subtle nod. Once Blaise and
his son had left with the guards, Honoria addressed Anatoli. "I told you to watch him! Within less
than two days of him being here, I find out he's gone one round in Renauld's pit." She made a noise
to convey her frustration. "While wearing borrowed Armani, I'm told."
"The shoes were Bally, if that helps?" said Draco.
Anatoli looked contrite, but held his ground. "You didn't say I cannot take the weezard to the Pit. I
cannot stop him. He do what he want."
Honoria's eyes narrowed. She was well dressed that afternoon in a sleek, black pantsuit, but she
was still sporting the contagious exhaustion she'd brought back with her from Grimmauld Place.
"Anatoli, leave us."
After Anatoli had shut the door behind him, Honoria walked around the doctor's desk and sat on
the edge. She stared at Draco, thoughtful.
"Zabini seemed surprised that I knew his name. I had quite the crush on him when we were at
Hogwarts."
"And now you keep him in a cage like an animal. If that's how you deal with your old, school
crushes, I hate to see what happens to your actual partners."
She sobered. "There are few things about which I openly disagree with Amarov. The games are top
on the list."
"So stop them."

"I can't. I've tried."
"Try harder."
They stared at each other in silent hostility.
"It was a mistake for Renauld to put a child into that arena. The people already detest the blood
sport, but Alexander demands that we are all united in our hatred and mistrust of magical folk.
Unfortunately, what the crowd witnessed today had everything to do with being human. They saw
a father trying to keep his child alive." She scowled at Draco. "And they saw you risk your life to
help a friend. Alexander will be angry when he finds out about this. He wants magical people to be
seen as less than human."
"Well that tactic sounds somewhat familiar, doesn't it?" Draco said, rhetorically. "Switch the
games for Dachau and I really fail to see the difference."
"These are difficult times!"
"Yes, they are." Draco snapped. "And yet you respond by sabotaging the quest for a cure. By
imprisoning our people and torturing them."
"Our people?" Honoria hissed. "It's 'our people' now, is it? I seem to recall a time when you were
trying to remind my people of our inherent inferiority to Purebloods, of our unworthiness to possess
any magical ability. You're a hypocrite, Malfoy. And you served a madman."
"And I suppose Amarov is a model of mental stability?"
She whirled away from him, pacing the small confines of the office as she spoke. "Alexander has
his failings, but he is still saving thousands of lives in the bargain!"
"There are other ways to save lives that do not involve such bargains. The only thing Alexander
Amarov has that appeals to you is a deep loathing of magic and magical folk. I don't presume to
know why you detest your own kind so much, but I know that whatever reason you give, it cannot
justify all this."
"Don't speak to me like you're some kind of hero. You're not."
Draco surprised her by laughing heartily. "Oh, I am no hero. My father warned me, very early on,
about what happens to heroes in the real world."
"You knew Renauld would ask me to come and see today's Games and that I could not afford to let
you die in the Pit. You knew the message it would send to the crowd, didn't you—to see you help
Zabini and save that child? It was all calculated and only I know that because I bloody know you.
After all these years, you're still the same." She shook her head at him. "It's all smoke and mirrors
with you, Malfoy. It's just showmanship. I wish Granger could have seen that about you."
"Hermione Granger was under no illusions as to what I am," Draco said, his voice going very soft
now.
Honoria seemed aware that she was wading out into dangerous waters. She brought the
conversation to a point. "I want you to start working on the cure with Professor Belikov tomorrow.
You will do your best or Zabini and his son will suffer. I may not be able to put them back into the
Pit without risking mutiny from the spectators, but I can return them to the hold. Or worse. Do we
have an understanding, Malfoy?"
He did. As his father had warned, this was what came of revealing an attachment to anything or
anyone. Weakness. It gave others a power over you, and this would be the second time Honoria
used that weakness against him.
His wand hand twitched. "We have an understanding," he said.
"Good, I'll have Anatoli escort you back to your quarters."
It was gratifying to see her take a hasty step backwards when Draco suddenly stood, his chair
scraping against the floor. Her eyes darted to the door, to where the protection of Anatoli waited
just beyond. It was difficult to be intimidating while wearing red Santa boots and what felt like a
lumpy burlap bag with a zipper, but Draco had years of practice.
"Honoria."
She hesitated, and then, "Yes?"
"The next time you're alone in a room with me, I'm going to kill you."
Altogether Now
Chapter Summary
The mission to save Amarov from pirates is underway. Harry really wants a gun.
Mercer has terrible timing, and Hermione has a bad feeling.
Satellite surveillance provided by the US Wizarding Senate's intelligence division revealed the
probable location of Alexander Amarov.
While there was no conclusive visual proof, there was enough suspicious activity to speculate that
the Russian billionaire was being held on a fishing trawler several kilometres east of Cardiff. And
nearby, just off the coast of Avonmouth, was Amarov's fleet. The current status of the fleet was
unknown.
What was known was that there were several oil tankers and one refinery vessel in the middle of
the fleet and that Amarov had previously (and happily) traded this supply with the military or
anyone else capable of paying his asking price. But now the fleet was not responding to any
attempts to communicate with it. It was also stationary, having maintained the same position for
the past month.
The consistent proximity of the fishing trawler to the fleet had been a major clue.
"We think Amarov's people are trying to negotiate his ransom," Richards said to the assembled
team. "That's why they've shut down all trade with outsiders. It's radio silence until they get their
boss back."
"So does the fleet know where he is?" Harry asked.
"Possibly," Richards allowed. "But they may not have the means to launch a recovery mission. My
guess is they're working out a price."
"Is he really worth all that trouble?" wondered Harry. It was a valid concern. "Why haven't they
just sailed away?"
Scrimgeour considered the question. "Loyalty, perhaps?"
Richards was looking at the map he had spread out across Scrimgeour's desk. "Or maybe he has
the keys to the car…"
"Keys?" said Harry.
"It may not be a case of the fleet staying out of loyalty, but rather out of necessity."
"What do you mean?" Scrimgeour asked.
"I don't know," Richards said, stroking his jaw. "There's a lot we can't know until we speak to
Amarov. Personally, I don't like either idea. If he commands that much power or loyalty, or even
fear, he's dangerous. And if he's somehow connected to the fleet's mobility, that's even worse."
Hermione had been silent up until that point. "We're risking a lot to go and get this man. All for a
magical item that he may or may not have, which may or may not give ReGen the boost it needs."
Neville spoke up. "I'd bet my life on the Peach being safely stored somewhere within that fleet.
Amarov is a particular sort of collector, Hermione. I know the sort. He wouldn't have abandoned
his life's work."
"OK, so say he has the Peach, what if he doesn't want to part with it?"
"Oh, he'll part with it, one way or another," Richards assured her. "And if he has additional
resources that can help this mission, we'll be takin' that, too."
"This is starting to sound less like a rescue and more like piracy on the high seas," Hermione
muttered.
"You got a problem with that, Miss Granger?" Richards asked.
All eyes turned to Hermione, which angered her. She had never intended to be the moral compass
of the group. It was a tiring responsibility that she did not want. She met the Cowboy's knowing
stare. Clearly, they were both thinking about her earlier reluctance to force Malfoy to cooperate
with them.
Hermione sighed. "We tried playing nice. Let's do it your way."
Richards didn't smile very often, but when he did, there was nothing friendly about it. He rolled up
the map. "Alright folks, you have your instructions. Let's suit up."
The modular lounge he'd been sleeping on was too hard. It was also too slippery, owing to over-
enthusiastic maintenance with leather conditioner, probably. Twice during the night, Draco had
nearly slid off the thing and had had to brace himself against the floor with his palms to avoid
rolling over onto the carpet, face first.
At some point, sleep won out, aided by the mild sedative the dour doctor had given him following
his chat with Honoria (probably at Honoria's behest). Draco couldn't fault her. He'd let the rage out
for a wee jaunt, and Honoria had been there to provoke it.
A noise awakened him. It was indistinct, but loud enough to pull him from drug induced slumber.
Draco's eyes were still closed when he heard the soft sound of sheets pulled aside and then the
shuffling, short footfalls that meant Henry was also awake. Draco opened his eyes as soon as he
felt the gentle, yet persistent tugging at the sleeve of his t-shirt.
Henry stood in the darkness of Draco's state room. Anatoli had sourced suitable clothing for the
boy. The pajamas he wore looked brand new, still indented with the original packet creases. They
were too large and were folded at least three times at the cuffs and hems.
"What is it?" Draco asked the boy, his voice rough from sleep and the earlier shouting in the arena.
Henry hesitated, but seemed determined to speak. "Daddy is having a bad dream," whispered the
child. One small hand pointed at the bed that Draco had ceded to Blaise and his son. Henry's other
hand was worrying at the hem of his pajama top.
Blaise moaned. Draco watched for another minute, as much to observe the extent of Blaise's (and
Henry's) distress, as to give his eyes time to accustom to the darkness. Presently, he saw Blaise's
hand dart out in front of him, as if fending off an invisible attack. And then there was muttering;
panicked, agonised and breathless. Another minute passed and the sound that followed the
muttering was unmistakable.
"See," whispered Henry, and there were tears in his voice.
Draco swung his bare feet to the floor. Muscles in his legs, biceps and shoulders all simultaneously
twinged and protested; souvenirs from his recent exertion in the Pit. On the plus-side they had been
given the all-clear from the Infection. The blood tests came back negative.
In truth, Draco hadn't been too concerned and neither had Blaise, for that matter. Blaise had already
endured the Pit prior to Draco joining the Fleet and was aware of the risks that did not include
immediate death by ravenous zombies. As rife as the Infection was, the virus did not survive for
very long outside of the body. As such, it would have been extremely difficult to contract it from
Infected blood splatter alone.
A bite, on the other hand, was a whole other story.
A glance at the digital display on the alarm clock beside the bed told Draco that it was close
enough to the new day to fast track its commencement. He stood and picked up the blankets for
Henry. The makeshift bed still held the warmth of Draco's body. Henry had clearly managed little
to no sleep next to his thrashing father. The boy looked at him, uncertain. Henry resembled Zabini
for the most part, save for a mop of inky black curls which bore the unmistakable Greengrass
stamp, cowlick and all.
"Climb in. Go to sleep. I'll see to Za—your father."
Draco waited until Henry had pulled the sheets to his chin and turned over to face the backrest of
the lounge. He waited a few minutes more until the boy's breathing was deep and even, before he
walked across the room to where Blaise was now engaged in somnambulistic sparring.
"Zabini," Draco said, shaking the other man firmly at the shoulder. Draco was completely
unsurprised when Blaise sprang upright in bed, instantly alert. His hands flew to the empty spot
next to him.
"Henry."
"Lower your voice. Your son has only just gone back to sleep."
Blaise blinked rapidly, his breathing advertised his panic, but he eventually calmed when he
registered that Henry was indeed sleeping soundly in the lounge across the room. Draco discreetly
examined the orange-tinted horizon beyond the sunroom windows, while Blaise used his sleeve to
roughly mop at the tears that ran down his face.
When he had composed himself, Blaise stared down at the coverlet. "I'm sorry. Was I…noisy?"
"Not enough to wake me up," Draco lied, "but your son was concerned."
A bark of humourless laughter was Blaise's response. "He's concerned? A four-year old boy is
concerned for the emotional well-being of his father. It's an upside down world we live in,
Malfoy."
The question was overdue and this seemed as good a time as any. "Where is his mother?"
Blaise looked up at Draco now. "She's dead."

Draco had gathered as much. "When?"
"Five days ago."
That was unexpected, although more pieces of the recent puzzle of Blaise and Henry began to fall
into place. Too much time passed before Draco next spoke. He regretted that. Blaise looked
increasingly uncomfortable in the interim.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Zabini. How did she die?"
Blaise's gaze returned to the coverlet.
Draco ran a hand through his hair. He stood and walked across to the sleek kitchenette ensconced
in a corner of the suite. Desmond had seen fit to stock the wood-paneled refrigerator with basic,
packaged food items and liquor decanted into plastic bottles. There was no glass, flatware or
cutlery; nothing that could be easily broken and certainly nothing with a sharp edge.
Grimacing, Draco uncapped a plastic bottle and tentatively sniffed at its contents. Making an
executive decision, he then dragged a leather club chair over the carpeted floor, to the side of the
bed and sat in it.
"Rather good whiskey, I believe. We might as well drink it before the plastic befouls it." Draco
held the bottle out to Blaise, but the other man ignored the offering. Undaunted, Draco took several
long, burning swallows before resuming the original line of questioning, though initially with a
slightly wheezy voice and watery eyes.
"So, was it Daphne? Or Astoria?"
Blaise didn't respond, but it was the acute expression of pain that settled over his face at mention of
Daphne Greengrass that answered the question.
Draco raised an eyebrow. "I remember Daphne, of course. She, Pansy and Millicent were
inseparable for a time. I don't remember you paying her much attention. Didn't really seem your
type, you know?"
There it was. A muscle twitched in Blaise's rigidly held jaw. "And what is my type?"
Draco shrugged. "Pretty."
"Malfoy, please stop talking before I am compelled to hit you."
Pleased with this facsimile of progress, Draco grunted and held out the bottle of whiskey once
more. "Drink, then."
They drank in uncomfortable, near-silence as the state room gradually filled with dawn sunlight.
Henry continued to sleep and there was certainly no rush to wake the boy. The gentle hum of the
cruise liner's engines was soothing, underfoot.
"She didn't get Infected or put into the Pit to fight, if that's what you're thinking," Blaise eventually
said, so unexpectedly that Draco realised he'd been in danger of dozing off. "She was alive and
well when we were brought into the fleet."
"By force?"
"By trickery," Blaise informed, with a sneer. "When we knew of its existence, I and other wizards
came here to trade magic for supplies. We offered what work we could provide Amarov and his
Muggles, in exchange for a period of respite from the mainland. Or for safe passage to less
Infected areas. We weren't to know of Amarov's particular…aversion to Magic."
"Amarov imprisoned all of you," Draco surmised.
"He could not be bargained with or bribed. There was nothing I could offer that he would take in
trade," Blaise said, with angry incredulity. He glanced up at Draco. "And as you know, I am adept
at finding out the things people don't yet realise they want."
Draco snorted. "I remember well enough." The bottle was nearly empty and he felt a sharp
headache coming on. He and Blaise were going to have a spectacularly shite day ahead, but Blaise's
story was well worth the price of the hangover.
"I should not have brought Daphne and Henry with me," he continued, his voice wavering. "That is
the beginning and end of it, really. Had I simply left them in Cheshire…" Blaise shut his eyes. "She
died of pneumonia, Malfoy. Can you fathom that? In this day and age, my wife died in my arms. Of
pneumonia. The conditions in the hold are indescribable. Livestock meant for the slaughter yard is
kept in better condition than the Magical population of this fleet. After they took all our wands,
there was nothing I could do. I asked for help. I…I begged for it. I said I would do anything if they
would give her medicine."
"You volunteered for the Pit," Draco said, his voice now very soft.
Blaise nodded. "But it was too late. Daphne was so sick. I don't even know if they eventually gave
her the medication she needed. It didn't help. She died a day after my first fight." He looked at
Draco and now there was a reassuring glint of malevolence in his dark eyes. "Suffice it to say I was
rather uncooperative after that."
"I expect you bloody well were," Draco said, and the rage was there this time, toxic and tired of
biding its time.
"I'm not the only one. There are many like me being held here. And like me, some were foolish
enough to bring their families with them. We're angry and desperate. We're the fuel you need,
Malfoy. All that's missing is a spark."
Draco's stare was piercing. "I'll need more details when you're feeling up to it."
"Is that why you jumped into the Pit? Was it to enlist me?"
"Would it matter if that was my sole reason?"
"No. And even if it was, you still have my eternal gratitude. You saved our lives."
"Our lives aren't saved just yet, Zabini. There's a long way to go."
"Yes," Blaise said, with a knowing nod. "Will you tell me what the plan is? Because I know you
have one and by Merlin, I really need to be part of that right now."
"You won't know until you need to know." Draco pulled his legs up under him and sat cross-legged
in the chair, bottle held loosely in his hand, balancing upon his knee. "That is all I can say."
"Why? I know the fleet well! I can help!"
"And you will help by answering the multitude of vague and annoying questions I will put to you
without once asking me why the answers are important. I cannot tell you, Blaise, because I cannot
trust you."
Blaise was not offended by this. He was merely resigned and perhaps a little surly. He stared across
the room, at the still and silent form of his sleeping son. "It's because of Henry, isn't it? If they take
him, I will do and say anything to ensure his safety."
Draco nodded. It was as simple as that. It was not that Zabini could not keep a secret, it was just
that he was unfortunately saddled with the most profound weakness it was possible to have.
"Malfoy?"
"Yes?"
"How the hell did you get out of Azkaban? Last I heard, the place was a sealed tomb."
"That, my friend, is a story of luck, brilliance and cunning best saved until after I finish my shift in
the labs today." Draco handed the bottle to Blaise and groaned softly as he stood and rolled his
shoulders. "The day-job beckons. Get some more sleep, if you can. We're all going to need it."
It was just after dinner when the call was sent out for the seven members of the rescue party to
convene in Scrimgeour's office.
Padma and Hermione were the first to arrive. They were dressed entirely in black, including
protective vests and helmets. Both women had their long hair neatly braided and the braids coiled
into tight, low buns ("Don't give 'em anything to grab a hold of in a skirmish," Richards had
instructed).
There were, in fact, many instructions relayed to the team. They were not FYIs or suggestions or
recommendations. "Ignore any of this at your peril," Richards had fairly snarled at them. A whey-
faced Neville had asked if he could write some of it down.
The two women paused to look at each other and it was Hermione who cracked a smile first. "I feel
like a fool."
"Excellent," said Padma, whose smile was in her eyes. She walked several meters to a satin-
upholstered settee and sat down, grimacing at the pronounced swishing friction created by her
clothing. "I feel the same."
Hermione lifted one of what seemed to be a dozen Velcro-fastened flaps on her trousers. The
uniforms were clearly made for magical combat, given that there was a holster specifically for a
wand. "The trouble with having so many pockets is that you forget which ones you've put your
things into…"
"I believe they're called your 'appointments'," Padma said. She patted her capsicum spray. "Minus a
gun, of course."
Harry had joined them in the sitting room. Unlike the women, he seemed completely at home in
what could best be described as Wizarding SWAT gear. He held the sloppy remnants of a last-
minute sandwich. "Why don't we get guns? There's certainly enough in the vault upstairs."
"Because we haven't had the time to train with them," Hermione reminded him, still engrossed in
her pockets. Ah, there was her capsicum spray.
"What training do you need? You point, you shoot."
"Before the Welwyn mission, Mercer spent two hours with the Cowboy learning how to do just
that and he still couldn't shoot straight at the end of it," Padma informed.
"And yet he's getting a gun again today, isn't he?"
"Only because he doesn't have a wand, Harry." Hermione said. She spent a moment contemplating
sitting down beside Padma on the settee, but was concerned that she might be unable to rise to her
feet again without assistance due to the weight of her equipment-filled trousers. It would be a
quick trip to the bottom of the ocean if she had the extreme misfortune of falling into it.
Padma was displeased. "Mercer and Wallen should not be coming on this mission at all. I cannot
fathom why Scrimgeour said yes to either of their ill-considered requests. Mercer nearly died last
time. They're both civilians."
"You're not exactly Rambo either, Padma," Harry muttered.
Padma's gave Harry a snooty look. "And pray tell who or what exactly is a Rambo?"
"He is, apparently," said Harry, looking very amused as Dr Alec Mercer walked into the office.
Like his colleagues, he was dressed in the same black military gear Richards has supplied. But he
was the only one among them who had additionally donned a black balaclava.
"Goodness, you're keen," Padma said, her eyes going slightly wide. The neuroscientist was
normally a t-shirt and jeans sort of fellow, but he cut quite the intimidating figure in his present
attire. The bag of Cheese Twisties gave him away, however.
"Too much?" he asked, sounding sheepish. He pulled off the balaclava, causing Harry to snort into
his sandwich.
Richards strode into the sitting room, carrying several long, green canvas tote bags. He tossed the
bags to the ground and had been about to squat down to unzip them when he caught sight of
Mercer. "I don't remember handing out any camo face paint, Doc."
Mercer was undaunted in his enthusiasm. "I improvised," he said, a little defensively. "It's shoe-
polish."
By now, Harry had finished the remainder of his sandwich. He thumbed away a smear of
mayonnaise from his bullet-proof vest and then inclined his head towards the tote bags. "That's
guns, innit? I hope that's guns. If Mercer gets to wear war paint, I get to have a gun."
They hovered fifty meters above the fishing trawler.
Fortuitously, the weather was calm. Below them was the Bristol Channel, black-grey in the
darkness with the occasional frothy wave slapping against the hull of the trawler. The vessel wasn't
making much of a show of hiding, given that all its lights were on. For the moment, anyway.
Richards' plan involved the use of night-vision goggles and a rather nasty spell that Harry and
Hermione had never heard of. Every member of the team had a precise part to play in the rescue,
even Mercer, and they all waited patiently for Richard's signal.
"Are you still sore that Richards didn't let you have gun?" Hermione whispered to Harry.
Harry knew she was nervous. Hermione always got chatty when she was nervous. And she got
nervous every time she was on a broomstick. She didn't like broomsticks and Harry had it on good
authority that the feeling was mutual.
He shifted on his broom a little, hoping to encourage Hermione to ease her grip around his
abdomen. Her arms were like a pair of boa constrictors. He swallowed. Perhaps that last minute
tuna sandwich hadn't been a good idea…
"Yes," answered Harry. "I dunno. It feels like we have an unfair advantage here."
"That's the point," Hermione said. "Guns are messy."
Harry spun his head around to stare at her. "You have seen my Chainsaw Hex, haven't you?"
"There's movement going aft," came the Cowboy's voice over their headsets. "Patil, do you copy?"
"Yes," said Padma, who was carrying Mercer on the back of her broom. "Two of them have just
left the cabin. They're smoking, up near the stern. Ugh. Nasty habit."
"So is kidnapping," Neville added.
"Do they have guns?" asked Harry.
Hermione rolled her eyes.
"If they do, I'm not seeing any," Padma replied. "I think they've just come topside for a smoke and
a bit of air."
Richards was the only team member to fly solo that night. He edged closer to Padma and Mercer's
position, looking through a pair of binoculars. "Hang tight, folks. We need them to return to the
cabin or the spell won't work."
"Do you like gelato?" Mercer blurted.
There was nothing but static over the communication system, ostensibly because everyone was
waiting for Padma to reply to the question. And why shouldn't' she bloody well reply to it,
Hermione thought. Yes, this was a zombie apocalypse and they were hanging in the air, on
broomsticks, over the middle of the ocean, about to storm a vessel of mercenaries who didn't give a
toss about lung cancer and probably did have guns.
But God damn it, if they weren't willing to also fight for things like awkward romances (and
gelato), then there really was no point to any of it, was there?
"What?"
Hermione winced on Mercer's behalf. Padma Patil was intimidating on the best of days. She could
picture, well enough, Padma's expression of icy incredulity.
"Gelato. Do you enjoy it?"
"Mercer, is this really the time—"
"She loves it," Hermione answered for her friend. "Rum and Raisin, especially."
"Great. After we're done here, we're all going out for gelato."
The anxiety in Mercer's voice was evident. Hermione felt it, too, along with the acidic tang of grief
that she and Harry had no time to properly process. Mira, Jason, Emily, Agent Kent and Ron would
not be joining them for celebratory gelato.
"Doc, after we're done here, I'm buying," came Richard's gruff voice.
Felix Wallen spoke through the headsets now, quiet and very serious. "Agent Richards, the two
men have finished their cigarettes. They are going back inside."
Richards confirmed this through his binoculars. "Wands out," he said.
Hermione was very grateful for the quick, reassuring squeeze of Harry's gloved hand on top of
hers. Her own hand was shaking slightly as she slipped her wand out of her holster and gripped it
tight.
Here we go.
Occupational Hazards: Part 1
Chapter Summary
Following a successful rescue, the team finally come face to face with Alexander
Amarov.
Harry and Hermione were the first to touch down soundlessly on the deck of the trawler. It was
cluttered with refuse, coils of mouldy rope and what smelled like a week-old catch left to rot in
piles of netting.
Ominously, there was a large buck knife sticking out the side of a barrel. It looked like someone
had been using the barrel for knife-throwing practice. With a grimace, Harry pulled out the knife
and tossed it overboard. There was a particularly slimy patch on the deck and Hermione's left foot
failed to find purchase when she trod in it. She steadied herself by grabbing onto some rigging. The
rusted, disused crane attached to the rigging creaked in protest. It looked in serious danger of
collapsing on top of them.
"Careful," Harry whispered, glancing upwards at the crane.
They handed their brooms to Mercer, who strapped it down across his back, in a harness. The wind
had picked up on the starboard side of the trawler, such that the team members closest to Mercer
and Padma had to actively steer their brooms, in addition to hovering.
"Keep steady," Richards called out. "Patil, might as well put the freeze on your broom now, but not
so far out from the boat that Mercer can't climb on and off in a hurry if he needs to."
"Immobulous," Padma cast, after a moment's repositioning. Her broom now hovered in a fixed
position.
Harry retrieved his Invisibility Cloak from where he had stashed it inside his vest. He attached a
breathing mask to the helmet he was already wearing and adjusted the strap of his goggles.
Hermione grabbed his arm before he took off.
"Don't be a hero," she said, giving him a familiar, pointed look.
"I could say the same thing to you," Harry replied.
He gave her a wink before donning the old cloak, and vanishing. A small wave of nostalgia swept
over Hermione. She knew all about skulking around in dangerous places with Harry and his cloak.
Only now, Ron wasn't there with them to silently agree with Hermione that this was all a bad idea.
Most of their many adventures had been necessary bad ideas, when you thought about it…
"Granger." Richards' deep voice came through the headset. "Are you ready?"
"Just about."
Hermione gingerly walked over to the bow and took out a Reduced conch shell that she'd been
storing in one of her many pockets.
"Why a conch?" she'd asked Richards, much earlier.
"Because we originally used a tiny music box, but everyone agreed that was creepy as hell."
She laid it carefully on the cleanest part of the deck she could find, making sure there was nothing
else contacting between the shell and the trawler. When she removed the Reduction spell, the
conch grew to the size of an American football and began to vibrate, making a dull rattling sound
against the wood of the deck. It wasn't terribly loud, but Hermione still held her breath for a
moment.
"It's in place."
"Good," said Richards. "Masks and goggles on, folks. It's about to get a little stuffy."
"I don't like that we're using Dark Magic," Neville grumbled.
"We've been through this already, Longbottom. It ain't Dark Magic, it's American wizarding
ingenuity."
"This particular bit of ingenuity will suck out all the air and light within twenty-cubic meters,"
Neville pointed out. That's a lot of marine life below and around us that's not going to survive."
"Neville," hissed Harry's annoyed voice, through the communication system, "put a note into the
suggestion box later, OK? I'm in. Amarov is here. Or at least I think it's him. He's got a bag over his
head. They've got him tied up in the engine room, strapped to a chair. And there's…Merlin, he's got
about a dozen wires and bit and pieces coming out of him. It looks like they've hooked him up to
something."
"Can you be more specific, Potter?"
"He's connected to a laptop and also what looks like a car battery."
"Christ. Is he conscious?" asked Richards.
"I can't tell. He's breathing, though."
"Don't touch him. We'll get Patil in there to have a look before we go around unplugging anything.
Granger, be ready to initiate the spell. Mercer will be counting us down from five minutes. You got
that, Doc?"
"Got it," Mercer said, as he prepared to set the timer on his wristwatch. "Just so you know, our
lives are now in the hands of the Casio Corporation."
Hermione crouched down beside the conch. Five minutes was hardly enough time to perpetrate a
daring rescue, but the conch was not designed for saving, it was designed to panic and distract the
enemy. Defending your post was the last thing you were inclined to do when you suddenly found
yourself suffocating in the dark.
It would give the team the advantage they needed to disarm the kidnappers. And five minutes was
all the advantage they would have to work with, because anything longer would end up killing
Amarov along with every other person on the boat without breathing apparatus. She knew Neville
was thinking the same thing—how many times had the conch been used without a time limit?
She pulled her mask over her mouth and nose and then touched her wand to the shell. "Alec, on my
mark?"
"Standing by," Mercer replied.
"Vacuo."
The lights went out as seven pairs of night vision goggles were switched on.
"Five minutes!"
There were twelve men and one woman on the trawler. They were a rather eclectic bunch, as
kidnappers went. Some had the rough-hewn, ex-military look of guns for hire about them. Others
were probably members of organised crime syndicates. The woman looked like someone's old
mum who had been roped in to look after the men. The only thing they had in common was the
belief that Alexander Amarov was worth considerable risk to life and limb.
They happened to share this belief with Richards.
"Four minutes!" said Mercer.
It was evident that the kidnappers had been expecting some kind of assault, but certainly not a
magical one. It was one thing to be licensed by Secretary Beaumont to use deadly magical force,
but it was quite another to be able to actually pull that off.
Hermione had no doubt that Richards could easily cast an Avada Kedavra at full potency, but she
suspected the rest of the team would face a similar experience to what had happened at Welwyn
when Hermione attempted to euthanize Jason Lam.
As Malfoy had aptly demonstrated, the words alone were not enough.
Once more, Granger. With feeling...
"Three minutes!"
The six wizards and witches overcame the Muggles with ease, though the latter were neither
hapless nor helpless. They had guns and they readily fired them, but it was patently a hit and miss
affair. Traversing quickly through the darkness, the team Petrified anything that moved. This
included a snarling Rottweiler that may not have been able to see Harry, but would have
nevertheless ripped out his throat had he not caught the dog in mid leap.
"Two minutes!"
Hermione and Padma were the first to reach Amarov, who was most assuredly not unconscious. He
was wheezing and thrashing just as the kidnappers had done before being Petrified. Hermione
located the extra mask she carried with her in a pocket, pulled off the sack that covered Amarov's
head and strapped the mask over his face. She knelt down beside him and used her wand to cut the
plastic cables-ties that bound him to the chair. He was hyperventilating.
"Take slow, deep breaths," Hermione instructed. Through the sickly green of her night-vision
goggles, she saw a gaunt, bare-chested man, far removed from the dashing figure on the cover
of Time.
"He's beeping," Padma pointed out. "And there's a set of blinking lights just under his collarbone. I
don't understand. I thought Vacuo would have temporarily disabled anything electrical or
mechanical? Do you see it?"
"I see it," Hermione confirmed. And she heard it, too. She squinted down at the tiny red lights from
where the beeping noise was emanating, passing her fingers over the area. It was made of metal.
"Are you Alexander Amarov?" she asked the man they had just rescued.
He nodded in the darkness, brow furrowed.
"My name is Hermione Granger. This is a rescue, Mr Amarov. We'll get you out of here shortly."
"Thirty second!" Mercer told them.
"We have him!" Padma called out.
"Then stay there, we're coming to you," Richards ordered.
Now free from his bindings, Amarov stood and ripped the cables from his chest. Even with the
mask on, Hermione was able to hear his grunt of pain. The beeping noise resumed, though
seemingly less intense than before. As Amarov calmed his breathing, the beeping slowed, and in a
matter of moments, ceased.
Vacuo had by now run its course. Power and air was restored to the trawler. The engine sputtered
back to life. A stereo in the galley turned back on, and the laptop in the engine room re-booted.
Amarov pulled off the mask and drew in a deep lungful of air.
The return of the lights brought back colour, improved depth perception and definition. Hermione
now recognised the man from the magazine cover. Amarov was exceptionally handsome, although
perhaps a more apt description was pretty.
He was tall and lean, with an almost feminine delicateness to him. There was more grey at the
temples of his black hair now. His eyes were a deep azure and the roguish tilt to his mouth looked
to be a permanent feature (or a permanent affectation).
It wasn't his face and form that had Hermione and Padma staring, however. It was the metallic
panel embedded in the middle of Amarov's bare chest. There was an array of fine circuitry and a
digital display which flashed various numbers at different intervals.
"What on earth is that?" Padma asked. "Did they do that to you?"
"No. Happily, this is all mine. It's my very effective insurance policy," was Amarov's cryptic reply
in crisp, Oxford English. "I thank you for the rescue, ladies. Are your companions above-deck?"
The lazy smile he gave them was completely ill-suited to the occasion.
Hermione had been about to ask what device in Amarov's chest was for, when Richards entered the
engine room, closely followed by Harry and Mercer. He holstered his wand. "Agent Barnaby
Richards, US Wizarding Senate."
There was a crumpled shirt lying in a corner of the room, amongst blankets and empty sardine tins.
Hermione suspected this had been where the kidnappers had kept their hostage. Amarov pulled on
the shirt (with some haste, Hermione noticed).
"So this is a magical rescue," he said, as he buttoned the shirt. "I am the luckiest of Muggles. What
have you done with my kidnappers?"
"We have them disarmed and contained upstairs."

Amarov stepped forward to shake Richards' hand. "Thank you for the rescue, Agent Richards. I'm
not sure why you came to my aid, but I'm very grateful nonetheless."
"We're not in the altruism business, I'm afraid," Richards told him. "I'm assisting an international
scientific team in devising a cure to the Infection. I'm told you may have an item we need. Saying
we're on a tight deadline is putting it mildly."
There was less warmth in Amarov's voice now. "I see. And you've come to free me in exchange for
this…item? What is it?"
"It's called the Kunlun Mystical Mountain Peach," Richards informed, impressively managing to
say this with a straight face. "Our resident Magibotanist tells me it probably resembles a root or
dried herb. The Peach is known for its longevity-affording properties, once properly processed."
"Do you know how to process it?"
"Do you have it?" Richards countered, and there was more demand, less asking.
Something was off. Hermione couldn't put her finger on it. Amarov seemed almost too serene for a
person who'd been recently kidnapped and possibly tortured. She glanced at Richards, noting that
he wore an almost imperceptible frown. He too, seemed ill at ease in the face of Amarov's
unusually calm demeanour.
"I believe I have what you need," Amarov said.
"Great. Then we can discuss it once you're off this boat. I'm assuming you'd prefer it if we returned
you to your fleet rather than coming back with us to London first?"
"Yes." Amarov smiled. "I'd prefer that. If you'll find me a radio, I'll contact my people. They're
close by."
"Where's Neville and Wallen?" Hermione asked, only just noticing their absence.
The crane on the deck had collapsed, assisted by years of neglect and the additional traffic moving
aboard the trawler. Unfortunately, it had fallen over Wallen and Neville as they walked across the
bow to retrieve the conch. The lycanthrope managed to jump well clear, but Neville had been
caught beneath the heavy wreckage and suspected that his leg was broken.
"In three places, from the looks of it," Padma said. She gave Neville a sympathetic look. "I'll give
you something for the pain, love, but you'll have to go back to Grimmauld Place to have it properly
set. Aisha Malik can do it."
"Damn," said Neville, his face white and drawn with pain. He was also very put out. "Bugger this!
I came along so I could be on hand to transport the Peach!"
"Better that you're in good shape to receive it when we bring it back, eh?" Mercer offered.
Neville grudgingly agreed. He asked Mercer to fetch him a broom, but Padma stepped in. "If it's
not a dire emergency, I'd advise against Neville Disapparating anywhere while he's injured and
sedated. And he certainly can't fly on his own. If he passes out on the way, he'll crash. It's pitch
dark and it's not exactly a short walk back to London even if he could walk at all."
Amarov and Wallen joined the team on the deck, having accessed the trawler's bridge radio.
"Was he able to reach his people?" Richards asked.
Wallen nodded. "They're sending a cruiser now."
Richards addressed Amarov. "One of our team members is injured. Do you have any medical
facilities on your fleet?"
"We have a dispensary, but nothing equipped to handle something like this," Amarov replied.
He was lying. Hermione would bet her life on it.
There was no way a man as well resourced as Alexander Amarov would set out to sea without
making sure he had everything he needed to wait out the Infection—and that included a clinic, at
the very least. She had no doubt Richards had come to the same conclusion as well.
As if sensing her train of thought, Richards sent her a subtle warning look—leave it.
"I'll take Neville back," Harry volunteered.
Richards appeared to consider this, eventually grunting his agreement. "Alright. Potter, do that.
We'll regroup in London after we've acquired the Peach. Unless you have any objections?" This
pointed question was directed at Amarov.
"None at all."
Once Padma had applied an analgesic charm to Neville's leg, Mercer and Richards gently lifted
him and placed him astride Harry's broom. "Sorry about this," Neville told them. "I wish I had
Wallen's reflexes."
"Don't sweat it, kid," Richards said, clapping him on the shoulder. Neville winced. "You did a
good. All of you did real good."
Harry gave the team a jaunty salute, though his eyes were on Hermione as he mounted the broom
in front of Neville. "See you in a bit."
She nodded at him. "Safe ride, you two."

Occupational Hazards: Part 2
Chapter Summary
Project Christmas' loss becomes Amarov's gain. Draco and Hermione are reunited
under decidedly tragic and bloody circumstances.
"So what do we do with them?" Hermione asked, indicating the Petrified kidnappers.
They were lined up on the deck in various contorted expressions of panic, defence and fleeing. It
was like looking at a wax horror museum display. Most of them had been armed, judging from
their rigid, empty grasps. All their weapons had gone the same way as the buck knife.
"We do nothing," Richards said. "We're not law enforcement. Once we're off the boat, we remove
Petrificus and they can go on their merry, criminal way."
Amarov was not pleased. "I have to protest, Agent Richards. That's hardly justice, is it?"
"And yet that's exactly how it's going down," Richards told him, with narrowed eyes. "This is our
operation, not yours. Now, if you'll excuse me, Wallen, Mercer and I are going to see if there's
anything on this boat we can salvage." He shot Hermione a meaningful look before disappearing
below deck with the two scientists. Padma and Hermione were left to mind Amarov.
Hermione watched as a disgruntled Amarov sat down on top of a pile of coiled rope. "Not much of
a people person is he?"
He was barefoot, she noted. And it was very cold. She walked across to one of the kidnappers,
spent a minute hazarding shoe size before divesting one of the Petrified men of his footwear.
"He's trying to save what's left of people in general," Hermione replied, as she handed Amarov the
shoes. "Here, try these on."
Amarov took the shoes. "Thank you." His gaze moved from Hermione to Padma. "She's obviously
the doctor. Wallen told me he and the Australian are scientists. Richards is military. What are you,
then, Miss Granger?"
"I'm whatever I'm required to be."
"I see," he said, and his stare was just a little too assessing, a little too lingering. Merlin help her, it
reminded Hermione of Malfoy.
She didn't like Amarov, but apart from what seemed to be an over-abundance of charisma and
chronic insincerity, she couldn't pin-point what else it was about him that made her so wary.
Perhaps it was just his particular 'breed' of businessman. She didn't have any difficulty picturing a
sleek-suited Amarov in the boardroom. Or a younger version of him, deftly persuading nervous
investors to part with their money.
"You know, I have someone like you in my employ, a Jill of all trades. She's a mixed-blood. Very
handy to have around. Are you of mixed-blood as well?"
It wasn't technically offensive to ask such a question, especially from a curious Muggle, but it was
definitely impertinent. A quick glance at Padma's expression revealed she was less than impressed
with Amarov's manners.
"No, Mr Amarov, I'm Muggleborn."
"Ah, I have some of those, too."
"Come again?" Hermione asked, with a frown.
However, any intended reply from Amarov was waylaid by the sudden illumination of the deck.
There was the sound of another engine—not the sputtering tenor of the trawler, but a smooth,
baritone hum. An enormous white cruiser came into view. The homely trawler was utterly dwarfed
by the tall, vast and immensely bright boat. Hermione quickly informed Richards of the arrival of
Amarov's people. The Russian billionaire stood, flanked by both Padma and Hermione, as a
gangplank was thrown down.
Six men boarded the trawler—one of whom was enormous. He alone returned Hermione's wary
gaze and it was the look of dread on his face wthat crystallised the nebulous worry which had been
collecting in the pit of her stomach. All six men carried automatic machine guns.
The team's broomsticks lay in Mercer's holster, which lay on the other side of the boat.
Shite. Plan B, then.
"Richards, we need to leave!" Hermione hissed over the comm. "Right now! Forget the brooms!"
Padma—wonderful, stoic, brilliant Padma—did not even pause to question Hermione's judgement.
She reached for her wand. Hermione's wand was already in her hand, the spell poised on her lips,
but she would not leave without Padma.
It was unexpected that it would be Amarov who acted first. He didn't seem the type to get his
hands dirty if it was something he could pay someone else to do. Perhaps he did it because he was
closest and more in tune with the situation on the trawler? Either way, he grabbed Padma's wrist
before she could wrap her hand around her wand, plucked the wand from its holster at her hip and
threw it overboard.
Padma's despair at the loss of her original wand was nearly tangible. These days, it was rare that
you still had in your possession the wand that Ollivander personally selected for you. Hermione
and Harry certainly did not.
One of the men spoke to Amarov in Russian. Amarov replied and then laughed. He took a gun
from the man and held the muzzle against Padma's neck, completely unperturbed by the fact that
Hermione had her wand aimed at him.
"Not even a single-syllable spell in your arsenal is faster than a bullet," Amarov said to her. "But
you're welcome to try."
Three of Amarov's men disappeared below deck.
"Richards, you have company!" Hermione warned.
Clipped orders from Amarov resulted in one of the men seizing Hermione from behind and ripping
off her vest, helmet and ear piece. Her long hair escaped from its knot, falling down her back. The
man holding her immediately wrapped his forearm around her hair and pulled hard enough to cause
her eyes to water. One hand closed around her wrist, still holding her wand.
A random jinx, unfocussed and unintended, escaped her wand, firing a smoky hole into the deck.
Her wrist was squeezed hard enough to shift bones. She cried out in pain as her wand was removed
from her grasp and tossed overboard.
"Let us go!" she pleaded, "We don't want any trouble!"
"Oh, this is no trouble at all, Miss Granger. I assure you. I've been kidnapped before. This occasion
has been the longest and most painful, but I would have been released eventually." He shifted his
hold on Padma so he could lift his shirt to show them the metal panel in his chest. "Like I said
before, my insurance policy." He didn't elaborate. Instead, he took Hermione's ear-piece from the
guard who held it and spoke to Richards.
"Agent Richards, I know you can hear me. I urge you to surrender your wands and yourselves to
my men. Do it or there won't be anything left to find of your two charming colleagues."
Don't do it, Hermione thought.
There was no reason why the other three members of the team couldn't just Disapparate
immediately. Mercer and Wallen were too valuable to Project Christmas to risk losing. Surely
Richards would take them home at the first hint of trouble? Richards wasn't like her and Harry,
after all. Not soft, not easily swayed. Hermione reassured herself with the knowledge that the
Cowboy always kept the bigger picture in mind.
But perhaps not always…
Unhappily, she watched Richards and Wallen being led to the deck. Richards looked
preternaturally calm. He had his arms up in the air, his wand, vest and helmet was gone. Mercer
was limping behind them, sporting a bloody nose. His eyes immediately searched and then found
Padma, in Amarov's grasp.
"You fucking bastard," Mercer swore.
"I cannot begin to describe how much of a bad decision this is, Amarov," Richards said, in an
entirely matter of fact manner. "We're not here for profit or personal gain. If we don't deliver this
cure, London is going to be wiped off the map by certain trigger happy Muggles in Washington.
There's a countdown in progress."
"Not my problem, Agent Richards," Amarov replied, just as calmly. He appeared to be idly
caressing the side of Padma's face with the muzzle of his gun. "And unlike you, I am in this for
profit and personal gain. These are exciting times. Fraught with hazards, yes, but nothing like a
little mayhem to get the blood going, don't you think?"
One of the other men rolled his eyes and said something in response, to which Amarov chuckled.
"Ivan doesn't feel quite the same as me, unfortunately. My people have been worried about my
well-being, seeing as it is so critically linked to the survival of the fleet itself. Use a little
imagination, Agent Richards. Though I understand that might prove taxing for a military man such
as yourself. The Infection doesn't have to be all doom and gloom. Think of the possibilities."
"You're mad!" Padma hissed.
"No, my dear. I'm a businessman," Amarov said, his lips at her temple.
"What is it you want?" Richards asked, drawing Amarov's attention back to him.
"Right now? I want your witches."
That clearly surprised Richards. "You can't have them, you sick son of a bitch."
Amarov shrugged. And then he raised his arm and shot Richards twice in the chest.
The shock was profound.
Hermione was no stranger to gun fire at close range, but this seemed louder. She felt those shots—
two big, punctuated blasts that reverberated through her nerve-endings.
Richards staggered backwards. Mercer reached for him, but ended up grabbing empty space. The
Cowboy went over the low railing of the deck. There was a splash. The guard closest to Mercer
hurried to look over the side of the boat. He shouted to the others in Russian as he ran up to the
bow, still watching the water below. From the resulting commotion, it appeared that there was no
sign of Richards.
Two other guards grabbed Mercer, who didn't take kindly to being restrained. He kicked one of
them between the legs. The guard folded, his face turning purple. His colleague used the butt of a
pistol to strike Mercer in the side of the head. Down he went, blood tricking from a cut at his
temple.
Wallen exploded. He wasn't their soft-spoken, shy, microbiologist any more. The man named Ivan
attempted to hold him, not anticipating what was to come. Hermione was well aware of the
supernatural strength of lycanthropes. She had seen it up close and personal. It was still two weeks
to the next full-moon, but this in no way diminished Wallen's abilities. He reached for the hand
that grabbed him. His other hand took hold of Ivan's elbow, twisted it and pulled.
It was possible to hear the sound of snapping tendons and breaking bone. The man's arm came off
as easily as a leaf plucked from a tree stem. Blood spurted in sharp pulses, pouring out onto the
deck. Ivan hadn't so much as whimpered through any of this. His eyes bulged as he took in the
ragged stump of his shoulder. He looked to his comrades, his mouth open and closing like an
oxygen-starved fish. Besdie him, Wallen was still holding the severed arm, a fact which seemed to
render the maimed Ivan all the more incredulous.
The largest of the guards, the one with the anxious eyes, was the only one with the presence of
mind to approach Ivan. He used his large hand to clamp over the wound, stifling the blood flow
and then shouted a question to Amarov.
But Amarov was wholly occupied dealing with Wallen. So occupied, in fact, that he released
Padma.
The first bullet caught the lycanthrope in the shoulder. The second and third, in the legs. Padma ran
towards Mercer. One of the other men panicked and began to fire at Padma, at Mercer, at Wallen,
at anything that approached.
Hermione could feel the nervous tension in the man who held her. She took advantage of his lapse
in concentration by slipping her hand into one of her pockets and removing her pepper spray. The
spray hit him full in the face. Her own eyes streaming, she broke free.
It looked like Wallen was about to collapse. He was bloodied and panting. Hermione originally
intended to go to him first, but the trajectory of the gun fire soon nixed that idea. Instead, she threw
herself into Padma and Mercer, knocking them to the ground just as a hail of bullets seemed to fly
right over their heads. Several of the Petrified kidnappers were struck. One fell over, resembling a
toppled, macabre mannequin. Blood from his wounds slowly seeping out onto the deck.
Someone shouted and then the gunfire stopped. Hermione lay on top of Padma. Wallen was alive,
but just barely. Amarov was now staring at Wallen with what could only be described as stunned
glee. It was probably the first genuine emotion he'd sported since they'd rescued him. Not far from
Hermione, one of the guards was dead, a victim of friendly fire.
His weapon lay in between Amarov and Mercer.
Both men took note of this. Amarov wasted no time in aiming his gun at Mercer and pulling the
trigger.
Click.
The chamber was empty.
"Alec!" Hermione screamed. "Get the gun!"
The two men lunged for the weapon, but Mercer was quicker and nearer. He skidded to a halt in
front of the gun and snatched it up before Amarov could reach it.
"I'm going to fucking kill you!" Mercer seethed. But the shots that were fired—three of them, in
quick succession—were not from Mercer's gun.
The gun fell to the ground, followed by Mercer. Amarov quickly kicked it away. Padma's scream
was loud in the new silence. She scrambled out from under Hermione and ran to Mercer, nearly
slipping on the bloodstained deck.
The large guard who had shot Mercer lowered his weapon. Unlike his colleagues, he looked far
from pleased at having to use it. An immensely relieved-looking Amarov held his arm out to the
guard, who promptly handed over the weapon.
"Thank you, Anatoli. I owe you," Amarov said, a tad breathless.
"Alec!" Padma gasped. "Oh Alec, what have you done?"
"I didn't bloody do it," Mercer protested weakly. His hands were clutching at his chest. "That
guy shot me."
"Let me see…" Padma peeled his hands away.
"Shit," said Mercer. His breathing was short and shallow, no more than gasps. "So much for
gelato."
Blinking through her tears, Padma pulled off Mercer's gloves and held his hands. She looked at
Hermione, biting her lip, and then turned to address Amarov. "Mr Amarov, I'm a doctor! I can save
him! I can help you and your people. You said you lacked medical expertise in your fleet! Alec is
one of the finest neurobiochemists in the world. You can use him. He's even more valuable than I
am. Please..."
"No, pretty witch," Amarov said to her, and he actually sounded regretful. "He's really not. Not to
me. I have my own experts. Now, do move away."
Padma's eyes widened. She shook her head and then protectively clambered over Mercer.
"Move away," Amarov ordered. He put his foot on her shoulder and pushed, but Padma held on.
Mercer coughed up blood. He was stark white now. "Patil," he wheezed, "do as he fucking says."
Hermione wracked her brain. There was nothing… Merlin, she couldn't think of anything. No
timely flash of inspiration. No handy distractions. No harrowing last minute heroics by Harry. A
fog of despair descended over her, or perhaps just a normal fog. The lights got dimmer and the
night got darker. She was shaking. Mercer was going to die. No. Nonononono. Hermione hated
that she knew this with such certainty.
But Padma's fate was not so certain.
She held out a hand to her friend, swallowing back the tears. "Padma, come here..."
"No."
"Listen to her," Amarov said. "Let me put the wizard out of his misery."
"He's not a wizard!" Padma spat. "He shouldn't even be here! He's a Muggle, just like you!"
Amarov's gaze hardened. For a moment, he looked almost manic. "He is not just like me! There is
no one just like me! Do you understand? Now, get out of my way, witch." With this very real
anger, came a loss of control. The refined accent wavered. In that moment, he was indeed a lunatic.
Mercer's voice was whisper thin now. His eyes were at half-mast as his hands batted at Padma's.
"Go to Hermione. Stay together."
And still Padma refused. Unexpectedly, Anatoli intervened. With blood-soaked hands from where
he had been tending to Ivan's wound, he plucked Padma off Mercer. She turned feral, twisting and
kicking, but he easily held her.
"As always, Anatoli, I appreciate your timing," Amarov muttered. He then aimed the gun at
Mercer's head. "No hard feelings, Doctor. I honestly have nothing against Muggles."
With great effort, Mercer raised a trembling hand, the back of his palm facing Amarov. It took him
longer than a moment and clearly Amarov was indulging him, but eventually Mercer's fingers
curled, leaving only the middle finger extended.
"Touché," Amarov said, before he pulled the trigger.
They pushed the Petrified kidnappers into the sea. If anyone had ever wondered about the
buoyancy of the human body under the influence of Petrificus, here was the answer—you sank like
a rock.
Without knowing for certain the extent of Amarov's sadism and his obvious anger towards the
people who had captured him, it was simultaneously the worst and best possible way for the
kidnappers to die, Hermione decided.
The night had not gone well for any of them. Amarov had lost one man. Ivan was wounded,
perhaps mortally. Richards was gone, Mercer was dead and Wallen….
"What is he?" Amarov asked Hermione.
Felix Wallen was alive. Hermione wanted very much to keep him that way.
"He's a werewolf," Hermione replied, listlessly. She was still seated on the ground, back propped
up against the railing. And that, apparently, was the right answer, because Amarov ordered Anatoli
to bring both Ivan and Wallen to someone called 'Dr Prestin' for immediate treatment.
Padma was hauled to her feet by one of the men and was instructed to assist the aforementioned
Prestin. Hermione didn't know how that was going to work, considering Padma was in no shape to
do much of anything. Mercer's blood hadn't even dried yet on her clothing.
It wasn't until Hermione was ordered to stand, did the rest of them realise she'd been shot.
Amarov scowled as he lifted her. "Getting shot ought not to be an occupational hazard in your line
of work, Miss Granger," he told her, almost in a scold.
"You don't know my work," she hissed.
He stared down at her, bemused. Hermione stared back, wishing she had a wand so she could give
him a personal demonstration of her miraculous, newly developed mastery over Avada Kedavra.
And then they moved her. The searing pain was her undoing.
"She's in shock," someone said. A male voice, deep and mature. It reminded her of Richards.
Thinking of Richards now made her chest clench. "Why wasn't she taken to Prestin? She needs
urgent attention! We are scientists, not surgeons!"
"Professor Belikov," said another voice, just as troubled as the first. "Amarov brought her here
himself! Dr Prestin is operating on two others. Amarov says we are to save her—"
"Amarov says! Amarov says many things! And he says he wants this girl alive. I say that I will not
be responsible for hastening her death! I have not held a scalpel in forty years! Is there no one
else?"
"We are asking anyone who can help!"
A door opened and then shut, causing a mild draft. There were many voices this time—more than
Belikov and the other. She heard the snap of latex gloves and a moment later, she could smell the
gloves as a hand slid over her cheek and down her neck. She felt fingers at her pulse point.
The deep voice again—Professor Belikov. "When was the last time you performed surgery, young
man?"
"Not since medical school. And only on cadavers."
"Cadavers?"
"I should tell you that I never finished because I never actually attended. On the books, anyway.
But I have steady hands, Professor. Guide them."
"She's awake."
A hand slid into hers. She clung to it, knowing whom it belonged to even before she opened her
eyes.
Hermione really ought to have been surprised to see him. She ought to have been astounded and
perplexed and angry and suspicious. But as a tear escaped the corner of her eye, and as she felt the
warmth of his hand, evident even through latex gloves, Hermione was immensely relieved.
The relief was twofold. It stemmed from the fact he was alive and well, and because he was one of
the best problem-solvers she knew. She was a problem, shot and bleeding as she was, and he would
solve her. Draco Malfoy was looking at her with a mixture of anger, fear and such unexpected
tenderness that yet more useless tears came.
"Why can't you stay where I put you?" he whispered.
She felt cold. Oh no, not this again. She remembered Welwyn and was afraid of that memory.
The bottom half of her body felt like it'd been dipped into a vat of ice. Hermione opened her mouth
to say something, but Malfoy was now speaking to someone else in the room. No tenderness in his
expression or tone now, he was working. There was a jumble of different voices and noises; plastic
packets opening, the occasional metallic klink, and also the smell of antiseptic.
"—watch for hypovolemia. Monitor her blood pressure."
"It's upwards of 100bpm—"
"Move her further down."
"Gently! There we go—"
And Malfoy's voice swam in and out again, clipped, quick and all business.
"I've just contacted the games ship," Belikov informed. "They will send gelofusine. And voluven. I
am not sure which we shall need!"
"Why are you here?" she eventually managed to croak out.
Malfoy was looking at her, frowning. She felt his hands at her belly. She'd been shot in the
stomach, which was rather bad news. Ah, well.
"Amarov keeps me here now," he said.
"And Honoria? Where is she?"
"Honoria has been his creature all along."
You know, I have someone like you in my employ, a Jill of all trades. She's a mixed-blood. Very
handy to have around. Are you of mixed-blood as well?
"She stole you from us," Hermione surmised.
Amazingly, he smiled at her in the middle of whatever it was he was doing. It was a very warm
smile, but it was just as complex as the look he'd given her when she'd opened her eyes. Hermione
was impressed with his ability to multi-task emotions.
"Yes, Granger. Honoria stole me."
"You didn't want to go, though."
"No, I did not." He turned away and the smile disappeared. "Where the hell is the hemocue?"
Oh God. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Harry and Padma had been right. Honoria had forced
Malfoy to go and Hermione hadn't even wanted to consider that fact. She'd written Malfoy off,
abandoned him. If it had been Harry or Padma who'd been taken, she would have moved heaven
and earth to get them back, no matter how suspicious the circumstances. It had been different with
Draco. She'd been so scared…scared of what it would mean if he left with Honoria only to keep
them all safe. Draco Malfoy didn't do things like that. Draco Malfoy was the bully from school.
Son of Death Eater. A Death Eater. A killer and a criminal. He'd killed Ron. Yes, perhaps out of
necessity, but he wasn't a good person. He wasn't one of them and therefore the same rules of trust
and loyalty didn't need to be applied for him.
Right? Right?
Hermione wept. So much for her level-headedness and good judgement. He'd done right by them
even though he knew Scrimgeour's bargain had not been unbreakable, and she'd failed him in
return. And all because she was scared of her own sodding feelings.
"Draco, I'm sorry…"
Malfoy didn't hear her. Someone was telling him something that was making him angry. He spoke
in Russian this time. That's right—he'd told her during their Hogwarts jaunt that he was fluent. She
blinked up at him, wondering what else she didn't know, taking in random details that in that
moment, mesmerised her—the white shirt he wore with the sleeves rolled up and stained with
blood (she was forever bleeding all over him), the hair that was only just long enough to tuck
behind his ears, the particular expression he wore when he was focused on a task.
And then she felt his hands gently slide under her shoulders. "Granger, we need to move you to a
different table. It will help if you hold your breath when I shift you, alright? On the count of three.
Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"One, two—" he looked across the table to the other person that was helping him lift her "—three."
It wasn't going to hurt, she wanted to tell him. Because she felt nothing below her—
Hermione screamed. Suddenly, her entire lower half seemed to switch back on. The pain in her
abdomen was searing and moving up and down her torso in ripples. Heat replaced the cold. It
seemed that with the return of sensation came the pain of memory and purpose. Now was not the
time to go down the rabbit hole of self-pity. It was essential that Malfoy know exactly what
happened, because knowledge was currency. Just in case…just in case she couldn't tell him later.
She held on to the pain, held it down with a shudder and used it to keep the fog at bay.
"We tried to rescue. Amarov. It was executed flawlessly," she said, through gritted teeth. If she
sounded defensive, she was. The intel from the American Wizarding Senate had been sound. They
had been well equipped and Richards had prepared them. What happened was not Richards' fault.
"Apart from Neville having an accident and breaking his leg, it all went to plan. Harry's not here
because he took Neville home first. Thank Merlin or they might be dead right now. We didn't
know… Malfoy, we had no idea that Amarov would do this. Why? Why is he doing this?"
He didn't reply. He was cutting her clothing off now. She could hear the scissors and feel the cold
steel glide across her breastbone. And then she felt a wet, antiseptic swab. A trolley with a wonky
wheel was being pushed around.
"He killed Richards. And Mercer…"
Briefly, she saw Alec Mercer's smiling face, before it was replaced with the look he gave Padma
just before he died.
Hermione swallowed. "They took Wallen. And Padma. Malfoy, please say you'll find them?"
An older man came into view. White coat. Bald, bearded and with kind eyes. Belikov, she
presumed. She liked him already.
"We're ready for surgery."
But I'm not ready, she thought. Malfoy read her mind. He bent down to her, close enough that his
silver-grey eyes were all that filled her field of vision. His thumb danced across her cheekbone.
"Remember when you gave me your wand at Welwyn?"
He was clever to reassure her with that memory. Something experienced, tried and proven. He
wanted her to remember that she had trusted him that much once.
"Granger, answer me."
"Yes, I remember."
He nodded, and then his hands were a pale blur as they passed over her face and an oxygen mask
was pulled over her nose and mouth. Half a breath was all it took.
She bid farewell to the fear and chaos, and slept.

Awakenings
Chapter Summary
Hermione learns more about Amarov's fleet, its various horrors, and Draco's place
within it.
"Let us go. We don't want any trouble."
That was the last decipherable snippet of audio they heard from Hermione. And before that, had
been her desperate, final warning issued to Richards. Some kind of scuffle broke out, where it
sounded like Mercer had been injured. But it mustn't have been too badly because there was plenty
of cursing and trash-talking before Mercer's end of the communication system went dead. Someone
had taken his ear-piece.
And then there was radio silence from Richards, Wallen and Hermione.
If it wasn't for the communication system, Harry and Neville would have been none the wiser
about what was transpiring on the trawler. Both men were still wearing their ear-pieces when
Hermione's frantic voice literally stopped them in their tracks.
They hung in mid-air now, hovering over the water. Neville's broken leg stuck out at a forty-five
degree angle to the broom. And thank goodness for it, too. Had they been more streamlined and
aerodynamic, Harry would have made more considerable progress in their journey back to London.
The strong, head-on wind had additionally slowed them down.
"It's all static! I can't make it out," Neville was saying. Frowning, he tapped at his ear-piece.
"Shhh," Harry ordered, holding up a hand. He blinked, trying to make sense of the garbled noises
coming through the system. He even held his breath. Damn it, they were too far out. The voices
were soft; sentences came in bits and pieces.
"You're mad."
That registered loud and clear. It was Padma. So far she seemed to be the only one who still
retained her communication system. Amarov or whoever was perpetrating the attack on the team
had evidently forgotten to take it from her.
"Oh Alec, what have you done…."
Neville had progressed well past pale. He was grey now. He stared at Harry. "You need to go
back."
Harry was about to reply when they heard Padma again.
"He shouldn't even be here! He's a Muggle, just like you!"
Harry had never seen Neville so panicked, and arguably, he had some experience in dealing with an
extremely panicked Neville Longbottom.
"Harry, go! Just go!"
God damn it, he wanted to. He wanted to leave Neville on the broom and Apparate back to the
trawler. It would be easy. He could do it.
But no, he really couldn't.
"I can't leave you, you git! If you faint or fall, you're doing to freeze to death in this water!"
"They're being attacked!" Neville shouted at him. "Hermione, Padma and the others! You go to
them. I'll Apparate back to London and get help." And with that, Neville reached for his wand, but
Harry grabbed his wrist.
"Listen to me, Padma said you're in no state to fly. And if you can't fly, you certainly cannot
bloody Apparate! You'll splinch yourself. Or worse, you'll splinch the wards at the house and you'll
leave everyone in it open to attack from the Infected."
Neville's mouth open and closed, fish-like. "What...Merlin, what should we do?"
Padma's screaming came through the communication system. She was shouting Mercer's name.
And then abruptly there was nothing but static. They had now lost all communication with the
team on the trawler. Mere minutes had passed since the first sign of distress from Hermione, but
clearly, the unthinkable had just happened.
The wizards sat astride the broom, stricken for a moment.
"We're going back," said Harry, bringing the broom about. "We're both going back."
He received no argument from Neville, who gritted his teeth as he untied Padma's splint from his
broken leg. Harry watched, wincing when Neville bent his injured leg into the proper broom-riding
position, in line behind Harry. Neville then tied his ankle to the back of the broom, just above the
bristles. Now, they were streamlined.
"Ffffuck," hissed Neville, who was undoubtedly in all kinds of agony because he never swore. He
was shaking from head to toe and his hands now gripped Harry's back so tightly, it hurt. "Let's g…
go"
"Hang on, mate," said a sympathetic Harry.
Back in first year, Oliver Wood had once clocked a reckless young Harry flying so fast on his little
Nimbus 2000 that the twenty-year old School sprint-flight record was undone.
On this day, that record was once again left for dust.
Harry leapt from the broom before it came to a complete stop, wand in hand. His agility was
always impressive to Neville, but in that moment, it was Harry's fortitude for which Neville was
most thankful.
"Stay astride!" Harry called out as he inched around the side of the boat, making his way to the
bow. The water was choppy now and the boat lurched back and forth. "You'll have more
manoeuvrability on the broom!"
Neville was staring in horror at the bobbing bodies of two Petrified kidnappers. They were about
twenty or so meters from the boat, carried away by the current. Neville scanned the horizon. There
was no sign of a fleet, which meant that a smaller, faster vessel had likely been involved.
"Who do you think did this?" Neville called out to Harry. "Could it really be Amarov?"
There was no reply from Harry. Concerned, Neville lowered the broom, flying just above
waterline. He found Harry near the bow.
Harry was standing in blood. Most of it was already coagulating which meant that the soles of his
boots made gruesome imprints as he walked. A man's severed arm lay beside the collapsed crane.
It wasn't the neat severing of a machete strike. Rather, it looked like the arm had been twisted and
wrenched out of its socket. There was only one person on the Project Christmas team who was able
to do that. And it was dire news indeed if Felix Wallen had felt desperate enough to use the
strength he laboured so hard to suppress.
But none of these details were as gut-wrenching as the sight of Alec Mercer's body.
"Oh no…" Neville whispered.
Mercer's black shirt was darkly stained across his chest, but it was the gun-shot wound in the
center of his forehead that made Harry clench his shaking fists. The Australian scientist lay with
his hands folded across his stomach, his head was pillowed upon a rolled up piece of clothing.
Harry crouched down next to the body.
"Padma's jacket," Harry said, his voice flat. He didn't look at Neville when he spoke. "Wait here,
I'm going below to see if anyone else is still…here."
Neville could not speak. He swallowed and nodded, instead. Harry disappeared into the pilot house,
his boots making a sticky noise as he went. Neville turned the broom about and proceeded to fly
around the perimeter of the boat. He wanted very much to vomit but managed not to. It was no
consolation that close, personal contact with zombies had managed to strengthen his constitution
over the past few months. That was experience no one wanted and everyone could do without,
thank you very much.
He assumed they would need to check if any of their team had met the same fate as the kidnappers.
And he simply would not leave that task entirely up to Harry. So Neville flew up and over the
trawler, scanning the water. When he was satisfied there were no other bodies adrift, he began
counting the bodies that snagged in the rigging which trailed along and behind the trawler. It was
curious to feel regret when he saw the shocked, frozen faces of the drowned people, but there was
also relief at the same time, because he did not recognise any of them.
It was when he added 'Body Number Five' to his tally, did he find his voice.
"HARRY! HARRY!"
He didn't wait for Harry. Neville dove-broom, broken leg and all-into water that was so cold it felt
like a thousand icy needles were piercing his skin.
When Harry found him, Neville had already managed to untangle Agent Barnaby Richards from
the nets.
It was thirst that did it. For a while, she drifted in a neutral place where her senses occasionally
registered light or muffled sound. Eventually, however, her thirst forced her to awaken. Her tongue
felt as dry as cardboard. She sat up against mismatched pillows. One pillow was more of a cushion
—covered in floral jacquard with red piping. Wherever she was, it was clearly not meant to be the
medical treatment center of Amarov's fleet. There was nausea and dizziness, but it was not
overwhelming. It was almost a disappointment not to be afforded at least a few minutes of
disorientation, which would have given her time to acclimatize to…well, things.
So many things.
Hermione was cognisant of the fact she was on a ship in Amarov's fleet, and perhaps in some kind
of scientific laboratory, seeing as the site had not been fully prepared to treat patients. She was
wearing what she assumed was a white nightdress that seemed to consist mostly of frills and
flounces. It was huge, but it was clean and made of cotton. It would do. It was pointless to avoid
inspecting her wound—the gunshot was not going to go away for lack of pondering over it and
neither were the stitches, which she now examined after spending some time undoing the tiny
buttons of her nightgown. The stitches were neat and the light pink entry would was sealed and
healing well under sterile, sticky, latticed dressing. To her right was an IV stand. Antibiotics and
fluids, she supposed. Speaking of which…her monstrous thirst compelled her to scan the metal
trolley beside the bed. It contained gauze, tape and other medical supplies, but no water. For a
moment she fantasized puncturing a hole in the IV bag and sucking out its contents.
There was a screen separating her sickbed from the rest of the room. If there were people in the
laboratory, they were being very quiet. She contemplated calling out for assistance, but decided
that she felt well enough to go for a bit of a wander. There was also the fact that she had no idea if
the natives were friendly.
Experimentally, Hermione wiggled her feet under the blanket and then drew her knees up.
Everything worked fine. All systems were operational, except for the fact a bullet had recently
ripped a hole through her belly and people she cared about were dead. There was still some pain in
her stomach, being both sharp and dull at same time. If she concentrated hard enough, she could
locate a different sort of pain altogether—grief. It swirled and bubbled like molten rock,
somewhere deep inside her. It would not do to tap into that pain, for now. Painkillers were clearly
still at work, dulling more than just the hurt of her wound. She was thankful for that.
Hermione slowly brought her bare feet to the floor, thinking how odd and squashy they felt against
the laminate and after what she assumed were many days of being horizontal. After a few
fortifying breaths, she walked to the supplies trolley and used it for support. There were no suitable
weapons, not even a pair of scissors.
She picked up a packaged syringe from the trolley and lamented the fact that amongst all the frills
of her nightgown, there did not seem to be any pockets. An experimental wriggle confirmed that
she was indeed sans underwear within which she might stash a weapon. Hermione ripped open the
packet with her teeth and uncapped the syringe. It would accompany her as she explored her
surroundings. Despite the calming apathy induced by the medication she'd been given, she still felt
afraid. Anger surpassed her fear, however. There was a particular kind of anger that came with
helplessness. It was made of resentment, hate and a feeling of profound, acute, soul-burning
injustice.
She gripped the syringe tightly in her first and stepped around the screen.
It was indeed a laboratory and it was about five times the size of the one at Grimmauld Place.
There was enough fancy equipment to give Padma happy heart palpitations.
Padma. Where was Padma? She had to find out.
"Hello," Hermione called out, her voice was thin and raspy so no surprise that no one came
running out to meet her. No guards, no scientists. It seemed odd that she'd been left alone, but
when she thought about it, there really wasn't anywhere she could escape to, was there? She was on
a ship in the middle of a fleet that was ruled—likely with impunity—by Alexander Amarov.
There were two things that stuck out in the modern, white laboratory, but Hermione's attention was
temporarily captured by the large stainless steel fridge recessed in the wall to her immediate right.
Clutching her middle, she limped towards it and prayed that it was not used to house specimens and
perishable medical supplies.
She opened it and wanted to weep when she saw the microwaveable meals, plastic wrapped food of
every description, fresh fruit individually encased in stretchy foam and unopened, boxed slabs of
bottled water. Without further ado, she took out a bottle, opened it (grunting in pain when she
realised that abdominal muscles were somehow involved in this process) and drained half its
contents in four Olympic-sized gulps. The water was cold, sweet against her chalky tongue and the
best thing she'd tasted in her life. When she had had her fill, she screwed the cap back on and then
pressed the cold bottle against her forehead.
Her gaze settled over the stack of folders she recognised as the ones Honoria had taken from
Grimmauld Place. Dog eared, faded, mustard yellow folders that stood out amidst their modern,
white and steel surroundings. Ah, so this was a rival team, intent on beating Project Christmas to a
cure. Hermione wanted to laugh. If only they'd asked, Scrimgeour would have shared the
information. It wasn't a bloody competition. The whole concept was insane. Who would think to
profit from the solution to the Infection?
Amarov. He was…
He was the key to getting the cure to the public in time for the Wizarding Senate's Christmas
nuclear deadline. Project Christmas had already lost too many of its key players. Amarov was
capable of seeing the cure become a reality. He had a team. He had Malfoy, Padma and Merlin
only knew how many others captive in his floating social experiment. Hermione didn't realise she
was crying until one of her tears landed on her bare, right foot. She wanted to kill Alexander
Amarov. It was a rare feeling for her. Not since Voldemort had she harboured such acute hatred.
The second thing that stood out in the laboratory was something else that had been stolen from
Project Christmas, more or less. Hermione instantly recognised Seamus Finnegan's Azkaban
maximum security cell design. And she knew that only one other person was intimately familiar
enough with its construction, to recreate it.
Malfoy had clearly assisted in creating the cell in the western corner of the laboratory. The
construction was bespoke, judging from the mismatched metal girders that lined the corners of the
cube and the welded, steel-enforced glass panels.
Safety glass, surely. Because what lay inside the cell was not there by choice.
It moved. And the irony of that smooth motion was not lost on Hermione, who could only walk in
a slow shuffle.
The zombie in the cell was not ordinary and quite unlike most of the ones Project Christmas had
previous encountered. It was sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing away from Hermione,
hunched over, focused on…something.
Hermione placed her palm against the glass and leaned in closer to look.
The thing—the girl (no more than five or six)—turned its head very slowly. It stared at Hermione,
blinked and then crawled quickly towards her. The item the zombie had been holding dropped to
the floor. It was a raw marrow bone, liberally covered with tiny gnaw marks. There was a split on
one end of the bone and the stale marrow, looking like yellow cottage cheese flecked with bits of
dark red, had begun to spill out.
Crouching would have proved too much of a challenge and so Hermione simply sat. The zombie
child watched her and then carefully mimicked her actions. A minute later, they were seated on the
ground, watching each other, separated by several inches of glass.
The creature was in excellent condition, apart from the fact that clumps of its wheat-blonde hair
had fallen out and suppurating sores had developed at the corners of its mouth. Milky blue eyes
watched her with curiosity. There was a doll in the cell. It was probably the most horrifying aspect
of the setup. Hermione wondered if the toy had belonged to the girl before she'd been Infected, or
if one of the scientists had given it to her. Either way, it lay on the floor, ignored. The bone was the
prized possession.
"Her name is Eloise Withinshaw," said a male voice. "But Malfoy calls her 'Bitey'. She goes
mental if she doesn't have something in there to chew on..."
Hermione spun around to face the voice, utterly stunned to find that it belonged to Blaise Zabini.
She recognised her old Hogwarts classmate immediately. Being rather genetically blessed, he
hadn't aged very much since she'd last seem him, during those final bedlamic months at Hogwarts.
Here, he was dressed in baggy slacks and a long-sleeved maroon and grey checked shirt. It was
Zabini at his most unkempt. Beside him was a man Hermione recognised as the enormous guard
who had boarded the trawler with the rest of Amarov's men. This was the same man who had shot
Mercer in the chest to save Amarov's life. Hermione was instantly wary and began backing away
along the floor, holding the uncapped syringe aloft.
Zabini dropped to his haunches, holding up his palm in a placating gesture. "It's alright, Granger.
Anatoli is…he has an understanding with Desmond, Malfoy and I."
"Does that understanding extend to murdering innocent scientists?"
Anatoli scowled at her. "You put gun in his hand. He carry gun. He shoot." The guard shrugged. "I
shoot back."
Hermione turned away, not wanting either of the men to see how upset she was. Anatoli was
correct. And Padma had been right all along—it'd been folly to bring Mercer on a combat mission.
They had indeed put a gun in his hand. If blame was a cake, Hermione knew that she, Harry,
Richards and Scrimgeour deserved several slices. When she had composed herself, she addressed
her next question to Zabini.
"How long have I been out of commission?"
"You've been in and out of consciousness for two weeks. Give me the needle. In your state, you're
going to fall over and stab yourself."
Grudgingly, she handed over the makeshift weapon. Zabini immediately tossed it to Anatoli.
"Are you being held here as well?" She was aware that 'Bitey' was crawling along the floor inside
the cell, following Hermione, almost frame for frame. The zombie child bared her teeth in a little
snarl, before attempted to bite at the walls of the cell. Its teeth made painful clattering, scratching
noises against the glass. Zabini and Anatoli must have been used to this spectacle, because they
hardly spared it a second glance.
"I am. As is my son," Blaise replied. "There are about a thousand other wizarding captives."
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. She allowed Zabini to help her up to her feet. He
motioned quickly to Anatoli, who brought a wheelchair from a corner of the room. On shaking
legs, Hermione gratefully climbed into it.
"Are you alright? It would be no trouble to fetch someone."
"I'm fine, thank you. I'm just a bit more unsteady then I thought I'd be."
"It was silly of you to leave your bed without calling for help. Anatoli would have heard you. It's
his shift at the moment to watch over the labs. I was just dropping by to seek some Muggle
pharmaceutical assistance for my insomnia."
Hermione pushed her hair out of her eyes. She was still processing what Zabini had told her. "Are
you really saying that Alexander Amarov is responsible for abducting that many magical people
and holding them here against their will?"
Zabini smiled a very cold smile. "He has help, but ultimately yes, he's responsible."
"What in Merlin's name does he want with so many of us?"
"For amusement, for labour, for experimentation." And with that, Zabini pointed to Bitey. "Eloise
fell ill with a normal Muggle infection. She was considered too sick to be saved, so Amarov had her
deliberately Infected in order that we would have something in this cell to study."
Hermione stared at the zombie, at what used to be a wizarding child, somebody's baby. "My God."
Zabini snorted. "That's what Amarov aspires to be, no doubt. Here, he has the final say on who
lives and dies."
"Where is Padma? And Felix Wallen, our colleague?"
"Fortunately for Patil, medical doctors are like gold around here. Amarov's got her doing rounds,
treating the Muggles in the fleet. Your lycanthrope friend recovered a week ago. He's being kept in
isolation, in the hold."
"What will happen to him?"
Zabini hesitated for a moment. He looked at Anatoli, who shrugged. Hermione had no idea what
that meant.
"There are...entertainments," Zabini explained, his voice losing some of its earlier aloofness
"About every week or so, they pit wizarding citizens against zombies. I imagine adding a werewolf
into the mix would be quite something."
Hermione blinked. "These are war crimes," she whispered. "Surely someone has said this to
Amarov?"
Zabini sighed. "Thank goodness that you're here, then, Granger. You'll be able to explain to him
the error of his ways. Admittedly, Amarov's been very complacent of late. The only reason he even
managed to get himself abducted recently was because he was lax with his security."
There was so much of Malfoy in the way he spoke. Slytherins, Hermione thought. They were all
the same snooty peas in a pod.
"Are you a scientist as well?" Hermione asked. She didn't mean to sound so incredulous.
"Goodness, no. Amarov tolerates me because I assist the fleet by procuring supplies. And I only
have this position thanks to Draco's quick reflexes and even quicker thinking. Speaking of which,
would you like to see him?"
"Malfoy?"
Zabini blinked. "Yes, Malfoy. Unless you'd like Anatoli to wheel you directly to Amarov's quarters
instead, so you can personally tell our deranged Messiah that you're all better?"
"Sod off, Zabini," Hermione muttered. It was amazing. They were seventeen years old again.
His smile defrosted a little bit. "Come on, let's go wake the dragon."
There was luxurious and then there was the ship Amarov lived on. Actually, maybe luxurious
wasn't an apt description. Anatoli pushed Hermione in the wheelchair along carpet so thick that the
wheels of the chair made tiny, temporary trenches as they rolled along.
Opulent was a better word. Also, gaudy. Anything that could be gilded, was gilt-covered. If a piece
of fabric was study enough to take a tassel trim, it was tasselled, and then some. Hermione tipped
her head back, looking past Anatoli's surly expression to stare at the ceiling because maybe, ah yes,
there it was—a painted ceiling featuring half-naked Ruben-esque women resignedly swatting away
swarms of cherubs.
Zabini must have sensed her train of thought. "This is the ship that good taste abandoned."
"Not to mention sanity, morals and ethics…" she felt compelled to add.
He shrugged. "Those things, I can take or leave."
They entered an elevator and Zabini hit the number '2' button. Apparently the labs were housed in
the bowels of the ship. Up they went, and quickly too. Hermione felt her insides unpleasantly lurch
just before the lift came to a halt. The painkillers were a blessing.
Malfoy's room wasn't very far from the elevator. They went down one dark corridor, turned a
corner and there they stood before two enormous, carved wooden double-doors. Hermione
mentally replaced the word 'room' with 'quarters'. Suddenly, the idea of Desmond the butler didn't
seem so ridiculous anymore.
Zabini bent down to speak to her. "Like everyone on the fleet with an actual job to do, he's
overworked. But because he's Draco, he's especially overworked. We breathe sighs of relief when
he does manage to get some sleep, so let's keep all this down to a dull roar, yes?" Blaise Zabini's
bedside manner was almost as bad as Malfoy's.
"I'll try to restrain myself," was Hermione's deadpan reply.
That at least earned her a slight tilt at the corner of Zabini's mouth. He opened the doors and bid
Anatoli goodnight. "Come back just before six," Zabini said. "That should give us enough time to
get her back to the lab."
The guard gave Hermione one last glare, and then lumbered away into the darkness of the corridor.
"He doesn't like me."

"It's not you, it's what we're doing. You seem to be Amarov's latest distraction du jour. Right now,
we're effectively playing with Amarov's favourite toy, without asking."
Malfoy's room was mostly dark; the only light came from a single lamp on a table beside the bed.
She was surprised to note that Zabini and his son were sharing a room with Malfoy, though you
could likely sleep an entire Quidditch team in the quarters, if necessary.
A tiny person occupied the long lounge, hidden under a mountain of blankets. All Hermione could
see was the top of his dark head. Her attitude towards Zabini immediately softened. Beside the
lounge was a foam mattress on the floor, bearing several pillows and a large quilt. It was
haphazard, but looked quite comfortable.
"Home sweet home," Zabini said. He was halfway across the room to his sleeping son, when
Malfoy spoke.
"What the hell is she doing out of bed?"
It was amazing how simply hearing his voice still managed to startle her on some level. It was
alien to her and ironically also so familiar—a voice she'd heard every day for seven years; refined,
precise, always slightly condescending.
"She left her bed of her own accord," Zabini replied. "Anatoli and I found her having a bit of a
moment with little Eloise."
Hermione heartily wished they would start referring to her by her name. She was right there, after
all.
Malfoy rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes. "I've told you not to call her that."
"You also said not to call her a 'her'."
"Don't call it Eloise. That thing we're keeping in the lab is not human."
"Neither are you after four days of double shifts," Zabini said, icily.
"He used to do the same thing at Grimmauld Place," Hermione muttered.
Both men looked at her, as if surprised to find her still there.
"Anyway, I thought you two might like to catch up, given…recent events," Blaise gently scooped
up his sleeping son, blanket and all. He did this in a single motion, careful not to jar the boy. The
child remained fast asleep, his cheek now pillowed against his father's shoulder.
"What's his name?" Hermione asked.
"Henry Miles Greengrass Zabini," Malfoy answered, and there must have been some private joke
between the two men, because Zabini actually managed a brief smile of authentic amusement.
"Thank you, Zabini."
"Don't mention it," Zabini said, "but be ready to receive Anatoli at six. He'll take her back to the
labs before the next lot of grunts start their shift."
Malfoy glanced at the digital clock on the bedside. "Three hours. Plenty of time."
At this, Zabini looked slightly troubled. He glanced at Hermione and then back at Malfoy, his hand
still protectively placed against his sleeping son's back. "Malfoy, it behooves me to remind you that
she's in no state to do anything but chat and sleep."
Hermione wondered if she should be relieved that she seemed to have enough blood left in her to
manage a raging blush.
"Fortuitously for Miss Granger, I am in a similar state," said Malfoy, "but I thank you for
reminding me of my unchivalrous tendencies."
"Where will you take him?" Hermione asked Zabini, inclining her head to his sleeping son.
"There's a lounge and a fold-up bed in Belikov's office. The guards use it occasionally. We'll put
down there for the night. I'll see you two in the morning. Well, later in the morning."
Zabini and little Henry left, the doors closing behind them with a soft swoosh against the carpet.
Hermione remained seated in the wheelchair, beside the bed, uncertain how to proceed and unsure
what to say. For a moment, it seemed that Malfoy was much the same. But he eventually resolved
their dilemma by simply lifting up the covers and holding them open for her. There was no need
for preamble.
It was an expansive bed. She crawled across to him; barefoot, in her frilly nightgown, with crazy
cat-lady hair and smelling like three kinds of antiseptic. Malfoy has apparently fallen into bed
earlier than evening still wearing blue jeans and a plain, white t-shirt. He was a furnace. Hermione
wondered how she hadn't realised she'd been freezing earlier. The pleasure of that heat, even if it
came with only an illusion of safety and security, was intensely heady. She shuddered, fitting into
him as if their assorted shapes and angles were designed just so. There was a minor issue. His belt
buckle was digging into her lower back. She shifted once, and then again. On the third move, he
grunted, slapped a quelling hand on her hip and sat up. Malfoy undid the buckle with one hand, and
then pulled the belt free, tossing it to the floor. It landed on the carpet with a dull klink.
Neither of them was very relaxed after this, however. Not in body or mind. She felt it in the taut
weight of his arm around her, which ought to have been heavier than it was, and heard it in the way
his breathing was shallow and measured. It was reassuring to know that the tension was mutual.
"I'm going to find us a way out of this," she announced.
There was silence. And then, "Continue."
"Amarov has some kind of interest in me. Morbid, most likely, but I wasn't left for dead and he
seems intent on making me well again."
"To what end, one wonders?" Malfoy wondered, although the question sounded mostly rhetorical.
"Nefarious ends, I think it's safe to say." There was no point beating around the bush.
"And how do you plan to get one up over him, Kiska?"
That endearment, not heard since their relatively happier time together with the team at Grimmauld
Place, brought a small lump to her throat. She recalled the advice Richards had told her many
weeks ago, about capitalizing on Malfoy's interest in her. About using it. She had balked at the
suggestion then, but now contemplated if the same move could be played against Amarov. Would
it even work? If it could help their situation in even the smallest way…
"If I play my cards right, he may allow me access to people and places in this fleet that others
cannot readily get to. Blaise says there are about a thousand of us. That's a small army. We have
options, but they've always been too risky. Anything we can do to increase those options must be
attempted."
His arm grew slightly heavier around her and his hand had commenced stroking circles into the
small of her back. "And if he decides to keep you in a cage for his own personal and private
amusement?"
Hermione had considered this of course. She was not one to put herself in danger lightly. The
payoff had to outweigh the risks. Otherwise she might as well be Harry.
"In Amarov's mind, the fleet is the cage. He's complacent. He thinks he's untouchable, but the mere
fact he was kidnapped is proof that he's as vulnerable as he allows himself to be. Blaise also
mentioned that Amarov was only taken by those mercenaries because he got careless."
"He will never trust you."
"He doesn't have to. He just has to believe I'm no threat."
"You are many things, Granger. Meek and compliant are not among them."
She tilted her face toward him. Given that the lamp light was directly behind him, only the outline
of his face was visible. "You know well enough how it goes—we become what we need to be."
"And never what we want to be."
"Desperate times," she whispered. It was all kinds of inappropriate to feel like she felt right then.
Not when so many people depended on them for the cure. Not when her friends were dead, Padma
and Wallen held captive for Merlin only knew what. There were in the midst of such terrible
danger, and yet…
It had to be the drugs—allowing certain baser instincts to surge to the fore when she was less able
to assign them a much, much lower priority. Compartmentalising was difficult at the moment. She
looked at the shadowed, dark curves of his mouth. She wanted to taste this exhausted, complicated
man. More than just the heat of her blush spread across her body, pooling low in her belly, and
lower still.
"Given your association with Potter, I'd say half of your life comes under the heading of 'Desperate
Times'."
She felt his voice reverberate through her body. His hands were at her abdomen, she could feel the
warmth of his fingers even through her nightgown.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking your dressing." His lips moved against the corner of her temple. His beard was scratchy.
"It's due to be changed later today. I'm pleased you're up and about, though it was foolish of you to
come and see me now. Rest ought to have been your first priority, especially if you're hoping to
enact this plan of yours."
"Blaise mentioned I've been out for almost two weeks. That's enough rest."
"Recuperation, then."
"You don't think much of my plan, do you?"

He unbuttoned two buttons of her nightgown, over the stomach, and slipped warm fingers inside to
run along the edge of the dressing. Hermione shut her eyes.
"On the contrary, the more time you spend with Amarov, the more we're likely to know about this
device he's using to hold an entire fleet hostage. But more to the point, it will be your best chance
to stay safe. Any time spent outside the main holding cells, is time well spent. There is one
problem, however."
These were no longer the hands of a doctor. Certainly not her doctor. His fingers now stroked the
soft skin of her belly, his rough-padded thumb skimming over the rim of her navel. So much for
the Hippocratic oath.
"What's the problem?" Good. At least her voice was working.
"Know what it is you may be required to do. Put that brilliant mind of yours to the task of
imagining what Amarov could possibly want with you. And understand that for you to enact this
plan, I would have to allow it."
Ah. They'd arrived, inevitably, at the big, pink, woolly mammoth in the room. Or at the
problematic chapter in the metaphorical book of Hermione's life, entitled, Feelings and Other
Mushy Non-Practical Stuff.
"Amarov said there aren't that many witches being held in the fleet."
"There are enough," Malfoy clarified.
That confused her. "Then I'm not quite sure why he has an interest in another ordinary witch?"
"Ordinary," he snorted. It wasn't a question and not quite a comment, either. "Granger, some lights
burn brighter than others, and it's a unique kind of happiness to be around that. The best of us feed
that light and our reward is to continue to enjoy its glow. Those like Amarov, however, they are
like Muggle hunters who go on safari to hunt the biggest, most challenging game. They are
collectors of experiences and trophies. For them, it's about mastery."
"Malfoy," she began, unable to keep the smile out of her voice, "am I the safari game in this
analogy? Or perhaps a fluorescent light bulb?"
He rapped his fingers over her hip. She supposed this was what passed for disgruntled.
"Do you have a better plan?" she asked.
"Of course, but I cannot tell you."
"Even if it means your odds of success increase if you enlist more people you trust to help you?"
"Trust is too freely given."
"In your world, maybe," she muttered.
"We live in the same world now, Kiska."
"Does this plan of yours put you in danger?"
"We are all of us in danger as long as Amarov commands this fleet."
Hermione tensed against him. Malfoy swore. It was odd hearing Muggle bad language coming
from him, but she guessed he'd picked up a thing or two in his travels.
"So that's the plan," she said, soberly. It was hopeless pretending she didn't know now.
He was angry. "Damn it. Did I mention I am severely sleep deprived? I have had to add caring for
an invalid to my many other duties in the laboratory. You are not to discuss this with anyone, do
you understand? No matter how much you think you trust them."
While she was not privy to the details of his plan, the big picture made complete sense. The fleet
was not the enemy. In fact, it was probably the world's most useful asset at the moment. Remove
one man. Preserve the fleet. And then the asset belonged to the people.
"You are very clever, Draco Malfoy."
"I know. Not that it makes you listen to me, most of the time."
"Thank you for saving my life, again."
"Belikov did most of the work."
"When I see this Belikov, I shall thank him, too," Hermione said. "And I'm sorry about what
happened when Honoria took you."
"I heard your apology already, Granger," he said. "There was not much to be done about it, given
the circumstances."
"Yes, but I didn't look for you."
"It's because I didn't give you any reason to want to look for me."
She stared at him. "You were what we needed you to be—the villain. And you insulated us from
Honoria, that time. But not now. Now you need to be something else entirely." She placed her hand
against his cheek.
His hand wrapped around her wrist, the grip slightly too hard. "I may not be the homicidal maniac
in this story, but make no mistake, I am not Harry Potter. So I suggest you disabuse yourself of any
foolish notion of my redemption," he said. "If I had the means to do it, I would take you from this
place whether you wished to go or not. I would leave your friends. I would leave Zabini and his
little boy. I would abandon the chance of creating a cure. And I would do this without a second
glance back, without a second thought. I would see this entire fleet sunk to the bottom of the sea,
with innocent Muggle women and children, and all our fellow wizarding citizens still aboard. I
would do that if it meant we could walk away, unconditionally. These are my priorities. I am not
Amarov, but that does not make me one of you. I will never be one of you."
Silence followed this minor outburst. Hermione rolled away from him, and he let her. They lay on
the bed together staring at the ceiling (thankfully cherub-free), not touching. She heard his sigh
and thought she could detect contrition in that small noise. If she learned anything from this
encounter, it was that they were both completely crap at talking about their feelings, even when
their lives were at risk.
"You should save your time and energy for someone more suited to you," he eventually said. It
was as close as he was going to get to actually acknowledging their strange relationship.
Hermione took stock of her situation. Currently in recovery from a near-fatal gun-shot wound, she
was lying in bed with Draco Malfoy, on a cruise-liner controlled by a modern day Caligula, while
all the world outside was battling to survive a zombie apocalypse.
"When all this is over, perhaps I might try online dating?" she said, blandly.
"Perhaps," he replied.
More minutes of uncomfortable silence went by, and her eyelids began to droop. She felt him draw
the sheets up higher over her.
"Are you in much pain?" the tone of his voice suggested that 'Dr Malfoy' was back.
"No."
"Try and get some sleep. I'll wake you when it's time to go."
There was too much to do, too much to discuss and think about. She blinked rapidly, trying to stave
off the sleepiness.
He was psychic. "There's time for all that later. Go to sleep."
"Granger, wake up."
Malfoy's hand was on her arm. All the lights were on, so it took a moment of blinking, squinting
and pushing her hair out of her face before she could sit up and see anything. She really needed to
brush her teeth. He'd showered and changed into a darker set of clothing. His wet hair was slicked
back and the stubble she'd felt against her face hours ago was now gone. Hermione suspected he'd
left the bed as soon as she'd fallen asleep. Oh dear, Zabini was going to be cross with her for
stealing yet more sleep from the dragon.
"Anatoli is waiting outside to take you back to the lab."
Hermione was insanely thirsty again. And now her wound was hurting. It throbbed. She winced as
she swung her feet off the bed. Malfoy appeared at her side with a glass of water and two white
tablets. She didn't bother to ask what they were. Mumbling her thanks, she took the tablets. The
glass of water was drained before she gave it back to him, wiping the back of her hand against her
mouth. She spied the wheelchair in the corner of the room.
"I can walk now," Hermione said, her voice croaky.
"No, you cannot." He pushed the chair over to her and Hermione found she was too sore and
exhausted to argue with him. He left her in the chair and went to open the door. Anatoli, who
seemed to have grown even bigger since she last saw him, entered the room. It was no surprise
when he scowled at her.
"Hello," she said, because as her mother liked to declare, manners cost nothing.
"If Amarov know about this, we are all dead man," Anatoli complained to Malfoy. "And dead
lady."
Malfoy spoke to the guard in Russian. Anatoli replied in kind. They went back and forth for
another minute or so, before a cranky Anatoli threw his ping pong paddle-sized hands in the air and
wheeled Hermione out the door. There was only time for a farewell glance at Malfoy, who wore a
slight frown.
Hermione waited until they were in the elevator before she asked Anatoli, "What did he say to
you?"
"Weezard ask stupid question."
When it became clear he was not going to elaborate, Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.
Anatoli sighed. "He ask me if you will be safe with Alexander."
"And?"
Anatoli's answering expression as he stared down at her was a perfect blend of resignation and
incredulity.
Windows of Opportunity
Chapter Summary
Draco, Anatoli and Blaise begin a secret effort to assist the fleet's wizarding prisoners.
Padma helps Draco dispose of a body.
12, Grimmauld Place, London
At first, there was only one; the lonely, lurching, almost comical zombie in the red hoodie and
board shorts. He'd become a benign, familiar sight, a conversation item. A safe little oddity in a
world that had become so odd, it was unrecognisable.
But then a week ago, one became three. And then there were a dozen.
Every day, one member of Project Christmas would keep watch from the attic window, writing
down the comings (there were no goings, when a zombie came, it stayed) and their associated
behaviours. Today, it was Harry's turn. So far, there wasn't much to report apart from a great deal
of creepy staring. They seemed to know the location of the attic window and at the moment,
twenty-one pairs of Undead eyes were trained at that exact spot.
"It's their stillness that's the worst," Harry said, as he and Scrimgeour observed the horde that
currently stood outside the Grimmauld Place headquarters. The city streetlamps had long since
stopped working, but there was enough moonlight that night to show off the group, in all their skin-
crawling glory. "I'd say it's time to send out a welcome party. Either kill them off or clear them
off."
The Minister disagreed. "I'd rather not give them any window of opportunity. Every time we leave
the house, every time we so much as crack open a door, the veil created by our wards causes a
shimmer that ripples across the house. Now, as you know this is not meant to be visible to
Muggles. Therefore are we certain these must be wizarding zombies?"
Harry nodded. "Hermione and Malfoy came across some pretty compelling evidence at Hogwarts,
and if there ever was a prime location to find any, it would have been the School grounds and
Hogsmeade."
"If they recognise this house as a magical abode, then they know it's possible to gain entry if a
doorway is left open long enough. The wards will not be able to distinguish between one
of us leaving and one of them entering."
"Or if enough of them force entry at the same time…" Harry added.
"Yes."
"But how can they know?" Harry asked. "That requires realising both them and us are magical, and
organising themselves to the point where they attempt to storm the place!"
"These are questions only Dr Mercer might have answered," Scrimgeour replied.
"We should never have brought him along…" Harry said, in a quiet voice. This was not the first
time he had raised the issue and he was not the only person to think it.
"We do what we must, Potter, Mercer knew the risks and I believe Dr Patil made a point of
spelling them out for him in fine detail. Whatever the rescue team encountered on that boat, it was
as unexpected as it was disastrous."
The absence of the formidable combined brainpower of Mercer, Padma, Wallen and Hermione was
like a punch to the collective gut of Project Christmas. They weren't just winded, they were
effectively crippled. And the more Harry thought about it, the more he realised that this had been
Honoria Cloot's mission all along. The goal had been sabotage, the prize had been the cure.
Dr Kate McAlister was all that remained of the original bank of experts and she was working
around the clock, surviving on tepid Red Bull and Mars Bars. Ginny assisted their only remaining
nurse, Aisha Malik, as she cared for the unconscious Agent Richards and the mending of Neville's
broken leg.
"Is there any change in Richards' condition?"
The Minister shook his head. "Miss Malik will let us know as soon as there is. He's stable for now,
and exceedingly lucky. Had Longbottom not found Barnaby when he did, he would have most
certainly perished in the water."
"We lost Mercer," Harry began, "but the others are alive, sir. I know it. I feel it! Is there still no
news from the Senate?"
Harry was desperate to send out a search party to look for Hermione, Padma and Wallen.
Scrimgeour was adamant he would not send another member of the team out into the unknown. He
touched the younger man on the shoulder. "The Senate is not responding, Potter," he said, quietly.
"There is no one on the other end to accept the Floo link. They may have had to abandon their
posts."
"Merlin, are we the only government team left?"
"It would seem so. The Project Christmas deadline and the refugee communities around the UK are
all that stands in the way of an unrestricted weapons strike by the US. And if McAlister doesn't
come up with something workable soon, I'd say the destruction will be imminent and warranted.
We may have to start readying survivors for evacuation."
"Where to?" Harry demanded.
Scrimgeour had no answer for him.
"Hmm," Draco said. He was looking through a microscope. Beside him stood an anxious,
Professor Belikov.
"Well?"
The younger man straightened up, tucking an errant lock of hair behind his ear. His hair was just
long enough to tie (which he did) but some of it still managed to escape and get in the way.
"I believe the technical term is Eureka?"
Belikov beamed as he thumped Draco heartily on the back. "Then we have indeed perfected
ReGen! We must tell Amarov that the addition of the Kunlun Peach extract worked just as
anticipated!"
"I'd keep this breakthrough to ourselves, if I were you," Draco advised.
"Why?"
"Keep it on a need-to-know basis."
Belikov wasn't listening. "We could even tell him that D.R.A.C.O is complete and ready for
human trials!"
Draco shot him an incredulous look. "You mean lie about cracking the cure? Why on earth would
you want to do that?"
"Think about it, Malfoy! He could permit the inoculation of the wizarding captives. If he thinks
they are safe from being turned, he may deposit them back on the mainland. They are a drain on
his resources, there is no reason for him to keep them if he doesn't need to!"
"Yes, but they wouldn't be safe because the serum isn't ready yet. It would be a farce."
"Alexander does not know that. We are his experts. If you back me up and verify the findings, how
will he know we are lying? They have a better chance off that ship than on it!"
"He'll know you're lying because that's what he's good at. You cannot lie to him, Vadim," Draco
admonished. "This is a ridiculous idea that's going to get you killed. You are not to attempt it, do
you understand?"
Belikov had been about to respond, but was interrupted by Anatoli entering the laboratory, closely
followed by Blaise.
"Kit up, Malfoy! We're going on a field trip," Zabini announced. It was the most animated Draco
had seen him, in days.
Draco removed his gloves. "Where to?"
"You know how we discussed sneaking essential medicines to the captives? Well, by Merlin, we
have our chance tonight!"
Anatoli nodded. "Bring the medicine and come quickly, weezard. There is a small hole of
opportunity!"
"A, uh…what, now?" Belikov inquired, blinking behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.
"I think he means a 'window of opportunity'," Blaise clarified. "A 'hole of opportunity' is what
happens after Pansy Parkinson's had one too many hits of Goyle's dorm room moonshine.
Draco was already raiding the supply cupboards, throwing drugs and other items into an open bag.
He turned and raised an eyebrow at his old school friend.
"Oh, don't you play the blushing schoolboy with me, Malfoy. My nerves may be shot, but my
memory is pristine, thank you very much. I believe she was trying to make you jealous at the
time?"
"A gentleman does not kiss and tell," was Draco's half-hearted rebuke. When the first bag of
medicine was full, he began filling another.
"From what I recall about Pansy, kissing was never the highlight…" Blaise muttered.
Draco threw an empty bag to Blaise. "Give me a hand, will you? What else would they need?" he
addressed this question to Belikov.
"Anything and everything," answered Belikov. "Antibiotics, antiseptic, sterile gauze, bandages,
insulin, Ventolin, pain-killers…"
"Food," added Anatoli.
This succeeded in dampening the otherwise high-spirits of the men. "You heard him," Draco said.
"Bring everything that's not going to be missed."
The four men ended up with two large bags of medicines and four boxes of food, clothing and
blankets. Blaise made a quick trip to the room he shared with Draco, returning with a small
Tupperware of Star Wars legos that Anatoli had sourced for Henry.
"Won't Henry miss that?" Draco inquired, conversationally.
"Henry will make do," was Blaise's curt reply.
"Exactly how are we being afforded this alleged 'window of opportunity'?" Belikov whispered to
Blaise, as the men made their way down the dark hallway, to the elevator. They would need to
catch a shuttle to the Morning Star, where Amarov kept his supply of zombies and magical
captives.
"It's a full moon tonight," was Blaise's cryptic response.
They exited the ship through a side-door, an emergency exit through which Anatoli had already
unfurled a braided, nylon rope-ladder. "Careful," Draco said, as Blaise and then Belikov climbed
down first into a waiting dingy. Draco and Anatoli passed down the bags and boxes.
They pushed off, making a beeline for the games ship—The Morning Star. The water was calm
that evening, though there was far too much moonlight reflecting off the surface, to put them at
ease. They were silent as they rowed, avoiding the smaller vessels, lest they be spotted.
"Do you think she made it?" Draco asked, after a time.
Blaise had been trailing his fingers in the frigid, black water. "Are we still talking about Pansy?"
"Yes."
"I don't know, but I hope so."
Getting on and around the Morning Star was matter of ducking past patrols at the right time. This
was made possible because there seemed to be only a skeleton crew on duty. Each of the men
carried a receptacle of supplies, making it somewhat difficult to be stealthy. Thankfully, there was
no great need for that.
"Where on earth is everyone?" Belikov asked Blaise, as they climbed the metal staircase to the
partitioned cargo hold. "There are usually three times as many guards on this ship!"
The answer to that question came in the form of a long, deep howl that seemed to travel the length
and breadth of the vessel.
"Wallen," Draco said. He stared at Blaise. "You said it was a full moon tonight?"
"That is it. Big as a saucer."
Blaise led them down the stairs and past a deserted control room. The lights were on but there was
nobody home. He gingerly opened the door, wincing slightly as the hinges creaked. Inside, there
were two swivel chairs, dog-eared copies of Penthouse and other similarly intellectual fare, and a
great deal of junk food wrappers.
He pointed to the numerous security monitors. "The captives are being held two floors down,
starboard."
Indeed they were. The footage on the first monitor revealed an enormous cargo hold that
resembled a medical triage facility. There were hundreds of people crammed into the area. Mobile
screens divided the hold into sections. Some people slept in cots. Most had sleeping bags and
blankets on the floor. Draco could practically smell and taste the foulness in the air just from
looking at the inhumane set-up.
There were eleven other screens, each of them numbered, and Blaise explained that they were
looking at locked rooms that had been turned into containment cells and other restricted areas. One
showed the Pit, looking disarmingly innocent while it was devoid of its audience and combatants.
Screen number two was black.
"Where's this?" Draco said, tapping the monitor.
Blaise peered closer. There was a faded, peeling sticker label on the monitor. It was in Cyrillic.
Belikov put on his spectacles and squinted at the label. "That says 'Dead Zone'. It must be where
they keep the creatures. So in relation to the Pit, the Dead Zone is two floors below the captives,
and must feed directly into the Pit."
Draco filed that information away. He stared more closely at the screen. It looked pitch black, but
when you observed it for long enough, it was possible to discern movement in the darkness. "Let's
do our best to avoid blundering into that room, shall we?"
"No arguments there," Blaise said.
"Someone is coming!" Anatoli warned. He'd been stationed at the door to the room. "Go down!"
The men crouched low behind the bank of monitors. Belikov pointed to the box of supplies he'd
left on the desk, which would be clearly visible to anyone who happened to glance in from outside
the room. Draco shook his head and put his finger to his lips.
Thankfully, the footsteps continued past the security room, stopping at what must have been an
espresso machine further down the hall. There was a brief sound of hissing steam and the clinking
of a spoon in a ceramic cup. Then the footsteps returned and kept on going.
Anatoli crab-walked to the door to have a look outside, he gave them a thumbs-up gesture.
Observing the monitors once more, Blaise pointed to number seven. Here was the answer to the
mystery of where all the guards had gone. You couldn't see Wallen in the room, but it was apparent
that his transformation to Lycanthropic form, sans Wolfsbane Potion, had been an anticipated
event. There were metal bars in the room and there were men standing at the bars, cavorting and
carrying on.
"There must be thirty people watching," Draco said. They weren't just watching. Two of the guards
held what looked like cattle prods. Others were hurling projectiles. They were baiting Wallen and
having a raucous time doing it.
As harrowing as that sight was, it was the tenth monitor that now caught Draco's attention.
"Zabini, quickly, where is this?"
Blaise blinked down at the screen. He immediately understood the urgency. "That looks like the
clinic Dr Prestin used to treat the captives before Patil took over. It's on the floor below us, down
the corridor, parallel to the one just outside this room. Take a right, and then it should be either the
first or second room. I'll go with you."
"No, you know this ship like no one else here. You need to lead the others," Draco said to Blaise.
He handed the satchel and box he'd been carrying to Anatoli. "Will you be alright taking all this to
the hold?"
Anatoli nodded.
"Draco, quickly," Blaise said, still frowning at the screen. "And be careful."
"I'll meet you back at the dinghy. If I'm not there in an hour, leave without me."
It had been a mistake to come to the treatment room by herself, even if it was to fetch more salt and
glucose powder to make a new supply of hydration fluid. There were several young children with
dysentery who would not survive the week without it. Nevertheless, Padma wanted to kick herself
for being so stupid.
As it happened, the guard called Igor was doing most of the kicking instead. And slapping. He'd
been a smarmy presence from her first day on the Morning Star. The other guards mostly just
stared—all the young women in the hold had received similar attention—but Igor…well Igor just
had to be a bit more ambitious, didn't he? It was mostly just groping and frequent close encounters
on the stairs, but Padma honestly did not think he'd be foolish enough to try anything that might
injure her. She was one of only two medical doctors in the entire fleet.
"Pretty girl," he crooned, "come here."
Padma wiped the back of her hand against her split lip. She grabbed the first thing she could reach,
which happened to be a bed pan. "You're making a big mistake."
He laughed as he began to undo his belt buckle, the hideous gold watch at his wrist catching the
meagre light in the room. "No mistake. Come and give Igor a kiss, pretty witch."
Igor was drunk. That was the problem. Well, apart from probably being a bloody, serial rapist. All
the other guards had been waiting for poor Wallen to turn. It was all she'd heard them talk about
for days. They'd brought vodka and a disturbing bloodlust that night. Igor was the end result of all
that excitement.
"I'm a doctor, you idiot! Amarov stationed me here to see to these people, and to treat you and your
colleagues if you need it! What do you think he's going to say when he finds out about this?"
"Amarov is not care."
He was wrong, but there was no reasoning with the man. Padma sucked in a fortifying breath. It
was always easier in your head. You imagined what it would be like if someone actually tried to
hold on to you and you imagined yourself kicking, biting, and inflicting all kinds of damage. But
reality was very different. Drunk, short and unfit as he was, Igor was still quick and three times a
strong as her. The enamel bedpan she brought down on his head only succeeded in making him
furious. He grabbed her around the midsection when she tried to feint past him and flung her
against the wall. Padma's forehead smacked into the concrete and she stagged backwards, dazed.
He seized the opportunity to wrap her long hair around his forearm and used that leverage to drag
her to the examination table. Padma found herself flung down unto the metal table. Meaty,
imprecise fingers began pulling at her clothing.
"No…" she said, clawing at his hands. Her nails were short, but she still managed to rip strips off
his skin and was rewarded with a dull grunt of pain. He cuffed her against the side of her head.
Padma bit his hand just before he retracted it. A punch to the head was coming. She anticipated it.
Through blurry vision, she saw him pull his fist and she instinctively brought her forearms up to
protect her head.
The blow never came and the crushing weight and stinking breath of Igor disappeared. She heard
an almighty crash, which she suspected was Igor sailing into the empty metal shelving at the
opposite end of the room. When she sat up to have a look, her saviour was utterly unexpected.
Draco Malfoy may as well have been wearing his Death Eater's mask, such was the look on his
face.
"Hello, Igor. Long time no see."
The guard staggered away from the shelves, looking apoplectic to see Draco there. He was too
angry for English, so what followed was mostly in Russian. Threats and profanities, most likely. A
few bits of English slipped through, though. There was the old stalwart, "Fuck you!" and the
always charming, "Cunt!" Padma wondered if Igor knew that these were the last words he would
be speaking, because there was no way Malfoy would let him leave that room to report on what
had transpired.
"You poor, sad, son of a bitch," Draco told him. He advanced on Igor, ducking his head to the side
to avoid the fist that came at him. Draco's superior height allowed the perfect angle for a
downward stomping blow of his booted foot to Igor's right knee. The patella must surely have
cracked from the impact. The guard let out a keening, high-pitched scream and keeled over
sideways like a felled tree. Draco stood over him. "Of all the bad decisions you've made in your
wasted, pitiful life, this one deserves to be recorded for posterity, so others like you may learn from
it." Draco hauled him up by the front of his shirt and then turned the sputtering Igor around to face
Padma.
"Now pay attention, Muggle filth. I know it's hard because your brain is so very small and your
indifferent, drug-addled mother probably dropped you on your head a few times, but do try to keep
up."
Igor attempted to struggle free, so Draco rammed his knee up into the middle of the other man's
spine, causing the guard's face to go stark white. He was winded from the pain. Draco seized both
his arms into an arm-lock behind his back, and shook him briefly.
"I said, pay attention."
The struggling stopped and a stricken Igor had no choice but to look at Padma, mouth gaping.
"What do you see before you?"

"A…a witch," came the wobbly reply. He was weeping now.
"Close," said Draco, and there was a smile in his voice. "What you see here, you insignificant pile
of pig shit, is a direct descendant of the Pratihara Dynasty, and the kings and chieftains that came
before. Padma's bloodline is purer than my own. Her ancestors negotiated the terms of trade and
passage through the Khyber in the time of Darius, while yours were busy fucking livestock and
decorating paddocks with boulders."
"I am sorry! I am sorry!" Igor bawled. Maybe he was not so dumb after all. "Please…"
"You are more than sorry," Draco said into his ear. He pulled harder on Igor's arms and the man
cried out. "A woman such as this is not for you. Never for the likes of you. But I imagine no other
female will have you either, will she? So you decide to use force, to terrorise and injure the only
person that might have saved you."
"S-save me?"
Draco brought both hands up to Igor's head and twisted it sharply. There was an unpleasant crack
and the dead guard slumped to the ground. He stepped over the body and held his hands out to
Padma. She stood a little straighter, tossed her waist-length hair over her shoulder and accepted his
assistance off the examination table. Igor was spared barely a glance. Draco had always found
Ravenclaws to be easily as resilient as Slytherins, though closer to the Gryffindor side of
righteousness than was practical.
"I'm good, but I doubt even I can bring a man back from the dead."
Draco shrugged. "Call it overkill."
Padma groaned at the black humour, but then she looked serious. "What are you doing here,
Malfoy? If they find you, they'll kill you. And when they find him, this whole place will go into
lockdown."
"You're welcome," he said. A chair was dragged forth and Draco asked her to sit down. "I'm here
with a small group of helpers. We've brought supplies. Tilt your head back, let me get a look at
your face."
The scene was reminiscent of when Padma had cleaned up Draco following his fight with Harry,
though that felt like a lifetime ago.
"Ow," said Padma, when Draco prodded at her lip. He looked at the empty shelves for something
to treat her cut. There was nothing to be found—not even plasters. "Looks like we're bringing the
supplies just in time."
Padma pushed his hands away and stood up. "Please don't worry about me, I'll survive. Oh,
Malfoy, I cannot tell you how much we need the medicine! Or how thankful we are!"
"You can thank me by helping me find a place to dispose of that," Draco said, indicating the body.
A dead body was a tremendously heavy and inconveniently-shaped thing to transport down
laddered hatches and through maintenance passages where a fully-gown man had to crouch to get
through. Draco probably had about two inches on the average, fully-grown man. He managed to
hit his head about three times. Padma led the way, while Draco alternated between carrying,
pulling and pushing the deceased Igor.
They must have been approaching the ventilation shafts above Wallen's cell because they could
now hear huffing and snarling, as well as cheers and hollers from the guards. Padma winced at yet
another angry howl from Wallen.
"Is there anything to be done about that?" Draco inquired.
"Not unless you think you can take on about thirty-six guards." She looked at Igor. "Minus one.
They won't be foolish enough to hurt the main attraction at the next games," she said. "I've already
told Amarov that werewolves have no natural immunity to the Infection, so if Felix does go into
the Pit in Lycanthrope form, it's likely he'll get bitten and then they'll have to kill him. So if they
want him to continue being their resident circus freak, they're better off not making him fight
zombies at all."
"So they'll just have him transform for the audience, once or twice a month?"
Padma nodded. "Like a pre-show event, I suppose. But they've missed the boat this month," she
said. "Unless there's a second full moon tomorrow, Wallen's safe for another month."
They continued crawling along the shaft, eventually coming to a junction. A right turn took them to
a large storage room with shipping containers. All were empty except one, which oddly, had been
welded shut. They opened a ceiling grate and dropped Igor first, before climbing down. Padma
crouched down to clean up the small, bloody smear Igor had made on the ground.
"These are sometimes used to bait and catch zombies," she explained, touching one of the
containers. "But at the moment, the creatures are all kept in a storage vault up ahead. It's locked,
obviously. But we can get in through the ventilation ducts. Once inside, we should be able to
deposit the body right into the middle of a feeding frenzy. I doubt the crew will even find his
bones."
Draco looked down at the dead man's large, gold watch. He removed it and put it into his pocket.
"They might find this. Not even the Undead have such bad taste."
Padma laughed, though it was the sound of exhaustion tinged with hysteria. Draco looked at her.
"You've done a remarkable job here. It hasn't gone unnoticed by the members of the fleet who still
care about what's happening."
"Do people really care?"
He nodded. "I had help coming here, didn't I?"
"How close are you to a cure?"
"Very close." He told her about the breakthrough with ReGen.
"And how is Hermione? I heard she made a full recovery, but there are all kinds of crazy rumours
going around. They're saying that Amarov's been keeping her with him in his room, on the mother
ship."
"She's as well as can be expected. And thankfully he is not keeping her with him. She has her own
quarters just above my own."
"Have you seen her? Face to face, I mean?"
"No," he lied. It would not do to burden Padma with secrets that could be taken from her by force.
"If you do see her, tell her….tell her that Felix and I are fine and not to do anything rash."
Draco thought about the situation to which Padma would be returning, and about what Wallen was
being subjected to. It was a good thing he was adept at telling lies.
It took them almost half an hour to reach the optimum position above the Dead Zone. The stench
of the place was enough to make their eyes water. Positioned above, inside the ventilation ducts,
they carefully removed a grate and peered down below. It was dark. There was no light in the hold,
but Draco had brought his own. He removed a flashlight from one of the pockets of his trousers
and shone it into the darkness.
Zombies. About a hundred or so in varying states of decomposition. In the absence of any stimulus,
they were standing still in a dormant state, so as to conserve energy. The flashlight caught their
attention, however. Almost in unison, many pairs of eyes looked up at the ceiling, rotting arms
lifted and the familiar groaning and hissing began.
"That gate on the left lifts up remotely when the games are on," Padma explained. It leads to a
passage that opens directly into the games arena. There's another gate on the other side of the
passage. They try to get the more able-bodied creatures through because it makes for a better fight.
But sometimes the combatants get lucky, and of the less impressive specimens will make it
through instead—something that's easier to fight off."
"What's that other door for?" Draco said, shining the light on a blue, iron door that was covered
with bloody scratches and smears.
"That's for feeding. When someone dies in the fleet, they are tossed in. Nothing is wasted."
The compartment they were hiding in creaked ominously. It lurched forward as bolts came loose,
causing the section under them to buckle. Padma gasped.
"Move back," Draco hissed. "Slowly."
She did as asked. Padma's lesser weight was nearly inconsequential compared to the combined
weight of Draco and Igor, who lay between them. There was the noise of more bolts coming loose.
Draco attempted to climb over Igor, but there was simply no room. The section under Draco
collapsed. He felt the vent tipping beneath him, sending him and Igor sliding downwards towards
the ground. He braced his hands and feet against the sides of the vent, lifting his body up to allow
Igor to slide under him and down into the waiting zombies below. The flashlight rolled down first,
followed by Igor.
"Malfoy!" Padma called out.
There was nothing else to do but propel himself up and across to Padma's section of the vents, as
hard as he could. He did this as the compartment fell. It barely made a sound as it landed on top of
the zombies who were tearing apart Igor's corpse. Amidst the snarling, there was the brief sound of
ripping clothing and then an eerie wet hum coming from the creatures that were lucky enough to be
inside the feeding zone.
Draco felt Padma take hold of the front of his shirt and haul him away from the gap in the vent.
"Merlin," she breathed. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
There was movement where the flashlight had fallen. Draco and Padma squinted into the darkness
to get a better look. The beam of the flashlight flicked back and forth, likely kicked by zombies as
they rushed to the corpse. But then, curiously, the beam rose from the ground, lifted high above
the fray, eventually illuminating Padma and Malfoy.
Padma shielded her eyes from the glare. When she looked again, she was incredulous. "What is it
doing?" she whispered.
"It's pointing us out to its…friends." Draco replied, though his tone suggested that even he had
trouble believing what he was seeing.
"That's impossible! Zombies don't have friends! They don't pick up flashlights and use them,
either!"
But that was precisely what was happening. And this was not all the light had revealed. There was
a group of zombies separate to the rest of the mob, and these creatures were not currently focussed
on feeding. They stood close together, almost in line formation, occupying a corner of the room.
All of them were in good shape, sporting the odd bite wound, but otherwise seemed to have full
control over most of their limbs. The truly horrifying thing about them was that they were staring
with interest at Draco and Padma—not necessarily as potential pray to shuffle after, but as
something new that had appeared in their dark confines of the hold and therefore worthy of
investigation.
"Wizarding zombies," Draco surmised. "There was evidence of their existence at Hogwarts, but we
never really got to see any in action until recently."
"Probably for the better," Padma said, with a shudder. She tugged on his arm. "Come on, we'd
better get you back!"
Exposition
Chapter Summary
Hermione learns the shocking truth about the origins of the zombie virus.
"Do you ever have any recurring dreams?" Lavender Brown asks.
Hermione can't remember the year that conversation takes place. Fifth, maybe? 'Normal' was hard
to date-stamp when you attended Hogwarts. It was as if Hermione's recollection of her time at
school was a finite resource and her memory had only bothered to make room for the learning, the
danger, the highs and lows, not the mid-ranges.
The conversation had probably occurred over breakfast, though. What she does remember is Ron
chewing on toast with his mouth open.
"I dream I've forgotten something important and I can't remember what," Neville tells them.
No one is surprised.
"I always get chased, right?" Ron said. "And it's a sodding spider big enough to ride! Only my legs
don't work. It's like I've been hit with Leg-locker or something. I fall over and the spider climbs on
top of me…"
Seamus liked to pluck at low-hanging fruit. "Are you sure this isn't the spider's nightmare?"
Everyone laughs. Well, almost everyone. Hermione sees that Harry is smiling, but he's also
distracted because distracted is what happens when Voldemort's trying to kill you and you've also
got girl problems.
"I reckon those monster dreams are common," Lavender said. "I have the same ones. Can't see
what it is, but there's always something nasty coming after me..."
Parvati leans in conspiratorially, school tie in danger of falling into a large bowl of congealing
porridge. She whispers to them, "Padma dreams that she hasn't studied for her exams."
"How do you know what she dreams? Did she tell you?" Hermione inquires.
Parvati's stare is a bit cooler when she looks at Hermione. They are friendly enough, but like
Lavender, Parvati is as shallow as a puddle and Hermione finds guilty gratification in giving her a
hard time on occasion.
"She doesn't need to tell me," is Parvati's surprisingly serious response. "Sometimes, we suffer
each other's dreams."
"Twin magic," Neville says, nodding.
Ron snorts. "Then Hermione must be the missing Patil triplet because I reckon she has the exact
same recurring nightmare! Right, Hermione?" He waggles his eyebrows at her. "Right?"
Hermione played with her salad fork, pushing the tines into the pad of her thumb and observed the
marks left behind—four, tiny, depression points. She's had that dream, of course. But usually
there's another theme that takes center stage.
She stands alone and there is a decision to be made—the choice of a spell, a door to open, a chess
piece to move. A whole slew of decisions that are time-contingent because behind her, in the
darkness, is not the bogeyman, but Ron, Harry, mum and dad, the Weasleys and Ginny. They await
their fate, passive and entirely dependent on Hermione's choices.
In her dream, Hermione never makes the correct choice. She chooses the wrong door or opens the
wrong book. She looks down at her hands and is horrified to see the black, creeping tendrils
emerge—a network of poison that splays outwards. She is the root of misfortune and her friends
and loved ones fall down, dead, the blood vessels in their faces traced over in black. Hermione's
monsters are never hulking, great beasts that hunted you. Her monsters were her bad decisions.
She looked across the table now. This was not the happy, worn, oak surface of the Gryffindor table
in the Great Hall and it was not Ron's smiling, freckled face looking back at her, waiting for her
answer. Alexander Amarov's piercing, gimlet stare was something she would never get used to, no
matter that Malfoy and Agent Richards quite often looked at her in the same way. He watched her
now, managing to look curious and knowing at the same time.
Hermione had been in the fleet for three weeks—two of those weeks were spent unconscious and
in recovery. The days after her convalescence were probably even more unsettling. For the past
four nights, Amarov had requested her presence at dinner, at what he referred to as the 'Captains'
Table'. Everyone in attendance was dressed in formal attire. Among the Principals of the fleet,
apparently it was the custom to dress for dinner.
Tonight, Amarov wore a slim black suit over a finely pressed, white shirt. The buttons of the shirt
were miniscule—looking like black, map pins against the starched, alabaster fabric. The overall
effect was sleek, simple and in stark contrast to the garish décor of the rest of the cruise-liner. No
tie tonight, Hermione noted, though he'd been wearing one on every other occasion she'd seen him,
save their introduction on the kidnapper's trawler. He'd managed to put on some of the weight h'd
lost since his ordeal. The hollows in his cheeks were filled out, though this in no way lessened the
inhospitable angles of his cheekbones. An exceedingly handsome man, by popular standards. Pity
about everything else.
Twelve others set at the long table. All of them captains save for the only two women present—
Hermione and Honoria. As if sensing Hermione's train of thought, Honoria glanced up from her
second course. The look she gave Hermione ought to have singed the skin of her face.
Honoria's hatred for Hermione was understandable. She resented Hermione, but there was also the
not insignificant matter of Honoria being utterly besotted with Amarov. It was laughable, really.
Honoria's devotion to her employer was no longer a great mystery. Honoria liked her boys bad, it
seemed. Crazy bad. Hermione's present position as Amarov's favourite magical collectible did not
go unnoticed by Amarov's inner circle. But fleet members did not question Amarov's decisions
lightly. Hermione had no such qualms. At the first dinner, she'd listed her demands, ignoring the
amused looks of the other dinner guests. She'd made attempts to negotiate, to trade, to convince
and when all that failed, she threatened. But all she got from the man was a short pause in his
conversation to whichever fleet captain he'd been talking to before Hermione interrupted him.
The look he gave her was almost paternal—I see you wanting my attention, my dear, but you will
wait.
So she waited. Three more excruciating dinners. Then a fourth. Each time, she ignored the clothing
he sent to her room. They were beautiful, tasteful outfits, aesthetically speaking, with red carpet
labels. Hermione tossed the first and second ones out of a porthole before Amarov had the tiny
window sealed shut. The third she'd manages to shrink and shrivel over a heating vent and the
fourth she easily ruined with water. On this, the fifth night, no dress had come. Maybe he was
running out of outfits in her size? And so like every night before, Hermione attended dinner
dressed in Professor Belikov's faded denim shirt and slacks, rolling up the sleeves and hems and
using a curtain tassel as a belt. She was barefoot. At no point had shoes been provided, which was
a shame, because being a barefoot captive did not do much for one's morale.
Not for the first time, Hermione wondered if her recent actions were perceived by Amarov as
petulance rather than protest. Maybe she had to pick her battles? She felt less like a captive member
of a British Ministry for Magic scientific team, than a tantruming teenager, waiflike in her too-
large, men's clothing and sulking. She gripped the fork harder. Breaking point was near. She felt it.
If something didn't happen soon, if Amarov continued to deny her from seeing her friends she
would…
She would do absolutely nothing, because so long as the bio-feedback trigger was embedded into
his chest, he was literally a walking bomb. And even if he wasn't, there were six guards in the
room. They stood with their backs to the walls, arms folded. Two of them wore sub-machine guns
strapped around their chests.
Around her, the other diners spoke in about four other languages, including English. They laughed,
argued, drank and ate. Hermione learned a great deal about the fleet's inner workings. She learned
the name of the captains and first mates, the vessels and cruisers, and bits and pieces regarding
course changes, security and housing. No one bothered to censor any information in her presence.
But it was all quite useless if she could not find a way to relay it to Malfoy.
"The bisque is very good," Amarov said.
His voice was barely audible above the clinking of cutlery and glass, but it effectively halted all
other discussion at the table. After four days, Amarov had apparently decided to acknowledge her
presence.
"Do you know which country boasts the most Michelin stars? You may think it's France or Spain.
Or perhaps the US?"
"It's Japan," she supplied, because she'd read it in a Readers' Digest in the waiting room of her
father's orthodontic practice one day.
He smiled. "My chef hails from Osaka. Before all this, he had just taken three stars. As such, I
highly recommend the bisque."
Hermione put her fork down. "You'll forgive me if I find it hard to muster much of an appetite
when there are sick and dying people imprisoned in your fleet."
The diner seated to Amarov's left was an obese, red-faced Frenchman. Louis Renauld was his name
and he was the captain of the ship that held the magical prisoners. Most of the people in the fleet
knew it as the 'games ship'. Renauld opened his ruddy mouth to speak, but Amarov held up a hand.
"There seems to be a lot of rumour and conjecture flying around. Permit me to set the record
straight, Miss Granger. We are well supplied, but our resources will not last indefinitely. The food
you see before you is the result of some very creative cooking with very limited ingredients. Louis,
please enlighten our guest." Amarov picked up his wine glass and sipped from it.
"If we abide by our current rationing regime, we will have enough stored food to last
approximately eight months, maybe ten. Perishables are another matter, of course. Though we
avoid it as much as possible, supply ships have to make trips to the mainland, at great risk,"
Renauld said.
"At great risk, Miss Granger," Amarov echoed. "A risk my men bear for the good of the entire
fleet. That includes you and your friends."
Her uneaten bisque was cleared, and a third course of escargot in garlic butter was brought out.
"You actually think you can convince me that what you're doing here is good? Are you all liars,
delusional or just plain stupid?"
"Watch your manners, witch," snapped the Frenchman.
Amarov did not look in the least bit put out. He was as calm as glass. "Miss Granger, permit me to
ask you a question."
"Only if you answer one of mine in return."
"Fine," Amarov allowed. He handled his escargot tongs deftly, extricating one snail with a small
fork. "I'll go first. What is the estimated duration of survival for a Muggle residing in an urbanised
section of the UK? London, for example. Your team did their homework, I'm assuming? You are
aware of the figures?"
She was loathe to play along, but it was obvious that the conversation was leading somewhere
important. "Without secure shelter, about four days."
"And how long have I kept my thousands of fleet citizens alive?"
Hermione did not have the precise answer to that question. Amarov supplied it.
"Ten months, twenty days." He removed another snail. "In that time, we've had babies born to
mothers who will never have to fear their children being ripped from their arms and devoured in
front of them. We've had marriages, birthdays and anniversaries. The children go to school and
when my people are sick, there are doctors to see to them."
"You mean like my friend, Padma? The doctor you are forcing to work for you?"
"What other function would you have her serve? Wasn't that her job on your team? My priority will
always be the humans of the fleet, but as it happens I have taken in Magical refugees who need
medical care. She is treating her own kind and I imagine that she would choose to."
"What about simple medicines? Antibiotics, for example. You aren't making any of it available to
the magical captives. People are dying. They could save themselves if you had only let them keep
their wands!"
The other diners might as well have been watching a ping-pong match. Their gazes went back and
forth, between Hermione's rapid fire volleys and Amarov's return serves.
"Miss Granger, a year ago, most of the people on this planet had no idea that the magical race even
existed. How long do you think this fleet would last if I permitted near a thousand wizards and
witches the use of their wands? How do you think the humans of the fleet would feel?"
"I'd day they'd be relieved! Some of the most impossible rescues and evacuations of Muggles to
date have been carried out by Magical folk!"
"You bend the laws of physics. You vanish into thin air and reappear. You fly. You kill with
words, and somehow you think my people would welcome that kind of unchecked power in such
close quarters? We are a floating island of steel, wood and fibreglass held together by martial law
and desperation. That is reality. Magical unrest in this fleet could sink us."
"So what use are we to you without our wands?" she asked, rhetorically. "Why keep us here? You
use us for blood sport! You use wizarding children for experimentation!"
"Ah, that," he said, and then sighed with what looked to be authentic regret. "You are referring to
Zabini and his son, and the creature being kept in the labs?"
"Eloise Withinshaw," Hermione reminded him.
"The child in the lab came down with typhus. We made a decision which included not having her
death be meaningless. As it was, she was euthanized painlessly and her mother was compensated
with additional rations for her remaining, healthy child. And with her passing, little Eloise has
assisted the search for a cure."
"It's as easy to justify as all that, is it?" Hermione asked, quietly. "And what on earth did Blaise's
four-year old son do to deserve being put into the Pit?"
"It may surprise you to know that it was not my decision to put Zabini's son into the Pit. That was a
mistake and it was made in my absence, isn't that right, Louis?" Amarov asked, with a voice like
knives. In that moment, Hermione realised Amarov seemed to be handling her with kid gloves.
Others were not so fortunate.
Renauld was sweating. He laughed nervously and muttered to Amarov in French.
"English, please," Amarov ordered, without looking up from his escargot, "and give your reasons
to our guest, not to me."
"Of course," Renauld said, staring mutinously at Hermione. "Your friend, Blaise Zabini attempted
to escape on numerous occasions with his son and he injured two guards in the process. He stole
supplies and caused great dissent amongst the others. He was a routine criminel and the Pit is
punishment. But, as Alexander says, it was a…how do you say? Error in my judgement to put his
son there as well."
"The fights are a brutal and bloody business, but they are these for a reason." It was Honoria who
spoke now, and Hermione was surprised to note the resignation in her voice. "There must be
effective disincentives to rioting and anarchy. The keepers of the fleet are out-numbered, you
realise this?"
"More and more each day," Hermione replied, with artificial cheer. This earned her a snort of
amusement from Amarov.
"We have no police here, Miss Granger. We have an illusory upper hand and we have guns. These
are lawless times and the people need structure."
"And somehow you think making them watch their comrades being taken apart by zombies is one
way to achieve that?" Hermione demanded.
"Punitive deterrence works, my dear. It's the oldest trick in the book. There are other refugee
camps. The humans of my fleet are free to try their luck elsewhere if they like. I hear the Outer
Hebrides has not fared so well. From other camps, I hear news of looting, murder and rape. Scared
people can be very…scary."
Hermione surveyed the table, stared long and hard at each of the captains. "So that's it, then? All of
you have no moral objection to any of this? Every act of barbarism committed in the name of
survival is justifiable." Hermione nodded. "I see the meek will not be inheriting the earth any time
soon."
Amarov steepled his fingers as he regarded her. "You will not even consider the merits
of any reason I have given you because it suits your purposes to think of me as some kind of
monster."
She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Your insane need to create the cure first has resulted in
the death of five of my colleagues! You have kidnapped me and three others. None of us have done
anything to harm you!"
He leaned forward on the table, an unsettling gleam in his eye. "Not so." Amarov wiped his mouth
on his napkin and stood up. He turned to one of the guards. "Please show Professor Belikov and Dr
Prestin into the room. They are waiting outside."
Hermione felt her hands grow cold. There was unpleasantness ahead. Everyone in the room could
sense it.
A moment later, the doors to the dining room opened and in walked Belikov, looking like he was
being marched to certain death. His mood did not improve upon seeing Hermione there. The fleet's
chief physician—a horrid weasel of man called Prestin—followed behind.
"Alexander," Belikov said, in greeting.
"Vadim, thank you for waiting. I wanted to share the happy news with the rest of the captains."
Amarov began to walk around the table. "Friends, it would seem that the Professor has managed to
synthesize a cure for the Infection. He came to tell me personally, just before dinner."
There were gasps, surprise, and from Honoria, the same dread Hermione was feeling.
"Is this true?" Renauld demanded.
"It is what he tells me," said Amarov. "Yet more testing will have to be done, but the future is
bright, isn't it Vadim?"
The elderly scientist remained silent and grim.
"Tell me, what are the three rules for anyone who joins us in the fleet?"
Belikov was very pale now. "Obedience, loyalty, honesty."
"Honoria, what do you say? Has the Professor done it?"
Honoria looked around the room, seeking silent reassurance from the other captains. There was
none. "If the Professor says it is ready, then I suppose it must be…"
"You trust Belikov?"
"Of course."
"Good." Amarov smiled at her. It was a wide, beaming smile that brought two bright spots of
colour to her cheeks. "Hold out your arm, my dear."
She frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"Hold out your arm so I can have Prestin inject you with a dose of the pathogen." He turned to the
doctor. "Prestin, you've brought a sample?"
Hermione watched this exchange with growing horror. Granted, she would have gladly shoved
Honoria Cloot into the icy sea the first chance she got, but this? This was evil.
Honoria was perplexed. "I…I don't gather your meaning, Alexander. You want to infect me?"
"Yes," he replied, emphatic. "Vadim says the serum is ready, so curing you would be a simple
matter of giving you a dose of the cure after Prestin infects you. But only if you volunteer, of
course?"
It was sick. Hermione didn't know which was more twisted, Amarov's request or Honoria actually
appearing to acquiesce. She held out an arm to Prestin, who pulled on a pair of thick, latex gloves
and then removed a syringe from a flat, leather case. Contained within the syringe was an amber-
coloured liquid—a sample of the Infection, Hermione presumed.
Prestin approached Honoria. "Hold still."
Honoria's eyes were wide and stricken as she looked at Amarov, likely expecting a last-minute
reprieve, a sign that this was some sort of show, a charade. But then Prestin uncapped the syringe
and pulled her wrist towards him.
"Stop," came a soft voice. It was Belikov. "There is no cure."
Honoria snatched her hand away from Prestin. "What the hell is going on?"
Amarov sat at the edge of the dining table, arms folded. "I don't know. Vadim, why don't you tell
us?"
"This madness has to end, Alexander. I thought if you trusted me, you might have me administer
the serum to the captives and then release them."
"I did trust you," Amarov replied and there was regret in his voice. "As did Honoria. You leave us
no choice."
Belikov seemed resigned to his fate, whatever it was, but there was something else on his mind.
"What about my grand-daughters?"
"They will be cared for."
"You can't do this," Hermione protested, as the guards removed the scientist. She rose to her feet.
"And you're wrong, you do have a choice!"
"He lied to me. And he would have been party to the release and potential creation of hundreds of
new magical zombies on the British Isles. Have you ever seen what these creatures can do?" he
demanded. "They are as different from human zombies as you are different from me."
Renauld cleared his throat. "Nevertheless, perhaps the witch is right? Don't we need him?"
Amarov had resumed his seat now, replacing his linen napkin across his lap. "Malfoy will take
over. After all, he's used to running an operation like this. Honoria, I believe it's time to show Miss
Granger the file."
As ordered, Honoria passed a folder across to Hermione, who took it and sat down.
"What is this?"
"Surveillance photographs, pay-rolls, receipts, travel itineraries and transcripts of intercepted

conversations," Honoria said. "Otherwise known as evidence."
"You're aware that your handsome colleague was manufacturing drugs for his Master?" Amarov
clarified.
Hermione leafed through the documents. "Of course we knew. Malfoy received a life sentence in
Azkaban for the use of Unforgiveables and for his work in producing black market magical
pharmaceuticals during the Second Wizarding War."
Amarov leaned back in his chair. "But do you know what type of drugs he worked on?"
"Yes, I've read his file. It was mostly illicit narcotics and profitable cures for common ailments.
None of this is news to me."
"Indeed? I think otherwise. Your Aurors raided Tom Riddle's operations in London about seven
years ago. They shut it down and threw all those naughty little Death Eaters in jail, including your
Mr Malfoy. But the Ministry lacked the scientific expertise to determine what had been produced
in that lab. Necessity is the mother of invention and the sad truth is that magical people don't rely
on ingenuity, they just wave a magic wand to solve their problems," Amarov said. "Literally."
Hermione unearthed a scroll that held the familiar DMLE letterhead. It looked to be a list compiled
by the DMLE investigators, cataloguing the numerous substances that had been seized in the raid.
Stapled to it, was a word-processed report.
"As you can see, I took the liberty of acquiring a copy of that list and engaging an insider to verify
what was found. I trust you recognise the name of my consultant?"
The man's signature was at the bottom of every page in the report Amarov had commissioned.
"Hendry Tan," Hermione read, looking up at Amarov. "The man who worked with Malfoy."
Amarov nodded. "Riddle offered the funding, security and secrecy that enabled Tan to play God in
that laboratory. Keep reading. I think you'll see why poor Hendry thought it was preferable to hang
himself in his own lab rather than help me to bring this information to the authorities."
The report was highly technical, but by now Hermione was familiar enough with the terminology
to understand what she was reading. She nearly wished she weren't.
Viral agent. Neurotropic class. Infiltration of peripheral nervous system, afferent nerves, central
nervous system. Prodromal encephalitis. Transverse myelitis.
Mortality 99%. Application: bio-weaponry (non-magical humans)
The text on the page swirled into a mass of black scrawls. Hermione blinked to clear her vision.
She read and re-read the thing, and then laid the scroll and attached report down on the table with a
shaking hand.
"You freed the co-creator of the virus that eventually caused the Infection, Miss Granger. Tom
Riddle, Hendry Tan and Draco Malfoy are jointly responsible for the death of millions. The latter
two worked in the same laboratory. They respectively created a virus and anti-virus that was never
meant for the wizarding population. It was to be sold as a weapon or deterrent against Muggles."
Hermione blinked away tears. "But it's deadly to Magical people as well…"
"Dr Tan found an overseas buyer, but Riddle wasn't willing to part with the formula just yet. Tan
got greedy. Before his conscience caught up with him, Tan managed to sneak a sample out of the
lab without setting off any alarms. He selected a vessel that could pass through magical wards
undetected, but didn't count on the virus doing what viruses do best…"
And just like that, it all made sense. "He tried to smuggle it out inside a wizard," Hermione
surmised, her voice listless.
Amarov smiled. "Very good. Patient zero was a janitor. He came, cleaned and then went home at
night. He lived a very normal life for the next six years, never realising that he would be the
harbinger of the most deadly plague mankind has known. The rest, unfortunately, is now our
common history."
"You said…" Hermione's voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again, "You said you shared this
information with the government?"
"My contempt for your kind is well-known. I've been lobbying to have your people exposed for
years. I was told to go away, to bury that report, to not risk destabilizing a peace that existed
between Muggles and Magicals for a millennia. We were assured that the threat had been contained
by the British Ministry for Magic. After all, Riddle and Tan were dead and Malfoy was facing the
rest of his life in solitary confinement. And if the Muggles did chance to dig a little further, we
risked being the unwelcome recipients of Obliviatus, or worse. That is how you people keep your
secrets, isn't it? You destroy our memories. You control minds. Your kind cannot even be trusted to
protect the future of your people, let alone consider the lives of the billions of non-magical humans
who keep the world turning. Your arrogance has brought humanity to its knees. So I will give
wizards and witches no quarter, Miss Granger. The old world has been unmade by this plague and I
am going to help stitch it back up again. But this time, we'll be in charge."
Hermione placed her cold, shaking hands in her lap and fought not to be sick over the dining table.
The stares of the others around her were not made of anger, oddly. It was a resigned condemnation
which was even worse. Honoria was not spared from this, either, Hermione noted. Despite her
loyalty to Amarov, she still could not shake off the taint of her origins.
The truth of what Amarov was saying and the authenticity of the documents would have to be
doubted, of course. Skepticism was the hallmark of good science...
"Do you understand, now?" Amarov asked, almost gently.
She looked down at a the pile of documents—there was a black and white photo of Draco as he
walked down a London street, dressed in a Muggle suit, long legs striding across cobblestones. He
was younger and there was more of the teenager she remembered from school and less of the quiet,
weary man she saw today. The one who sometimes, in unguarded moments, looked at her as if she
had the only key to a lock he had never had any interest in opening before.
Yes, she understood now.
Harry grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the exit, "We're leaving without him."
"Harry, no." She dug her heels in. "We need him."
"No one needs that! No one can possibly be that desperate!"
She had made a choice those many months ago at Azkaban. Amarov and Honoria were responsible
for the deaths of her colleagues, but that would not have happened if Hermione had left well
enough alone. She had inadvertently freed the one person Amarov was convinced could end what
had started. And perhaps Malfoy would indeed be that person. Amarov had claimed Malfoy at
great cost to Project Christmas. The only way for all the recent death, pain, paranoia and distrust to
be worth it was if Draco succeeded. Right now, that was all that mattered.
There were eight courses in total that night. Hermione barely recalled what came after the escargot.
The world was too bright and brittle and the sounds of conversation around her was jarring. She
focused on putting one foot in front of the other, as Honoria escorted her back to her room.
"Now you know why I'm here," Honoria told her. "Hurts having your heart broken, doesn't it?" the
younger woman taunted, before she locked Hermione inside the room.
Hermione knew she was not just referring to Draco.

Forays
Chapter Summary
Richards has words with Scrimgeour. Hermione wears an evening dress. Amarov
wears cologne and I clearly SUCK at chapter summaries.
Barnaby Richards was awake when Scrimgeour entered the room.
The Wizarding Senate agent was propped up against a tall stack of pillows. There was a fresh white
bandage across his chest and right shoulder. He was already in a foul mood, having been told by
Aisha Malik that there was no 'minimum quota' of bed-rest that could still qualify as bed-rest. To
add insult to injury (a punctured lung, fractured sternum and hypothermia, if you wanted to get
technical), he'd been handed a crossword puzzle to complete.
A crossword. From a newspaper. Like some kind of God-damned, ailing geriatric.
Localised nuclear Armageddon was nigh. Muggle and Wizarding undead had sent most of the
civilised world back into the Stone Age. A murderous playboy billionaire had murdered one of
their own and kidnapped half their team.
And yet here he was trying to work out 5-across (four letters—'sanctuary furniture').
Richards took his sweet time acknowledging Scrimgeour's presence. He wrote P-E-W-S, capped
his pen and then regarded the Minister with all the warmth and affection of a tax audit. To say that
Richards was angry was incorrect. He'd been angry three days ago when he'd first regained
consciousness. He had worked through that anger.
Now, he was just strategic. It was his job, after all.
"Was wondering when you'd come down here to pay me a visit."
"To be fair, I've come down here a few times," said the Minister. He pulled up a chair and sat.
"You just haven't been lucid until now."
Scrimgeour appeared to be waiting for him to reply. Granted, Richards was still weak from blood
loss and the aftereffects of hypothermia, but not even being moments away from death was enough
to dull his acerbic nature.
"So you gonna come clean, now? Or do we keep dancin' around?" Richards smiled humourlessly.
"It's a familiar old two-step. I know why some secrets need to be kept, but seeing as we're meant to
be leading this group, you can imagine how pissed off I am to suspect you've been dancing
fucking solo."
The Minister blinked, taking a moment to digest the rampant use of metaphor. He inhaled sharply
through his long, thin nose. "What do you need to know, Agent Richards?"
Richards attempted to sit up against the pillows that Aisha dutifully fluffed for him twice a day. His
normally tanned, leathery complexion had a distinct grey cast, but Scrimgeour seemed to know
better than to offer assistance.
"You British wizards don't know understand what need to know means. I'm guessing the
Senate needed to know quite a few things before the Project Christmas collaboration. What the
blazing hell is Alexander Amarov's interest in the Project and its team members? Was Honoria
Cloot working with him?"
"She may very well have been," Scrimgeour said. "What we do know is that Amarov has been a
thorn in the side of the British Wizarding community for the last fifteen years."
"Pfft," said Richards. "You guys don't own the patent on nosy Muggles. We get those kinds in the
States. Real persistent. Most are crackpot, conspiracy theorists—"
"Who happen to be correct regarding the conspiracy in question," Scrimgeour interjected.
"Yeah, but there are ways to handle these people that do not involve endangering the community
you're trying to protect in the first place," Richards said. He scowled at the wall clock across the
room. "Malik's gonna be in here in twenty minutes with my nighty-night meds. Get to the point."
Scrimgeour met the agent's expectant stare with a look that was no less penetrating. "The Ministry
was aware that a lethal pathogen had likely been developed in Voldemort's underground
laboratories. We knew about those labs because Alexander Amarov had been conducting his own,
privately funded investigations into Voldemort's operations in his continuing bid to gather evidence
that would expose the magical world. But due to the seriousness of this discovery, he told the
DMLE what he knew. I was asked by my colleagues to authorise a raid on the labs. I signed the
paperwork and the raid was conducted three days later. Draco Malfoy was captured and Dr Hendry
Tan, the creator of said pathogeb, was found dead."
"Did Amarov have an inside man?"
"He claimed so," Scrimgeour said, "but he would not reveal his informant to the DMLE."
"It might have been Malfoy," Richards suggested. That would explain Amarov's interest in
kidnapping him after Granger and Potter broke him out of jail."
"It might have been, though I suspect it wasn't. A more likely candidate was Tan, Malfoy's
erstwhile colleague. At the moment, we have no way of knowing."
Richards narrowed his eyes. "I get that you didn't want to share the DMLE's little cover up with the
rest of the team, but I'm not part of your team. I'm the guy that represents the money and resources
you needed to make this operation work in the first place! You screwed the Senate, you screwed
your own people and you screwed me. If I didn't still have a hole in my lung and if you weren't a
hundred years old, I'd get out this bed and punch you in the face, Minister."
"What is it that you people say? Raincheck?" offered Scrimgeour, smoothly.
"You made bad calls, my friend. The DMLE needs to be reigned in."
"Yes. And I will readily concede to all of my and their mistakes," Scrimgeour said, with great
weariness. "However, we did what we thought was best at the time. The Ministry has a long and
complex tradition of secretive bureaucracy that predates me and many of the Ministers that came
before. It was my hope to have those old traditions dismantled by the end of my term as Minister. I
am not permitted to make unilateral decisions without consequences, Agent Richards. Sometimes,
it is necessary to swim with the tide in order to find an eventual, safe harbour."
Now it was Richards turn to digest metaphors. "Do you know how the Infection got out?
Obviously, the DMLE failed to keep it buried like they did with Malfoy."
"I have no idea. Perhaps Amarov knows? I was rather hoping Malfoy would know, but he gave no
indication that he did. Although, I admit when it comes to that particular young man, it's frankly
easier to read tea leaves…"
Richards snorted. "No arguments there. He's a survivor, which will come in handy for him if he's in
Amarov's custody, willing or not."
Scrimgeour got to his feet. "Despite all that has transpired, it's imperative that you believe me when
I tell you we had no reason to suspect that Amarov would harm the team that was sent to rescue
him. On the contrary, given that Amarov is aware of who and what we are, I expected him to be
cautious, but cooperative." He sighed. "You refer to them as Team Members, but you and I know
they are more than that. To me, at least."
"I believe you."
"Thank you."
"Tell me something else. Why would Amarov be holding Granger, Wallen, Patil and Malfoy?"
Scrimgeour had been about to reply, when Aisha Malik opened the door to the room. She gave
both men a breezy smile and reminded the Minister that Agent Richards needed his bed-rest.
"God damn it!" Richards boomed.
"Would you like another crossword?" Aisha asked, completely unperturbed by his outburst.
"Hell no," growled the agent. "What else you got?"
"My phone has Angry Birds."
Richards shut his eyes, looking pained. "Bring the crossword."
Scrimgeour waited until Malik had left, before speaking. "My best guess is that Amarov captured
them so that they can be made to work on the cure in his own, private facility. Or just made to
work, at any rate."
"That fits in with the rival team theory and might explain Honoria's role."
The Minister nodded. He gave Richards a commiserating, slightly melancholy smile. "It would
also mean that the work on a cure may live on, even if we do not."
The room door opened again, but it was not Aisha Malik. Dr Kate McAlister stood at the threshold,
looking alarmed. "Sorry to disturb, gents, but we have a bit of a situation!"
"What is it?" Scrimgeour asked the virologist, wand already in hand.
"You know that horde that's been building up outside? Well, they just doubled in size and are
moving towards the house."
"What exactly are they doing?" the Minister demanded.
"I'm not sure, but they're sort of walking forward and deliberately feeling around the, er, barriers?"
"Wards," said Scrimgeour.
"Yes—the wards."
"Christ," Richards exclaimed, "They're testing our electric fencing. How many?"
"More than a hundred now. Potter and Longbottom are picking them off from the attic as discreetly
as they can. They asked me to see if they can get a few more wands to assist. I already sent
Professor Yoshida up there to help."
"I'm on it," said Richards, who whipped the sheets away from his bare legs.
"No," said Scrimgeour. "If you collapse, you will be completely useless to us in the event that
horde does manage to get through."
"Can that actually happen?" McAlister asked. "What about the wards?"
Richards was also staring at Scrimgeour. "If those sons of bitches really are all magical, will the
wards hold up?"
"We cannot be certain," said Scrimgeour. "Grimmauld Place's protective wards are ancient and
complex," he explained, for McAlister's benefit. "They were originally designed to keep Muggles
away, but over the years, the Black family added additional layers, never succeeding in fully
dismantling the original enchantments in favour of a ground-up approach, so to speak. They are a
patchwork of protective magic that has shielded us from the occasional, inquisitive Muggle or
roaming zombie horde. But with any patchwork approach, there can be…gaps."
"What do you mean gaps?" asked McAlister.
Richards answered her. "He means that if enough magical beings attempt to gain entry all at the
same time, the wards could falter. They were never built for any kind of sustained, coordinated
attack."
All the colour drained from McAlister's face. "So we shore them up, right? Don't you have, you
know, spells for that?"
"We have been doing just that on a regular basis, Dr McAlister," Scrimgeour told her, in a tone that
was meant to reassure. "But reducing the risk of a coordinated attack is also paramount. If you
excuse me, I'll join the others upstairs."
After the Minister left, McAlister sank into the chair her had previously occupied. "I didn't think
I'd ever hear the words 'zombie' and 'coordinated' in the same conversation…"
"Don't worry, Doc," Richards said. "If we do lose the house, we won't stick around to defend it.
People are easy enough to transport."
"But what about all the equipment? All the samples, data and records? We lost enough of that
when Honoria destroyed most of the computers. Richards, we simply cannot afford another
disruption!"
Richards considered this. "If we do have to abandon ship in a hurry, can you make sure we have
what we need?"
"Of course. How much can we take?"
"Think of what each of us would be able to carry out of here by hand, and then multiply that by ten.
Get Malik to help you."
McAlister nodded. She stood and walked to the door.

"Kate," Richards called out.
"Yes?"
Richards opened a small, zippered case retrieved from a drawer at the bedside table. The case
housed a service revolver, photographs of his daughters and a set of keys. He threw the keys to her.
"That opens our ammunition vault in Scrimgeour's office. Have you ever fired a gun?"
"Good lord, no."
He gave her a rare smile. "No sweat. I'll teach you and Malik. You gals can't be any worse than
Mercer."
McAlister smiled sadly. "I miss him. I miss all of them."
"Yeah, me too, Doc. But we're not quite giving up on finding them yet."
Alexander Amarov walked into her room just after six in the evening. After yet another mind-
numbing day of being locked inside with no news of what was happening within the fleet, his
decision to pay her a visit in person was slightly concerning.
The man was there on an errand, seemingly.
He carried a long, diaphanous, black lace and tulle dress on a hanger, a pair of strappy high-heeled
shoes and a mist-grey, ankle-length fur coat that had probably been a hundred, separate chinchillas
at one point. He was also flanked by two guards, whom he dismissed after laying the dress out on
the bed. Clearly he did not deem her to be enough of a threat that he was unable to be alone in a
room with her.
Good.
The door shut behind the guards and she was now locked inside with Amarov, who was dressed in
a slim wool suit that was so densely black, it was borderline velvet. His hair was damp. Only just
visible through the unbuttoned second button of an azure shirt, was the metal panel of his
embedded, biofeedback device. The minute, red light flickered silently in time with his resting
heart rate. To think that something so small could control a fleet that comprised thousands of
people…
"Good evening," he said.
Hermione stood behind the breakfast bar of her room's kitchenette. Minutes earlier, she'd been
looking through the cabinets for the umpteenth time, hoping to find a sliver of something she could
use as a weapon—a large splinter, wire, perhaps a long, loose screw? It was a sign of how
desperate she was. Alas, the stateroom furniture was all very sound. The physical barrier of the
breakfast bar provided a false sense of security, but at this point she would take any boost to her
confidence.
She cast a cursory glance at the outfit he had brought. "I thought we've established I'm not wearing
your dresses."
He smiled a smile of perfect, gleaming white teeth. His blue gaze, a shade lighter than his shirt,
dropped from her face to her body, in an assessing stare that was far more personal than any he had
given her before. He observed the overkill of borrowed denim.
"It's cold topside and you can't go traipsing around in Belikov's castoffs indefinitely."
"Prisoners don't normally get to 'traipse'."
"You're not a prisoner."
"And yet there is a lock on the door." She tapped at her chin, her eyes cold. "How odd."
"Merely a precaution," he replied, amused.
She folded her arms. "From whom? You? If so, it's not working." She gave him a humourless
smile. "Here you stand."
"I'll sit, if you prefer?" And he did so—along the edge of the bed. "You are a rare specimen, aren't
you?" he asked, with what sounded like warm curiosity. "I find the reality of Hermione Granger
more than meets my expectations."
"Don't tell me my reputation precedes me?" she inquired. "If your source is Honoria, I'd take
whatever she says with a bag of salt."
He ran one long, recently-manicured finger along the lace of the dress. "It may surprise you to
know that I've read 'Hogwarts: A History', issues of The Daily Prophet as far back as they were
written in modern English, and far too many copies of Witch Weekly, which I'm actually
concerned may have atrophied my brain, somewhat."
"Yes, Witch Weekly will do that," she allowed.
He stood and walked towards her. "I knew who you were before we met, Hermione. I knew you
the moment I saw you on that fishing boat."
"What has this got to do with anything?" she asked, failing to fight the urge to retreat backwards.
"I'm not sure yet, but I'm hoping that answer will come to me in time." He sounded genuinely
perplexed. "Suffice it to say, I have a fascination with that which is exceptional." He was close
enough that she could smell his aftershave. Hermione felt the edge of the sink against her back.
There was nowhere to go. No weapons in the room, no crockery to throw, cutlery to brandish, just a
damnable mountain of European pillows, cushions and plastic bottles of water supplied by her
minders. There wasn't even a plastic tray to use as a lethal weapon (ala Malfoy).
Curious. Despite the worrying similarities between the two men, on all the occasions Malfoy had
crowded her and intimidated her, she had never felt physically repelled. The anxiety and concern
she experienced with Malfoy was very different, and that wasn't just to do with relative risk and
danger. Frankly, Amarov was just as beautiful close up as he was from a distance, but there was
something about him that made her want to pull on three Weasley jumpers and hide under the
covers of her parents' bed.
And this was without him already being a murdering psychopath.
To her dismay, he raised a hand and touched one of the curls from her mop of wild, unbound hair.
After so many days without a hairbrush, it had reverted to what Hermione liked to think of as its
primal stat. She inhaled sharply, more from nerves than anything else. The effect of this meant that
her denim-clad chest grazed against Amarov ever so slightly. She saw his pupils widen and then,
almost on que, she saw the silent red beeping of his bio-feedback device quicken.
She blinked; the realisation of what that meant began to dawn on her.
He cleared his throat. "The black dress was an uninspired choice for your colouring, I think. I
should have picked red. Or perhaps, gold? Next time."
She wrenched her head to the side and watched with relief as the lock of hair slipped through his
fingers. He seemed to enjoy the sensation it made as it escaped his hand. "I'm not wearing your
sodding dress, you maniac. Not now and not next time."
Amarov leaned in to whisper to her, "You will wear what I bring you, Hermione. If you don't, I will
come in here and dress you myself. And I assure you, that will be infinitely more entertaining for
me, than for you. Pick your battles, my dear. This is something that will not cost you greatly to
concede, yes?"
Blink-blink, blink-blink, blink-blink, went the little red light. Just as it had done on the trawler
when he'd been suffocating. Only that time it had been flashing almost without intervals and there
had been a beeping noise as well.
She'd more or less pieced together how the device worked—it was obviously meant to deter
anyone from harming him. It registered distress based on real-time information from his body and
perhaps would trigger the threatened explosion or explosions only at particular, serious levels of
distress? What qualified as serious distress? Was there a threshold that had to be reached? Could it
all be an elaborate ruse? So far, no one was calling Amarov's bluff. He obviously had the resources
to have created such an insane device.
Hermione wondered how close the kidnappers and indeed, the rescue team, had come to
inadvertently blowing up the entire fleet. The device was clearly sensitive enough to pick up on
Amarov's…well, arousal. What would happen if he fell down a flight of stairs? Or stubbed his toe?
Or cut himself shaving?
There simply had to be some kind of fail-safe. That had to be what the inverted number panel was
for—an override code that only Amarov was capable of entering.
Momentarily lost in thought, her eyes travelled to the high heels he had brought for her to wear.
Amarov would soon learn that she couldn't walk a straight line in heels above two inches. With any
luck, she'd fall over, split the dress and ruin his evening. The heels looked to be four inches, at
least. Of all the many things she was useful for…all Amarov seemed interested in doing was
turning her into his freak show arm-candy.
She sighed.
Trust him to take this as a sign of her capitulation.
"Very good," he said. "You will be my companion this evening."
"At dinner with the other captains?"
"No. Tonight, we go to the Games."

Intervention
Chapter Summary
Hermione's attends the Games for the first time.
The dress was tolerable.
Tight, but tolerable because it had long sleeves and a demure, scalloped lace neckline that just
skimmed her throat. Of course it was a too long, which was expected because the good folk at
Givenchy had apparently designed it for tall, statuesque women who were eighty percent legs. Or
mermaids. While the garment looked about as fragile as tissue, it was actually a rather sturdy
construction, which was fortuitous because the brief, boat ride to the Games Ship was undertaken
in what felt like an imminent hurricane.
A small, severe-looking woman had been shown into Hermione's room shortly after Amarov's
visit, carrying a case of makeup. She didn't speak English, but as it happened, communication was
not required. It was obscene to be dolled up given the circumstances, let alone in preparation for
the atrocity that was Amarov's Games. Hermione had no interest in observing her reflection in the
mirror, but caught glimpses of it along the many, many reflective surfaces that dotted the home
ship's opulent corridors.
As suspected, she thought she rather looked like a little girl playing dress up in her glamorous
mother's clothing.
The full moon was occasionally visible through rolling, smoke-grey clouds that were intermittently
outlined by lightning. It wasn't raining yet, fortunately. Hermione detested the fur coat, but it kept
her warm from chin to ankles. It was just as well that she wore her hair down, because no up-style
could have survived the wind.
Amarov was serious and silent as he escorted her. Hermione wondered if this somberness was in
deference to the Games. If so, he really must see them as a necessary evil. When presented with
what felt like indisputable madness, Hermione searched the countenances of the guards and
entourage that walked with them. They seemed largely unperturbed—chatting, laughing, some
clearly already inebriated. Amarov didn't admonish his companions or look upon them with
disapproval, but it was clear he would not partake of the 'festivities' in quite the same way. He was
still wearing the same suit she'd seen him in earlier, though now he'd added a white silk cravat, a
dark silver pocket square and cufflinks the same colour.
She really could have done without the warm, lingering look of appreciation he'd given her when
she'd emerged from her room, but as it happened, she actually needed the arm he extended to her in
order to balance in the very high heels. He didn't comment on her rubber ankles. He didn't
comment on anything, really, which was a relief because the last thing she wanted to do was make
idle chit chat.
It was a short ride to Louis Renauld's vessel, euphemistically called the Games Ship. The fat
Frenchman's former cargo ship oversaw everything that was so tragically wrong about Amarov's
floating city. Human behaviour was frankly fascinating in the most macabre sort of way, Hermione
thought, as a wave of profound sadness washed over her. There were clearly parallels to be drawn
here with historical wartime atrocities.
Here, wizarding captives were kept in inhumane, squalid conditions. Here, also, was where
Amarov kept his supply of zombies that were used in the Game and occasionally for
experimentation in the labs. And if you weren't aware of this latter fact, you would be as soon as
you entered the lower decks of the vessel. The place reeked of death. Not an untroubled, true death,
but the sort that lurched and loped and was relentless in its pursuit of the living.
Hermione thought of Padma, Wallen and the countless others who, unlike Hermione, would not be
able to leave the ship later that night. She thought of Blaise Zabini and his precious little Henry and
could not imagine what other Wizarding parents were going through.
In spite of these nearby horrors, Amarov's inner circle was in a celebratory mood. Any excuse for a
party, Hermione supposed. The ship itself was nothing to write home about, but this didn't dampen
the mood. The floor was mostly metal, metal grating or peeling, stained, laminate. Pilot lighting
made everyone look jaundiced. Champagne flowed. Guests dressed in formal eveningwear chatted
and laughed, while very tall, beautiful women bustled about with trays of drinks and canapés. They
had to be freezing to death in their brief uniforms.
Finite resources, my arse, thought Hermione, feeling sick to her stomach. One of these young
women approached her with the offer of a drink.
"No, thank you," Hermione said, sucking in a shaky breath.
"It helps," the woman whispered. She sounded American.
Hermione looked up and saw her own revulsion mirrored in the heavily made-up eyes of the
waitress.
"Nothing can help this," Hermione said.
The girl tossed a quick look over Hermione's shoulder, likely to check that Amarov was otherwise
occupied. "The last time we were all called to the Games, a man jumped into the Pit to save his
friend. That helped."
"Yes, that did, didn't it? Perhaps there's hope for us yet." Hermione gave her a tremulous smile.
What Malfoy had done for Zabini had been so much more than a rescue, it'd been a reminder of the
humanity Amarov was forcing his own people to sacrifice.
"And in the meantime, there's vodka," the girl said, handing Hermione a glass of it, with ice. She
handed out two additional glasses to Amarov and a new arrival—Honoria Cloot.
"Hello Hermione."
Honoria was also attired in black. Hermione thought it fitting. What else did you wear to an
execution?
"You look very nice," Honoria commented. Her words were complimentary, but her stare was
poisonous. "Alexander is very generous."
"On occasion," said Amarov. He was now at Hermione's elbow. She felt his hand on the small of
her back.
"I wish we could have discussed this before you sounded the fleet bell. Tonight's Games were not
planned. Renauld is ropable," Honoria informed her employer, in a tight voice. She kept a small
smile on her face, as if she was discussing nothing more untoward than the fine vodka.
"Renauld is always ropable," Amarov replied. As he said this, he caught the Frenchman's eye, as
the Games Master stood some distance away. Amarov raised his glass in a toast. Renauld did the
same, his round, ruddy face splitting into a grin. "You see? Easily placated with a bit of attention
thrown his way."
"We should not have another Game so soon after—"
"After what?" Amarov inquired, with a raised eyebrow. "After Renauld put a child into the Pit?
After Draco Malfoy took it upon himself to participate? Are you referring to those Games? That
was a fucking PR nightmare."
Hermione realised she was being afforded a glimpse into Amarov and Honoria's working
relationship. It was surprising to note that Amarov was not considered infallible. Equally
fascinating was that he was obviously not unused to Honoria second guessing his decisions.
"Putting Vadim into the Pit will be worse," Honoria said. "The people know him. They like him."
"Dear God, tonight's Games are for Belikov?" Hermione demanded.
Whatever answer Amarov might have provided was drowned out by Renauld's booming voice as
he addressed the crowd through a microphone. The viewing gallery comprised four levels. Amarov
and his entourage occupied the first level, which was also the only level to be serviced by wait staff
and personal attendants. Hermione wondered if the reaction of the crowd in the 'cheap seats' was
standard. There were those among them who were shouting and hollering, waving red tickets
clutched tightly in their fists. Betting tickets, she assumed. These men were here for the show and
for the wagers.
Most of the audience was subdued, however. They looked on with quiet apprehension. The arena
itself was circular with twin hatches located on opposite sides. You did not need to be an expert in
forensic criminology to work out what sort of macabre business went on in the Pit—the stench, the
stains and decomposing debris was sufficiently illuminating.
A buzzer sounded and one hatch slid open. It was dark on the arena floor, but it was possible to
make out the figure of a man who emerged from the hatch and slowly walked into the centre of the
Pit. At a signal from Renauld, floodlights turned on. There were gasps and muttering from the
audience.
"Oh, Belikov…" Hermione whispered. She barely knew him, but in the short time she'd been in his
company, she thought him to be a kind and compassionate man. The crowd also knew Belikov. He
was not Magical. He was one of them.
The elderly scientist was momentarily blinded by the lights and his arm came up to shield his eyes.
He was still wearing the same, tattered old suit he'd had on when he'd spoken to Amarov only the
night before. He squinted, removed his glasses and cleaned them, before slipping them back on.
And then he stared at the hatch on the other side of the Pit, and waited.
The buzzer sounded again and this time, complete silence descended. Even Amarov's companions
seemed to be holding their breaths. All eyes were focussed on the opposite hatch. However, instead
of the other hatch opening, it was the same hatch that Belikov had used.
Another man walked into the Pit, looking in much worse shape than Belikov. His clothing was
nothing more than tattered rags hanging off his body. Unlike Belikov, the light did not seem to
bother him. The expression on his face was one of dawning horror when he caught sight of a now
rather bewildered Belikov.
"Wallen," Hermione breathed. She glanced at Honoria and saw the same realisation settle across
her face. She was just as surprised.
The crowed seemed to know what to do. They responded by throwing down knives, metal bars, an
axe, among other things. Both men ignored the weapons. A confused Belikov began walking
towards Wallen, while Wallen began to back away from Belikov, holding out his hands and
shaking his head wildly. Belikov attempted to speak to him
Clearly, Belikov had no idea whom he was in the Pit with…or what he was in the Pit with.
Renauld picked up the microphone once more and addressed the crowd.
"What is he saying?" Hermione asked, touching Amarov's hand to get this attention.
He looked pleased that she engaged him. "One day, perhaps we will have time to teach you
Russian. He's telling them what our former and much loved friend has done to earn his place in the
Pit. He tells them that tonight is a blue moon, the second full moon this same month. A rare
occurrence." Amarov rested his elbows over the railing, drink still in hand. "Watch and see, I'm
told he will transform very shortly if last night is anything to go by."
Hermione was aghast. They really meant to go through with this barbarism.
"You can't do this!"
"I understand you feel some kinship with the werewolf, but he's dangerous. A guard who was
meant to be watching this monster last night went missing. We suspect the worse."
"You can't condemn Wallen to death because one of your men didn't check in! That's absurd!"
"It is not the monster that I am condemning to death, my dear. He should fare quite well tonight."
Yes, of course she knew that. They meant to use Wallen as a means to murder Belikov.
"No." Hermione deposited her untouched drink on the tray of a passing attendant and then moved
to stand in front of Amarov. She was aware of the many pairs of eyes on her. "No! You will stop
this immediately!"
He took a sip from his vodka. "Why?" he asked, looking genuinely curious to know her answer.
She could only stare at him. "That I even have to explain why you can't is what terrifies me."
"Are you?"
"Am I what?" she asked.
"Terrified? Of me?"
She frowned, her gaze moving to Honoria, who stood close enough to overhear the exchange, and
then to Renauld, who was now seated on a velvet upholstered chair and was balancing one of the
serving girls on his knee. Both were watching Hermione and Amarov.
Amarov bent his head, such that his lips grazed her ear as he spoke. "What really concerns me at
this point, Hermione, is just how much I don't want to terrify you."
Her stomach gave a little flip, a small jolt of triumph. Every action, every word she spoke to him
would have to be weighed and measured. Precision and nuance was everything now. Everything.
Hermione put the full force of her distress—the one emotion she did not need to manufacture—into
her eyes. She raised a shaking hand and placed it on his chest, fingers curled. "Please Alexander,
don't punish them like this. Felix Wallen is a person. He's a man, he's my friend and he's one of the
world's finest microbiologists. Use him. Don't throw him away."
"If what I have heard of Lycanthropes is correct, he is in no danger from Belikov."
"You can't do this to Belikov ,either. It doesn't matter what he did, no one deserves to die like this
and you have no right to force Wallen to be your executioner!"
"Is the monster even aware of his actions after he transforms?"
"No, not without a potion to help him retain his human mind. But there is no escaping the torment
he will feel when he wakes up tomorrow morning to find he has savaged another man to death!"
"Your friend is not a man, Hermione. He's not human."
"Then neither am I. I am something else, just like him. Just like her," Hermione said, pointing a
finger at a frowning Honoria. "How can you allow us to sit here with you, to wear the clothes you
give us, to eat at the table with you, if you feel justified in doing this to Wallen?"
"Because a lesson needs to be learned. You were there. You witnessed Belikov lie to my face.
There are repercussions."
"Belikov's only crime is foolishness. His services to the fleet and to your cause have been
exemplary, haven't they? He saved my life, for God's sake."
Amarov's jaw tensed. Hermione's always expressive eyebrows rose in encouragement.
"In times such as these, mercy is weakness," Amarov explained, in a very low voice that Hermione
knew that this was meant for her ears only.
"No," she whispered. "No, it's wisdom. It's measured. It's discretion. You have all this power,
Alexander, use it."
His gaze hardened slightly, and for a moment, Hermione feared she had overstepped. "Let me ask
you this—would you take Vadim's place right now?"
She didn't hesitate. "Granted, I'm useful in the lab, but Malfoy needs Belikov more than he needs
me. Vadim is a Muggle. The people know him and trust him. I think it would be reassuring to have
one of them working on the cure rather than an unknown wizard you recently acquired from the
enemy. If you are only going to save one man tonight, then let it be Belikov, and yes, I will take his
place in that Pit with Wallen." She realised he was holding her hand now, idly playing with her
fingers. This, more than anything, told her that her gamble had paid off.
"Remarkable," he told her, leaning down so close to her that she thought he might actually kiss her.
"You are remarkable..."
"Alexander." Honoria's voice was sharp. She addressed her employer, but her eyes were starring
daggers at Hermione. "If you are going to change your mind, I suggest you decide quickly." She
gestured at the Pit.
Though the moon was not visible, it didn't have to be to exert its ancient effect over Wallen. Brief
conversations about Lycanthrophy with Remus Lupin many years ago had provided just the barest
insight into what it was like to live with the condition.
"It doesn't matter how many times the Change takes hold," Lupin had told her once. "Each time it
happens you think to yourself, this will be the time I master it. I will be in control. Only it never
happens…and yet you live with the hope that the next time will be different."
Wallen was hoping and trying. She could see it in the taut lines of pain, panic and strain on his
face. He was curled in the foetal position on the ground, convulsing, hugging his arms so tightly
around his torso as if that could help stave off the transformation. Hermione watched, horrified,
helpless and furious.
It was third year all over again. Back then, Lupin had transformed in the darkness outside the
Shrieking Shack and Hermione had been too occupied seeing to Ron's injured leg to fully
comprehend what she was witnessing.
But this time, the light was so bright that the clarity and visibility of Wallen's transformation nearly
rendered it clinical.
Several women in the crowd screamed. The back of Wallen's already ripped shirt began to split
down the middle. A hump began to grow and protrude where the natural curve of his back had
been moments before. It was possible to see ribs stretching and shifting under his skin. The skin
was pink, raw and uneven at first, but then began to darken and thicken, coarse brown hair
sprouted—fine and sparse to begin with—but by the time Wallen's knees split the seams of his
trousers, the hair was thick enough that his skin was no longer visible. There was a sickening
sound of snapping tendons and cracking bones. His calves and thighs lengthened and the joints
where his knees had once been migrated lower. He kicked the remnants of his trousers away and
rolled onto his front, gradually rising into a quadrupedal position.
He was speaking, Hermione realised. Softly at first, but then as his voice deepened, dropping past
baritone into something inhuman. His neck doubled in length; thick, corded muscles undulated and
grew to assist this. A snout began to appear, almost as if the lower half of his face was being pulled
forward by an invisible force. When he next spoke, everyone heard, though there was no doubt it
was meant for Belikov.
"Quickly. Kill… You must. Kill me."
More weapons rained down, some even bouncing off Wallen's back. Belikov made no move to
pick up any of it. He backed up until he was almost against the walls of the Pitt. Above him,
Amarov's inner circle looked down and shouted their encouragement.
And then Wallen was very still. Tranquil, almost. This was because Wallen was no longer in
charge. What stood in his place was a physical manifestation of the curse he had carried ever since
a hike through the wood in his native Sweden had gone so terribly wrong. The werewolf rose to its
full bipedal height—tall enough that audience members on the first-level viewing gallery shrieked
and began to back away from the railing.
The creature threw its massive, thick snouted head back and howled. Hermione realised she was
squeezing Amarov's hand and that he was holding on just as hard. She saw him motion to guards
that were stationed at the fourth level. They raised riffles.
"Horse tranquilizers," he said.

Hope bloomed in her chest. "Take him down now!"
He hesitated. Hermione could see he was conflicted. She grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket,
quite sure that no one had ever attempted such a thing and walked away unscathed. "Give them the
signal to shoot Wallen!"
He looked so much like Malfoy in that moment that it hurt to meet his stare, which was insolent
and calculating while still managing to telegraph the barest hint of affection. "Give me another
reason."
"If you do this, I may just begin to trust you."
Amarov looked up at his men and gave them a subtle nod.
For posterity and because Hermione would not be Hermione if she couldn't find academic interest
in such things, Hermione added the following information to her enormous, mental notebook in the
event it would be useful in the future. It was possible to stop a charging werewolf in its tracks using
sufficient quantities of Ketamine.
She would make a point to ask Amarov exactly what dosage of horse tranquilizers his men had
used. Ten shorts were fired in total. The last one missed because the furious werewolf spun in place
and managed to knock the dart off with a paw, growling at the stupefied, gawking spectators. And
then the creature resumed stalking the only thing within reach that it could take out its fear and
frustration on—Belikov.
The darts eventually worked, though it was almost too close for comfort. Wallen went down, his
steaming muzzle landing about a meter from Belikov, one taloned paw falling mere inches from
the Professor. Wallen huffed once and then was still. Belikov looked like he was about to lose his
dinner. He slumped to the ground very slowly, as if concerned that sharp movements might cause
Wallen to spring back to consciousness.
But that was not going to happen. Wallen had one more 'performance' to deliver. Insensate
werewolves could not maintain their Lycanthropic forms. Limbs shortened, fur receded back into
skin that was now slicked with perspiration. Talons became short fingernails and paws turned into
the slim, blunt-ended fingers of a man. The snout, ears and tail disappeared.
What was left on the arena floor was an unconscious, naked, middle-aged man with nine
tranquilizer darts spread out across his flank, back and upper torso. And it was the sight of this that
brought Belikov out of his stupor. He crawled across to Wallen and pulled out the darts. Hermione
held her breath as Belikov checked for Wallen's pulse. The old scientist blinked up into the gallery.
With a shaking hand, he gave the audience the thumbs-up. Wallen was alive.
The audience did not know what to make of this. A few individuals clapped with as much sobriety
as they could manage. There was some grumbling, no doubt from winnings that could not be
collected.
Hermione grabbed her fur coat from the chair she had draped it over and walked to the railing. No
one stopped her or said anything when she threw the coat into the arena. Belikov saw this and
nodded at her. He carried the coat over to Wallen and laid it across the unconscious man.
Amarov wasn't entirely pleased to be the recipient of the stunned looks from his companions. And
they were indeed stunned. Hermione was certain that the Games had never been called off before
Malfoy had thrown that first spanner into the works by jumping into the Pit. And now, less than a
month later, another bout was unexpectedly ended. While the exact reasons would remain a
mystery, gossip would do the damage. The assembled crowd had seen her there with Amarov and
had witnessed their exchange. Amarov had just publically demonstrated that he was willing to be
swayed.
By his pet witch.
Hermione braced herself for the inevitable backlash from Amarov, but when it came, it was
minimal. He was possessed of either extreme self-confidence or extreme self-control.
"Take her to the transport barge," he told Honoria. "I would like to speak to the Captains while they
are here." He walked briskly to join Renauld, who was staring at her with cold incredulity.
Honoria was not gentle when she grasped Hermione's arm. "You've won the battle, but the war is
something else," she hissed into Hermione's ear as she dragged her along.
"I know you hate the Games, too, Honoria."
The look Honoria gave her was of such intense loathing that Hermione flinched.
"It's not about the Games."
No. For Honoria, it was all about Amarov.
Hermione belatedly realised that she may have been mistaken. It wasn't actually Amarov she
needed to be seriously afraid of.
They were escorted back by five guards. Hermione heartily wished one of them was Anatoli, but
no doubt the large guard was busy with his main assignment, Malfoy. Honoria accompanied her
only as far as the transport vessel. She had business to conduct elsewhere. Hermione found herself
taken aboard the home ship by the guards. They were distracted as they conversed heatedly in
Russian, occasionally casting her troubled, scathing looks. It had finally started raining and she was
absolutely freezing without her coat. No one offered a replacement and Hermione did not ask for
one.
She actually found herself glad to be back aboard the warmth and comfort of the home ship, even
if it was her prison. There was less of the spectre of…well, death. Things were chaotic, however.
Other residents of the ship, all members of the fleet elite who had not attended the Games in person
that evening had seemingly heard about what had happened.
The guards were mobbed with aggressive questions in about three languages as soon as they
stepped into the foyer. The residents wanted to speak to Amarov. Hermione noted Belikov's name
was mentioned quite a bit. She assumed that many of the them were unhappy that the leading
member of the fleet's scientific team and one of only three trained medical doctors had nearly been
sacrificed at the Games.
Hermione was pushed and jostled. She bent down to unbuckle the straps of her high heels and then
removed them, sighing with relief as she placed her bare feet upon the thick, foyer carpet. When
she stood, she saw that the guards were some distance away—and only two of them had noticed
this fact. They scanned the jostling crowd, looking for her.
It was then that she saw him—Malfoy. Hermione thought she could have picked him out of a
crowd of a thousand people in less than a minute if she had to. It was an odd mixture of joy and
misery to see him. He exited the elevator doors Hermione had passed through minutes earlier,
which meant that he had also caught a transport vessel back. Had he been at the Games? He
walked with his ever-present shadow, Anatoli. The two men had been talking, but fell silent as they
took in the angry mob in the foyer. Anatoli bent his head to whisper to Malfoy, who nodded and
continued ahead alone at a brisk pace.
Hermione didn't stop to assess the wisdom of her decision. She saw a chance and took it. Her petite
size made it slightly easier to slip through the crowd. Several residents bumped into her, some
stopped and stared at her quizzically, but no one attempted to detain her. As she reached the bottom
of the corridor, she saw Malfoy was already half-way up the stairs to the next level. Cursing his
long-legged gait, she clutched her shoes to her chest and sprinted soundlessly after him, not quite
daring to call out for him to stop.
She caught up to him at the next level.

Truth
Chapter Summary
Hermione and Draco share a moment, where she confirms her worst suspicions.
Chapter Notes
This chapter contains one of my favourite scenes. The amazing Avendell was
commissioned by a reader to create a truly beautiful piece of art depicting the scene.
https://avendell.tumblr.com/search/zombie%20apocalypse
He twisted around as soon as she touched him, his left hand clamping down on her elbow, his right
hand on her wrist. He applied pressure…quite a bit of pressure, actually. For one tense moment,
Hermione thought he was going to break her arm, but then he saw whom he had a hold off and the
aggression on his face changed to surprise. He released her.
She seized her opportunity to pull him over to the nearest cabin door and try the handle. It was
locked. They hurried further along the corridor and tried another door. Also locked. There were
voices coming around the top of the corridor, near the stairs. Hermione wondered if she was about
to badly regret her decision when the fourth cabin entrance gave way.
With a small groan of relief she opened the door, shoved Malfoy inside, and shut it softly behind
her. Still holding her ridiculous shoes by their ankle straps, she looked through the peephole for a
moment, checking to see who was walking down the corridor outside.
Malfoy stood in the middle of the room that was identical to his own, arms crossed, silhouetted by
the night sky through panoramic windows that were devoid of drapes. He wore a black cable-knit
jumper, a long grey scarf wound loosely many times around his neck, and dark jeans. Beyond the
windows, the lights from the other vessels in fleet were the only thing visible in the thick darkness.
They would not risk turning the lights on, however.
She turned to look at him, all of sudden not quite knowing what to say and how to begin saying
what she needed to say. Whatever they ended up discussing, they needed to be expedient.
"That was a very brave and decent thing you did for Belikov and Wallen," he said, ending the
silence.
Hermione rubbed her arms. It would be a very long time before she'd forget the look on the poor
Professor's face. "Well, it was either that or do what you did to save Zabini. And I couldn't very
well jump into the Pit in these shoes," she muttered, dropping the impractical footwear on the
carpet. "Or this dress…" She plucked at the lace. There was very little give.
It was difficult to make out his expression in the darkness, but his tone was very warm when he
spoke. "You have no idea how you look, do you? You've never cared in the way that most women
do."
Hermione wasn't quite sure how to take that. "I was wondering when we'd resume juvenile insults,
but there are more germane topics to discuss right now, if you don't bloody mind?"
"Are you paid so few compliments in your life that you cannot tell when you receive one?"
Frustrated with his calmness, Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but was hushed into silence by
the sound of brisk footsteps passing along in the corridor outside.
"They're going to tear this ship apart looking for you," Malfoy said. The footsteps passed.
"It's a big ship. We should have a few minutes."
"Only a few minutes?" He placed his hand over his heart, mock wounded. "It seems you have been
grossly misled as to my virility."
A furious Hermione walked over to him. "This is not the time. I want some answers from you. I am
going to get to bottom of Amarov's, the Ministry and your lies before Amarov's goons inevitable
come in here and drag me away."
His expression as he stared down at her was once more unreadable. Hermione almost wished she
was still wearing the shoes. It would be a novel experience indeed to not constantly endure Draco
Malfoy quite literally looking down his patrician nose at her.
"Is he treating you well?"
"Yes. If by well you mean he treats me like a sodding doll. He won't let me assist you in the lab.
Padma's treating the fleet. Even Zabini's been granted tasks that suit his talents. Keeping me locked
up in my room is a complete waste of resources."
"Is that what you are—a resource?" he asked. "Or are you the doll he's keeping purely for display?
And if so, does he want to play with you at some point?"
On that, Hermione was silent, but she knew they had both already drawn similar conclusions.
"I'll cross that bridge if and when it comes," she said, curtly. "What I want to know now is the truth
about the source of the Infection."
"I see."
"I see? That's it? That's all you have to say?" she demanded. The fingers of her wand hand splayed
widely. She made a tight, shaking fist with that hand and then wrapped it in the palm of her other
hand. The urge to cast was so strong, she could feel tiny little jolts of magic building under her
skin. "I'm going to ask you a direct question and you're going to give me a straight answer or I'm
walking out of this room without another word. Is that clear?"
"Crystal," he said. She could have sworn the temperature in the room dipped slightly.
"Did you assist in the creation of the Infection or not?"
"Yes and no."
She'd been expecting it, but the admission still shocked her to her core. Hermione walked to the
bed, sat heavily on the edge of the bare mattress and dropped her head into her hands. "I think I'm
going be sick."
Her gaze was fixed on the carpet. She frowned down at the dark, geometric pattern. Presently, she
saw black ankle boots enter her field of vision. A warm hand touched the back of her neck. She
allowed this, even though she felt she had no right to receive that comfort, nor Malfoy to provide it.
"Ask me what you want to know, Kiska," he said, almost kindly. "We don't have much time."
"How were you captured?" she whispered, still unable to look at him.
"I know as much as you. The Ministry Prosecutors told me that I had been betrayed to the DMLE
by Voldemort."
"All the information I obtained from your file said the same thing—that Voldemort sacrificed his
profitable drug operation in order to punish you. But of course, since Voldemort was then killed by
Harry, that allegation could never be verified…"
Malfoy snorted. "Astounding. How far you've come that you actually doubt the honesty of DMLE.
What changed your mind?"
"Amarov told me he was using Hendry Tan as a consultant, if not an informant. And very soon
after this, your lab was raided. How fortuitous," Hermione commented, with contempt. "I don't
think Voldemort turned you in, Malfoy. I think the only way the Ministry knew about that lab was
because Amarov tipped them off."
"So the Ministry lied regarding how they knew about the lab in order to hide the assistance of a
Muggle who was determined to reveal the wizarding world for what it was." Malfoy considered
this at length. "You almost have to admire Amarov's persistence."
Hermione rose to her feet and began pacing about the room. "Why does your file imply that you
were responsible for Tan's suicide? You never saw him again after you were incarcerated, but
you've never denied being responsible, either."
"That's because I suspect I was indirectly responsible," Malfoy admitted.
"How?"
"The Conscience Curse."
Hermione gasped. "You cast Paenitet on him?"
"Yes."
Paenitet was a difficult curse. As was the case with most dark magic of this nature, it took
something out of you. A small sliver of peace and well-being was irreversibly sliced away with
each casting. Paenitet was only borderline dark, but the thing about the Conscience Curse that
made it particularly tricky magic was that you had to feel the same regret in order to seed it and
amplify it in another person. The source of the contrition was, in fact, the spell-caster.
"Why?" Hermione asked, although again, knew the answer.
Malfoy was staring out the window now, hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans. He observed
the fleet as he spoke. "D.R.A.C.O was my chief assignment. It's a broad-spectrum antiviral not
made for any single, specific purpose. I worked alongside Hendry Tan, but I never actually needed
to know what his assignment was."
"But you guessed it was something bad, didn't you?" Hermione prompted. "Something that had the
potential to inflict a great deal of damage?"
"Riddle often spoke of wanting to create a deterrent that he could keep locked up in a vault, in the
event there was ever any large scale conflict with Muggles. He was of the opinion that such a
conflict was inevitable."
"That deterrent was the Infection," Hermione whispered. "That's what Tan was hired to produce."
Malfoy nodded. "And I was hired to create a means of controlling it."
"You're a bioterrorist. Tan created a virus that's killed millions and you stood by and did nothing..."
Malfoy met her agonised, condemning stare. "I was hired to create a range of profitable
pharmaceuticals and a cure to whatever blight Hendry Tan designed."
"But you knew," Hermione insisted. "You knew what was being created in that lab!"
"I knew it was dangerous," he clarified. "At the time, I viewed the assignment as just that—an
assignment, a job, a challenge that was perfectly melded magic and science. I had never conceived
of such an opportunity before, and certainly not at the behest of Voldemort."
"That is not an excuse," she hissed. And to her horror, she found that she was crying. "There can
never be an excuse or penance to make up for what you people did!"
"It's not my excuse, it's merely a fact. And I am not in the market for penance, Granger. I look for
opportunities." Now, there was a hardness in Malfoy's voice which almost made him sound
unrecognisable to her. He leaned against the wall that divided the sleeping area from the lounge,
arms folded once more. "Penance and remorse is not quite my thing, I'm sure you'll agree?"
"What about the official pardon? Were you ever truly serious about that?"
"Oh, I think we can rule that one out now." His smile was sardonic. "Would you have released me
from Azkaban had I told you the truth?"
Hermione didn't hesitate. "Yes! Because you could still do what we need! You are doing what we
need!"
"The difference is that I would have no real leverage, would I? And I suspect we would not have…
whatever it is we have now."
Her tone was scathing when she spoke. "You and I have nothing right now except a responsibility
to get this cure out to the people as soon as possible." She paced the floor. "Why did you cast the
Conscience Curse on Hendry Tan?"
"Whether you care to believe me or not, I had no intention of letting anything Tan created see the
unrestricted light of day. And frankly, neither did Riddle. But I didn't trust Hendry. He was
unstable to begin with. He was Muggle. He wasn't a Death Eater and he had no understanding of
what Riddle's movement was about—he didn't identify with it or with us. His motivations were
much more...mundane."
"Money," Hermione concluded.
"And power. That virus was priceless. I took out my own version of an insurance policy in the
event Hendry did have a price in mind. As a result of Paenitet, it seems conceivable that Tan offed
himself rather than live with whatever guilt he was harbouring, but apparently not before he
secreted the virus out of that lab." Malfoy paused to consider this fact. "Does Amarov know how it
got through the bio-wards?"
"He said it was through a host—a wizard."
Malfoy swore under his breath. "I wish he'd informed me of that earlier, it changes how we
approach mutations. And what about the original D.R.A.C.O samples?"
"I don't know," Hermione said. "The Ministry didn't report finding any samples when they raided
the lab. No one outside the DMLE investigators and Prosecutors was allowed near that
investigation. All they wrote down was that D.R.A.C.O had been on the manufacture list. Five
years later, when we began collaborating with the Americans, they went through any relevant
Ministry files and it was the Americans who suggested D.R.A.C.O's potential. They are the reason
why Harry and I risked that trip to Azkaban to find you." Hermione faltered. "I assumed…I just
assumed Scrimgeour simply didn't understand or didn't know that we may have had a cure all
along, because of your work."
"Had the Americans not looked, that file would have gone unnoticed, and had you not defied
Scrimgeour, I would still be in Azkaban now." He gave her look of such weary frustration that it
brought a lump to her throat. "I may have played my part in the creation of this virus, but you do
realise that the Ministry cover-up is the reason why you didn't have a workable anti-virus a year
ago?"
It hurt to know that. Hermione thought of the trust and affection she held for Rufus Scrimgeour, of
all the decent, hand working men and women at the Ministry, and the hurt intensified. Harry knew
firsthand what it felt like to be betrayed and abandoned by Magical bureaucracy and he had always
remained slightly dubious of Ministry authority. But Hermione had fallen into step as soon as her
Ministry employment contract had been signed, hadn't she? She wondered now why it had been so
enticing to her at the time. So…comfortable and safe and welcoming even though the work had
never been truly challenging.
It was probably because that Ministry job was final, unshakeable proof of her place in the
Wizarding scheme of things. How far did the secrets and lies go? What else had the Ministry and
DMLE done? Malfoy had already painted such an unbelievable picture—of rogue Aurors who
horribly abused their positions.
"Why didn't you say anything to the Prosecutors?" she whispered, her voice breaking. She looked
at him with tear-filled eyes.
He sighed. "You know what I am."
She blinked. Two tears escaped, rolling down her cheeks. "I don't understand—"
"Six years ago, I was a Death Eater who would have killed you given the chance. When they
captured me, I was a hair's breadth away from being Kissed for crimes that did not already involve
aiding and abetting Voldemort. What would you have me say? Whom could I trust to carry that
message? Though it is the law, I did not receive independent counsel during my trial. My Ministry
appointed representation was a farce. Ultimately, locking me away ensured that the secrets of that
lab stayed hidden. And from my perspective, for six years those secrets did stay hidden. When
they put me in that glass box, I fully expected to die there. Until I saw you."
Hermione took a step backwards to steady herself before finding Malfoy's hands cupping her upper
arms. A world that was already upside down was now spinning. She was mortified. How could she
falter now, of all times? This could not happen. It would not happen while there was still so much
to do. The distant lights from the fleet whirled before her in a dark kaleidoscope.
"Easy now, breathe," she heard him say, concern replacing the earlier hardness. "Slow, deep
breaths."
She tried to pull away. "I don't know what to do any more…."
"Yes, you do." He took more of her weight, supporting her. "Listen to me," he said, shaking her
lightly. "Neither the situation nor the plan has changed. We want the same things. A cure and
escape. And given what we both know about how stupidly stubborn Potter is, he's likely mounting
some crazy plan to find and rescue you as we speak."
"But Scrimgeour…"
"Look past the Minister and his mistakes," Malfoy told her, enunciating each syllable sharply.
"Project Christmas lives on with or without him. In the absence of expertise that could have been
provided by Yoshida, Mercer, McAlister and Longbottom, I will make do with the facilities and
resources here that we did not have at Grimmauld Place. And thanks to your intervention, we may
have Belikov back."
"But do you need the rest of our team?" Hermione asked.
"Without them, it will take me longer," he admitted. "I don't have Longbottom's Herbology
training. Processing the nectar from the Kunlun Peach has been a process of trial and error…a
lengthy process."
"But can you do it?" she asked. "You must promise me you'll do it. Do what you need to do, no
matter what happens."
It was the look in her eyes that gave him pause. He frowned at her. "What do you mean no matter
what happens? What happens to whom? To you?"
"Promise me?"
"Answer my question!"
The door handle began to turn. They'd been found. Hermione had locked it, but this was no
obstacle. There was shouting on the other side of the door. "Open!"
She steeled herself. "Time to go."
Malfoy's face was all shadows, but his unease was apparent. He ignored the pounding on the door
and did not release her from his hold. "Granger—"
They tried kicking it in, which only resulted in the man on the other side crying out and swearing
loudly. These were not cheap, plywood motel doors. Someone else called out for a keycard to be
brought. Yet another guard had other ideas. Hermione had no hope to make out the muffled, rapid
Russian, but Malfoy had no such problems. He quickly pulled her clear of the doorway just before
several shots were fired clean through the door handle, obliterating the lock. The door was pushed
open and the lights turned on.
Five extremely angry guards began shouting all at once. They pointed handguns at Malfoy and
ordered him to release her.
Hermione turned to face them, palms held up. "No need for that, gentleman. I'm afraid I ran off to
have a chat with my colleague. This is completely my fault and I'm coming along quietly now."
She made to walk away, but found that she could not. Malfoy's arm was shackled around her waist.
"You haven't answered my question," he spoke into her ear. One of the guards stepped forward,
addressing Malfoy in a low, threatening tone.
Oh dear.
"Draco, let me go or they're going to hurt you."
Merlin help her, she didn't want to go. She wanted to stay locked in that room with him indefinitely
and to hell with…yes, to hell with culpability and responsibility and everything else. Malfoy had
such enviable strength. Hermione ached to borrow some of it.
She turned around to face him. Now with the lights turned on, she could see the panic in his eyes.
On anyone else, it would be stock standard in a situation like this. On Malfoy, it was vulnerability
and it was damn near mesmerising. She was utterly transfixed.
"If you want to stay with me, then I will make it so you will stay with me," he said, tautologically.
And to her growing alarm, she felt tension radiate through his body, felt him take a fighting stance.
As if hypersensitive to the shifting situation, she saw the guards glance nervously at each other.
They gripped their weapons with white-knuckled fingers. Hermione had never really seen Malfoy
in combat; had never seen him give in to the type of violence that even Harry and Ron, both such
good men, had not been immune from. Welwyn didn't count because he'd been fighting zombies
and she'd been half unconscious from blood-loss to remember much of it. She knew he had a
reputation and she wondered if the guards were so obviously on edge because maybe they'd been
there the day he jumped into the Pitt to save Blaise and Henry.
But not even a man who was lethal with a plastic dinner tray could fare well against five, armed
guards. Hermione would not allow her weakness to be the cause of his death.
She licked her dry lips. "I have to go. You have to let me go now."
He dropped his forehead against hers. "I cannot."
A guard approached them and placed the end of his gun barrel against Malfoy's temple. No
translation needed, really. Malfoy's molten silver gaze flickered across to the guard. He spoke,
sounding like he'd been speaking Russian since infancy. Hermione had no idea what he said, but it
was smooth, sinister, sibilant and resulted in the guard's complexion changing from red to white
and then back to red again. She had to diffuse the situation, and quickly.
"You have work to do," she told him. "Fix the mess you helped create."
It worked. His hold over her loosened and that was all that was required for Hermione to be pulled
from his slackened grasp.
It was almost amusing to note that one of the guards had the presence of mind to stop and pick up
her detestable shoes before they left.
Blaise Zabini was covering his sleeping son with a blanket when Draco returned to his quarters.
The place was in a shambles. Closet doors were open, clothing was tossed to the ground and the
bed was at an odd angle. Blaise put his finger to his lips and then beckoned Draco over to the
lounge room so that they would not disturb Henry.
"What in the world is going on?" Blaise hissed. "Did they really put Belikov in the Pit? Why did
the guards come in here demanding to know if I was keeping Hermione Granger hidden in the
sodding closet? They scared Henry half to death. It took me an hour to calm him down after they'd
gone. And Merlin, what the hell happened to your face?"
Draco was silent for a moment. Then he got up, walked across to the fridge and removed a plastic
bottle of mixed spirits. Alcohol was de rigueur for such conversations with Zabini. He uncapped it,
took a long sip and winced at the hideous concoction. Suitably fortified, he began answering the
questions.
"Amarov called the Games tonight to make an example of Belikov."
Blaise swore. "So he actually went and did it. The old fool actually thought he could lie to
Amarov?"
"It would seem so. He was scheduled to meet a most horrible demise at the hands of a man who
spends most of his time studying and revering the tiniest of creatures…"
"Your scientist friend? They put Vadim into the Pitt to be ripped apart by a werewolf," Blaise
concluded, grimly.
"Dr Felix Wallen," Draco said. He took another sip and then held the cold bottle against his
swollen cheekbone. "Sans Wolfsbane Potion, of course."
Blaise sat down, heavily. "What happened?"
Draco's snort of amusement was unexpected. "Hermione Granger happened. She intervened,
somehow managed to change Amarov's deranged mind and so Vadim—that lucky bastard—lives
to see another day. Though this was not before Wallen transformed before the assembled audience
and I can tell you, the Muggles will not forget that sight any time soon."
"No doubt that was Amarov's intent," Blaise said, with malice. "To parade our monsters."
"In answer to your other question, Granger saw an opportunity to speak to me and she took it. The
guards weren't very impressed with my poor attitude after they took her away."
"Ah. That would explain the guards' visit here earlier."
Draco sank back against the lounge, shutting his eyes and still holding the bottle against his face.
"I'm sorry they frightened Henry."
Blaise sighed. "He's dealt with worse. So where's Belikov now?"
"I don't know, but I have a feeling Granger will petition for his reinstatement at the labs. If we're
lucky, it will be business as usual come morning. Speaking of which, do you have the information I
asked for?"
"I do indeed. As I was running inventories today, I asked around among the maintenance crews on
the other boats and yes, you were right—just like you and Patil discovered on the Games Ship,
there does seem to be at least one sealed shipping container stored in the lowest deck of every
major vessel, even the ones that don't usually carry any freight."
"How many containers?" Draco asked.
"Fifteen spread across ten vessels…with one notable exception."
"Let me guess—there isn't a sealed container in the basement levels of this ship, is there?"
"No," Blaise said, his eyes widening slightly. "How did you know that?"
Draco replied with yet another question. "And in terms of the positioning of these ships in the fleet.
Would you say they are dispersed fairly evenly?"
It took Blaise a while to come up with the answer. He went through each ship by name and relative
position within the fleet. "Yes. I suppose they are. Each time the fleet drops anchor, all the larger
vessels more or less maintain a consistent distance within the fleet. What does this mean? What's
inside these containers?"
Draco threw the bottle to Blaise. "Our end game." He got to his feet. "Get Anatoli and Desmond.
We'll meet upstairs at the labs in thirty minutes."
Trade
Chapter Summary
Hermione had a quiet moment with Amarov, much to Honoria's dismay. A planned
bartering mission to the mainland may present an opportunity for the prisoners of the
fleet.
The captain of the Cassiopeia was disgruntled. Thankfully, he spoke several languages including
English, and so the disgruntlement was not due to language barriers. It was mostly due to
bafflement.
"Say again?"
"I want you to transfer all four containers above deck and then drop them into the sea," said Blaise.
The man was chewing something. It wasn't gum. Tobacco probably. "Dis ones, dey not gonna
float. Dey sink."
Blaise was possessed of vast quantities of patience. "That, my good man, is the general idea.
Floating containers would constitute a collision risk."
The captain's first mate was a woman. Blaise recognised her as the spectator who had helped him
and Draco during their bout in the Pit. The Cassiopeia's assistance during that game had
unfortunately not gone unnoticed by Renauld, who had cut the ship's rations that week. Still, there
appeared to be no hard feelings towards Blaise on the part of the captain or the first mate. It
seemed the Cassiopeia did not hold a grudge.
"There's nothing inside the boxes," the first mate said to Blaise. She was much cannier than the
captain. It sounded suspiciously like a question. "You want us to throw empty boxes into the sea."
Blaise countered with a cheerful, neutral expression. "Correct. They weigh a great deal and take up
space and fuel that could otherwise be more efficiently used. They won't be missed. Amarov wants
to lighten the fleet's load and save fuel when we set off once more."
"When he want dis done?" barked the captain.
"As soon as possible."
The man rubbed at his beard. "OK. We can do dis afternoon."
Blaise thanked him for his cooperation.
The first mate walked Blaise to his transport vessel. She was clearly used to calling the shots on the
Cassiopeia, despite her youth.
"What they do to you and your son…it was very bad."
"Yes it was," Blaise agreed. "And there'll be more of that to come, so long as Amarov is in charge."
"So we find some someone who is not Amarov to be in charge?" she suggested.
Blaise paused as he climbed down a fixed, metal ladder into the waiting boat. He still had eight
more vessels to visit before his task was completed for that day. "I'd be very careful whom I said
that to."
She stared at him for moment, amused. "Da. That is why I tell you. Take care, Mr Zabini. If you
need help from the 'Peia any time, you ask for Marina. That is my name."
It was tempting to speak more on the topic of sedition, but it was far too dangerous. As Draco said,
knowledge could be a very risky in the wrong hands—even in Blaise's hands. After the impromptu
meeting in the labs two nights ago, a plan was in motion and not even Blaise and Anatoli knew all
the details.
All they knew was that the containers had to be disposed of discreetly before it came to Amarov's
attention. Over the past few weeks, Blaise's visits from ship to ship with his inventory clipboard
had become a familiar and mundane sight. They were counting on this familiarity to lessen the risk
of the ship captains growing suspicious enough to contact Amarov regarding the alleged order to
dump empty cargo containers. Not a single captain had made that call so far, likely because no one
wanted to annoy an already agitated Amarov.
But Blaise had learned something on this most recent ship visit. Draco would be pleased to hear it,
no doubt. The fleet was closer to mutiny than they had suspected. Even if they hated the Wizarding
contingent of the fleet, the Muggles had a conscience and Amarov had been testing it beyond its
endurance.
Hermione was seated at an ornate, French rococo writing desk in Amarov's personal quarters.
It was her first visit to his rooms and the first time she had actually been given something
productive to do. She gathered he had gotten over his initial anger at her for publically disrupting
Belikov and Wallen's match in the Pit.
On this occasion, she was allowed to wear her chosen 'prison garb'—Professor Belikov's denim
trousers and matching shirt. Someone had seen fit to launder and return them, pressed and folded.
There had also been a pair of socks and white sneakers in her size. Finally! Practical footwear.
Hermione had no idea what she'd done to earn these particular concessions, but she was grateful for
them nonetheless. Shoes meant greater mobility and less of the feeling that she was some kind of
wayward child being kept in her room as a punishment.
Apparently Honoria was otherwise occupied and so Hermione had been asked to stand in as scribe
and sounding board. On the desk before her was a hastily scrawled letter written by a Sir Terrence
Gillies, a British property magnate who had thus far avoided the worst of the Infection with his
family from inside a custom-designed underground bunker at his palatial home in Bath.
Gillies had been forced to leave the security of his bunker when his supplies ran out. He'd been
ransacking warehouses along the harbourside at Avonmouth when he had fortuitously run into
Amarov's men loading a boat after a supply run in the city. Gillies felt compelled to pen a note to
Amarov. The message had been taken back to the fleet by Amarov's men and now lay in front of
Hermione, open to consideration.
"They said he was a lunatic to build that bunker," Amarov commented. "I've met Terrence, of
course. He's an inbred imbecile, but let the history books reflect that he was a prepared imbecile."
"If he's a lunatic because he built a personal bunker, what does that make you?"
Amarov winked at her. "Eccentric."
Hermione resumed her task of scanning through the long, running paragraph of items Gillies was
offering up in trade. Gillies' handwriting was testament to his desperation. The erratic note spoke of
his dire need of fuel, if he was to keep his bunker generators running.
"There can't possibly be anything he has that we need," Amarov pondered.
"I'm not so sure about that," Hermione said. "He says he's got a portable desalination device."
"Does he, now?" asked Amarov, blue eyes blazing with new interest. To her unease, he was
suddenly above her, his palms braced on either side of her on the desk, his face centimeters away.
He wore a gold and onyx ring on the index finger of his left hand. His cologne was different today.
It wasn't unpleasant. In fact, he'd been coldly courteous and distant since the Belikov incident. This
was the most time she'd spent in his presence since.
She cleared her throat. "If Zabini's recent fleet supply records are as meticulous as he insists, we
have plenty of everything Gillies' wants to swap, but the de-sal unit is priceless."
"Then why is he giving it up?"
Hermione scanned the note, trying to make sense of Gillies' chicken scratchings. "Apparently he
doesn't know how to use it."
Amarov snorted. "Like I said—imbecile."
"If it works, it would be a massive boon to the fleet. No more fresh water shortages." Hermione
read further along the note. "It's in pieces, so it might be prudent to verify if it's in working order
before you part with any fuel for it."
He waved a hand in dismissal. "I can do that."
That earned him a look of surprise from Hermione. "You?"
"Before I went into the family pharmaceutical business, my undergraduate degree was in
Engineering at Cambridge." He smiled at her. "Not quite Hogwarts, but I learned a thing or two."
"Surely there is another engineer in the fleet you can send?"
"Perhaps, but I'd prefer to see this through myself. Micromanaging is an unfortunate family trait."
She'd been wondering for a while now and could no longer contain the question. "What happened
to your family?"
He walked towards a tall, mahogany cabinet to pour himself a drink. After checking several crystal
decanters, all of which were empty, he took a new bottle from the bottom of the cabinet and opened
it with a grimace.
"I suppose it would have been too much to hope that Gillies has some descent whiskey to trade. I'm
running low."
"Do you not want to talk about your family?" Hermione prodded.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked, simultaneously answering her question.

"No, thank you. And I see talking about your family obviously bothers you."
Amarov walked across to a leather lounge and sat, sipping from a cut-crystal tumbler. "It does," he
admitted. "And I'm fortunate to be in a position where there aren't very many things I have to do
that bother me. I'm surprised you weren't briefed about my background by that American Agent…
what was his name?"
A jolt of grief. "Barnaby Richards. You killed him, remember?"
"Of course I remember. I remember what I had to do. As far as I was aware, he might have been in
league with your Ministry."
"There's no way to confirm if Richards knew about the Ministry's attempt to cover up the existence
of the Infection," Hermione insisted.
He nodded. "That's right. There was no way to confirm, so I made a decision. What is that saying?
It's better to ask for forgiveness than permission? And I wasn't about to ask Agent Richards'
permission for anything. I had no guarantee of my safety."
"You will never be forgiven for what you did, what you're doing."
"You'll note I haven't asked for your forgiveness," he said, taking another sip. He gave her a
shrewd look. "Not yet, anyway."
Amarov set the tumbler down on a wide, marble coffee table and learned forward in his seat. He
rested his forearms on his knees. As always, he was dressed in a suit, though he had discarded the
jacket hours ago. "I was never going to give you the Kunlun Peach. What would you have done
then, Hermione? Abduct me? Force me to agree?" One-handed, he undid the top two buttons of his
white shirt to reveal the biofeedback device. "You had no idea about this," he said. "Any
inadvertent harm to me would have destroyed the fleet, the Kunlun Peach and any advancement
with Re-Gen."
Damn it. He was right. He was a sociopath with sadistic tendencies, but he was also correct in this
instance. Richards had been more than ready to coerce Amarov into turning over the Peach and
given Amarov's unsavoury history with the Ministry for Magic, he had no reason to trust anything
Richards might have said. The rescue mission had been doomed from the start. And given how
meticulous Richards was when it came to strategy, this could only mean that he hadn't known
about Amarov's prior association with the Ministry.
Scrimgeour had not told him. And good people had died because of it.
"I had a fiancée. Newly minted, in fact." came the belated reply to Hermione's earlier question. He
held up his left hand, showing Hermione the ring she'd noticed earlier. "She gave me this on our
engagement, just a month before the outbreak. My father died years ago, but my mother was alive
and well when the Infection reached us. As were my two younger sisters. One of them had two
little boys—my twin nephews. They lived in London not far from me. I also had four aunts, three
uncles and a total of eighteen cousins. Many of them had young families. Does that answer your
question?" He was watching her closely as he revealed this.
"They're all gone." Hermione said, quietly. It didn't need to be phrased as a question. If even a
single distant member of Amarov's family had survived, they would be here with him.
He drained the remainder of his whiskey and began rolling the cool tumbler between his palms.
"You put the fleet together after they died, didn't you?" she guessed.
So that was it—the fleet was the outcome of his grief and anger, and likely, his inhumane policies
stemmed from some level of blame and envy directed at all wizarding people. When faced with the
pain of bereavement, other people screamed, cried, ranted or perhaps threw themselves into risky
situations (Harry was a good example of this).
What could you do if you had Amarov's connections, influence and money?
You could create a floating city where you had complete control over its inhabitants, which
included a resident population of wizarding folk. Micromanagement, as he said. He insisted he was
keeping them on board for their own benefit, but now Hermione suspected he might be doing it as
some kind of indirect punishment.
He didn't offer a reply to her question, bringing their discussion back to the previous topic. "We'll
make the trade with Gillies. I'll have to look at the contraption first, of course."
Hermione walked to a framed map on the wall. She traced a line with a nail-bitten finger. "For this
to work, you'll have to bring the whole fleet to the nearest accessible port. That appears to be
Avonmouth, seeing as that was where he bumped into your men. Maybe send Gillies a message to
transport the machine to the pier?" She turned to face him, looking concerned. "How far can you
be from the fleet before…?"
"Boom?" asked Amarov, amused. "Don't worry little witch, with the fleet anchored in the harbour,
I can safely disembark and have a chat to Gillies without blowing everyone up."
"Good to know," Hermione muttered, though she really wished he'd tell her the precise proximity
threshold for detonation. "Is it necessary for you to go personally, though?"
He stood and walked towards her. "Is that concern for my welfare I hear?"
"You know full well that this infernal device you have subjected us all to renders any concern for
your welfare a moot point. You die, we all die. "
"Don't worry, I'll be fine," he said, with a small smirk. It was horrible how much he reminded her
of Malfoy in that instant. "I am confident I'll be able to check that the unit has all its components
and be back before sundown. If it looks in order, Gillies can have his fuel." Amarov stood nearly
toe to toe with her. He was observing her closely. "This suits you."
"What does?" she asked, staring at his biofeedback panel. Blink, blink, blink went the red light.
"Helping me."
She supposed it had to happen. It had certainly been coming.
The reality of the kiss was still not something she had adequately prepared herself for. Amarov was
slightly taller than her, so all it took was an almost imperceptible tilt of her head to encourage the
descent if his mouth. If he'd been hesitant before, there was no evidence of it now. His lips touched
hers as his eyes closed. His hand found her chin, grasping her face as he pressed harder against her,
opening her mouth with his own and delving into it with his tongue. Hermione made a frightened,
choked sound. No feinting required—her alarm was quite real. Amarov responded by pulling away,
blinking down at her face. His hand fell to her shoulder.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come," called Amarov, without moving away from her.

Honoria entered, startled to find Hermione already there. Amarov's half-opened shirt, his hands on
her person, and the drink on the table didn't help matters. Her face burning, Hermione felt
compelled to take a step away from Amarov, not that this prevented Honoria from staring at
Hermione with such loathing that even Amarov noticed.
"How goes our progress in the labs?" Amarov asked her pointedly.
It took a moment for the animosity to dissipate from Honoria's eyes. Her expression was more
contained when she addressed her employer. "Belikov is back to work with what appears to be
renewed vigour."
"No doubt Malfoy is pleased to have him back?"
Honoria sighed. "There seems to be very little that can visibly please Draco Malfoy."
"Except an impromptu visit from his erstwhile colleague, perhaps?" Amarov said, casting a
reproachful sideways glance at Hermione. "You gave your minders quite a scare the other day."
Hermione smiled coldly in return. "Prisoners' perogative."
To Honoria, Amarov said, "It appears that Sir Terrence Gillies has a portable water desalination
unit that we want. Tell him we agree to the trade. You will find him at his family estate. Do you
know the place?"
Honoria nodded.
"Bring Gillies and his device to Avonmouth Port. Take as many men as you need." Amarov
checked his wristwatch. "Give us four hours. The fleet shall rendezvous with you at the harbour. I
will inspect the machine there and if it's sound, we will transfer the requested amount of fuel to
Gillies."
"Alexander, I feel I should point out that the last time you left the fleet, you were kidnapped for
three weeks!"
"That will serve as a cautionary tale," he said. "I won't be unprepared this time and I certainly won't
be alone."
"I'd feel better if you took Anatoli with you as well. I'll find someone else to babysit Malfoy in the
interim."
"Fine," he said. "Make the necessary arrangements."
Honoria stared at Hermione as she left. "As always, leave it to me."
Draco looked up from the centrifuge he was loading. He pushed safety goggles up and over his
head. "Do you feel that?"
Across the lab, Belikov and the lab assistants had noticed as well. "We're moving."
"Why?" Draco asked the only person among them who was likely to know.
Anatoli shrugged. He was straddling a swivel chair, half-heartedly leafing through a sports car
magazine. "Could be many reason. Could be no reason."
Draco rolled his eyes. "As helpful as that is, is there a way to actually find out?"
The answer presented itself when Honoria and four additional guards turned up at the lab. This
caused no small amount of anxiety among the lab staff, all of whom warily retreated to the back of
the room. Belikov's recent experience in the Pit was still very raw on everyone's minds.
Honoria was dressed for the outdoors and like the men that accompanied her, she was armed. She
barely looked at the others. Instead, she crooked a finger at Anatoli, speaking to him in Russian.
"You're to accompany Alexander on a trade mission."
Anatoli dropped the magazine and stood. He looked none too pleased at the new assignment. The
last attempted trade mission had gone badly. "What about him?" he asked, inclining his head
toward his charge.
"Malfoy stays here." She turned to the four guards. "In fact, under no circumstances will anyone
leave this laboratory until I've returned. If someone tries it, hurt them."
Honoria and Anatoli left, leaving the guards standing just outside the entrance of the lab. Two of
them carried automatic assault rifles in addition to the handguns that seemed to be standard issue
for all fleet guards.
Draco resumed loading the centrifuge, though not before he and Belikov shared a mutual look of
unease.
Death Eater
Chapter Summary
Start the clock.
After a long morning spent with Amarov, Hermione was escorted back to her room by guards that
were taking no more chances. They practically linked arms with her as they walked.
She'd had a shower earlier, but after her close encounter with Amarov, she could think of nothing
more fitting than a bath.
So she filled the enormous bathtub with hot water, tempered it slightly, stripped and sank into the
tub. The home ship's engines had started, which meant that Honoria had disembarked or was about
to. And in a few hours, Amarov would follow suit. She could feel the hum and low vibration
coming up through the floor, causing the water in the tub to shimmer ever so slightly.
Hermione remained in the tub for an hour and a half. It was impossible to relax completely given
the fact Amarov or his guards could enter her room at any time and she had no means to lock the
bathroom door. On a slate-tiled wall ledge beside the bath were numerous tiny bottles of toiletries.
There was carved soap and pumice and artfully rustic, wooden-handled loofahs that probably cost
more than half a day's wage back at the Ministry.
She'd read the labels on the toiletries—back and front—despite the fact it was all in French and
thus annoyed her with its non-inclusivity. A round, stainless steel face mirror on an extendable arm
was mounted to the tub. She pulled it towards her and stared at her reflection, ruddy and wet from
the steam, damp curls plastered along her hairline. Her lips red and glistening from the heat.
Absently, she raised a hand and touched them lightly, remembering Amarov's recent kiss.
The expression that stared back at her in the mirror was one of calm contemplation. If only the
Cowboy was alive to see his previously unthinkable suggestion unfold in an almost textbook,
clichéd fashion, albeit on a man other than Malfoy.
Hermione had never seduced anyone in her life; not even Ron. Though there had been a time in her
late teens that she would have gladly given it a go if someone had taken her aside and bloody
shown her how to do it. The face that stared back at her in the mirror was so painfully
unexceptional that Hermione wondered whether there was something inherently damaged about
her that seemed to elicit the attention of…well, dangerous, slightly unstable, criminals.
As she ran one wet, wrinkled index finger along her lower lip, her memory drifted back to a
different kiss—the one she had ceded to Malfoy in exchange for more of the D.R.A.C.O formula,
and the follow-up kiss he had stolen.
OK, so maybe she and Malfoy had history, albeit one where they had tried to kill each other at least
once or twice. There was also the fact that he was a brain. A really big brain, hidden under
compressed, diamond-hard layers of elite wizarding culture, Bloodism, daddy issues, neglect,
indulgence, probably some mummy issues, and a great deal of pain and isolation.
The complexity of Malfoy wasn't enough, though. Not enough to hold Hermione's focus. She
frowned as she thought about it. What was it, then? Aesthetically, he was like some sort of pale,
brooding Byronic anti-hero, the sort historian Thomas Babington Macauley had once described
as, "a man proud, moody, cynical, with defiance on his brow, and misery in his heart, a scorner of
his kind, implacable in revenge, yet capable of deep and strong affection." The kind who was
banned from all the decent gaming clubs because he'd been caught counting cards—but would
happily meet you with pistols at dawn if you dared to call him out—and who spent his inheritance
on good claret and bad women.
The notion was so fanciful that Hermione had to bite her lip to quell a smile. The point was that he
seemed like that whilst somehow managing to stand beside her in quiet, almost awe-filled
reverence at a scientific, technical or medical conundrum solved. He saw the same logic, patterns
and meanings that she did and recognised the same exciting potentials. Hermione had been
assailed, several times now, by the sensation that despite their vast differences, she and Malfoy
viewed much of the world through the same lens, though his was considerably less rose-tinted than
hers. They shared an uncomfortable mutual knowledge about how things essentially were.
And then there were his spectacular moments of…well, what else could you call it but Harry-level
heroics? Sure, if you asked Malfoy about why he'd saved her and Alec Mercer at Welwyn Hospital,
or why he'd jumped into a pit full of zombies for Zabini and little Henry, or about her life-saving
surgery after she'd been shot during Amarov's rescue, he'd probably stare at you with no small
amount of condescension. He'd tell you about strategy (his) and wishful thinking (yours) and you'd
roll your eyes, but secretly you believed that under all that ambivalence was something deep and
immensely powerful that could move him on occasion. And for Hermione, seeing that part of him
again was starting to become an item on her bucket list.
With a sigh, she sat up in the tub, drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin upon them. The
unpleasant thing about letting your imagination out for a walk like this was that eventually you had
to reel it back in. Back to reality, to the prison that was her room and to the cooling bath she wished
she could hide in forever. Malfoy was a mystery she would not have the time or the opportunity to
solve. He had very important work to do. In the grand scheme of things, he was more valuable than
her. She had no wand, no Harry, no Ron, no freedom. Thank goodness, then, for all the sodding
time she'd had to observe and think.
Hermione was good at thinking.
All she had now was her ridiculous plan and unless Alexander Amarov was an even better
manipulator than Malfoy, it appeared the plan was actually working.
The two ship captains tentatively waved at each other from on board their respective vessels. In the
narrow channel of water between the two enormous tankers, the last six (ostensibly) empty
containers in the fleet were now sinking below the waves.
Not a single call had been made to the home ship regarding these very unusual orders. There was a
tacit agreement among every ship complicit in the dumping of the containers—do as told and don't
ask questions lest a plan they did not yet comprehend was unwittingly unravelled. There was
plausible deniability among the captains. The orders had seemingly come from Amarov himself, so
why question it?
Zabini's task was complete and the fact that nothing had exploded yet was reassuring to everyone.
Though ultimately unsurprising to Draco.

Hermione climbed out of the bath, drained the water and wrapped herself in an enormous, fluffy
white bathrobe from the closet. She'd just been about to dry her hair when the door to her quarters
opened.
Louis Renauld, dressed in colours that would make a male peacock envious, waddled into the
room, accompanied by the two guards who had brought her back from Amarov's quarters. There
was a fourth man— a tall, thin man she recognised as the fleet's physician, Dr Prestin.
"What do you want?"
Renauld gave her a smarmy grin. "Good afternoon, my dear. So sorry to trouble you, but we need
some of your blood. You see, we are running some tests…merely as a precaution. Nothing to worry
about. Hold your arm out for Dr Prestin and we'll be done quickly."
From memory, nothing good ever came from Prestin approaching anyone with a syringe. Also,
they must think she was a bloody idiot.
"You're not here to take blood. What's in the syringe?" she demanded, because it clearly contained
something.
Prestin sighed, giving Renauld an 'I told you so' look.
The two guards rushed her. She ducked under the hands of the first one that tried to grab her, but
could not evade the second man. He tackled her around the middle, bringing them both to the
carpeted floor. The man gave no quarter, he turned her over, straddled her abdomen and
backhanded her across the face. The pain was sharp and intense. She tasted blood and felt the
bottom left section of her lip jut unnaturally into her mouth. Despite the shock, she struggled,
kicked and tried to buck the guard off. Her screams were abruptly muffled by the second guard's
hand. She bit down hard on it, feeling revolted when her mouth filled up with blood.
Now, even Renauld got involved. Breathing heavily, he lowered his sizeable frame to his knees and
used the belt of Hermione's bathrobe to gag her. The white terrycloth belt rapidly stained red.
"Quickly!" he hissed.
With her right arm now held down, Prestin attempted to inject her with the mystery substance. As
far as Hermione was concerned, she was fighting for her life. Her violent thrashing caused the first
needle to snap off her in her arm. An annoyed Prestin pulled it out and wasted no time brandishing
a replacement. This time, it took all three men to hold her down so that she was sufficiently
immobilized to receive the second injection from Prestin.
Hermione felt a brief stream of icy cold enter her arm and then a familiar languor overcame her.
Her last coherent thought was an almost misplaced kind of relief.
It wasn't the Infection. It was a sedative.
The fleet came to a halt about three and a half hours later. It was impossible to see what was
happening above-deck as the laboratory level was below the waterline. Still, everyone working in
the lab heard the noise of moving equipment and heavy, booted footsteps as Amarov's landing
party transferred across to a cruiser, several levels above. Amarov's decision to leave the ship on a
trade mission had not been anticipated, but Draco's plan was flexible enough to allow for it.
Anatoli had a role to play in said plan, which was a pity because he wasn't around. He was
important, but not integral.
Unlike Zabini, who was currently outside the labs attempting to gain entry. One didn't often hear
Blaise Zabini whinge, but he was putting on the performance of his life for the guards.
"Are you telling me that I carried twenty kilos of hazardous chemicals down here for nothing?"
"No one goes out!" snapped one of the guards. Their English was very basic and Zabini spoke little
Russian.
"I'm not asking for you to send someone out. We need to go in. Inside, you understand?"
"No one goes out!" came the repeat reply.
"Alright," said Blaise, sounding increasingly shrill. "You lot sort this stuff out yourselves, then!
I've been at it for sixteen hours! If Amarov wants to work me to the bone, at least allow me a
moment to have a cup of tea or I'm not going to be of much use to you tomorrow! I'm English! I
need my tea! I've been out in this weather all morning putting these boxes together!"
There was the sound of rummaging and plastic. "What is this? This is dangerous?"
"Mate, I don't have a fucking clue. I was told to not let it touch my skin while handling it and the
blond twat in there also said not to breathe over it."
Draco imagined all four guards simultaneously stepping away from the boxes. In short order, the
lab doors were unlocked. A quick warning glance from Draco prompted the entire scientific team
to look extremely busy as the doors opened. An irate Zabini entered, balancing three boxes. This
was followed by a duffle bag and two boxes. After the doors shut once more, the annoyance fell
from Blaise's face. He carefully placed the boxes on a workbench.
"Is it done?" Draco asked.
"It's done," Blaise replied. "All the suspect containers are gone from every ship."
"And Henry is in a safe location?" Draco asked.
"He's with Belikov's grand-daughters on the Cassiopeia, as per the arrangement," Blaise said. "It
was damned risky, but we've also successfully transferred across all of your family members in the
last hour," Blaise added for the benefit of the anxious lab team.
"What about the Cassiopeia's captain and crew?"
"Marina and her men are ready. Granted, they're not terribly well armed yet, but there's a fair
amount of bloodlust, I can tell you…"
"Good."
Draco quickly removed sacks of potassium chlorate and began tossing them to the lab team. There
was a flurry of activity. Tension was high and nerves were stretched taut, but everyone had a
specific task to see through. Plastic bags of stockpiled, unrefined sugar were taken from the
shelves. One of the lab assistants began carefully dispensing drops of sulphuric acid into tiny glass
ampules which were then screwed shut. Another team member lined up stoppered glass beakers on
the workbench. Draco and Belikov stood at the end of this assembly line when Blaise approached
him.
"We need to talk."

It was the utter dread and seriousness of Zabini's expression that garnered him Draco's full
attention. "What is it?"
Blaise took in a deep breath. "I received word that there appears to be an unscheduled bout in the
Pit, soon to commence."
Belikov heard this and frowned. "A game? But there has been no bell sounded. This is most
unusual. Amarov would not call for a game if he's not here to witness it."
"This one's not for the fleet or, we're beginning to suspect, for Amarov." Blaise hesitated before
continuing. "Malfoy, I think Renauld is putting Granger in."
Draco slowly put down the beaker he'd been holding. "How do you know this?"
"I heard it from a maid who saw them carry her off the ship about thirty minutes ago. She was
unconscious. They did it right under Amarov's nose just before he left the ship."
"So he never ordered it," Draco concluded.
To those who didn't know him well, the expression on Draco's face seemed perfectly contained.
But Blaise had known him since they were children. He touched Draco lightly on the arm and was
unsurprised to feel the tight, corded tension there.
"It seems that there are other plans afoot," Belikov said.
Blaise turned to the Russian scientist. "Something serious is happening within the inner circle. This
has Honoria's stench all over it."
Belikov was not so sanguine. He looked from Blaise's troubled expression to Draco's seemingly
calm one. "That young woman saved my life! Surely we are not going to let her die today!"
"How does this affect the plan?" Blaise asked. "I cannot imagine we factored making a detour to
the games ship?"
Draco beckoned to another lab team member to take his place in the Molotov Cocktail production
line. "You're not making the detour. I am."
"Are you sure that's wise?"
Draco stripped off his lab coat, revealing a fitted black jumper underneath. He removed several
rolls of black electrical tape from a drawer and a pair of small scissors.
"Zabini, are we really going to have this conversation?" His tone was mild, almost conversational,
but Blaise felt the knife's edge beneath.
"No, I don't suppose we are," Blaise muttered.
Draco held out an arm. "Then tape me up."
Blaise began unwinding tape around Draco's arms, adhering it to the jumper, rather than tightly
binding his arms, so that Draco's movement would not be restricted. "How exactly are you going to
get to her?"
"The plan is unchanged. We take the armoury first, then the bridge. You and Belikov initiate auto
lock-down of every cabin on this ship and then broadcast the necessary fleet-wide announcements
from the bridge. I'll make my own way to the games ship and bring Granger back to the
Cassiopeia."
"You're convinced the other captains will fall into line?"
"I hope they will."
Blaise had finished taping around one arm. Draco experimentally bent his elbow to check for
flexibility. He glanced at a wall clock. When he next spoke, he addressed the entire lab team.
"Ladies and gentleman, we're at least three hours away from the last containers we've dumped
overboard, which means that we should be well and truly past whatever detonation boundary
Amarov claimed to have set."
"There were no explosions," Blaise elaborated. "We would have heard or seen something
otherwise."
Draco nodded. "And Amarov remained none the wiser the whole time. His biofeedback device has
apparently not registered anything anomalous. What does that tell us? More importantly, what does
that tell the captains?"
Belikov looked slightly overcome. He dragged a chair forward and sat down heavily. "My God. It
was all a bluff," he said. "No bombs, no danger."
"He's vulnerable now," Blaise concluded, with a small, sinister smile.
"He always was," Draco said. "He was just clever enough to play on our fears."
"Did you suspect this all along?" Belikov asked.
"Yes, and I don't believe I was alone. However, there was the concerning presence of supposedly
empty containers that were unaccounted for on these ships. We had to neutralise that perception of
threat."
"Did he plant them there just in case anyone went looking for evidence of hidden explosives?"
"Well we looked, didn't we?" Draco said to the Professor. "Can you think of a better deterrent? No
one would risk opening those containers without knowing what was inside them."
Belikov stood. "Even if we set the people free, Alexander cannot remain. He will die before he lets
the fleet go."
By now, Blaise had finished taping up Draco's other arm. There was just enough black tape left for
Draco to wrap it around his palms and knuckles, leaving his fingers bare. He opened the duffle bag
and removed the dismantled tranquilizer rifles that had been used to take Wallen down. Unlike the
weapons currently contained within the home ship's considerable, locked armoury, these ones had
been kept unsecured just outside Wallen's cell.
"Amarov is not going to survive the end of today once we inform the citizens that they are free to
do as they like," Blaise pointed out.
Draco finished screwing together the various components of the tranquilizer rifles and then
strapped one of them across his back. He put his white lab coat back on, buttoning it up.
Blaise stared at him.
Draco stared back. "I'm going to go and get her, Zabini."

"I know. Don't die. Henry is very fond of you."
"He's fonder of his father. Stay alive."
"I shall do my best," Blaise said.
In the background, Molotov Cocktails wrapped in wads of toilet paper were being carefully loaded
into backpacks, makeshift weapons were retrieved from hiding places, distributed and concealed in
pockets.
Draco turned back to the rest of the team, most of whom looked like they were about to wet
themselves from fear. These people were scientists, not soldiers. But there was a fortitude and
righteousness alongside the fear, honed over months of living under Amarov's yoke.
"If anyone wants to back out, do so now. I won't have any second thoughts travelling with us today.
You'll only get your colleagues killed."
No one moved. No one said anything.
Belikov took a scalpel from the workbench and stared down at it. With gravitas, he said, "It is a
truly terrible thing that I hold this in my hand today with the intent of harming another living soul."
He sighed. "I took an oath as a young man, you know?"
Blaise and Draco were loading up their boots with all manner of destructive, pointy implements.
"Don't worry, Professor. We'll get you a gun soon enough."
That wrung a wry chuckle from Belikov. "Appreciated, Mr Malfoy."
"Oh, to be able to hold a wand again," Blaise said, under his breath. He stretched and then clenched
his right hand.
"This would be short and beautifully violent work, indeed, with magic."
Blaise sighed. "Stop, you'll make me cry. Are we ready now?"
The fleet's resident Death Eater nodded. "We're ready. Start the clock."
Begin
First, there was the sound of glass breaking (beakers thrown to the ground). This was followed by
an argument in English—involving two men, some name calling and obligatory shoving—and then
several folding chairs were flung at a wall, for good measure. The cherry on top of the lure sundae
was a short, sharp scream from one of the female lab members.
In short order, all four guards burst through the laboratory doors to determine just what the hell
was going on. They were confronted with the confounding sight of Draco and Blaise wrestling on
the ground, or, more to the point, Blaise had Draco pinned to the floor and appeared to be
strangling him. Other lab team members stood around the fighting pair, looking hapless and
alarmed.
Belikov rushed forward, a study in long-suffering resignation. "Gentleman, will you please stop
these two hot-headed fools before they break anything else in my lab!"
Hands that had been nervously hovering over weapons relaxed. Belikov was clearly not in a panic.
This was no emergency. This was what happened when stress and fatigue caught up with you.
Even the eggheads were not immune, it seemed. The guards knew all about short fuses that could
be lit by weeks of tension and fatigue.
"Here, now," admonished one of the guards. He repositioned his automatic rifle across his hip and
buried his hands into the back of Blaise's jacket. He pulled. "Stop this!"
The other members of the lab team tightened the circle, herding the guards closer to the tussling
wizards. Blaise spun around as soon as he felt the guard's hands on him. A chloroform-soaked rag
was immediately pressed up against the startled man's face. He crumpled to the ground beside
Draco, who struck out with his foot, knocking a second guard under the chin just as he reached for
his pistol. The man staggered backwards and was promptly smothered with chloroform by two
female lab technicians. This left two additional guards, who were beset by at least a dozen
scientists. They jumped on top the men, pinning them to the ground and divesting them of their
weapons and walkie talkies. There was quite a bit of yelling and an unfortunate woman caught a
flailing fist to the face, but the guards' struggling was quickly remedied with chloroform and the
enthusiastic application of masking tape.
After it was done, Blaise tossed the rag into the corner and swaying a little on his feet. Draco
grabbed Blaise's arm to steady the man.
"I did tell you not to breathe it in."
"Yes, you did," said Blaise. He shook his head vigorously, to rid himself of the woozy feeling.
"How did you manage to make this stuff?" This question was directed at Belikov, who had been in
charge of concocting the chloroform.
"With a combination of bleach, acetone, ice, and happily, the oversight of thugs who know nothing
about chemistry," Belikov replied.
Draco was assisting the lab team in tying up the unconscious guards. Presently, he stood back to
admire their handiwork. Now came the tricky bit. He slipped off his white lab coat and began
distributing the pilfered weapons.
"We're going to be doing a fair bit of running, so only carry what you need," Draco told Blaise and
Belikov. "The weight won't feel like much now, but it will when we're on the move." He slung a
rifle across his chest and tucked a pistol into the waistband of his trousers. One of the walkies was
clipped onto his belt. Belikov showed him how to mute the volume and change channels. Draco
then retrieved an elastic band from a drawer and tied his hair back. Several shorter strands escaped,
but he tucked these behind his ears. "Take your lab coat off," he instructed Belikov. "Nothing
bright, white or likely to show around corners when we're skulking. We'll be noticed soon enough,
but the later that happens, the better."
One of the three remaining walkies crackled. There was a brief static buzz, followed by a long
stream of heated Russian.
"What's being said?" Blaise asked. He had removed his coat and jumper and was now, like Draco,
more suitably attired in dark colours. A member of the lab team handed him a backpack loaded
with Molotov Cocktails. He very carefully slipped it on.
Draco listened with a frown. "The guards are unsettled. They're talking about the unscheduled fight
in the Pit." He paused and then looked across at Blaise. "There are apparently two combatants."
"Two?" Blaise looked up with a frown. "Who is the second?"
But the chatter ceased. There was no more information coming through.
"Two against many is better than one against many," Blaise said. He was clearly recalling Draco's
unexpected assistance in the Pit.
"It will buy Miss Granger some time," Belikov added.
If all this was meant to reassure Draco, he gave no indication that it did, or that he needed it. He
walked to the lab entrance and checked the corridor outside. It was clear.
"Let's move."
The sunshine was piercing.
Hermione instinctively screwed her eyes shut and brought up an arm to shield her eyes from the
painful glare. Her arm felt encumbered, thicker than usual. Her bare wrist brushed against
something fine and soft, suspended just above her face. Curious, she splayed her fingers apart and
felt what she registered to be long, unbound hair thread through them. Confused and groggy, she
attempted to sit up, only just noticing that her head was pillowed on…why yes, that was a lap.
"Easy now. I have no idea what they gave you, but it was bloody strong."
"Padma?"
Hermione blinked rapidly. She raised herself up into a sitting position, using Padma's arms for
support. This simple movement caused the meagre contents of her stomach to roil back and forth.
She swallowed audibly, hoping to quell the acute sensation of seasickness. All the while, the sun
burned down over them. Only, there was no heat. It was bitterly cold, in fact. As Hermione
regained her bearings, she discovered that they were not outdoors. The glare of sun was the
massive spotlight that shone over the Pit.
Oh no.
Padma's returning stare was one of grave concern. "They brought me in first. And then they
dropped you at my feet, unconscious. That was about half an hour ago."
Hermione pulled her ankles into a cross-legged position. Presently, she was not too out of sorts to
ignore the fact that there were bits and pieces of people littering the floor. She stared down at her
clothing, only just noting that the confining sensation was due to her being dressed in some sort of
workman's jumpsuit, with rubber boots. No sign of the bathrobe. At least they had given her
clothing.
"I was tackled in my room by Renauld and Dr Prestin. They stuck me with something…knocked
me out."
"Yes, well I think they dearly wished they'd done that with me, too." Padma held up her hands so
that Hermione could see the blood and bits of skin under her fingernails from where she had
presumably scratched the men who'd taken her. "I've heard of the Games, of course. We all
watched on helplessly when they took Wallen away and then brought him back. But I've never
been allowed to witness any of the matches. Have you?" Padma's baleful stare was heartbreaking.
"Yes."
"Are we being made to fight zombies today?" Padma asked, in such a matter of fact tone of voice
that Hermione felt the rage rise up inside her.
The question was insane. It belonged in an alternate universe.
Using her hand to shield her eyes against the bright spotlight, Hermione got to her feet and peered
up into the stands. There, on the first level of the viewing gallery, was the familiar large shape of
the Fatman.
Renauld was alone. Hermione was not surprised. There was no doubt in her mind that the fight was
unsanctioned. Amarov was back on land, likely unaware. And where was Honoria? Surely Renauld
had not taken such drastic action without her involvement?
"Think about this," Hermione called out. Without a crowd, the Pit was so silent that she did not
need to shout. Her voice carried easily.
Renauld walked to the railing and sneered at her. "We have given it much thought. You are a
danger to the fleet."
"How exactly am I a danger?" Hermione asked. "Amarov keeps me locked up almost twenty-four
hours a day!"
"It is precisely because of Alexander that we are doing this. Since your arrival, he has been…
distracted."
"By distracted you mean he's managed to reconnect with his sodding humanity!" Hermione swept
her arms wide to indicate the Pit, letting the bleak reality of the situation colour her expression and
her tone. "What the hell do you think this is, Mr Renauld? This is not a means to maintain order or
exact penalties. This is monstrous! This is torture and sadism! To call it anything else is
delusional!"
"The delusion works, Miss Granger."
Hermione laughed. It was a full-throated laugh that conveyed the depths of her incredulity. "It
works for people like you, you mean?" She nodded as she said this. "For the elite in this fleet who
make the rules? History will judge you by how you treat the most vulnerable in your care."
"We are not exempt from the rules, either! You saw what happened with Vadim!" Renauld's voice
cracked.
"That scared you, didn't it?" Hermione stated, nodding. "I see it now. Amarov dared to put one
of you into the Pit, rank, station and utility be damned. If you have a problem with Amarov's brand
of consistency, why take it out on me? It's him you have an issue with. Talk to him. Counsel him, if
you must."
"You are the issue, Hermione. Not Alexander," answered a female voice. It was Honoria. She
appeared at the fourth level of the viewing gallery carrying a duffle bag. Renauld was relieved to
see her. She climbed down the metal staircase to join him. Clearly, Honoria had just boarded the
vessel. She was dressed for the outdoors in trousers and a thick, dark coat. Her long, straight brown
hair was windswept.
"You're back earlier than expected. Where is he?" asked Renauld.
"Still at Avonmouth loading the desalination unit into the boat. We don't have much time."
Renauld frowned down at Hermione and Padma. He spoke to Honoria again, but this time, it was in
Russian and he was making an attempt to whisper.
Hermione could not make out what was being said, but she recognised a disagreement when she
witnessed one. She felt Padma come to stand beside her.
"What's going on, do you suppose?"
"Dissention within dissention, it would seem," Hermione replied. "Whatever they decide to do,
they're going to have to do it soon before Amarov finds out."
"What's your relationship with this man? Correct me if I'm wrong, but it sounds like he doesn't
want you in here."
"You're probably not wrong."
"You have a plan, then?"
Hermione sighed. "Stall these two until Amarov returns?"
Padma appeared to be thinking. "You know, it's not that big a fleet. Word gets around quickly,
especially among the guards. If anyone else knows about this impending game, the news is likely
to have reached the labs by now…"
"He's not going to come," Hermione said, giving Padma a sceptical look. "Not even Malfoy is
going to be able to singlehandedly fight his way through guards on both vessels in order to reach
us. And he wouldn't put himself at such risk. Not when there is so much at stake."
"Now who is the delusional one?" Padma hissed. "And I don't think you have full comprehension
of what that man is capable of. Did you know he and some other allies have been sneaking supplies
to the Magical captives on this ship?"
This was news to Hermione. Damn it, it was all news to Hermione. She'd been cloistered away for
so long.
"And if you're going to refer to what's important to Malfoy in terms of his priorities, I daresay you
rank higher than the wellbeing of those captives!"
"Padma—"
"Don't Padma me," said an annoyed Padma. She exhaled some of her frustration. "All I'm saying is
that if Draco Malfoy knows we're in here, it's very likely he's going to try to do something about
it."
Hermione was terrified by this prospect. "What could he possibly do?"
Padma shook her head "I don't know." She stared around the arena. Her gaze dropped to her feet.
"Hermione, I don't want to die here today."
No. Padma was not going to die there today.
With renewed resolve, Hermione took a step forward and addressed Honoria, who was still in
heated debate with the Fatman.
"Honoria, pray tell how does killing Padma solve the problem of my alleged influence over
Amarov? Are you so spiteful that you're willing to dispose of one the few fleet doctors because you
have a problem with me?"
It was clear that Renauld felt similarly disturbed by the prospect. He gave Honoria a pointed look.
"Padma is here because she matters to you," was the simple reply.
Hermione didn't think she had it in her to be even more horrified. "You're really that malicious?"
"I suppose I must be."
"Why put us in the Pit?" Hermione demanded. "Why bother with all this when you could just shoot
us?"
"Because finding you in here will remind Alexander of the responsibility he took on when he
created this fleet!" Honoria screeched. She was holding onto the railing with both hands, leaning
over and fairly screaming at them. "Don't you see? He needs to remember! I have
given everything to him. I have done things in his name that would turn your stomach! I have acted
against my own people for him! What has it all been for if he is permitted to change his mind on a
whim? Because of a witch, of all things! This is where we pass judgement! This is how we deal
with anything that threatens our order! He will remember that fact!"
"Merlin on a broomstick, she's stark raving mad," Padma muttered.
"You don't really believe that, though," Hermione implored. "You know this is wrong, that it has
always been wrong. You're doing this because you love him."
Honoria was apoplectic. She looked like she'd been struck across her face.
Hermione turned her attention to Renauld, staring at him with unwavering intensity. "Amarov may
very kill you for this. Is your life worth her jealousy?"
Renauld paled, but said nothing. He managed to cast a sideways glance at Honoria, but was quelled
by the white-hot mania in her eyes.
"Open the hatch," she ordered, in English this time. Renauld retreated into the darkness. Shortly
thereafter, the familiar dreaded buzzer sounded.
"You cowardly little bitch!" Padma yelled, with such ferocity that would have captivated the late
Alec Mercer. "You want to take it out on us, come down here and do it yourself!"
Hermione thought this was a capital idea.
Honoria smiled. "The pair of you would not fare so well, I assure you. But I suppose it would be
more dignified than being taken apart by zombies."
"We are not fighting zombies today!" Hermione roared.
"You're correct; not just zombies," Honoria said. "You see, only one person leaves this Pit alive. As
soon as one of you is dead, the Game ends. "Think on that."
She bent down to unzip the bag she had brought with her. Weapons were tossed into the Pit,
scattering across the metal-grated floor with loud clangs—machetes, an axe and a length of pipe.
"Never let it be said that I don't play by Amarov's Rules. Good luck, ladies. May the best witch
win."
Draco
The elevator doors opened with a soft 'ding', revealing a stout, middle-aged woman standing behind
a trolley bearing what looked like someone's room service order. She had a cigarette dangling from
one corner of her mouth and faded tattoos adorning her forearms and fingers. Her starched white
maid's uniform and apron looked contrastingly genteel. She stared at them, impressively
nonplussed as she held the elevators open with an angled trolley wheel.
Draco slowly raised his pistol, pointing it at her face while simultaneously holding a finger to his
lips.
"Is this what I think it is?" she barked, in Russian. Her gaze was directed at the only one of the
three men she easily recognised—Belikov.
"We are taking the fleet back," Belikov replied.
"Hah! It's about time!" The woman snorted out a cloud of smoke. "I might just borrow this
handsome one's gun and shoot myself in the head if I have to spend one more day waiting on these
oily bastards! You can use my elevator key card to access any of the other levels." She plucked a
white card from her deep décolletage and handed it to Draco with a lascivious grin.
With a final scan of the corridor to make sure they had not been detected, the men entered the
elevator. Draco pressed the card to the sensor and hit the button to take them to the bridge level.
Cheerful elevator music played as they travelled upwards. Before they arrived at their destination,
Draco hit the stop button, bringing the lift to a halt.
Blaise was busy inspecting the food on the trolley. He lifted the lid of a silver tureen and stuck his
finger into a stew. Draco shot him a look.
"What? I'm starving."
"How many men are likely to be on this level?" Draco asked the maid.
"About fifteen, at most. Heavily armed, but lazy. There's a tall one with a shaved head. He almost
never leaves the bridge. Got a face like a bulldog. He's the one to watch. They call him Sasha and
he's middle management when it comes to Amarov's guards. Take him down first and the others
will scatter."
"Thank you for your help," Belikov said, because Draco didn't.
"You'll have to tie me up, of course," said the maid. "If whatever you're planning doesn't work, I'd
like to keep my job and my head."
Belikov managed a smile. "Fair enough." He reached into his bag to retrieve some rope, but paused
when the woman held up a stalling hand.
"No offence, but not you Professor. Him, please—the chocolate one." She grinned at Blaise,
revealing several gold teeth.
Some gestures did not require translation. Blaise was chewing on a pilfered profiterole, but didn't
miss a beat. He wiped his hands on his jumper and took the rope from Belikov. "It would be my
pleasure, madam."
Hermione and Padma armed themselves with machetes.
It was the most logical choice. Hermione picked up the pipe and tossed it into the far corner, lest
they trip over it and turn an ankle. Several minutes after Renauld had triggered the buzzer that
opened the zombie hatch, the first group of creatures were yet to come through. Although the
stench that filled the arena was enough to bring bile to the back of Hermione's throat.
And of course you could hear them — sharp hisses, low, soft moans, the occasional chittering
noise. A growl.
Hermione's thick, rubber boots were too large that simply walking in them demonstrated that they
were likely to be a hindrance. She kicked them off, hoping that her bare feet would not slip and
slide too much along the cold, metal grating once blood and viscera started to fly.
"Forgive their tardiness," Honoria called out, from her safe vantage point. "The creatures have not
been fed in a while and are on their last legs. If you survive the next few waves, there'll be a treat at
the end. I promise."
Padma's gaze was fixed on the darkness of the hatch entrance. Both hands were wrapped around
her machete handle with white-knuckled intensity. "What's that lunatic talking about? What's
coming at the end?"
"I have no idea," Hermione admitted. "Padma, back up! One's just walked through."
It was a sorry specimen indeed—male, nude, skin stretched over bones, a large gaping hole along
the side of its abdomen where about two meters of small intestines trailed, occasionally becoming
entangled in the creature's legs. There was a dried up clump of matted tissue where its reproductive
organs had once been—chewed off, seemingly. It was ecstatic to see them, lurching and snarling as
it went. Its hands stretched out towards the women, fingers that were tipped with long, black
fingernails, curled into claws. The snarling dropped down into a low, keening moan.
Padma easily darted around and hacked at its neck. Half-rotted tendons snapped immediately,
causing the creature's heavy head to loll to the side, but the spine at the top of the neck was another
matter. A taller, stronger combatant would have had the leverage and the power required to
decapitate the zombie with a single strike, but this was not the case here. The blade of Padma's
machete lodged in between vertebrae. Padma had the presence of mine to brace against the
creature's torso with her foot and yank her weapon free. Hermione promptly brought down her own
machete over the creature's head, cleaving its skull. It fell over and stopped moving.
They had just finished pulling the corpse over to a corner, out of the way, when two more zombies
entered the arena.
In a bid to conserve energy, much of the fleet existed in perpetual darkness. Pilot lighting was used
in lieu of less economical fluorescent rods along corridors and other areas that were not frequently
traversed. This thankfully included several corridors along the home ship, leaving just enough
darkness for Draco, Blaise and Belikov to make their way to the bridge undetected. Upon arriving,
however, there was no getting past the four guards loitering outside without direct intervention.
Amarov's lackeys obviously spent a lot of time there. It was perhaps testament to Amarov's recent
lapse in management that the place was in such a state. There was a small, chipped table not far
from where Draco stood, likely used by the guards for meals and to play cards. Several folding
chairs were stacked against the wall. Refuse and cigarette butts littered the carpet.
Once Blaise was in position at the opposite corner of the corridor's t-junction, Draco gave Belikov
the signal.
The elderly scientist stumbled out into the corridor, in full sight of the four men that smoked and
chatted outside the doors that led to the bridge. Belikov frantically beckoned them to him, before
he staggered, clutched at his chest and hit the floor with full Shakespearean theatrics.
Unfortunately, only one of the guards ran over to check on the Professor.
They're not coming, Blaise mouthed to Draco.
Draco held his palm up. Wait.
The guard who was squatting beside the convulsing Belikov was at a loss. He called out to his
colleagues, clearly assuming that the fleet's head scientist was in the midst of a heart attack and
there was going to be a lot of unpleasantness if they didn't at least attempt to save him. The other
three men joined their panicking colleague. One of the men dropped to his knees and began to open
Belikov's mouth to clear his airways in preparation for CPR.
Draco emerged from the adjacent corridor and without pausing in his stride; pistol whipped the
guard closest to him before running a knife across the neck of another. Any visible weapons were
immediately confiscated. Blaise dragged the second man backwards into the shadows to bleed out.
Draco had by now driven his knife into the neck of the third guard. The CPR Good Samaritan was
the only one who had managed to free his pistol in time, but had not counted on the previously
'unconscious' Belikov sitting up and stabbing him in the chest. The scalpel was unfortunately
deflected by the man's sternum and he was able to scramble to his knees and run with the blade
still protruding from his chest.
"Oh, dear," Blaise said, "he's getting away,"
If the guard made it to the bridge or screamed to alert his comrades, their plan would end rather
prematurely. Instead of sprinting after the man, Draco grabbed a folding chair, swung it in a wide
arc and then threw it. It sailed through the air, eventually colliding with the guard across the back
of the man's head. He grunted and stumbled sideways, slamming hard against the wall. His gun
flew from his hand, landing close to the bridge doors.
By the time he raised himself up into a sitting position, Draco was on him, once more holding the
chair. In sheer desperation, the guard resorted to using the only weapon he had left—the scalpel.
He pulled it from his chest and wildly slashed out with it. Draco promptly kicked the man in the
stomach and as he lay wheezing and winded, stood on his wrist, pinning the man's hand and the
scalpel to the floor. The guard had only just begun to gather breath to scream for help, when Draco
opened the folding chair, lodged the man's head in between the back-rest and the seat, and then
twisted sharply. There was a sickening crack as the guard's neck broke. They searched the man's
clothing, finding the security swipe card that would open the bridge doors. Draco retrieved
Belikov's scalpel, wiped it on the dead man's sleeve and handed it back to the Professor. Blaise
quickly assumed clean-up duty, dragging away the body.
Belikov was looking ill. "Bozhe moi. You killed a man with a plastic chair..."
"It's quieter than a gun."
Draco used the guard's security card. The doors unlocked soundlessly. Inside the bridge, there was
talking and the noise of cutlery on plates. The men were eating. Draco quickly scanned the interior
and then let the door fall shut once more, leaving it ajar only a few centimetres. "I count twelve,"
he whispered. "Mostly seated by the windows with their backs facing us. Four are standing by the
navigation console on the far left. As the maid said, they're armed, but they will be entirely
unprepared for this."
Blaise crouched down to unzip his backpack. He pulled out two Molotov Cocktails. "I gather this
is the bit where we finally get to make some noise?"
"A lot of noise," Draco confirmed. He now held a pistol in his gloved hands. "The time for stealth
has passed."
"Tell me again how starting a fire on the only ship in the fleet with a laboratory is a good idea?"
Belikov asked. "If we destroy the home ship, all our research will sink with her."
Draco took one of the Molotov Cocktails from Blaise. "These are chemically designed to burn hard
and fast without us having to light a fuse. They will ignite on impact, but they will spend
themselves quickly. In the unlikely event of fire escaping this room, the ship's disaster safeguards
will activate. This may be Amarov's home, but it's also a state of the art, passenger cruise-liner. The
sprinkler system will not allow us to burn the ship into Avonmouth Harbour. Our explosives will
disorient and incapacitate the guards and that is precisely the advantage we need."
Blaise sighed. "What are the odds that we're riddled with bullets in the next ten minutes? I'd very
much like to see my son again."
Draco took Blaise's weapon from him to check that the safety was off and that it was fully loaded.
"Reasonably high if we don't approach this assault with a sound strategy." He handed the gun back.
"You know, a comforting lie wouldn't go amiss right about now."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "A comforting lie would unravel rather quickly once the bullets come.
We have the element of surprise on our side. Trust in the capacity of people to panic when given
half a chance. Stick to the plan and we will come out of this in one piece. Remember everything
I've told you. Aim for the head when they're stationary. Don't get cocky. Switch to aiming for the
torso once they're on the move. It's a larger target for a novice to hit and you will need to hit every
single person you shoot at. Work systematically through your assigned section of the room and try
not to crossfire."
"But these men are trained," Belikov said.
An attack of second (or for that matter, third or fourth thoughts) was expected, given the
circumstances. Draco's expression communicated his chilly confidence. This worked markedly
better in reassuring the other two men than any heartfelt verbal appeals to simply trust his plan.
There were also the dead bodies hidden in the shadows, mere meters from where they stood, still
leaking warm blood into the carpet. Draco had thus far demonstrated a level of professional
villainy that the other two had little experience with. Slytherin sensibilities or not, Blaise's hands
were shaking and Belikov was white as a sheet. But they took strength from the imposing figure
before them. Draco's black attire adequately masked all signs of blood stains, but there was a
visible smear of red in his light-blond hair and some spatter along the fair skin of his face. He
looked at them now, silver eyes so very, very cold.
"Gentleman, I assure you there is no training that can adequately prepare a man for being on fire."
And as it happened, that was all the pep-talk they needed.

Freedom: Part 1
Blaise stared down at his hands, which were shaking so violently it was a miracle he hadn't
dropped his gun. His ears were still ringing from the gunfire. A moment was spent simply trying to
calm his breathing. He swallowed the bile that had risen to the back of his throat and retreated
away from the carnage on the bridge until his back met the wall beside the bolted bridge doors.
The automatic window shutters had been turned on, shielding the activities on the bridge from
prying eyes outside. Blaise slid to the ground, forearms coming to rest on his knees. He heard his
breathing; ragged, inconsistent and somehow still the loudest noise in the room. That reinforced
the fact that he was alive.
It seemed impossible, but all three of them were alive.
Others had not been so lucky.
Interspersed with the occasional blood-choked gurgle, some of the guards moaned and begged for
help. Blaise stared dully at the ground, at the small, viscous pools of blood on the carpet. In the
smoky, flickering light, they looked like innocuous, dark puddles of engine oil. It was easy to spot
Belikov from his gait alone, nervously pacing, retracing his steps back and forth as he stepped over
the dead and dying, putting out spot fires from the Molotov Cocktails. There was the chemical
smell of burning textiles and plastic. The fire extinguishers left a powdery haze in the air that felt
like chalk dust in your lungs when you inhaled too sharply.
He also heard Draco's voice—low and curt—talking to the guard known as Sasha; the one the
maid in the elevator had said would be here. And he had been. They'd gaffer-taped the man to a
swivel chair. The man owed that maid his life, for Sasha had been saved from the slaughter
because they needed at least one guard to order a transport vessel to ferry Draco to the Morning
Star.
Gun shots sounded. Not the rapid fire from minutes earlier. These ones were calm, if indeed such a
thing was possible. They came at almost evenly-timed intervals, sometimes preceded by weak
pleading.
Bang.
"No…no! Please…"
Bang.
"P…pohzhahloostah!"
Bang.
Blaise's gaze was still trained on the ground when a pair of sturdy, black boots stopped before him.
Draco lowered himself down to his haunches, gun still in hand and smelling like freshly burned
fireworks. He waited until Blaise was looking back at him. The unofficial leader of their coup
sported a fine spray of misted blood across the entire left side of his face and some of his dark
trousers were powder blasted from the fire extinguisher, but otherwise Draco had the demeanour of
a man who'd done nothing more untoward than the recent extermination of vermin from his home.
It wasn't too much of a stretch to recall the bratty child and then the callow, self-serving youth that
Draco had once been. Blaise remembered the fierce, burning intelligence that played second fiddle
to blood and family ambition. But something had changed in their final year. It was a bad time to
be in Slytherin or to be associated with any aspect of the old Wizarding nobility. The world had
been changing around them. The diverse student body and faculty at Hogwarts and shifting
Ministry governance was testament to that fact. It was easy to see that Voldemort and his ilk were
swimming against the tide in a pool that now consisted of mixed-bloods, muggleborns and
muggles, with their technology and inescapable, alluring modernity. It was much harder to voice
some opinions, however, depending on your last name. As much as Blaise had envied Draco when
they were growing up, he did not envy the Goliath burden that came with being Lucius Malfoy's
son. That was a life of immense privilege, but it was also the worst type of prison—the kind that
felt like your unfortunate birthright.
"And how are we faring?" Draco asked him, in her Muggle Majesty's pristine English.
"Alright, I think," Blaise said. He nodded, though he was not sure why. "Shoot them all in the
head, you told us. I missed quite a few…heads."
Draco shrugged one shoulder. "You still hit them. I've taken care of it."
"You killed the wounded, you mean."
This time it was Draco's turn to nod. "We cannot leave them as they are, Zabini. Many are badly
burned."
"You mistake my meaning. I understand that completely. I just wish I had greater…fortitude."
Draco holstered his weapon and offered his hand to pull Blaise up to this feet. "You survived up to
this point. I'd say that's fortitude plenty."
Blaise disagreed. He located Belikov on the other side of the bridge. If the old scientist had looked
green before, he was positively phosphorescent now. They exchanged tense nods. Nodding seemed
to be the least emotionally taxing communicative gesture.
"What now?" Blaise asked.
Draco was hovering over the mass expanse of bridge consoles, beckoning Belikov to wheel Sasha
over. "Stick to the plan. We lock down the vessel, broadcast a fleet-wide announcement and then I
catch a ride across to the Morning Star. Make sure the transport vessel meets me at the western
exit. Contact Marina and her captain and tell them to bring the Cassiopeia alongside. Then, they
board. After this ship is secured, wait for my confirmation before you send the Cassiopeia to the
Morning Star."
Belikov approached. "There are ships that will leave the fleet, you realise? Some of these vessels
will be carrying supplies and we have no means to stop them from going."
"That's the catch, Professor," Draco said. "The people will exercise their right to freedom under
their own terms, even if it is to our detriment. But we have this ship, so the laboratory will remain."
Blaise joined them at the console. "Do you think most will stay behind?"
"I don't know," Draco admitted. "I suppose it will depend on the leadership to come." He began
walking around the bridge, divesting dead guards of their weapons. When he'd strapped on
additional holsters and furnished Blaise and Belikov with as many weapons as was practical to
carry, he stood at the heavy doors of the bridge. Blaise handed him the backpack.
It was surreal, Blaise decided. All this was too bloody surreal. Here he was staring at a fellow
wizard, strapped up with enough Muggle weaponry to take down a small army and somehow, it all
managed to fit within their recent, collective definition of 'normal'.
Draco tested his walkie talkie unit. Belikov confirmed it was good to go.
"Barricade yourselves in here until Marina's people board," Draco told them, as he reloaded a
handgun clip. "Even after lockdown, some of the local residents are going to try their luck."
"I'm going with you," Blaise offered.
In that dark moment, in that horrendous place with dead bodies around them, some of whom were
still leaking warm blood into the carpet, Draco Malfoy's amused smile was a thing of beauty.
"You'll go to your son, Zabini."
"You'll go to your death, Malfoy," Blaise protested.
"Not today."
Belikov stood beside Blaise. "No, not today," agreed the Professor. "Good luck, young man. Bring
Miss Granger back safely."
Another nod from Draco, and then he was gone.
Five zombies so far.
Before the hatch closed for second time, another creature had painstakingly dragged itself to
freedom by pulling what was left of its torso along the grated floor. It was still wearing most of its
kindergarten uniform—a blue and green pinafore dress. The eyes were gone—scratched out, from
the looks of things, but it had persevered, following the vibrations in the ground and the smell of
prey, making its way ever so slowly to where Hermione lay trapped under an enormous, former
policeman. This particular creature was easily three time her size and stunk to high heaven due to
the large quantity of putrefying fat it carried. Hermione had already bashed its head in, but
unfortunately, the thing had fallen on top of her and no amount of wriggling, even using the vast
quantity of slimy fluid coming off the creature as a lubricant, was helping. Padma was busy some
distance away, swinging an axe at two snarling creatures, one of whom was so desperate to feed it
had chewed off its own tongue from excitement.
"Hermione!" Padma called out.
"I'm fine!" She turned her head to track the location of the tiny, crawling zombie. It was still a few
meters away, but gaining ground. That was the thing about the zombies—their utter commitment to
pursuing prey. Humans got tired; physical and emotional burdens eventually taking a toll. Not so
zombies. Provided with a suitable incentive, your average zombie would continue to pursue, to try
to break through a barricade, climb, reach, search. It would keep going, relentless and unburdened
by fatigue, hunger or pain, for days on end, until tendons snapped and muscles wasted away. And
even then it would still try to get to you, stopping only when the brain ceased to function.
Padma's axe struck one of the other attacking zombies across the forehead, which promptly flipped
open like the top of a boiled egg. The creature's milky eyes rolled back into its head as it keeled
over…
Six.
…into its companion, tripping it. Padma raised her arms up high and brought her axe down on an
angle, decapitating the other creature. The head rolled away, pausing centimetres away from
Hermione's face. It had once been a young woman. When she died, she'd been wearing enamel
earrings in the shape of tiny, red chilies.
Seven.
It took both of them to simultaneously push and pull the large corpse off Hermione.
"Are you OK?" Padma asked. She was doubled over from fatigue, one hand resting on her thigh.
Hermione pushed hair off her wet face, grimacing at the strain in her shoulders and neck from
attempting to lift the creature. And she was sweltering in the yellow jumpsuit. "So far."
Padma was surveying the debris over the floor. "It's getting messy. I think you should put your
boots back on."
"They're too big," Hermione said.
"If you cut your feet on this metal and end up stepping in some of these remains…"
Part of Hermione wanted to argue that this really ought not to be a pressing concern for them. It
was the same part that kept intruding into her survivalist mentality to tell her that death was
imminent and that if there was even some small chance of fighting for long enough to get Padma
out, they should take it. This meant not bothering about things like, well, footwear. But you
couldn't tell Padma that. She'd just get cross.
She was eyeing Hermione beadily, a canny look in her dark eyes. "You will put those boots back
on, Hermione Granger," said the axe-wielding, Padma.
Hermione pulled on the boots. "I don't know how long we can keep this up."
"Until we can't, I expect."
"We mustn't think like that."
"Why not?" Padma asked. "They said only one person leaves here alive."
"Yes. No…wait, what are you getting at?"
"The same thing you're thinking about, I'll wager!" Padma shot back, angrily.
"Look, one of us is a doctor. One of us knows and is trusted by all the Magical captives on this
ship and has been caring for them over the past few weeks. It's a simple decision, really."
"Simple, is it? Enlighten me," said Padma, with a sharp iciness that was reminiscent of Malfoy.
"We need you! I've done my part. Malfoy has Re-Gen and the last stages of the cure. We're talking
about long-term survival here. Doctors are not expendable."
Padma grabbed her around the shoulders. "Hermione, listen to me. We can't trust anything these
people tell us! They're mental! Who's to say they're even going to keep their word and let either one
of us out of here when—watch it, behind you!"
The crawling zombie had reached them. Hermione raised her right foot and brought it down hard
over the creature's tiny head. The skull shattered, shards of bone slicing into the brain. It expired
with an almost dainty sigh.
Seven and a half.
"I guess the boots came in handy after all," said Hermione, listlessly.
The buzzer sounded and the hatch reopened.
The sun was beginning to set as Draco watched the transport vessel putter closer to the home ship,
its pilot oblivious to the recent change in management. Though there were several ways to
disembark, Draco chose an exit that comprised a hatch and a small extendable a jetty that unfolded,
floating upon the water. It faced the open sea, away from prying eyes from other vessels and
thanks to the sheer size of Amarov's cruise liner, was currently bathed in shadow.
"Ahoy!" called out the pilot, in Russian, who then started to complain about the unusual
disembarkation point causing his boat to expend more precious fuel by travelling all the
way around the ship.
Draco stepped on board, placing Blaise's heavily-laden backpack on the deck, while
simultaneously aiming his handgun at the pilot.
Unlike Amarov's guards, this man was not paid nearly enough to bother putting up much of a fight.
He held up his hands. "I don't want any trouble."
"I have it on good authority that trouble has no issue with you either, friend," said Draco, as he
checked the man's clothing for concealed weapons. All he found was a tobacco pouch and pipe. "I
just need your boat."
The man gaped, goldfish-like. "What about me?"
Draco stood to the side, extending his other arm towards the jetty. "Welcome to the home ship."
Impossibly, the Morning Star smelled far worse than Draco remembered.
The stench of rot hung heavy in the air, owing to the poor ventilation system and the fact that a
game was currently in progress in the Pit. The corridors were mostly deserted and barely lit, which
was fortunate because there was no carpet to muffle his footsteps or soft furnishings to mitigate the
sound of gunfire. At the idea was to avoid firing a gun at this very early stage.
Most of the people he encountered were workers and were easily evaded by ducking into the
shadows and waiting for them to pass. The first pair of armed guards he came across were standing
at the foot of the stairs that led to the prisoners' hold. He crouched down low behind a wall, and
called out for help, feebly.
The two guards were instantly alert. They drew their weapons and came to investigate. The first
guard met with a knife to the throat, but this allowed enough time for his colleague to raise his
weapon. Draco kicked the man's legs out from beneath him, but was unable to reach the guard's
gun in time. They fought for it, wrestling on the ground for a minute before Draco settled for
kicking the weapon with his foot. It spun away towards the stairwell and clattered down the steps.
The guard leapt to his feet with impressive agility, reassessing the situation. When it became
apparent that Draco was not intending to use any firearms of his own, the guard was no longer
daunted by the loss of his primary weapon.
He slipped a butterfly knife out of his pocket, flicked it back and forth until it was a hissing silver
blur in the air, and then grinned maniacally at Draco. It seemed that the man wasn't going to follow
through with—ah, no wait, there it was—a cocky, beckoning gesture.
"Brilliant," Draco said, with a sigh. He tightened his grip on his plastic-handled bread knife and
advanced.
Eight, nine, ten.
They found it useful to wait just outside the hatch and dispatch the emerging zombies before the
creatures had a chance to enter the brightly-lit arena.
"They're piling up," Padma said, after the hatch closed again.
With a grunt, Hermione extricated her machete from the skull of a fallen creature, causing brain
matter to slop from the gaping wound. "Good. With any luck, they'll form a temporary obstacle for
the others."
Honoria and Renauld watched on from the viewing gallery. "Clever," Renauld remarked.
"Did you expect anything less from these two?" Honoria said. "Open the hatch again. For longer,
this time. I'd like our more special specimens to start making their way out."
Freedom: Part 2
"Thank God! You're on the games ship now?" It was Belikov who answered over the radio when
Draco checked in.
"What's wrong?" This time it was Zabini's voice. "You don't sound good." Trust Blaise to notice.
"A slight case of stabbing, but nothing fatal." Draco turned the volume down and let the two men
rant at him over the radio, while he bound the wound in his bicep with black electrical tape. The
entire left side of his jumper was soaked in blood. The shudder in his voice was unavoidable, but
adrenaline was more than enough to keep him going.
"Marina and her men are on board. We've made the broadcast to the fleet. Messages have been
coming through non-stop since. Its chaos," Zabini informed.
"I noticed."
As soon as the fleet-announcement had been made, the workers on the Morning Star had been
scrambling to get to transport vessels, eager to return to their families on the other ships. There was
no need to even hide at this point. Draco had jogged through the corridors, occasionally (and
painfully) bumping into someone. They stared, but no one had been inclined to stop him or even
question him.
His wound now bound, Draco got to his feet. He put his handgun away, taking hold of a semi-
automatic assault rifle instead. He repositioned the sling and checked that the safety was off. "I'm
heading to the cargo hold now."
"Look, it's not too late to come back—"
Draco muted the radio.
There was only a single, young guard standing at the entrance to the cargo hold. He was shouting
into his walkie talkie in French. Draco recognised the voice that responded—it was Renauld. The
Fatman was in the process of promising the guard a 400% increase in his rations if he remained at
his post. The foolish young man was holding out for more.
The prisoners saw Draco before the guard did. They all stood beyond metal fencing that had been
welded into the ground. There was a narrow, gate, heavily padlocked. The time for skulking and
silence was over. Draco strode up to the guard, rifle aloft. The young man was sweating so
profusely, it looked like he'd been caught in a downpour.
"Stop!" he ordered. "Stop or I will—"
Draco suffered no such hesitation. He shot the lad in the forehead. "Shoot," he finished.
The guard fell over. Draco unclipped a comically enormous ring of keys from the guard's belt and
opened the gates to the cargo hold. The prisoners remained inside, however, uncertainty etched
into their expressions. One person eventually emerged from the crowd, the nominated
spokesperson. Draco recognised her instantly, even though she was a walking skeleton. It was
Rosmerta, former landlady of The Three Broomsticks.
"I'm Draco Malfoy."

Despite her emaciated appearance, she still had her wits about her. "Oh yes, I can see that. Though,
for a moment I thought it was your father come to pay us a visit," she told him, with a tremulous
smile. "We saw the other guards abandoning their posts. You're going to tell us this
all your doing?"
Draco nodded. "We're taking over the fleet, Madam."
"Who is we? You are but one person, a Death Eater and rumoured to be sequestered quite
comfortably on Amarov's own vessel."
"There is one other vessel aiding us. We have neutralised the explosives that have been holding
many of the Muggles on this fleet hostage, and we've already taken Amarov's ship."
Despite the mass exodus of staff from the ship, the dead guard and the open gate, Rosmerta
remained sceptical. Draco could not fault her. He took out his walkie talkie.
"Zabini, are you there? Send the Cassiopeia now."
Blaise's response was almost instantaneous. "What's happening, Malfoy?"
"I'm in the hold, but I need you to reassure Madam Rosmerta that I am not part of some warped
game of Amarov's." Draco handed Rosmerta the walkie talkie.
"Rosmerta, this is Blaise Zabini. Listen to Malfoy. It is as he says."
Upon hearing his voice, Rosmerta raised a trembling hand to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.
"Blaise! You are well?" she spoke into the walkie talkie. "We assumed the worst when they took
you."
"I'm fine."
"And Henry?"
"We are both safe. Please assist Malfoy if you can. The success of our mission may very well
depend on it."
She handed the walkie talkie back to Draco, her uncertainty now replaced with resolve. "What do
you need from us?"
Draco was already emptying out his backpack, laying out guns and ammunition on the ground. "I
have brought Muggle weapons and I should very much like for you and your people to defend
yourselves with them."
Several prisoners came forward—men, mostly. The expressions on their faces ranged from fear to
rage. The more confident among them picked up the weapons.
"Get everyone above deck quickly. Shoot anything that stands in your way. When it's safe, the
Cassiopeia will come for you. All of you."
He made to leave, but Rosmerta caught his arm. She looked pained. "They took Padma Patil
several hours ago. The guards said a Game has started in the Pit."
"I know."
She hesitated, but then continued. "I realise she is just one among many to be saved, but Padma has
done a great deal for us in these past weeks. Mr Zabini and his wife looked after us as best he
could, but then they were gone. We were given Padma and we've been so very grateful to have her.
She's saved many lives—"
"I'm going to help her, Rosmerta."
She hugged him, awkwardly. "Thank you."
By the time Draco exited through the open gate, about a third of the most able-bodied prisoners
were already filing out, making their way to the stairs that would take them to the deck. Draco
walked to the opposite end of the hold, where the containment cells were located.
Felix Wallen was waiting.
"Oh dear. Change of plan, I think."
"Yes," Hermione agreed, joining Padma at the opposite end of the Pit, moving away from the
hatch. Eleven and twelve had been run of the mill—badly decayed, relentless, but slow. The next
two that came out were markedly different. They moved more quickly and with what looked
(worryingly) like purpose. Unlike the previous creatures, who emerged stumbling and vulnerable
from containment, these darted out into the arena, evading the initial attack from Hermione and
Padma. Granted, they'd been expecting much slower specimens.
The women stood together, weapons in hand, inching along the walls of the arena, observing and
observed, in turn. The creatures also stood close together, which was unusual zombie behaviour.
One had been female, still clad in a nightie that had probably once been white. It was stained a
rusty brown, now. The other was young—a teenager before his demise. He was big and in such
excellent shape, he might have passed off as freshly deceased. They were preternaturally still,
which was incredibly eerie, eyes keenly focussed on Padma and Hermione in way that a normal
zombie could never have managed.
"What are they doing?" Padma whispered. "They're not attacking."
"They're watching," Hermione concluded, grimly.
"Wizarding zombies?"
"Must be."
"Hermione, the gate isn't closing…"
True enough, it was still open. Three more creatures came lumbering through, slow and lurching,
before the hatch finally closed.
"Merlin, what do we do?"
Hermione walked up to one of the slower creatures, ducked under its grasping arms and rammed
the business end of her machete up into its chin. The blade existed through the top of its head.
Thirteen.
"Stay alive."
He had the keys to the cell, but thought Wallen might derive some satisfaction from seeing the
locks obliterated from gunfire.
Wallen had been in bad shape, and frequently. It was both a blessing and a curse that his
Lycanthropy allowed quick recovery from the assaults inflicted upon him (only to receive yet more
abuse). Draco saw the worst of the scars that were taking some time to fade. They'd cut him, belted
him, burnt him. The unusual way that the scars seemed to wrap around his limbs likely meant that
much of the torture had been inflicted while he'd been in werewolf form. There was some small
mercy in that, Draco supposed. Wallen was clad in nothing more than filthy rags. There was no
cot, no chair, not even a blanket. Food had been thrown into the cell, much like one might feed a
caged animal. Outside the cell, there was evidence of the implements used in his ill-treatment; a
cattle prod, lengths of rope and chain, some of which was blood stained. All that rare expertise, all
that utility and Amarov thought to use Wallen as nothing more than a sideshow amusement.
A white-fisted Draco shoved open the gate with more force than was necessary. "Can you walk?"
"I could fly," breathed Wallen, looking at his esrtwhile colleague with unadulterated amazement.
"Are you real?"
Draco pulled out a revolver. After reloading and cocking it, he slapped it into Wallen's hands. "As
real as this is." The plan to steal the fleet from under Amarov's nose was quickly relayed, as was
the high probability that Hermione and Padma were currently in the Pit.
"So he's still alive, then. More's the pity," muttered Wallen. "You'll go and get the girls now?"
"Granger would have your hide if she heard you referring to them as 'the girls'."
Wallen sobered. "Hermione Granger can have my hide and anything else she wants. I know what
she did for me and Vadim Belikov, in the Pit. It was…it was beyond courageous."
"That woman has rather a knack for reckless courage. Now, I've told the prisoners to make their
way above-deck. The Cassiopeia's crew will transfer everyone across shortly. Can you see that
they make it there safely? Amarov's remaining men may still prove to be a problem. Likewise the
man himself."
"Of course."
"Be careful," said Draco. He ignored the corridor leading to the stairs and to the other levels of the
ship, but instead ran further down to the back of the hold, where Padma had once taken him.
"Malfoy, wait!" Wallen called out. "If you're going to the Pit, that's not how you get to the arena!"
Draco responded without looking back. "I'm going to the Pit, but I'm not getting there through the
arena."
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.
Padma was on the ground, panting. Number Sixteen lay beside her, decapitated, but that last
encounter had cost her dearly. Her reserves were spent. Padma was so exhausted, she was weeping.
"Padma!" Hermione called out, though her throat was hoarse from shouting. The name barely came
out. She had managed to stab one of the wizarding zombies (the female) in the chest with the metal
pipe, but all that did was slow it down. It kept coming back, snarling and clawing ferociously at
the protruding metal bar lodged in its sternum. And each time Hermione turned her attention to it,
the other wizarding zombie, the large male, attacked simultaneously. It came at her from the side,
attempting to grab at her long hair or at her jumpsuit.
It would be suicide to turn her back to either of them, so Hermione allowed herself to be cornered,
swinging her machete wildly every time one of the creatures approached. They had the sense to
stay just out of reach, unlike normal zombies that would walk into fire if they thought you were on
the other side of it. The muscles in her arms were in agony. It was getting harder to even maintain a
grip over the handle, so much strength had been depleted.
"Hermione…" Padma said. She pushed herself up to her feet.
"Padma, don't move! They're not going for you!"
The large male stepped forward, almost deliberately into the swing of Hermione's machete. It was
a weak swing, barely connecting with the creature's thick torso. As had consistently been the case,
the blade was momentarily stuck. Hermione pulled with all the strength she could muster. The
cheap blade scraped along the creature's rib bones, unexpectedly shattering, pieces careening off
into different parts of the arena, leaving Hermione holding a useless handle.
She dropped it.
Padma called her name again. Hermione's mind may have still been willing, but her body was
done. Dying was something else she could do, though. And in their current predicament, there was
a chance that it could save Padma.
Hermione closed her eyes. She felt one of the creatures violently pull her hair back, exposing her
throat. Clawing hands tore at her jumpsuit, frustrated at this thick barrier to her flesh. They would
break through soon enough, though, and tear her apart.
But this did not happen. The scrabbling hands left her and she fell to her side. Through sweat, tears
and confusion, she saw that Padma had garnered the zombies' complete attention. This had been
achieved by cutting a long, deep slice into her arm, using one of the broken shards from Hermione's
machete blade. She stood beside the hatch, as far away from Hermione as possible, and dripped a
steady line of blood onto the floor.
"No," Hermione croaked. "No, no, no…"
Padma looked at her. "Stay alive," she didn't speak the words, merely mouthed them. And then the
two zombies were upon her, and Padma had no protective clothing to thwart their savagery.
Hermione felt Padma's screams. She felt each cry of agony sear its way through her own nerve
endings. As Hermione raised herself to her knees; the sense of desolation, shock and helplessness
was so acute, it she felt like she was standing outside her body, watching these horrors unfold to
other people.
This time around, it was much easier making his way through the ventilation ducts without having
to cart around a dead Igor plus his ridiculously huge, gold watch. The pain in his injured arm was
intense, but manageable. So far, there had been no gunfire coming from the upper decks, which
was tremendously good news. It meant that none of the prisoners had felt compelled to use their
weapons yet. At this point, only the most well remunerated staff would remain loyal to Amarov.
Anyone with family was hurrying to be with them and anyone who had previously remained in the
fleet due to threats and coercion was now a potential ally. Draco did not doubt that these
individuals numbered in the hundreds.
He reached the section of the ducts located directly above the Dead Zone, not needing the
flashlight he was using to tell him that he had arrived at his destination. The sounds and smell was
quite enough of a landmark. The compartment creaked ominously as it had done before, but this
time it only had to support his weight, instead of the combined weight of him, Padma and the
deceased Igor. Not surprisingly, the contained zombies were making an ear-splitting amount of
noise. No doubt the intermittent opening and closing of the Pit hatch was whipping them up into a
frenzy.
As he carefully approached the collapsed section of the ducts, he reached into his backpack and
took out the remaining Molotov Cocktails. This had always been their additional purpose. Without
knowing how many guards were stationed at the arena, walking into the stands and opening fire
had a high chance of failure. Rather, the wiser way to assist Hermione and Padma was to eradicate
their current threat—the zombies.
Of course there was the possibility that he was already too late…but entertaining such thoughts
would do no one any good, particularly if Hermione and Padma were very much alive and needed
every bit of help he could provide them.
The slope in the collapsed duct compartment made it slippery, dangerous work, but he braced his
back and feet against the compartment walls and used that as an anchor. He felt the wound in his
arm opening arm, causing fresh blood to surge down his arm. Several meters below him, the
zombies closest to the ducts snarled, sensing him, but unable to see him. The familiar buzzer in the
arena sounded just as Draco threw down the Molotov Cocktails. At once, nearly the entire
containment area was engulfed in flames. The creatures stumbled into one another, assisting the
spread of the fire. The noises changed, moans turned to high-pitched whining and there were
sickly, wet, sizzling and popping sounds as the intense heat exploded several specimens altogether.
The buzzer stopped and the hatch door opened.
In the distance, in an arena that was littered with human remains, Draco saw Hermione. She was on
her knees, clad in a thick, yellow jumpsuit. Her face and long hair were wet and covered in grime.
She watched on with a dispassionate, utterly defeated expression as two, disoriented, burning
specimens stumbled out of the containment hold and into the arena.
The hatch closed again moments later.
The buzzer buzzed, this time sounding like it was a long way off. Hermione could not bring herself
to care. There was nothing left in her; nothing that felt recognisably human. The hatch opened and
she could only watch on, feeling numb to her very core, as what appeared to be flaming zombies,
staggered into the arena.
A memory dislodged itself from the dark, swirling vortex in her head. It was from Welwyn
Hospital, from when the Cowboy had told them never to set zombies alight.
"It's going to be like chasing down burning piñatas," he'd warned.
"What's a piñata?" Honoria had asked and Hermione had explained.
It seemed the late Agent Richards had been wrong. Burning zombies were incapacitated zombies.
The two that entered the arena made it only several steps before dropping to the ground, shrieking
and twitching as they burned. Hermione would not have survived them, otherwise.
The hatch closed, cutting off the Pit from what looked like a maelstrom of fire inside the zombie
containment area. The heat was so intense, it felt like it was cooking the skin of her face. Was the
whole world burning, she wondered. Alarms sounded, sprinkler systems activated over the arena.
The hatch would not be opening again, not for her or anyone else.
Hermione sat down in a cross-legged position, on the wet grating, vaguely aware that someone else
had entered the Pit. She sat there, staring at her hands, watching the grime and blood wash away
from them. There wasn't enough water in the entire world to wash it all away, she thought.
Alexander Amarov fired several shots into the zombies that were still feeding on Padma, and two
more into the twitching, steaming, burnt creatures on the ground, before walking across the Pit to
Hermione.
He grabbing her and lifted her to her feet. "Are you bitten?" he demanded, shaking her lightly.
She stared at him.
"Answer me! Are you hurt?"
The water had soaked through his shirt, plastering it to this skin. She could make out the outline of
the biofeedback device on his chest. "You did this," she whispered, raising her eyes to his. "All of
this."
He set her down, staring at her with what she registered to be relief and concern. Laughable, but
there it was. The man cared about her, in his own twisted way.
"This is not my doing. I have lost my ship and most of the fleet. It appears some of us have been
rather busy while I've been away."
There was much she wanted to say, but she could not summon the vocabulary. All she could do
was stare at the gun in his hand. He noticed this.
"You don't believe me?" he asked her, gently. Something powerful shifted behind his dark blue
gaze. "You think I would put you in here to die like this?"
A whimper caught their attention. Hermione didn't have to look to know that it was Padma. She bit
her lip, trying to rein in the scream she feared would never end if she let it out.
"I could help her…if you want me to," Amarov said.
It was always about power and leverage with people like him. And Malfoy, even. If Padma could
be saved, then she should be. What she should never be, was a tool for bargaining.
Amarov's attention was wholly occupied on Hermione. He cursed, before taking her hand and
wrapping it around his gun. He placed the barrel against his chest, at his heart.
"Trust me," he whispered.
All she had to do was pull the trigger. It was so very simple. Kill the monster who hurt the people
she loved, who brought such pain and misery to a world that was already caught in a waking
nightmare. The biofeedback device blinked rapidly. The red button flashing at a far quicker pace
than she had ever seen before. He was afraid. Why, though? He knew she would not blow up
thousands of innocent people just to satisfy her need to see him suffer.
She lowered the gun, but did not relinquish it. Instead, she shuffled over to where Padma lay, in
between the two inert creatures that were still clutching her torn flesh in their hands. Padma could
not speak. What had happened to her was unspeakable. There was no putting her back together, not
with Re-Gen and not even with magic.
"Once more, Granger," Malfoy had once said to her, when she'd failed to euthanize Jason
Lam. "With feeling."
Hermione forced herself to meet Padma's stricken, pleading gaze. She placed the gun to her friend's
temple and pulled the trigger. It had to be the loudest gunshot she had ever heard. Still in a
crouched position, Hermione picked up the broken machete blade Padma had used to cut her own
arm, and slipped it inside one of her Wellingtons. It nestled in a folded cuff of her jumpsuit leg.
And then, with some effort, she stood, handed the gun back to Amarov and allowed herself to be
taken away from the arena.
Strategy
Hermione was taken several floors up. Three? Or was it four? Harry, with his DMLE sensibilities
was always reminding her to take note of exactly these kinds of details. Unfortunately, much of the
external world was a blur at the moment. She was single-minded in her task, however. All her
energies were focussed on the plan she would attempt to execute.
She was shown to the bathroom in Louis Renauld's rooms on the games ship, and told to wash. A
nervous, pacing Dr Prestin waited beyond the door, under orders from Amarov to examine her once
she was clean. Hermione stood just outside the shower stall, watching the hot water fog up the
glass. The mirror above the sink caught her eye. Just as she had done mere hours ago, she stared at
her reflection—her face and hair smeared with blood and grime, bloodshot eyes, tear streaks on her
cheeks that cut clear paths through the muck.
The vanity was laden with more aftershaves than her father likely owned in his entire life. There
was soap that looked handmade and expensive. There was a cut crystal tumbler with about a
centimetre of scotch still left at the bottom. Hermione picked up the tumbler, opened her hand and
dropped it into the sink. It shattered. The sound seemed muffled. Nothing was sharp or clear
anymore. Her senses were muted. She knew it was her traumatised mind attempting to give her
some respite from feeling much of anything. But right now she really needed to be whole and
present.
The door opened. Prestin bustled in, alarmed by the sound of breaking glass. He pulled Hermione
away from the sink, grabbed her hands and examined them. "What did you do?" Amarov's
physician demanded. "He'll have my head if you did anything!"
"I was trying to move a glass to use the sink and it fell," she replied, amazed at how normal and
simultaneously alien her own voice sounded to her.
He used a face towel to sweep the broken pieces into a waste receptacle, tut-tutting the whole time.
Prestin then peered closely at her. What he saw must have been reassuring because all he said was,
"Hurry up," before shutting her in the bathroom once more, taking the broken glass with him.
Hermione sat on the toilet seat, ignoring a symphony of aches and pains over her body. Carefully,
she pulled off one Wellington boot, and then the other. The hidden shard from the broken machete
blade fell out, still stained with Padma's blood. It dropping soundlessly onto the rug. She picked it
up, wadded half a roll of toilet around it and slipped it into the pocket of a purple dressing gown
that hung on the back of the door. And then she unzipped the yellow jumpsuit, stepped out of it
and stood under the running water.
Twenty minutes later, Hermione made a token effort to dry her hair, put on the enormous dressing
gown and opened the door. Prestin had been sitting on the edge of the bed, but snapped to attention
when she appeared.
"Would you like something to eat?" he asked.
She shook her head. He handed her a bottle of water.
"Drink it."
She drank.
"Drop the robe," he ordered.

She did as told. He proceeded to examine her with thin, cold hands, checking her limbs, lifting up
her long wet hair to look for hidden abrasions, cuts and wounds, signs that she may have been
infected. Her body was a map of bruises, but there were no lacerations. He seemed satisfied, but
still insisted on taking blood for routine testing.
"Alexander wanted you presented as soon as possible," he muttered. "He's waiting in the dining
room."
Wordlessly, Hermione bent to retrieve the dressing gown.
"There are clothes for you," Prestin pointed out.
Hermione ignored him. She slipped on the robe. It was voluminous, considering it belonged to
Renauld, so Hermione folded the edges of the robe inwards first, shortening its width, before
rolling up the sleeves and then belting it tightly. However, she left a long, narrow line of exposed
skin along her décolletage.
Prestin opened the door to the adjoining room to where Amarov was standing at a table, conferring
with two guards over a map. All three looked up at her when she appeared. Amarov was wearing
borrowed garments seeing as he had no access to his former wardrobe. Rather than making him
seem more accessible, the grey knit jumper and jeans looked out of place on him, given that
Hermione had only ever seen him in suits. His black hair was still damp from his encounter with
the arena's sprinkler systems.
"Well?" Amarov asked Prestin.
"She's dehydrated and exhausted. There is probably some tendon damage and torn muscle, but she
should be fine in time."
"Thank you, Prestin. Leave us. The men have their orders. I believe Renauld has some
passable Dom Pérignon on ice. Send him in with it."
The two guards and the physician left the room, shutting the door behind them. There was silence,
save for the hum of reversible air-conditioning—a limited luxury on the Morning Star. They were
alone.
Amarov stared at her, his eyes dipping momentarily to the low neckline of the dressing gown. "Is
there anything you cannot do?" he asked. "You have magic, you are a scientist, a scholar, a
survivor, you protect and you fight."
"I can't ride a broomstick," she admitted. It was the truth. She inclined her head towards the map.
"What are you planning?"
"Quite simply, I'm going to cut my losses and leave," he answered. "We'll set off within the hour.
All the prisoners are off this ship, thanks to the rebels. I may have lost the fleet and my
laboratories, but at least we live to fight another day."
"How—"she began and then swallowed, blinking rapidly to convey confusion that did not need to
be manufactured. "How can you leave the fleet without triggering the proximity detonators on your
biofeedback device?"
"Ah," said Amarov, who seemed suddenly hesitant. He plucked at an invisible piece of lint from
his lap, before perching on the edge of the dining table. "While in the Pit, you would have missed
the announcement your rebel friends made, using the fleet-wide channel."
"They're not my 'rebel friends'," she spat, a tremor in her voice. "I had no knowledge and continue
to have no knowledge regarding what is happening here. I have been left behind, it seems."
"There are no bombs," Amarov said, very simply. "They never existed."
Hermione counted to ten before speaking, digging her fingernails into the flesh of her palms in
order to interrupt the shock and incredulity she was experiencing. "What?"
"When I first put the fleet together, it was madness. Utter chaos. The people were fighting,
panicked, assaulting each other over the most basic staples. I needed control...an incentive for
order. The threat of the hidden explosives provided all that and more. It deterred attempts on my
life."
The shard was right there. Right there in her pocket and Alexander Amarov had just told her he
was as vulnerable as the rest of them. Hermione let the shock run through her, dissolving away
some of the initial numbness, leaving a new, directed rage in its wake. When she next looked at
him, she showed nothing more than amazement in her eyes. "Remarkable," she said. "It was all a
bluff. And the device in your chest?"
"This?" Amarov said, tapping at the metal plate under his jumper. "Prestin's handiwork. It's
surgically embedded and does indeed respond to my vital signs, but it's about as dangerous as a
mobile phone."
"Who else knows?"
"Just Prestin, of course."
"What about Honoria?"
"She had no idea," Amarov said.
"Well, wherever she is, she probably knows now."
"It's likely," he agreed.
"So if we're giving up the fleet and your leaving won't blow everyone up, why haven't we left
already?" Hermione asked.
"We? Are you one of us now?"
"Most of my people are dead. The cure is a pipe-dream because you've lost the lab. I was left
behind in this alleged coup and I certainly do not want you to deposit me back on the mainland. It's
clear Harry isn't going to come for me and I'd rather be as far away from London as possible when
the bombs drop…" She sighed, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm not useless, as you said. I
can work. I can make a contribution." Her eyes met his. "I'll go with you, if you let me. But only if
you allow me to be of use."
He was watching her carefully. "Why the sudden change of heart? I don't recall you feeling very
charitable towards me before."
Hermione shot him an incredulous look. "Well, it seems you're not the homicidal maniac I once
thought you were. Additionally, you do realise that one of your trusted lieutenants put me and my
friend into a pit so she could watch us be eaten alive by zombies, because she was jealous of me?
Can you think of any other reasons why I felt it wasn't safe to engage with you?"
He sobered. "Of the many things that should not have happened today, that remains top on the
list."
"Losing me would be worse than losing the fleet?"
Amarov blinked, seemingly caught off guard by the question.
Her face reddened. "I'm sorry. That was presumptuous of me."
He cleared his throat. "No, it's quite alright. I suppose given the times we live in, it pays to be
direct. We may not always have the chance to say all that we want to say."
She smiled a sad smile. "Yes."
The door opened and the guards shoved a purple-faced Louis Renauld into the room, carrying a
bottle of champagne and crystal flutes.
"Three glasses," Amarov noted, with a snort. He turned to Hermione. "Now this, my dear, is
presumptuous."
Renauld set the bottle on the table, with hands that were shaking so badly he nearly dropped one of
the glasses. "Would you…did you want me to uncork it?"
"Yes, please do."
The tension in the room was thick and bitter. Renauld managed to fill all three glasses without
spilling a drop. When it was done, he handed a glass each to Amarov and Hermione and then stood
away from the table.
"Pick up your glass," Amarov said. The words were innocuous, but the tone had Renauld's purple
face draining of colour. "What shall we toast to?"
"To revolution," Hermione suggested.
Amarov raised an eyebrow. "Careful, my dear."
She was starring daggers at Renauld. "That which survives a cleansing is often hardier and stronger
than what came before."
"Better," Amarov said. "To what comes after."
They toasted, they drank, though Hermione had no doubt that Renauld was so terrified he would
have choked on the champagne if he attempted to swallow any of it.
Amarov drained his glass and set it down. "I have a question for you, Louis. I think you know what
it is."
Renauld could no longer contain his bubbling panic. His already pronounced accent grew twice as
thick. "It wasn't my idea! It was Honoria! She said the witch was poisoning your mind, corrupting
you!"
"Even if that is true, why not come to me?"
"We didn't think you would listen to reason! After what happened when Vadim was put in the Pit.
Alexander, your word is supposed to be law, but we all saw what she had the power to do!"
"And what power is that, Louis?"
Renauld swallowed. "To trick you."
"I see," said Amarov. He walked over to a jacket hanging over a dining chair and retrieved a
handgun from inside a pocket. "Hermione, tell me. Are you tricking me?"
Hermione looked him directly in the eye. "No. I'm told I'm dreadful at deceit, if that helps? After
Hogwarts, I was assessed by the DMLE alongside Harry Potter. We both contemplated signing up
as Aurors. Harry went brilliantly of course, but they said I didn't have the aptitude for undercover
work."
"There you have it, Renauld," Amarov said, throwing his hands up. "She doesn't have the
aptitude."
Renauld mopped at the sweat that was pouring down his face. His bulging eyes locked on the
handgun. "Forgive me…I must have been, that is, Honoria must have been mistaken. I should
never have allowed myself to be persuaded."
"Do you know where Honoria is?" Amarov asked. He turned to Hermione, belatedly answering her
earlier question. "She is the reason we have not separated from the fleet yet. If she's on this ship or
any other in the fleet, I will have her."
It was evident that Renauld very much wished he did know. He shook his head. "I'm sorry."
Amarov waved the gun in Hermione's direction. "No matter. You know, I understand that you only
betrayed me because you were concerned for my welfare. I suppose there is one way to tell if Miss
Granger is going to be a productive and loyal member of this crew." He walked up to Hermione
and for the second time that day, put a gun in her hands. "Hermione, I want you to shoot Renauld. I
understand if—"
Both men had not been expecting the shot, at least not immediately. Hermione hit Renauld in the
middle of his forehead. He was dead before his large body reached the ground. The door
immediately opened. The same two guards who were there minutes earlier entered, looking
unsurprised to find Renauld dead. They dragged the body away.
Hermione felt Amarov gently take the gun from her hand. "I'm sorry about Dr Patil."
A tear slid down her face. "Thank you."
"I admit, that whole charade with Renauld wasn't only for your benefit, but did it make you feel any
better at all?"
"Some, but find me Honoria Cloot and I'll feel much improved."
He laughed, his hand coming to stroke a knuckle down her cheek, catching the tear. "I honestly
don't know what to make of you. You are the most intriguing woman I have ever met."
She leaned into his hand, and when he did not rebuff her, placed her face against his chest, her
cheek brushing against the biofeedback panel. "My God, I'm so tired I can't even think…"
"Of course. Rest. We'll set off soon. It's been a hell of a day for all of us. I'll wake you once we're
back in international waters."
Hermione pulled away, heading towards the bedroom. She climbed onto Renauld's bed, pulled the
covers open and crawled in.
Amarov stood at the foot of the bed, his blue eyes contemplative. "I was going to put you in your
own room. These are my new quarters."
Looking only slightly uncertain, Hermione lifted the covers. "I hate your guts, but I don't want to
be alone right now."
He didn't move.
Hermione sighed. "Does that makes me weak?"
"You're not weak," Amarov said. And then he kicked off his shoes, put his gun on the bedside
table closest to him and climbed into bed with her. Hermione settled her body alongside his,
placing her face against his chest once more. She noted the immediate rise in the flashing rate on
his biofeedback panel.
"Alexander?"
"Yes?"
"Be honest, aren't you just a little bit glad the prisoners were set free?"
He appeared to be considering the question. "That situation was untenable in the long term, I
suppose. And let's just say I think I am developing a new…appreciation for the magical world."
His hand stroked her hair. "Perhaps it's as Honoria and Louis feared."
"Oh? Do you really think I'm tricking you?"
He brushed his lips across the top of her head. "Not tricking. Bewitching."
Anatoli shut the Morning Star's bridge doors and proceeded to walk down to the floor below,
where Dr Prestin's medical station and Renauld's quarters was located. He was accosted as he
passed the deserted mess hall. Or rather, as much as a person of his size could reasonably be
accosted. When Anatoli saw whom it was that had grabbed him, he put his gun away.
"Will they notice you're gone?" Draco Malfoy asked him, in Russian.
"No," Anatoli responded. "We have time."
Malfoy retreated further into the darkness of the mess hall kitchens, dropping two rifles on the
counter with less care than he would have normally taken. Anatoli followed him inside. It was very
apparent that Malfoy was in a bad way. His wet hair was slicked back and soot stained, the left
sleeve of his jumper was gone, ripped away. He had attempted to bind a wound with black,
electrical tape, but the adhesive wasn't sticky any more. Some sections of the tape looked warped
and melted. The scorches on Malfoy's trousers and harness flaps indicated recent, close proximity
to fire.
Anatoli knew he was looking at the person responsible for starting the blaze in the zombie cells,
four floors below. There was a gash showing through a gaping hole in Malfoy's jumper, on his left
side. It was dripping blood at a concerning rate. A nasty cut above Malfoy's right eye had rendered
that entire side of his face covered with dried blood. He was slightly hunched over, holding a Colt
IAR to his midsection by his elbow, rather than using his hands. Anatoli knew that rifle. It had
belonged to one of three guards patrolling the lower floors. Finally, Anatoli winced when he
spotted Malfoy's hands. The gloves were burnt so badly, the leather had likely fused to the skin.
"Weezard—" Anatoli began, but was waylaid.
Malfoy ended up using his hands anyway, although it cost him. He grabbed Anatoli by his lapels
and hauled him close. Anatoli could see the white lines of pain around his eyes, and the fury that
bordered on desperation. After weeks of the cool, calm and very much in control scientist, this
show of emotion was unnerving. "I've heard the other guards report that one of the women did not
make it out of the Pit. Tell me."
Anatoli was very many bad things, as his wife liked to list, but cruel was not one of them. He
assuaged the other man's fears immediately. "She's fine…she's fine, my friend. She made it. Prestin
has just finished examining her and your young lady has survived the Pit without any bites or other
signs of infection."
Malfoy stepped back, looking disarmed and dazed. He pulled out a chair from one of the mess hall
benches, spun it around, folded his arms across the backrest and dropped his forehead upon them.
Anatoli looked away discreetly as Malfoy sucked in a shuddering breath.
"You did it, weezard," Anatoli said, not bothering to disguise his profound amazement. "You took
the fleet from Alexander in just a few hours."
Malfoy looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. "We did it."
"Vadim and Zabini, they are OK?"
He nodded.
"And the Cassiopeia's crew?" Anatoli asked.
"All fine."
It was Anatoli's turn to be relieved. "That is good to hear."
"Are you still with us?" Malfoy asked, very carefully. And this was followed by an extended, lead-
heavy silence during which Anatoli was heartened to see Malfoy's left hand move ever so slightly
towards the rifle.
"I always bet on the winning side," said Anatoli, just as carefully. "And I believe that's
currently your side."
"Then let's finish this. How many guards are left?"
"Including me? Sixteen. Renauld is dead. They put a bullet in him not ten minutes ago."
"Ah, that was the shot I heard."
Anatoli nodded. "But before we do anything more, let me look at your injuries."
"There's no need."
"If you'll forgive me, wizard, I am not about to storm the bridge with a man who can't hold his own
cock to piss right now, let alone a gun! Let me see your hands."
Malfoy cursed in a language Anatoli was not familiar with, but relented. Anatoli whistled low. As
he'd guessed, the leather had stuck. To remove the gloves would be to peel off skin. This was
something to be attempted only with serious pain relief on hand.
Or a lot of vodka.
"Wait here, weezard."
There was no bloody vodka to be found. It was a travesty on any ship crewed by Russians.
Anatoli returned moments later with a small kit of medical supplies. He sat in a chair and watched
Draco rifle through the bag, pulling out bandages and several vials. With shaking hands, Malfoy
plastered an adhesive bandage over the gash in his side. "There's no morphine..."
"Shall I go back and look?" Anatoli asked.
"No, let's not risk Prestin asking any questions if he sees you. There's some fentanyl. Even better."
He pulled off a syringe cap with his teeth, loaded it with the drug and then plunged it into the
muscle of his thigh.
"Is it working?" Anatoli asked.
Malfoy closed his eyes. "Give it a minute."
"You haven't asked me about the girl who died," Anatoli said, filling the silence. "She was your
friend, yes?"
His eyes opened. "Yes. Her name was Padma."
Anatoli nodded. "I wasn't at the arena, but Renauld told me what happened."
"What happened is that I didn't reach them in time," Malfoy said. He got to his feet, went to
retrieve the two additional rifles and began to load them.
"I don't see how you could have got there any sooner. The prisoners in the hold needed to be
released. If not, Amarov would have used them as hostages even if you did manage to get to
Granger first. The fire you lit saved her life, you know that? And before that, the two girls saved
each other. Amarov arrived at the end, after they faced what even you and Zabini never had to."
The re-loading paused. "And what was that?"
"Eight rounds in the Pit."
Malfoy put the gun down on the table and stared at it for a moment. "Where is Honoria Cloot?"
"We don't know. My men and I have orders to find her if she's still on the Morning Star and bring
her to Amarov."
"And Granger? Where exactly is he keeping her?"
"She's been with Alexander in Renauld's rooms since Prestin cleared her of the Infection," Anatoli
confirmed. He turned in his chair to observe Malfoy opening and closing the kitchen cabinets.
He found a six-pack of juice boxes in one cupboard, tore two boxes free from the plastic wrap and
said, in English, "Apple or tropical?"
It took Anatoli a moment to process the question. "Yabloko."

Malfoy tossed him the apple juice. Anatoli noted that he moved with greater fluidity now. The pain
relief was taking effect and Anatoli was relieved to recognise the wizard he was more familiar with
—strategic, acerbic and at times, downright sinister.
"Alexander asked the men to…he asked us to bring them…"
"Bring them what?"
"Champagne," Anatoli said, with a sigh.
Malfoy's eyebrows rose. "Champagne? What a civilised way to celebrate the demise of a
dictatorship."
After draining his juice box, Malfoy crumpled it and tossed the empty carton into the sink. "Come
on, Anatoli. Let's crash a party."
"We are outnumbered, you are wounded and none of our allies are on board. Do you have a plan?"
After a moment of thought, Malfoy apparently did.
"How much do your friends like you?"

Alexander Amarov
Hermione's exhaustion had long since passed Fatigue, arriving at a previously undiscovered
destination called Wakeful Delirium. Each blink felt like it was happening at half-speed. She
regretted not accepting food from Prestin. Some sugar in her blood might make a crucial difference.
It hadn't mattered earlier, when all she had to worry about was her own resolve, but now it
certainly did. She had to think fast and be fast.
"What's on your mind?" Amarov asked her, his voice sleepy. "You look troubled."
"Do you think about her?"
He knew to whom she was referring. "Every day."
"What was she like, your fiancée?"
Amarov considered the question. "The opposite of you, actually."
"Tall, blonde, good-looking?"
He smiled, caught her hand and kissed her wrist. "Dependent, spiteful, spoilt. But we got along
very well. She understood me." He began running a finger across her collarbone, and then lower,
tracing the parting in the robe.
"Did Honoria understand you?" Hermione asked, forcing herself not to flinch away.
"Yes, I believe she did, which is why she sensed blood in the water as soon as you came on board."
"How do you mean?"
Amarov began to undo the knot in the belt of her robe. "I like…unusual things. I enjoy being
challenged, but only if it ends with my winning. Or with acquisition." He sat up, parting the edges
of the robe until Hermione's body was fully exposed to him. His breathing began to pick up. "I
don't like to lose."
He ran his palm over the skin of her belly, stopping just above the dark pink scar tissue of her
gunshot wound; the same wound Amarov had caused and Draco had sewed up. "Pity about the
ugly scar."
His right hand slid under her hair as he pressed her face to his, kissing her. This was very different
to their last kiss. This kiss was a prelude to something serious. How odd that after three years
without kissing anyone, with only a moody, on-again, off-again unworkable relationship with Ron,
she'd been kissed three time in the last three months and all three occasions had been with 'the
enemy'.
Amarov's kiss was not aggressive or angry like Draco's had been in the Hogwarts' library. This was
designed to lull and convince. He was a salesman, after all. She felt his hand on one breast, and
then the other, before it slid lower down her body.
It got difficult at this point—staying still, acting receptive, and resisting the urge to cocoon herself
in all the sheets on the bed. His mouth left hers, running down her neck to where his hands had just
been.
"You're beeping," she pointed out.
"I think we can do away with this thing now. It's been such a trial." He reached up a hand to punch
in a code on the inverted number pad of his biofeedback device.
It turned off. Just like that. So easy. This was the lie that had held an entire fleet of people in a
terrified thrall.
Presently, he sat up to pull his jumper over his head. Hermione slipped her arms out of her robe, but
was careful to still remain lying on the garment.
"You are so beautiful," he told her. "Perhaps I haven't come away empty-handed today, after all."
And then he lay on top of her. Hermione glanced at the gun on the bedside table. It was close, but
on the wrong side of the bed. She would have to roll over him and at this point, she was unwilling
to provide any incentive for Amarov to find an opportunity to remove his trousers. Instead, she
reached down with her right hand, finding the robe and dragging it upwards until the pocket was
within reach. She slipped her hands into the pocket and gripped the machete blade tightly, using
her thumb to drag down the toilet paper that was wadded around the tip of the blade, exposing it.
Timing was everything. And also nothing, considering she was essentially about to be raped. Her
panic was held in check by the flimsiest of threads. Any more of this and she was going to scream.
Amarov was kissing down her shoulder just as she tried to stab him in the side of his neck. The
blade absolutely would have met its mark, had Amarov not been expecting it. He caught her wrist
in a punishing grip, squeezing the bones in between his thumb and index finger. Hermione cried
out, dropping the shard to the carpeted floor.
"Beautiful and deadly, it seems," he smirked down at her. "Turns out I owe Honoria an apology."
"Get off me!"
"After I'm done."
She let the panic out, bucking, hitting, scratching, before he cuffed her in the side of her face. Pain
exploded across her cheekbone. It hurt. The right side of her vision was rendered fuzzy for a
moment.
"Don't look so distraught. I'm not a monster. You'll enjoy this. I assure you I've had no complaints
before."
Hermione pulled her knee back to kick him, but he caught her ankle, ran his hands up her calf and
flipped her, bodily, onto her stomach. She screamed. He straddled her, locking her arms behind her
back and pushing her face down into the mattress until she couldn't breathe.
"There will be no fighting and no screaming, my dear. That would be counterproductive to our
mutual enjoyment, wouldn't it?" Still holding her arms in place with one hand, he used his other
hand to undo his belt buckle.
"I must confess I've never had a witch quite like you before. The others have all come along
willingly when provided with suitable incentives. What about you, Hermione? Are you going to
behave?" He lifted her face off the mattress by sharply pulling back on her hair. "Are you?"
Hermione's eyes were screwed shut. There were bed sheet creases over her face, the right side of
which was already swelling up. "Yes," she winced.
"Excellent." He flipped her over again so that he was straddling her stomach this time. "Do you
think I'm an idiot? Do you think I couldn't guess? I must say, the blade is a nice touch. I was sure
you'd go for the gun."
His knees were pressing on her chest. Hermione felt like her ribs were about to break.
"Do you people think that just because you have the gift of magic, it somehow makes you more
valuable than me? Better than me? I hate you," he spat. "All of you."
"I know," she replied, sorrowfully.
Her sincere response surprised him. For a moment, it looked like he was experiencing a moment of
self-doubt, but it was so fleeting Hermione thought she might have imagined it. "You are different,
you know that? You make me want to care about you. You're as dangerous as Honoria claims."
He shifted away from her. They'd moved closer to the bedside table and he wasn't holding her
hands down any more. The gun was so close….so very close. There was nothing for it, he was
probably going to kill after he was done with her, anyway. Hermione lunged for the gun, almost
crying out with joy when her hand wrapped around the handle. She aimed it at face and did not
hesitate for a second.
She pulled the trigger.
Click.
He'd been bluffing. There was no way he'd leave a loaded weapon near her, even if it was meant to
be a taunt. The man was a psychopath.
"That's my girl," he smiled at her, and then he wrapped his hands around her throat and began to
squeeze.
Amarov's elite guards were, as crews went, rather motley. Some were former thugs for hire with no
family attachments to make them vulnerable. They had survived the worst of the Infection's early
days because of their prior training and access to illegal weapons than the average suburban family
had no chance of acquiring. In the zombie apocalypse, the meek did not inherit the earth. They got
eaten.
Other guards had once been gangsters or petty crooks. Three of them had been Amarov's personal
bodyguards. Before the Infection, their jobs were reasonably cushy. It mainly involved driving
Amarov to work, to restaurants, to nightclubs and back, manhandling occasional paparazzi and
ensuring that his lady friends were discreetly exited from his residences, the morning after. They
did not work for Amarov due to some sense of innate loyalty. Theirs was a loyalty that could be
bought with money or the promise of rewards, or disrupted if a better deal presented itself.
It was also safe to say that all of these men knew their way around a firearm and were more than
capable of defending themselves against the Undead. Zombies were terrifying, but they did not
shoot back. The fact was that surviving a zombie outbreak also entailed surviving other survivors.
People were unpredictable. They were capable of extraordinary acts of heroism (and conversely,
stupidity). They lied. They formed alliances.
They walked onto the bridge of the Morning Star to face fifteen armed guards, all of whom drew
their weapons simultaneously. Draco stood at six feet, two inches, but still looked somewhat
dubious holding on to Anatoli, who was twice his bulk and three heads taller. It helped that
Anatoli's hands were tied behind his back and a pistol was pressed to his neck.
"Drop the gun!" ordered one of the guards.
Draco looked almost offended. "I don't think you know how this works. You see, this man is
my hostage. I caught him, fair and square. If you want him back in one piece, I ask that you listen
to my proposition. I've killed quite enough of you tonight. No one else needs to die."
There were a few chuckles. "There's only one person drying here tonight."
"Who is this fool? Is he from the 'Peia?"
"He's Alexander's scientist—one of the wizards from London."
"You are crazy, wizard!"
"I'm crazy?" Draco scoffed. "I'm not the one who's about to sail off with limited fuel and no
supplies. You had a nice thing going here and it doesn't have to end just because the good guys
have taken over the fleet. You did hear the broadcast made by my people, didn't you? There were
never any explosives. It was all a ploy to convince you that Amarov had the upper hand, to control
you and everyone else in this fleet."
One among the men stepped forward. "Even so, it doesn't matter. You're outnumbered, here,
wizard. This will not end well for you. We'll shoot you, with or without Anatoli in the way."
"I told you," Anatoli muttered.
"Be quiet," snapped Draco. "How was Amarov paying you?" he asked them. "In rations, correct?
How do you think he's going to continue rewarding you for risking your lives every single day,
now that my people have all his resources?"
As Anatoli had confirmed for Draco, this was a very germane concern among the guards. The only
reason they were still active in their roles was due to inertia. They hadn't considered their options
post-Amarov. Not yet, anyhow.
"We don't want any more killing. Not here, not in the prison hold or in the Pit," Draco looked at
each of the men. "There's been quite enough of that already. I'm proposing a peaceful surrender.
Give me Amarov and I promise you amnesty. You can re-join the fleet and share in our shelter,
food, water, medicine."
"How do we know we can trust you or your people?"
"You don't, but the alternative is worse. If I'm telling the truth, you stand a chance of carving out a
reasonable standard of living within the fleet. With Amarov, you'll be adrift on the ocean, or you'll
run aground within a week. Do you know what an unpaid servant is called? Because that's exactly
what you all are."
Doubt spread like a virus. It was almost visible in real time. Some of the men whispered to each
other, some argued and cursed. One man eventually came forward, dropping his weapon at
Draco's feet. The rest fell like dominos after this.
"I'd like a berth on the Normandy. It's one of the oil tankers. I used to work on one, a long time
ago."
"There's a girl on the Istana…she'll be happy to see me again."
"Please, I need medicine for my lungs."

Common sense prevailed. The guards abandoned the bridge without a single shot fired. They were
told to wait on the deck for further instructions. After Draco untied Anatoli's hands, the large guard
pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at the perspiration on his brow.
"In English, how do you say it? My pants? They are brown."
"Thank you, Anatoli. That's lovely."
"You are welcome, Weezard."
A detail belatedly occurred to Draco. "Prestin wasn't here."
Anatoli picked up one of the abandoned rifles. "My pleasure to find that rat man."
"Wait," Draco stopped him. "Don't kill him. He's currently the fleet's only qualified doctor. We'll
put him to work."
"Fine." Anatoli swapped the pistol for Draco's tranquiliser gun. "This OK?"
"Better. Radio Blaise and tell him to send two boats."
"Why two?"
Draco dropped his other rifles, taking only a single handgun. "One for the guards. Another to
transport Amarov and Prestin. I don't want everyone on the same transport vessel."
"Good idea. After that, do you want me to go with you?"
"Not for this next bit," said Draco and then he was sprinting down the corridor in the direction of
Renauld's quarters.
The pressure was agonising. Hermione felt like her eyes were going to rupture from their sockets.
Her fingers clawed at Amarov's hands, trying desperately to pry them lose. But she could not
dislodge him. Her vision began to grow fuzzy again.
And then suddenly the pressure released. Blood roared past her ears, which was probably why the
sounds of the door opening or Amarov being flung across the room didn't immediately register.
Hermione rolled over to her side, coughing violently as her bruised throat struggled to let air in. To
her utter amazement and relief, Draco was suddenly above her, though she could barely see him
through bleary, tear-logged eyes. The hands at the side of her face were the most gentle she'd
encountered in the last twenty-four hours. She grabbed his wrists and squeezed them to reassure
him. Merlin knew she had no voice to use at the moment.
Hermione felt him pull the sheets around her before he was gone. Still gulping in air, watching
from a foetal position on the bed, she saw Draco stalk Amarov across the room. Amarov was
shirtless, dishevelled and panicked. It was amazing how small and slight he looked, now that all
his power was gone.
Draco, in contrast, was enormous in his cold fury. He was holding a single gun and looked like he
was about to rip Amarov limb from limb, but in a controlled, methodical manner.
"Not so brave without your threats, your guards or your guns, are you?"
Amarov turned to the weakest link in the room. "Hermione, listen to me. It doesn't have to be like
this… I apologise for hurting you, I was angry. I was defending myself…"
"Do not speak to her."
Hermione really wanted to get to her feet, but she was worried her legs would collapse beneath her.
Draco did not need that kind of distraction. Where was everyone else; the so-called rebels? Surely
he wasn't here by himself?
Amarov turned his attention back to Draco, staring at him as if he'd only just see him. He backed
up until Renauld's armoire was behind him, holding up placating hands.
"Let us discuss this like civilised people."
Draco's chuckle was low and sinister. He didn't advance on Amarov, but paced back and forth in
front of him. "Oh, you and I are far from civilised."
Something snapped in Amarov. Hermione had never seen him so angry. She supposed it was fitting
for him to lose his cool now, when all control had already been stripped from him. As for Draco,
Hermione could be forgiven for believing she was looking at Lucius Malfoy.
"Do you know who I am!"
"Yes," nodded Draco. "You're the fool who's managed to make a Death Eater want to kill you. You
may have heard of us? We make your pathetic attempts at genocide look like a playground spat."
"Oh, I know all about your kind!"
"I doubt it," Draco said. "You don't look anywhere near worried enough. Allow me to remedy
that." He grabbed Amarov by his neck and hauled him up higher, until both men were eye to eye.
Draco spoke quickly and precisely. "I served one of the most powerful sorcerers to walk this plane
of existence. He showed me many things, Mr Amarov, dark, malevolent, otherworldly things that
would haunt you behind your closed eyes. You are absolutely correct to fear and distrust us,
because to my former Master, you people were less than animals. You were a stain on the surface
of a world that ought to belong to my kind." Draco slammed Amarov against the armoire and stood
over him.
"As you can see, I don't need my magic to kill you. But had I my wand, I would hurt you in ways
you could scarcely imagine. I'd make sure you survive this. I'd turn you into something
unrecognisable, twisted, hideous and in ceaseless pain. I'd root you into the ground for all to see.
You'd remain there for as long as I wish it. Suffering. In misery and in abject humiliation. You
would remain like that as testament to what happens when you cross not the best of my people, but
the absolute, unmitigated worst among us; the darkest the magical race has to offer. That's wizards
like me, Mr Amarov."
"Hermione…please. "You're not a killer." Amarov tried to look at her again, but was thwarted
when Draco grabbed his hair to hold his head still.
"You will never see her or speak to her ever again, you son of a bitch. And she doesn't need to be a
killer," Draco said, before pistol-whipping Amarov. "She has me."
The next steps Draco took were less steady. He stared at Hermione, walked to the bed, faltering
slightly, but reached it in time to catch her as she launched herself at him. They held on to each
other, unspeaking. Hermione buried her face into Draco's neck, releasing great, wracking sobs that
ran through her entire body. Concerned that he was going to drop her, Draco turned them around so
that he could sit on the bed.
Hermione was wrapped in a sheet and curled up in Draco's lap when Anatoli found them in the
room. The guard noted Amarov slumped over in the corner.
"Oh, good. You're alive," said Anatoli. "It is done, then?"
"Nearly. Did you find Prestin?"
"I did. I put three darts in him. One to stop him, two more because I don't like him."
"And no one else remains on the ship?" Draco asked. He kept his voice very low and quiet.
Anatoli took Draco's que, lowering his voice. "No one still breathing. Is she OK?" he asked,
frowning at Hermione. Her eyes were open, but she seemed uninterested in what was transpiring.
There were deep bruises forming around her throat and it looked like she was on her way to
developing a black eye.
Draco shook his head, subtly. "She needs Belikov to look at her. I'd like to get her back to the home
ship immediately." He turned to look at the unconscious Amarov. "And him, too."
"Zabini has sent for the transport boats already. There is one other thing you might like to know.
Good news on the radio."
"Good news?" Draco said, wearily. His right hand was rubbing slow, concentric circles into
Hermione's back. "I think I'd forgotten what that even sounds like. What is it?"
"They caught Honoria. She disguised herself, tried to pass off as a prisoner when they were being
transferred across to the Cassiopeia."
"How was she discovered?"
Anatoli broke out into a huge grin. "Zabini's little boy. He was standing on the 'Peia's deck,
welcoming the new arrivals when he spotted her. Zabini says the boy was on top of her in a flash."
Hermione Granger
Two days later, Draco awakened in the home ship's laboratory/infirmary to find Henry Miles
Greengrass Zabini looming over him. The child was standing on a chair that was precariously tilted
on two legs. He peered down at Draco, wearing an amused expression.
"What's so funny?" Draco asked, or croaked, more like it. His throat was dry. He was also
nauseous and terribly thirsty, the aftereffects of the anaesthetic Belikov had administered in order
to see to his wounds.
"The Professor cut your hair. It was burned. He said it smelled bad and had to go."
"How cruel, to cut a man's hair while he's asleep," said Draco.
Henry giggled. "The Professor's not a very good hair-cutter. Do you want to see the drawing I
made?"
"Of my hair cut?"
"No," Henry said, rolling his eyes. "Another thing."
Draco's eyelids were too heavy. He closed them. "Sure."
"Henry! Get off that chair before you fall off and crack your skull open!" It was Blaise. He plucked
his son off the chair and set him down.
"Sorry if he woke you," said Blaise. "If it's any consolation, no one's had much sleep. The brew
from the fleet's distillery has been unleashed. It's the worst facsimile of alcohol I have ever tasted,
and this includes Goyle's dungeon moonshine in sixth year. I estimate about half the residents are
already drunk and the other half is catching up. How are you feeling?"
"Fantastic." Draco rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead and was momentarily confused
by the odd, tactile sensation. And then he remembered that both his hands were bandaged, after the
excruciating process of peeling off the gloves. "How long was I out?"
"Two days, on and off."
"Where's Hermione?"
"She declined any dinner and is taking some air on the deck. It's just after seven."
Draco reached for a glass of water from the trolley beside the bed.
"Here, let me help you. You're dexterously challenged at the moment."
Blaise assisted Draco in bringing the glass to his lips, whereupon he drained the contents in three
long swallows.
"How goes the new order?" Draco asked. He wiped his mouth and settled back against the pillows.
Blaise groaned. "It's a challenge, but we're already receiving expressions of interest and
nominations for a representative committee of Muggles and Magicals. The Committee will oversee
the rebuilding of the fleet. No more unilateral decisions. Eight ships left this morning, many of
them carrying Amarov's inner circle and some of the elite guards. Good riddance, I say! One of
them was the Belarus, our largest oil tanker. However, we do have spares. We have also the
desalination unit, thanks to Amarov's successful field trip. You'll be pleased to know we are still
resource-rich, particularly if we properly ration everything. Suffice it to say, Amarov and his
cronies were living a champagne and caviar lifestyle only because the rest of the fleet was barely
scraping by."
"Is he secured?"
"Tied up and locked inside one of his own vaults. Honoria and Prestin are being kept in different
vaults, alongside. Did you know that posh bastard has four Picassos on this ship?"
"Speaking of art…" Draco inclined his head to Henry, who had returned with his drawing.
"Can I show the man?" Henry asked his father.
Blaise put his son on his knee. "Yes. And you can stop calling him 'the man'. His name is Draco."
"Here's my drawing," Henry said, shyly.
The two adults examined the artwork. "Oh," said Blaise, "My. Is that…."
"Honoria," Draco concluded.
Henry nodded. "The nasty woman. Did my dad tell you? I caught her sneaking!"
"Yes, I heard about that. Very clever, Henry. You'd make an excellent Auror."
"Over my dead body," muttered Blaise.
"And is that you kicking her?"
"Yes!" Henry said, beaming. He was very happy the man could decipher his drawings. His own
father was often at a loss.
"What is that in your hand?" It looked like rope.
"That's her hair. I pulled some out from her head when I jumped on her. Only by accident."
Draco looked impressed. Blaise looked pained. "And we've discussed how dangerous and silly that
was, haven't we? You could have been hurt, Henry."
"Yes, I know. I'm sorry."
"Go and show your drawing to Anatoli. He'd appreciate it, I'm sure."
"He would," Draco agreed, after Henry left again. He coughed, and then winced from the
discomfort. "So what's the outcome of Vadim's poking and prodding?"
Blaise sat back in his chair. "Best we can tell, you scorched your lungs, you have three fractured
ribs, four gashes that were deep enough to require stitches and second degree burns over the tops of
your hands."
"And a bad haircut, apparently," Draco added, reaching for some more water.
"In short, you are in predictably bad shape. But by some miracle, you, Granger, Anatoli and all
fifteen of those guards made it off the Morning Star alive. I'm told, by the power of persuasion."
"More like self-preservation. How is she?"
It was the way that Draco asked the question that determined how Blaise answered it. He knew
what Draco was asking.
"Whatever Amarov was intending to do to her…you arrived before the worst of it."
"Really?" said Draco, deceptively mild. "After already surviving the Pit, he was strangling her
when I walked into that room."
Blaise treaded very carefully now. "Which begs the question, why is he still alive? I don't think I
could have held back, had I been in your position."
The look Draco gave him was bone-chilling. "Trust me, I haven't held back. What about Granger's
other injuries?"
"Prestin took a blood sample from her after she was pulled out of the Pit. Belikov checked the
results and she's been cleared of the Infection. Physically, there shouldn't be any lasting injuries.
I'm not a Muggle head doctor, but she's badly traumatised. She wasn't catatonic when you brought
her in, but damn close to it. Belikov couldn't get a full sentence out of her when he was treating her
—Malfoy what are you doing?"
Draco was already off the bed. "You left her alone," he said. "Unwise."
"You are in no position to be traipsing around the ship! You can barely stand!"
"Already standing," growled Draco, before discovering a minor problem. "Now get me some pants
or get out of my way."
When Draco found her, Hermione was sitting with her legs hanging over the edge of the empty
swimming pool that was recessed into the deck of the home ship. Around them, the lights of the
fleet looked plentiful and beautiful, perhaps all the more so because many fleet residents were still
celebrating.
She was dressed in an oversized shearling jacket and baggy trousers. Her hair was clean, dry and
French-braided. They'd found her a pair of worn sneakers to wear. She didn't look up when Draco
gingerly sat down next to her, functioning at only one-third his usual speed. His ribs protested, but
the pain-killers kept the worst of it at bay.
"You should be in the infirmary," she told him. While her choice of greeting was quintessentially
Hermione, Draco was concerned to note the utter lack of nag in her voice.
"It's cold here. Come downstairs and have something to eat."
"I'd like to stay." She finally looked at him. Even in the low light, he could see the bruises on her
face. He knew he was scowling. Not at her, but scowling nonetheless.
"Thank you for coming to get me," she said, looking down at the dark, empty swimming pool.
There was a shallow, stagnant puddle at the bottom. "That's the third time you've saved my life, at
great risk to your own."
"Then treat it with more care," he admonished.
Damn it. He had no idea how to go about providing her with what she needed. This was not a
scientific conundrum. He couldn't hex, shoot, browbeat or intimidate this problem into submission.
They—if indeed there was even a 'they'—were unchartered territory. He could not run experiments,
could not waste time testing hypotheses and observing. She needed assistance and he needed to
determine how best to provide that, immediately. He wanted to touch her, of course. He'd wanted
to since Grimmauld Place, but right now she was the most fragile porcelain.
He saw that she was looking at his bandaged hands.
"Not your fault," he said, because somewhere over the last three months, he had at least acquired
the ability to occasionally read her mind.
"Anatoli said you started that fire to save Padma and me."
"Yes. Not that it did much to help her in the end."
He instantly regretted speaking. Talk of Patil did not go down so well. She swiped the sleeve of her
coat under her eyes. "I don't think I'm handling this very well. I can't sleep. I can't even manage the
simplest tasks without breaking down," she told him, with a humourless laugh. "Honestly, Malfoy.
I couldn't write my own name if you asked me too. My head's all muddled. Loud noises make me
flinch. Even the other scientists cleaning beakers in the lab sent me scarpering. I think I scared
Henry Zabini yesterday. I saw him and goodness, he's adorable, isn't he? What did I do? I burst into
tears. I can't think, I can't do. It's excruciating just….being. I want to not be, just for a little while, if
it's possible? If that even makes sense?"
"Granger," he began, "there is no correct way to handle this. No points for Gyrffindor to be earned
here. You've been through a great deal, after already going through a great deal in the last twelve
months. We all have our breaking points."
"Except for you." She stared at him, almost mutinously. It was slightly heartening. " You're not
falling to pieces."
He brought up a knee and balanced his forearm upon it. "That doesn't mean I haven't got a
breaking point. If I do, I'm not keen to know what it would take."
"Before you found me, I had smuggled out a broken blade from the Pit. I kept it in my boot, the
boots Padma kept telling me to put on, ironically. It was in my pocket when I…when I was in bed
with Amarov."
"Clever," was all he said, through gritted teeth. Because if he said out loud what he wanted to do to
Amarov, she was going to scarper from him.
"Only the blade wasn't for Amarov. Before I knew the biofeedback device and the bombs were all
a sham, that blade was meant for me. You see…" she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I
was a coward. In the Pit, there was a moment when I was sure I was going to die, and I hoped my
death would mean that they would let Padma out. They said only one of us could leave the Pit
alive. The thing is, I was almost happy! There was relief, Draco. I wouldn't have to fight, worry,
love, lose, any of it. Not any longer. So when Padma sacrificed herself instead, I was…" her voice
broke.
He placed one of his bandaged hands against hers. Not holding it, just touching, side by side.
"….I was angry at Padma for taking that escape away from me." Hermione shut her eyes. "I didn't
want to survive her loss. That makes me the most awful, selfish, ungrateful human being."
The follow up to these dark revelations was too important to risk by using the wrong words. So
they sat in silence for a few minutes. Refuting her assessment of her actions was not going to be
productive at that point. His reassurances would fall on deaf ears. She needed some distance from
the event.
Draco had to address one specific matter, however.
"Granger, if you felt or feel anything for me, promise that you will never, ever take that option.
And if you feel you might, you will tell me. Promise me."
"I promise," she said, more easily that he liked. He frowned.
"Our last conversation at Grimmauld Place was about sharing the burdens you bear. I want you to
do that with me. Let me carry some of the weight. Hell, let me carry all of it."
Hermione gave him a small, watery smile, crawled forward towards him and surprised him by
kissing him on the mouth. She kissed with fierce desperation, taking his face in her hands, careful
of the cut above his left eye, running her fingers up through his uneven hair and clutching at the
front of his jumper like she was trying to claw something out of him. For the second time in two
days, she was in his lap, this time with her legs wrapped around his hips. He slid his injured hands
down her back, cupping her backside, pulling her closer because it felt indecently good… and so
few things had felt this good in such a long time.
He bore the brunt of her gentle assault, but soon, concern for her started to overwhelm his baser
urges. She had not even begun to recover from Amarov's attack. This was not the place for this and
this was most certainly not the time.
It wasn't until the kiss began to turn decidedly carnal, until she began to softly moan into his mouth
and grind into him, did Draco understand the depths of her distress. This was not authentic
Hermione. This was Hermione struggling to find a distraction, a drug, something powerful and
heady to transport her away from the present. Her small, questing hands worked their way under
his jumper and the t-shirt beneath, testing and kneading the muscles of his chest, brushing past the
bandages that bound his injured ribs and the cut along his side. They dipped lower still. He gently
caught them when she began to tug at the waistband of his trousers.
She pulled her mouth away, her lips red and glistening, her face flushed. "No?" she asked, looking
so painfully young that Draco wanted to go downstairs and rip Amarov's fucking head clean off his
shoulders. He responded perhaps a little too gruffly, grabbing her around the waist and with
impressive strength, lifted her off his lap.
"You don't want to…?"
Had she still been sitting on him, she wouldn't be asking such a question. It was amazing that his
body apparently felt there was enough blood to spare, after losing so much of it recently.
"You need time," he said, with a voice like gravel turning in a metal bucket. Damn it, all. He could
still taste her. He sucked in a slow, deep breath.
"I don't want time," she said.
"What do you want?"
"You."
Draco thought he might understand this, too. He represented everything she could not have allowed
herself in the past; the freedom to choose (wisely or not), indulgence, instinct and want, not duty
and obligation.
The first two toggles of her shearling jacket had come undone. With hands that were clumsy from
more than just bandages, Draco fastened the toggles and then almost hesitantly, he pushed an
errant lock of hair behind her ear. "In the meantime, what else can I do to help you?"
"I want to go home." It was said so softly he might have missed it if he hadn't been listening so
hard.
"To Grimmauld Place?"
She shook her head. "No, not Grimmauld Place. I don't want to do any of this anymore. I quit. I
want to go home."
He could have kicked himself for not working it out earlier. It was very bad, then. She didn't even
want to see Potter. Not yet, anyhow.
"You want to go to your parents, in Australia."
She nodded, biting her lip. "But even though I'm not able to work right now, how can I possibly
leave the research effort? What could I say to everyone?"
"Easy. You say you quit. You leave it behind and I take you with me."
"But how can I—?" This was the source of her conflict, the crippling, soul-flaying guilt.
"You can and you will," he told her, emphatically. "Come with me. And when or if you feel up to
it, I'll bring you back."
"What about Project Christmas and the end of year deadline?"
"If London burns, then it burns and no one can say you didn't try your best to prevent that in the
face of adversity that would have destroyed lesser people. We've made considerable progress. And
Zabini will bring Potter and the staff from Grimmauld Place to continue working on the cure."
"Leaving all of them is cowardly."
"Not for you. You cannot help them right now."
"But what about you? They need you."
He got to his feet and pulled her up. "Belikov and his team will more than make do with Wallen,
Yoshida and McAllister. The complete D.R.A.C.O. formula is here for them. As for me, haven't
you learned anything at all? After Hogwarts, I bloody well do what I want."
She gave him a quiet, heavy look. "And what do you want?"
He sidestepped the question, posing one in return. "Do you think staying here would be good for
you? If you honestly do, then we'll stay."
Draco could see how much she wanted to lie to him, and for them to both believe her lie. But she
could not bring herself to say it. She looked beyond him, at the fleet in the distance. "No," she said.
He was proud of her. For probably the first time since she arrived at Hogwarts, she was putting
what she wanted above what she was expected to do.
"But how would we even get to Australia? The International Floo network is dismantled."
"If we go, it'll be by Portkey."
Her look of wide-eyed incredulity was endearing. It occurred to Draco that the problem with
wearing your heart on your sleeve all the time was the likelihood that it could get squashed. "You
have a Portkey?"
"No, but I know exactly where to find one."

Promises
Harry was pretty sure he was about to get punched in the face by Agent Barnaby Richards. This
would have been rather unfortunate for three reasons. Firstly, Richards was still weeks away from
fully recovering from his gun shot wounds. Secondly, Harry would probably have to punch him
right back, which led directly to reason number three—Harry did not make a habit of punching
senior citizens.
"Stand down, old man," Harry warned.
This did not sit well with Richards, who came at him with a growl, only to be obstructed by the
Minister for Magic.
"This is unhelpful!"
That was true. And to be fair, Harry knew how Richards was feeling because they
were both feeling it. They were men of action. They strategised, did the sums, suited up. They went
to dangerous places and did dangerous things. None of this was required of them at the moment.
The two remaining Project Christmas experts—Dr McAlister and Professor Yoshida—had been
eating, sleeping and working in the laboratory for the past few weeks. All inhabitants of the
Grimmauld Place house worked to assist their efforts. Nothing, absolutely nothing else was more
important than saving lives that would surely be lost, if the cure was postponed and the American's
bombs allowed to obliterate London.
Or so Scrimgeour said.
But that was bullshit, Harry decided. Prioritising and acceptable casualties was for politicians.
Harry understood why the Ministry had kept its murky secrets, but he would not forgive them. He'd
had quite enough of helpless resignation and bystanding when it came to the Ministry's fuck-ups.
Richards' fist was still wrapped tightly around a handful of Harry's shirt. Presently, it relaxed, as did
the man himself. The Cowboy backed away, looking weary. He ran a hand through his black and
silver hair.
"You spend eight hours a day flying over open water. I can't seem to get through your thick skull
how dangerous that is. Brooms are not designed to do that. I know you're Harry fucking Potter, but
it's still a miracle you haven't crashed. This needs to stop."
Harry had been covering increasingly large stretches of coastline every day and he was still no
closer to finding Amarov's fleet. The search was futile and everyone in the house knew it. One
person, even a magical person, could not conduct such a search alone. But Harry would die before
he stopped doing…something. Anything. He would not give up on Hermione.
"You don't need me here," he enunciated, his frustration so acute that it garnered a rare look of
sympathy from Richards. "What the bloody hell else do you expect me to do?"
Richards placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Take Longbottom with you to Taransay. He's just as
cooped up as you are. Help the Weasleys look after your people there.
Harry shook his head. "Neville can go. Ginny has things under control. I'm not needed there
either."
"Listen to me, Potter," interjected Scrimgeour. "If Hermione and the others are still alive—"
"She's alive," Harry hissed. "I know it. I just need to get to her."
Richards narrowed his eyes at Scrimgeour. "Are you gonna tell him or do I have to get hit in the
face after all?"
"Tell me what?" Harry demanded.
The Minister hesitated for the briefest moment. "We're evacuating everyone to Taransay. It's been
decided."
Harry removed his glasses and rubbed the heel of his palm into his forehead. "Oh yes?" he asked,
cuttingly. "Who decided?"
"I did." Scrimgeour said, with cold authority.
"And I agree with his decision," Richards added.
Harry put his glasses back on stared back and forth, between the two, older men. "And what
happens when Hermione and the others turn up? If they have no wands, how are they getting to
Taransay? They'll be stranded here in the city, in the worst possible place!"
"Potter—"
"Don't," Harry warned, shaking his head. He took a step back from the two men. "Evacuate the
house. Do it. I'll help however I can, but I'm staying behind."
Richards took a step forward, closing the gap between him and Harry. He grabbed Harry roughly
by the upper arm and pulled him to the parlour windows. The thick drapes were shoved to the side.
"Look! Look outside! What do you see?"
Harry saw what had been there for the last few weeks—a growing horde of zombies, drawn to 12
Grimmauld Place as if the house was sending out some kind of beacon to all the magical undead in
the area. Or as if the creatures had communicated this same fact amongst themselves. Whatever the
reason, they were there and they now numbered in the hundreds. They were passive, for the most
part, standing, watching, occasionally testing the ward boundaries, only to be deflected.
But the wards were weakening. No amount of shoring up would protect the house from
simultaneous attack from that many magical entities. And if or when the zombies worked this out,
it would be minutes before they brought the walls down.
"They are going to breach, son," Richards said into his ear, his fingers digging hard for emphasis
into Harry's arm. "They've been wearing down our wards, bit by bit, day by day. My guess is that
there probably isn't any fresh meat for miles and they see us here, sittin' pretty. We're like a termite
mound to a determined ant eater."
"The wards will hold," Harry said, through gritted teeth.
"Sure, but for how much longer? I know this place means something to you kids—to you and
Granger. But we'll have to cut our losses…"
In another time, another place, Harry might have been embarrassed to show a man like Richards
the agony he felt, the tears that filled his eyes, but he was too worn down; too bereaved to care.
"I've endured enough losses," he said.
Richards sighed. He stared at Harry, long and hard. Harry could feel Scrimgeour nearby, watching
them.
"I'll stay with the kid," the Cowboy announced, still looking at Harry with narrowed eyes. "We'll
catch up with you at Taransay."
Scrimgeour seemed angered, but unsurprised. "Very well."
Honoria peeled her heavy eyelids open, blinking rapidly so her vision could catch up to the
conclusion her other senses had already arrived at.
She was in the Pit; her current stupor due to the application of (quite likely) the same sedatives
Prestin had administered to Hermione. Well, she supposed that was fitting. The unusual numbness
in her extremities made her glance down at her hands, at which point she noted that her torso, arms
and legs were all tightly bound to a chair. Sitting across from her, beneath the glare of a floodlight
and trussed in a similar position, was Alexander. He sat regally in his chair, no specific expression
apart from something that could best be described as resigned amusement. The dark hollows on his
face were due to more than the shadows cast by the lights overhead. She estimated they had been
kept in the home ship's vaults for about a week. Unlike her, Alexander had already gained his
bearings. Perhaps he had not deserved the forced sedative, as she had.
"You should have run," he told her.
It took her a while to work her tongue, heavy and dry as it was. "From them or from you?"
"Both. Seems a rather moot point now, anyway." He stared around the Pit, looking nothing more
than contemplative. "We're going to be killed shortly."
Yes, they were. Honoria had known that fact the moment little Henry Zabini discovered her trying
to make her surreptitious way aboard the Cassiopeia.
The human and zombie remains that previously made up the inherent décor of the Pit had been
removed and it looked like the arena had been scrubbed to an almost sterile state. Perhaps the
rebels were planning to reclaim the infamous Morning Star as a refurbished fleet residence? That
made sense, as they now had nearly a thousand additional souls to rehouse within more humane,
spacious conditions. The hatch that led to the zombie containment area was sealed, the heavy
metal doors virtually welded shut from the heat of the fire that had signalled the start of the
rebellion. The other door; the one that combatants walked through to enter the arena…that was
open.
Beyond it, lay darkness, but Honoria guessed that whomever had put them there was not far away.
"I have to ask," Alexander said, bringing her attention back to him, "how were you intending to
escape?"
Honoria flexed her wrists, testing her bonds. There was hardly any give. "I was going to steal one
of the smaller boats and take it back to the mainland."
"And how long do you think you would have survived on your own?"
"Indefinitely," she replied, without hesitation.
Alexander snorted. "I believe that. You're a survivor. But I think you have loftier ambitions these
days. I turned you into something more, made you consider a life that holds greater rewards than
merely getting through each day." He stared around the arena, as if remembering the crowds that
used to fill the levels. "Not like a beast of burden or a lower order animal."
He was referring to her recruitment to work for him, fresh from graduation at Salem. That was the
year everything had changed for her. He had changed everything for her.
"Do you regret it, I wonder?" he asked.
No. She would never regret any of it, but she would not give him the satisfaction of saying so.
"And is this is where that promise leads? I get to die in a pit with you?"
"Transformation can come at a high price. I never said there was no risk."
"You changed, too," she told him. "Over these last few weeks. Your conviction…it waivered."
"Perhaps," he conceded. "But do you know what's worse than me, Honoria? None of my beliefs
were your beliefs. The prisoners, the Games…none of that sat well with you. You never agreed
with it. And yet you carried out your duties for me. You did everything I asked and you were able
to do it all without believing any of it was worth it. Do you know what that makes you?"
She looked away so that he would not see her distress. "More of a monster than you are."
"They'll be writing the history books, you know," he said, with a small smile. "The winners always
do. And you, Honoria, will finally get what you've always wanted, what you told me you deserved
the very first day we met. Notoriety. Fame to rival Harry Potter. He was an orphan just like you,
wasn't he? Bred for greatness, whereas you had to earn your stripes. You will finally be memorable
among both our peoples."
"As will you," she pointed out.
"I'm already in the books, my dear," he said, managing to shrug, despite his bonds. "I hoped to
create the cure in time. That would have been a better legacy…"
"They'll be the ones to find the cure. If nothing else, we've given them the impetus to work
together."
He snorted. "Yes, there is always that."
She had to ask. She could not go to her death without knowing the truth. "When they were
questioning me in the vault, they said you'd attacked Hermione Granger."
It was astonishing (and hurtful) to see his contrition. Honoria had long assumed that such a thing
was an alien concept to him. Alexander Amarov did not suffer from regret or self-doubt.
"I concede it was not one of my finest moments," he replied, with a sigh.
They were silent for a while.
"Does it shock you?" he asked. "Does it fly in the face of your preferred view of me—a villain, yes,
but a civilised one?"
Honoria considered this. "She was playing you from the beginning, but you wouldn't hear it from
any of us. And then you finally saw it for yourself, didn't you? You worked it out after the rebels
attacked and then you couldn't handle knowing it. She wounded you, fooled you and you wanted to
hurt her in return. How could she not already be half in love with you? Because that was how you
felt about her. Hermione Granger was meant to be everything you hated."
Alexander gave her a look that was almost malicious. "What you're really interested to know is
why her and not you?"
Honoria replied with a look of intense loathing.
"I've seen a great deal of this world. I've travelled and I've experienced things both ordinary and
extraordinary; enough for several lifetimes." He looked away from her, focussing on the metal
grating of the floor. "I thought I might experience, just once, what it's like to know someone who
would walk through fire for me…"
"I was that person!" Honoria shouted, her voice breaking.
"Yes, I suppose you were."
"She broke your heart."
His smile was wry. "And let that be proof, my dear, that I have one after all."
"As touching as this is, I have loads to do today," Draco Malfoy said.
They hadn't noticed his arrival in the arena. He stood just in front of the entrance, white-bandaged
hands on his hips. He looked as Honoria remembered him in their final days at Grimmauld Place—
intense, less contained, less cautious. She'd always found it so unsettling that Alexander's cruelty
and ruthlessness was encased in such a comely form. It made him even more monstrous, she
thought, and added a poisonous edge to his beauty. Malfoy was much the same, but while
Alexander was actually quite easy to decipher at the end of the day, Malfoy's inner motivations
were still unclear to her. He played his cards quite close to his chest and he was the sort who could
play several games all at the same time. Following the successful coup, he was among friends
now. She didn't know whether this made him more or less dangerous. Honoria had no doubt in her
mind, however, that he was going to be their executioner that day.
He approached her first. "Good morning," he announced, cheerfully. He lowered down to his
haunches so they were eye to eye, observing her for a moment. And then he leaned closer. Honoria
immediately tensed, trying to see if he held any weapons. His hands were empty save for the
bandages.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to break my promise to you," he whispered into her ear, almost
tenderly.
She knew the promise he was referring to, of course. Draco Malfoy promising to kill you was not
something one was liable to forget. But of course he reminded her, for good measure.
"I am going to kill you, but you're not going to be alone when it happens." He inclined his head to
Alexander. "You'll have company."
She stared across at Alexander, desperation evident in her expression. But he said nothing. Not a
word, though his cobalt gaze never left Malfoy. Honoria supposed he had said enough to Malfoy
already and none of it had warranted any mercy. Malfoy walked over to the entrance. There, on the
ground, was a hessian sack. Inside was a something small and squirming. Honoria noted that
Alexander was staring at the bundle quizzically. He may not have realised what it contained, but
Honoria did.
After all, it had been Honoria who had taken little Eloise Withinshaw from the child's hysterical
mother.
"Draco."
Malfoy paused in the middle of untying the top of the sack.
"You asked me once about Hogwarts. I never answered your question. You don't remember me, do
you?"
He frowned and she could see him retrieving the requisite information. "No," he said, now staring
at her with genuine surprise in his pretty, silver eyes. In his hands, the small thing he carried in the
sack began to growl. "I don't remember you at all."
And this was why it had been so easy to become what Alexander needed. Seven years at a school
where even the furniture had more presence, where she had seemingly blended into the stone,
where even teachers barely cared to remember her name, let alone anything else about her. Seven
years of her life with her identity all by obliterated by the blinding, brilliant glare of another orphan
—Harry Potter, and his friends. His stories. Their stories. She had been no one.
Alexander was staring at her, looking oddly proud. She was his creature and they would both go
into the history books together. If nothing else, there was that.
"I know," Honoria said. She smiled. "No one remembers me. But now you will."
Draco made it to the end of the first corridor before the heard Honoria's screams. Little Eloise had
been left to starve until he'd found a new purpose for her. As the only remaining zombie specimen
in the fleet, she was now an endangered species.
And she needed to eat.
Belikov was waiting for Draco in the transport vessel they would take them back to the home ship.
Not surprisingly, despite everything that the old professor had endured at Amarov's hands, he
disagreed with what was happening.
"I say again, this is savagery!"
"And that's why I had to be the one to do it," Draco replied, steering the boat back to the home
ship.
He was zipping up a long duffle bag filled with weapons and ammunition, when the door to his
quarters flew open. Draco didn't have to turn around to know that it was Blaise who entered. It was
his room too, after all.
"I just spoke to Belikov. Were you even going to tell me you're leaving?"
Draco picked up a second bag—a knapsack—and walked to the closet. He pulled out several wool
jumpers.
Blaise was in no mood to be ignored. He took hold of the second bag and yanked it from Draco's
unresisting hands. "You are not leaving this fleet."
"Why not?"
"Be serious about this!"

"I am being serious. Why can't I leave?"
Blaise blinked, anger momentarily stalling his tongue. "Because you are needed here! The cure—"
"Will be devised by Belikov and his team. Assisted by Dr Felix Wallen, Professor Yoshida and Dr
Katherine McAlister. You have everything you need here to create the cure, certainly more than
we had at Grimmauld Place."
That caught Blaise off-guard. "You…you want us to go to London and bring your
colleagues here?"
"Yes," Draco nodded. "Accomplish what Amarov never had the foresight to even consider. Unite
the teams. Bring them and their magic."
"Wands," Blaise repeated. He shut his eyes, looking almost pained.
Draco took a step closer. "Yes, wands. Zabini. We are not made to live without magic. It is…
anathema. It is not to be borne."
"And yet we bear it…" Blaise whispered. He moved to the bed, sagging down on top of the thick
bedcovers. He put his head in his hands.
"You'll not hear me discussing this in front of Granger," Draco told him, "but I suspect us
Purebloods experience magic deprivation differently. The discomfort is...acute."
"You survived more than six years," Blaise pointed out, head rising.
"I did," Draco agreed, "But even in Azkaban, I was surrounded by magic. A poor substitute, but it
was something. After I was released , the first time I held a wand was in the service of the same
Minister who put me in my cell. The sensation was…" Draco's eyes unfocussed for a moment "…
exquisite."
"You did it to save lives," Blaise concluded, but then he gave Draco a canny look. "To
save Granger's life, more likely. Merlin, that's why you're leaving. She's asking you to take her
away!"
"She didn't insist. I offered." A long, black coat was taken off a hanger in the closet. Draco tested
the depths of its pockets and seemingly satisfied, slipped it over his blue jumper and dark jeans.
"Even with your limited knowledge of her, do you know Hermione Granger to be anything other
than self-sacrificing? If anyone breathes so much as a word about needing her, she would stay, to
her own detriment. Sanity be damned."
"Tell her you've changed your mind! Tell her it's impossible!"
"I haven't and it's not." Draco took a handgun from the duffle bag and tucked it into the waistband
of his jeans, under his jumper.
"You cannot leave the fleet. People here need you. The people out there, the ones who
are dying by the millions. They need a cure!"
"They'll get their cure, just not from me. We're going to the Manor and we're leaving within the
hour. There are hidden artefacts there that the Ministry had no hope of finding, no matter how hard
they looked. I will recover what I can." Draco stared pointedly at the bag in Blaise's hands.
Blaise stood, he shook his head. "You selfish son of a bitch."

"I have never claimed to be otherwise, Zabini."
"Well, if you won't see sense, I'm sure Granger will! I'll speak to her!"
"Blaise."
Blaise stopped at the doorway.
"Were you with Daphne when she died?"
The question was unexpected. Blaise looked momentarily lost for words, and then he looked angry
again. "Yes."
"She died in your arms?"
This was delivered so callously that Blaise actually flinched. He swallowed, now wary at the turn
in the conversation. "Yes."
"Sick. Suffering. Helpless. Just as helpless as you were to do anything about it."
Blaise's hands fisted. His gaze dropped to the carpet and then he started shaking. "You bastard…"
Draco walked up to his friend. "In those last, wretched moments, did you at all wish you had made
a different choice? That you didn't risk everything by bringing your family to the fleet? Perhaps
take your chances out there, on your own, instead of relying on people you barely knew? Did you
feel regret, Zabini? Did you feel responsible for making the wrong decision? Did you ignore your
doubts at the start?"
A clenched jaw was all the response Draco received for a minute or two. "Yes," Blaise said, more
softly.
Draco nodded. "I'm going home to find something magical that can be of use, or better yet, a wand.
Malfoy Manor is my best bet. And then I'm taking Granger to safety, wherever that may be, and
we will remain there until such time she chooses to return. In the meantime, join the teams and
bring magic to the fleet. You'll have your cure. And when you see me next, we can apologise to
each other for this."
Blaise looked numb. He leaned heavily against the door, eyes downcast.
"May I have my bag back now?" Draco asked, almost gently.
Blaise hadn't realised he was still holding it. He handed it to Draco. "I don't think I ever thanked
you for what you did for us."
"That's probably because you're still not sure if did it for you in the first place," Draco said. He
resumed stuffing the jumpers into the second bag.
That earned a snort from Blaise. "Call it Slytherin skepticism."
Draco pulled at the drawstring of the bag before slipping on a pair of thick gloves over his
bandaged hands. When he was finished, he picked up both bags and made for the door.
Blaise blocked the exit. "You'll die out there."
"Possibly."
"Listen to me! You don't know what it's like because you were in Azkaban when it all happened.
You don't know what people do to each other to stay alive…"
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Is it any worse that what happened here?"
There was no response to that question.
"Move, Zabini." There was no anger in Draco's voice, but his tone was a few degrees cooler than
previously.
With a great sigh, Blaise let him pass.

Roadtrip
The weather was uncharacteristically spectacular that morning. Cold, but with enough rare, winter
sunshine that Anatoli—who was used to much more frigid conditions—tipped his head up towards
the sky and unabashedly soaked it in. He wished his wife had agreed to come on the ride, but she
had too much to do back on her ship.
On calm seas, he dropped the wizard and Hermione Granger on the docks at Avonmouth and
tossed the wizard the keys to one of three Range Rovers stored in a warehouse. These were the
vehicles Amarov's men used to run supply missions into the cities. He didn't need to ask the wizard
if he'd taken enough weapons. Draco Malfoy was carrying as many as his bag would allow.
"You also take this," said Anatoli, handing Malfoy a large cannister of fuel. "How far away is your
house?"
Malfoy put the cannister down and unfolded a map he had taken from Amarov's study. "From
Avomouth to Estree in Witlshire, it'll take about an hour and a half."
"Go where there is no people, no towns," Anatoli advised.
"Not much choice in that regard, I'm afraird. Wiltshire is landlocked."
"But your house, it is safe to stay there?"
"As safe as houses, I believe is the saying?" Malfoy replied.
Anatoli nodded, though he didn't think houses were particualarly safe. He'd seen what happened to
too many of them.
Malfoy folded up the map and prepared to disembark. "It'll be fine until Christmas. After that, no
one will be safe within a thirty kilometer radius of London, and that doesn't include fallout. Make
sure the fleet is no where near the UK if it comes to it. I've discussed this with Belikov already. He
knows what to do."
Anatoli thumped the wizard on the back. "You are very brave, weezard. I tell you this before."
Malfoy hoisted the heavy bag of weapons over one shoulder, a backpack across the other shoulder.
"You've called me several things. I don't recall 'brave' being one of them."
"That is because my English is not so good," Anatoli said, with a grin.
"So you keep saying," the wizard replied, with what almost looked like a smile.
Anatoli watched as the couple walked up the jetty, Hermione Granger was carrying a bag of her
own. She'd said nothing during the trip, but then this was the new norm. Anatoli was convinced it
would be the last time he would see either of them alive.
The British Isles were a deadzone. Humanity had put up a valiant fight, but that fight had been lost
a year ago. The Americans were right to want to blow it all to kingdom come, cure or not. Nothing
could survive for very long out there, not even very brave wizards and witches.
Hermione watched as Draco gingerly pushed open the creaky doors to the warehouse, ducked
quickly inside and then soon reappeared, beckoning her foward. His gun was drawn, she saw. The
feeling that she was watching a movie of her own life persisted. It made her feel disassociated, like
nothing that was happening to them mattered because it was happening to some other Hermione .
It was damned unnerving and she wished there was a pill or something she could take to make it
stop.
She'd asked Belikov about this, in fact, back in the infirmary.
"There is nothing I can give you except anti-depressents or a sedative. I'd suggest anti-anxiety
medication, but we ran out of anxiolytics within the fleet's first few months. Amarov's people went
through it all like candy…" said a disgruntled Belikov. "If I didn't hide the painkillers and
transquilisers, we'd have none! But sedatives are the last thing you want right now. You need your
wits about you."
What wits? She'd wanted to ask. She was witless.
In the warehouse, Draco set his heavy bags down, removed his gloves and took out the car keys.
One of the three, parked Range Rovers immediately turned on at the press of a button. It was the
one in the middle.
"Our ride," he said.
Now came the part where she attempted to not be utterly useless. Draco was immensely capable.
After all this was over, no doubt they would write epic tales about his capableness. But as it
happened, he'd only driven an automobile once in his life.
The Range Rover was new enough that the leather upholstery squeaked. It still possesed its new
car smell. Trust Amarov to ride in style, even during the zombie apocalypse. On a whim, Hermione
activated the GPS unit and was mildly surprised when it turned on. A loud, friendly female voice
in an American accent bid them, "HELLO," and asked, "WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO
TODAY?" According to the trip history, the last supply run undertaken in this particular vehicle
had apparently been to Exeter.
"Shall we enter our destination?" she said to Draco. He was still standing outside the passenger
side of the car, having loaded their bags and the fuel cannister into the back seat. Instead of getting
in, he walked around to her side, opened the door and leaned over her to enter the county in
Wiltshire where they would be travelling to. His arm brushed against hers. He was so much bigger
than she was. This was not a calming realisation. Hermione was tempted to recline her seat to give
him more room and then wondered why his proximity mattered all of a sudden, given their recent
encounter by the deck pool.
Perhaps she was regaining some of her original self back; the old Hermione who was as wary of
Draco Malfoy as she was drawn to him
"I'm surprised the GPS is working at all," she commented, her voice tight. He was close enough
that she could smell the fresh antiseptic under the clean bandages on his hands. Belikov had
insisted on changing the dressings before their departure. "But I suppose the satellites aren't about
to break down any time soon."
He had finished entering information into the GPS console. "They'll last thousands of years, but the
accuracy of the information relayed by the satellites suffers without navigation updates from the
ground. Technicians are needed to provide those updates."
"People," Hermione said.

He looked at her. "Yes. And we seem to be in rather short supply of those."
"How do you know so much about Muggle technology?" He knew about computers and certainly
knew his way around laboratory equipment. But all that was more easily explained, due to his
studies and work in medical research.
"I made a point of learning about it."
"A case of know thy enemy?"
"As I've said before, a case of curiosity. And prudence," he added, as an afterthought. "What would
you be, if you lived in a very big world and only choose to understand one small part of it?"
"Foolish," she replied.
"WOULD YOU LIKE TO SELECT A ROUTE THAT AVOIDS TOLLS?" blared the GPS unit. It
really was too loud, but the volume control insisted that it was on the lowest setting.
That garnered an amused look from Draco. Not quite a real smile. She hadn't seen one on his face
in a while. He selected 'no'.
"CALCULATING!" yelled the GPS lady. "DISTANCE TO TRENT COUNTY, ESTREE,

WILTSHIRE. 53 MILES."
"How far is that in kilometers?" Hermione asked.
She was grateful he didn't suggest she could work it out on her own. Of course she could. Just...just
not presently. It was slightly endearing the way he frowned and looked up at the ceiling to do the
math. "About 86 kilometers," he informed. "Looks like we're going via some long stretches of new
road through Patchway and Marshfield."
"Is that a quicker route?"
"By about fifteen minutes. Keep the engine running. I'll open the warehouse doors while you drive
up to them. And put your seatbelt on," he admonished, in an almost paternal tone.
With shaking hands, Hermione buckled up and then proceeded to drive slowly towards the doors.
The hinges made quite a bit of noise and this caused him wince, once or twice. When she pulled up
outside, he shut the warehouse doors and then climbed into the car. So far, so good. No zombie
hordes had come running. Or lumbering, rather. Unless they were wizarding zombies…they were
so much faster, so much more…
The car seemed to lurch forward. She felt rather than saw Draco pull the handbrake. His hands
covered hers and then peeled her white-knuckled fingers away from the steering wheel. Hermione
belatedly took her foot off the accelerator. The roar of the engine muted altogether. Or maybe it
was the odd, internal noise-cancelling ability she seemed to have recently acquired.
"Easy," he said. "Breathe."
"I'm not sure what just happened," she looked at him, sheepish and apologetic. "Maybe you should
drive?"
He shook his head, easing back into his seat.
"Honestly. I might kill us."

"You won't."
"Are you always this confident?" she demanded, testily.
Silly question. A minute later, they were on the road.
It was easy to forget what the world looked like when civilisation ceased being civilised. This was
because people were used to roads and traffic lights and hospitals with 24-hour emergency rooms
and never having to travel more than a few kilometers for your bread and milk. That was normal.
In the developed world, that was the picture you saw in your head when someone asked you to
think about the city you lived in.
The view outside the tinted windows of their car was something from a nightmare landscape. No
amount of sunshine could change that. They were the only moving vehicle, though the roads were
far from empty. There were cars, some in pristine condition, looking like they were merely parked.
Other were burnt out, flipped to the side, russet-coloured handprints and smears over the metal,
testament to the horrors of the past year.
All kinds of belongings spilled onto the road, telling similar stories—a plan for a quick escape,
only to run into fatal gridlock when thousands of other motorists all tried to do the same thing.
There were split suitcases, hemorrhaging clothing and other items like passports, picture frames,
teddy bears, a laptop computer. There were school bags and diaper bags, one which still had a
pacifier attached to it via a little plastic chain. It was possible to see where the tanks had come in
and either run over or bulldozed their way through the cars on the main roads, travelling on
scattered missions outwards from London in an effort to assist the populace. Hermione wondered
where they all were now—these tank? How far had those lone soldiers made it into the towns
before they left their protective shells for fresh air, to relieve themselves, to come to someone's aid,
only to be taken by the fresh hordes that roamed the streets in those early days? Where there were
houses, front doors swung open in the wind. Shop windows were smashed, their front-displays
waterlogged and fetid.
Nature was already starting to take over. Tall grass and weeds grew in cracks and potholes along
the road, encroaching slowly from the nature strips and roadside woodlands. Broken tree branches
lay uncleared in the middle of the road. Hermione drove around them, just as she drove around the
dozens of corpses. The bodies had clearly been there for months, worn down by the elements, but
not fully desiccated, thanks to the wet, English weather. They'd been picked clean. All that was left
was bone, tendons, teeth, hair and stringy muscle. Their skulls had been pulled apart and the brains
eaten—a small mercy that prevented their reanimation.
At forty minutes into their journey, they ran into a road-block. Hermione stopped the car at the
high, midpoint of a bridge. Before them was a virtual parking lot of about twenty or so abandoned
vehicles. One car was teetering over the side of the bridge, front wheels in the air.
"We can backtrack and go around," Hermione suggested. She glanced back at the road behind
them. There was a concerning amount of concealing shrubbery and nowhere to escape to if they
were taken by surprise on the bridge. Every additional minute they stayed there was risky. The
weather was moodier now, grey-black clouds slowly rolling over the horizon and a strong
headwind was blowing.
Draco consulted the GPS display. "No. The next cross road goes through two villages and we don't
want to be backtracking in the rain. I'll clear the way. Stay in the car." He took off his coat and
jumper and was already out the door.
Hermione put down the passenger side window and forced herself to say, "Hang on a minute! I'll
help!"
He came back to the window, the wind whipping at his unevenly shorn hair. "I won't be long. " he
told her. "Keep the engine running." He was gone before she could protest.
Hermione rolled the window back up, leaving just a fraction of space open at the top so she could
hear him in case he called out to her.
It started raining moments later; intermittent droplets followed by a near-torrential downpour. The
previous sunshine was on hiatus. Concerned, she spent a moment squinting down at the dash and
then at the controls on the steering wheel, eventually finding the button that turned on the
headlights. Occasional splatters of rain came through the sliver of the open, passenger-side
window. She was relieved to see Draco working steadily at the cars in front. He carefully inspected
every vehicle, before opening the driver's side door, turning the wheel and pushing each car out of
the way. Despite the fact that the second half of the bridge was on a downward incline, this was
still hard work. She observed the strain and effort it took for him to move the cars. He was
drenched, his t-shirt soaked to the skin.
After twenty minutes, nearly every obstructing car was pushed aside. Only three cars remained.
Feeling uneasy, Hermione peered through the backscreen windows to keep an eye on the base of
the bridge. But the rain was coming down so heavily that all she could see was a grey and green
blur. It occurred to her that she could do more to assist than merely sit in the car and worry.
Ensuring she was armed would make for a sensible start. She craned her head around to locate the
duffle bag in the back seat. Unable to grab it from her current position, Hermione unbuckled her
seatbelt and stretched out. Her fingers closed around one of the bag handles. She pulled it towards
her, belatedly realising how heavy the bag was.
The thump on the passenger side window startled her. She froze and then very slowly, turned her
head to look.
It was a policeman. Or rather, had been. The creature had a gaping wound at the side of its neck,
but it was the massive, dent in its head that caught your attention. Half the skull was caved in, but
unfortunately not enough to destroy the brain. Water pooled into the gruesome cavity, sloshing
outwards every time the creature moved its lopsided face. Someone living had dealt that blow,
Hermione surmised. She wondered how the person had fared. The creature raised a hand, slipping
swollen, blue-black fingers through the gap at the top of the window. It tried to push the rest of the
window down while simultaneously pressing its lips and mouth against the gap. The tongue lolled
out, nearly black and riddled with wartish protrusions. Like some kind of agitated mollusc, it
squirmed and undulated, as if attempting to taste the air inside the car, as a snake might.
"Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrssssssssssssskkk….."
Hermione kept low and still, nearly holding her breath.
Oh, no. Draco.
Concern for him made her feel light-headed. She shut her eyes and counted to ten. They had both
survived hand to hand combat with zombies in the Pit. This…this was nothing. If she could barely
see what was in front of her in the rain, she doubted the creature could see Draco, unless he made a
noise that was loud enough to sound over the storm.
To her immense relief, the zombie seemed to lose interest in the car. It straightened up, clicking its
teeth together, as if in annoyance, and then turned away.
"YOU HAVE NOT ARRIVED AT YOUR DESTINATION," announced the sodding GPS unit.
"WOULD YOU LIKE TO ENTER A NEW ONE?"
Hermione pressed her forehead into the cool leather of her seat. Would it be too much to hope that
the creature hadn't heard that?
It returned, slamming its face against the glass and this time, placed all ten fingers at the gap on the
top of the window and pulled…pulled so hard that some of the flesh under the first knuckles of its
fingers began to split open.
A dark haze descended over her vision. Suddenly, Hermione couldn't seem to suck in enough
oxygen. The more she gulped in, the more she felt like she was asphyxiating. She was going to
throw up. There was a muffled thuddding noise, but she couldn't bring herself to open her eyes to
see, to act. With Herculean effort, she raised herself up to a sitting position, slapped a hand over her
mouth and nose in an effort to cease the ridiculous hyperventilation.
And forced herself to look.
The zombie was slamming its head into the glass; over and over. The forehead had split open,
revealing bone. The nose was completely smashed in and still it persisted. When bone now
connected with glass, the sound changed from thud to crack.
Slow, dark movements from around the back of the car garnered her attention. Three, four…six.
No, at least a dozen. They emerged from the edge of the road, past the base of the bridge and
followed the growling and desperate, violent noises of the attacking, former policeman.
Hermione wanted to climb down onto the floor of the car and hide. The need to make herself small,
unseen and unseeing was nearly all consuming, but the thought of Draco outside on his own was
even more unbearable.
And so she scoured her reserves and miraculously, found something. It was weak, but it would
have to do. She turned on the windscreen wipers (it took an excruciating half a minute to work out
where the switch was) and saw that Draco was walking towards the Range Rover. His gun was
drawn, but he wasn't firing. She understood why. There weren't nearly enough zombies to warrant a
full on fire-fight; not yet. And while guns were very effective weapons, they were extremely noisy
and were liable to summon even more creatures. That was the trade-off. It was all about making
good decisions. She suspected Draco was expecting her to do just that.
But she couldn't! Didn't he know this?
He caught her gaze, frowning slightly at what she imagined was her petrified expression. And then,
calm as can be, he climbed onto the top of a red Corolla and began shooting into the horde. The
zombies took the bait. They lurched towards him, slow, but determined, not noticing fellow
members of the horde being picked off with head shots, one after the other.
Bang. Bang. Bang. He fired, unhurried.
Hermione swore. She knew exactly what he wanted her to do because a week ago, she would have
done the same thing had their positions been reversed. Her heart was hammering so violently, it
felt like it was trying to burst free from inside her rib cage. She bit her lip until it drew blood and
perhaps it was that little jolt of pain that cleared the fog in her head somewhat. Now that the car
was unhindered by both zombies and other vehicles, she put it into 'drive' and floored it. Three
zombies hit the windshield, one rolled over the bonnet and she was fairly sure she ran over a few
more, judging from the bumps along the road.
The car screeched to a half. Hermione quickly unlocked the passenger side door. Draco slid down
the front of the wet Corolla and (damn the man!) strolled around to the passenger's side before
getting in. No further instructions were necessary. Hermione hit the accelerator and they were well
and truly gone before the nearest zombie got anywhere near the red Corolla that Draco had
previously been standing on. There were close calls and then there were more minor encounters
like this, where you had firepower that you didn't even need to use, and a car that could take you to
safety from an enemy you could outrun at a brisk jog.
All you needed was your wits.
Hermione was holding the steering wheel so hard, she thought it might break. Part of her was
furious with him for putting them…for putting himself in such a dangerous position, for testing her.
Another part of her was euphoric. She felt the welcome warmth of the flush in her cheeks, the
slowing of her heart rate and even though the fog in her mind was still there, it was no longer
opaque.
"Fuck you. You could have died," Hermione raged, her voice hoarse from the strain of not
screaming. She was so angry with him. So, so angry. How dare he take risks with his life and leave
her responsible for the outcome! It was responsibility that had brought her to this crippled mental
state! Was this his demented attempt at exposure therapy?
Draco reached across and very gently used his thumb to wipe the smear of blood from her mouth,
from where she had bitten her lip. "Such language, Granger. I do believe you're starting to return to
form." He then pulled off his t-shirt and threw the soaked garment into the back seat. It made a
'thwap' noise against the leather upholstery. A quick rummage through his backpack produced a
fresh jumper, which he pulled on with no shirt underneath. Hermione caught the briefest glimpse of
the faded knife scars along the pale skin of his belly, before they were covered.
They drove in silence along an uneventful, straight road for the next half an hour.
"APPROACHING INTERSECTION AT—"
Hermione turned off the GPS unit. "Let's just use your map. It's quieter."
Controlled Risk
They arrived in Trent County, Wiltshire, just as the afternoon light began to fade. There was one
additional stop on the way to the Manor, which now lay beyond a short rise and the small
Wizarding settlement of tenants on the Malfoy lands. The rain had stopped by this time, thankfully.
Much like Hogwarts, the Manor possessed its own Muggle deflection wards, also encompassing
the tiny wizarding village of Estree. Magic permeated the surroundings, to the point where
Hermione had to bring the car to a stop so she could refocus. After so long without Magic, either
wand-directed or ambient, the area had a curious effect on them. It was by no means the benign,
comforting sensation of Light magic that was prevalent at Hogwarts, or the industrial charms that
blanketed Grimmauld Place in recent years.
This stuff…it was sweet, cloying and Dark. There was a headiness to it that left you feeling
anxious, but oddly happier for it. It felt like you were swimming through some sort of disorienting
vapour and indeed, at some points along the village road, Hermione could actually
see currents wafting through the air, like a heat mirage. She parked outside what had once been the
village bakery for a spot of mutual, silent contemplation.
No explanation was necessary. A quick sideways glance at Draco revealed that he too was
experiencing the same sensation, though he looked markedly less disturbed about it than she was.
He relaxed against the headrest, eyes closed, lips slightly parted and his expression serene, almost
exultant.
A movement lower down caught her attention. Hermione saw his Casting hand stretch. He opened
his palm and flexed, spreading his fingers outwards first and then hyperextending them backwards.
She was still staring at that hand when she noticed he was staring right back at her, the look on his
face bemused and indulgent.
She managed to use her words. "Does it feel good to be back here?"
He nodded, blinking once, very slowly. And then his gaze moved from her face to the window
beside her. Now he looked less relaxed. "I'll be right back."
Hermione watched, with some concern, as he left the car and walked briskly to the entrance of the
bakery. The reason for his departure was soon evident. A zombie stood beside the broken glass of
the bakery windows, moving toward the car with the type of agility that signalled its Magical
origins. The creature didn't just run, it leapt, outstretched arms ready to grab. It ran into Draco's
kick, flying backwards and onto a pile of broken glass.
Draco pressed his knee down into its neck. He looked around the floor for a moment, finally
grabbing a section of broken window-pane (with glass still attached) and using it as a makeshift
guillotine, severed the zombie's head. The body spasmed twice and then was still, murky, thick
fluid spurting from the neck stump. More disgusting yet, the mouth of the detached head continued
to gape open and shut for a minute, eyes rolling around wildly.
When all the post-post-mortem twitching had ceased, Draco got back into the car and shut the
door.
"Mr Dobbs, the head gardener," was the explanation. There was apparently a sense of duty to put
the poor man out of his misery.
"Mr Dobbs, the headless gardener," Hermione corrected and then was appalled at her tasteless
joke.
They proceeded over the small hill until the Manor grounds came into view. All that was visible
initially were the wildly overgrown yew hedges, looking like they would swallow up the gates,
given enough time. There was a single, lop-sided sign attached to the gates, in a spot where the
family crest had probably once been.
ENTRY TO THESE GROUNDS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
PROPERTY UNDER FORENSIC QUARANTINE BY ORDER OT THE MINISTER FOR

MAGIC.
There was a monstrous, black chain and padlock holding the gate together. Hermione speculated
that it was more symbolic than functional, signalling any number of spells that barred entry onto
the estate. She didn't need to ask to know that Draco had probably guessed this was coming and
that he knew something she did not.
They both left the car to approach the gate. "What now?" Hermione asked.
"It's one of our better party tricks, I suppose," said Draco, as he touched the padlock. "No physical
barrier or enchantment can be wrought over the estate that prevents entry to any member of the
Malfoy line."
True to his word, the padlock sprung open with a sharp hiss. Draco pulled off the chain and
proceeded to push the heavy gates open for the car. He stood aside as Hermione drove through.
She watched from the car as he shut the gates and then re-attached the padlock. No sense letting
anything else enter after them.
It was a short drive along a wide, gravel driveway that led up to the house. More overgrown hedges
lined the driveway on either side. There were smaller structures on the property—what looked to
be a gazebo beside a lake, greenhouses and a fountain in the middle of a chequered herb garden.
Though it was not yet dusk, the Manor seemed to be stuck in its own time zone. The darkness of
the main house leached out into its surrounds. There was nothing inherently sinister about its
Renaissance-style exterior, but the house loomed over them as if it was some previously
slumbering, great beast.
Hermione parked the car as close to the front door as possible, before they unloaded their bags.
They stood together amidst an ankle-deep layer of dried leaves. The massive, arched double doors
were locked, but she supposed that was no obstacle for the returning Malfoy heir. And it wasn't.
Draco barely brushed his hand against one of the large brass door handles before the doors swung
open with a creak, almost as if someone had rigged them to open via a sensor.
They entered into a dark, cavernous foyer. Curving, twin staircases lurked in the background, each
leading to channels of darkness on the second floor that made their recent Hogwarts library jaunt
look like a stroll through a summer meadow.
"Is there always such a sense of foreboding?" Hermione whispered.
He sighed. "Yes."
The wind picked up the dried leaves from the doorstep and carried them across the threshold,
skittering along the floor. Inside, it might as well have been night. Every window had been boarded
up. The remaining daylight from the open doorway revealed a fine layer of dust across the floor
and over pieces of furniture that weren't draped with white sheets. There were numerous footsteps
along the ground, most of them in trails, as if teams of people had traversed the halls and corridors.
Several paths through the dust looked like they had been made by items that had literally been
dragged right out the front door. There were spots on the wall where some portraits had once hung,
but had since been removed. The paint on the wall looked less faded in these areas, in precise
rectangular outlines. Other portraits remained, some of them covered with black cloths. Hermione
suspected these might have been the more opinionated Malfoy ancestors. She imagined the
haranguing the Ministry investigators must have been subjected to, as they worked to collect
evidence and clear the house of hazardous artefacts.
"They stripped the carpet," Draco observed.
He walked further into the foyer, his footsteps echoing against the walls. A strung gust of wind
blew yet more leaves inside and then the door slammed shut with an almighty bang, causing
Hermione to jump. The sound seemed to reverberate through the entire length of the house. Draco
retrieved a flashlight from inside one of their bags and turned it on. The light made the contours
and hollows on his face stand out, while his light-coloured eyes took on a feline-like, topaz sheen.
For a moment, he looked unrecognisable. And predatory.
"Let's get settled in," he said, holding out his hand to her.
Malfoy Manor occupied some forty hectares of land and consisted of the main family residence,
two lakes and the nearby Estree Village. There were twenty-eight rooms in the house—seven on
the first floor, thirteen on the second floor and the remaining eight rooms divided between the
attic, cellars and House Elf quarters. There were no House Elfs, of course—they had all been freed
following Lucius Malfoy's conviction. The house also included a library and an indoor aviary.
Outside, there were two greenhouses, a fountain, an old stone dovecote and the aforementioned
gazebo.
"What about the dungeons?" Hermione asked. Everyone knew about the Malfoy dungeons.
Draco took them directly to the library, stating that it had the largest and most well-stocked
fireplace in the house. It had once been used for Floo travel.
"We don't tend to include the dungeons on the tour," he mused.
"Pity. You could have made a killing. Muggles love that sort of spooky stuff…"
She imagined an apoplectic Lucius dealing with a load of loud, common, camera-wielding
Muggles traipsing through the house. It was almost enough to garner a smile out of her.
The library was dark and dank, as far as she could tell. But it was when he got the fire going and
found several candelabras to light, that she got a proper look at it. And gasped. It was really quite
spectacular. The Malfoy Manor library was built in an octagonal shape, with a sub-level that one
could access via a narrow, wrought iron-railed corridor that was attached to the bookshelves. And
oh, the bookshelves! There was enough to keep you going for years. It looked like about a third of
the books were gone, likely taken by the Ministry. Hermione had no doubt the confiscation had
been warranted. It didn't take a great imagination to ponder on the kinds of tomes Lucius Malfoy
was liable to own.
Draco threw their bags down on a spot on the floor, under one of the long, boarded-up windows.
He unlaced his boots, kicked them off to the corner and knelt down to rummage through the bags.
It was odd seeing him in his own house, witnessing how familiar he was with his surroundings.
You couldn't help but try to conjure up an image of the little boy that had grown up in such an
imposing place.
"What is it?" he asked, abruptly snapping her out of her reverie.
Hermione realised she'd been staring at him. "I was just wondering about what it was like for
you…living here."
"To be honest, I think I did most of my living at Hogwarts. Certainly during our formative years."
"You had freedom at school," she surmised.
"Some freedoms," he allowed. "Snape ran a tight ship."
"Do you miss him at all?"
He rose to his feet, a pair of dry trousers in his hands. "Every day."
There was a great deal more to say, and ask, Hermione knew. Perhaps later, at some point in a
future where the fate of humanity wasn't hanging in the balance, to speak of such things would not
feel like an indulgence.
Draco's hands went to his belt buckle and Hermione realised that he meant to change out of his wet
pants. She felt bad for not realising how cold and uncomfortable he must have been, sitting in the
car in wet trousers. But that was nothing compared to the damnable panic she suddenly felt at the
prospect of a trouser-less Draco. Her hypersensitivity to stress and anxiety felt debilitating. She
hated not having any control over it and not knowing what would trigger it next. Perhaps that was
what scared her more than anything else.
Hermione spun around to face the door, listening to the swish of fabric, the sound of a zipper being
pulled up and the dull clink of a belt buckle being fastened. She wondered if he thought her
ridiculous and inconsistent for being like this, when just a week ago, she'd been practically
grinding herself into his lap…
"You can turn around now." There was just a hint of amusement in his voice.
Mortified, Hermione went to sit in one of the port-coloured Chesterfields in front of the fire. He
draped his wet pants over a chair and then came to stand before her. She saw that he was wearing a
fresh pair of dark trousers. His feet were bare. She couldn't bear to actually look up at him or hear
what he might say next.
"I think maybe we should talk about what happened that night by the pool," she blurted.
To her consternation, despite the seven other seats in the room, he chose to sit next to her. He threw
one arm over the back of the Chesterfield and propped an ankle up on his knee. They were inches
apart on the lounge now. The heat from the enormous fire was glorious.
"A pool is a bit of a stretch. It was more of a puddle."
"I'm being serious, Malfoy."
"I know. You're always serious."
She risked looking at him and immediately regretted it. As usual, his expression was difficult to
place. He looked tired and sleepy and disturbingly intent.
"I was not myself," she continued.
He was a man without mercy. "Yes, I rather worked that out. It's not every day that Hermione
Granger climbs on top of you and then attempts to grab you down your pants."
She dropped her burning face into her hands. "Oh God."
"I think you may have actually said that, at one point."
"Stop."
He did, though he didn't look the least bit contrite. "Have you changed your mind about leaving the
fleet?"
Hermione looked up, her mortification forgotten. She would not let him think she was ungrateful.
"No! I mean, it probably doesn't look like it, but I'm thrilled to be here. Honestly." She glanced
around the room. They were dry, warm, comfortable and safe. It was everything she could ask for,
given the circumstances. Here, she invariably had less to be confronted by and think about. She felt
like her mind could safely unfurl for a time, and heal.
"Good," he said. "Come here."
It was simple English, but somehow the meaning of that request eluded her. Perhaps it was because
he didn't really do requests that didn't sound like commands.
His eyes passed over her face with such intensity, she thought she could feel his gaze skimming
over the bones under her skin. "OK. Maybe you need an incentive, just like when we were at
Grimmauld Place. Imagine you still want the antiviral formula from me."
"But you ceded it to Belikov ages ago."
"Imagine I hadn't," he said. "Would you like the formula?"
"I don't understand where you're going with this."
"We're going to play a little game."
"I don't like games."
"Just answer the question, Granger," he said, though with no aggression. "Would you want the
formula or not?"
Well, duh. "Yes, of course."
"And what would you do to acquire it?"
Right now? Not much. It would destroy her to summon the strength that had been required to deal
with him at Grimmauld Place. But that's not what he was asking of her now. He was different. She
was certainly different. He wanted her to run a hypothetical situation. Months ago, she...
"I would do anything," she replied, more breathlessly than she preferred.
He put his leg down. "Then come here."

Her heart was pounding. Her palms were clammy and it felt like the winning post-traumatic trifecta
of dizziness, hyperventilation and nausea was moments away. But he'd been right about the
controlled risk of their zombie encounter earlier. Maybe exposure therapy was weirdly helpful in
this instance.
She crawled into his lap, straddling him such that her knees were pressed into the backrest of the
Chesterfield on either side of his hips. Her bottom rested on his thighs, just above his knees. He
observed her for a moment and it was enough to make her feel like she was already stripped naked.
It was ludicrous, of course. He'd already seen her without a stitch of clothing on, at least twice. It
was impossible to contain her shiver when he slid his right hand up to cup the back of her neck and
kneaded the tense muscles there, just as he'd done in the Grimmauld Place labs the night Honoria
had absconded with him.
"I'm scared," she said.
"Wise of you. I'm scary." His brand of reassurance left a lot to be desired.
His left arm looped around her waist, pulling the core of her body closer into him. He was so
warm, almost a match for the radiating heat of the fire at her back. She could feel it through her
jumper and jacket, even as her skin broke out in goose bumps. Hermione sucked in a big gulp of air
and would have followed through with another, if he didn't seal his mouth over hers. She was
startled and disproportionately terrified, but fought for calm. Her slow exhalation into his mouth
was rewarded by a soft growl of approval. One of his hands grabbed the end of her French braid
and pulled her head back slightly to expose her neck. He ran his warm, wet mouth from her lips to
the side of her chin and then along her throat, leaving a damp, sensitized trail.
"How are we doing?" he asked, his voice muffled against her throat.
"Not well," she whispered. Her hands clamped down on his shoulders when he began to run little
nibbling kisses along the faded bruises.
His head pulled back and he regarded her with almost clinical scrutiny. "Too one-sided?" Before
she could makes sense of that, he took her hands and placed them against his chest. His own hands
lay rather benignly at her hips.
Hermione frowned, her fight or flight instincts screaming at her to do the latter, but she ignored it.
Those instincts were not to be trusted at the moment.
At first, she merely left her hands pressed against the soft wool of his jumper, feeling the beat of
his heart and the rise and fall of his breathing. His heart rate was nowhere near as rapid as hers, but
neither was he unaffected. Her hands moved up and over his broad shoulders, down his arms,
squeezing experimentally at his biceps (which caused the blush in her cheeks to become even more
brilliant), before sliding down his forearms and then stopping at his wrists. He moved his hands
away from her hips so that she could thread her fingers through his.
They remained like that for a while. He mapped the contours of her hands. Occasionally his fingers
would run up and down along hers, skirting the edge of her finger nails, dipping in between her
knuckles on the back of her palm and inside the sensitive webbing. Neither of them said anything.
There was just the crackle of the fire, and the creak and moan of an old house in the wind.
Something constricted in Hermione's chest. This felt intimate and risky. It felt like something she
could potentially lose and would not do well for it. Not well at all.
Draco reached down and pulled his jumper off. It mussed his hair as it went over his head.
Hermione was transfixed. There was no force in the world that could stop her from bringing her
hand up to run her fingers through the choppy, blond mess.
"This is a mess," she told him, rather uncharitably. It came out wrong. Though telling him he was
probably the most beautiful, compelling thing she had ever seen would be much too sappy.
"It'll grow out," he replied. Hermione wondered why he wasn't touching her anymore and then
remembered that he had handed the reins over to her. She felt a slowly building sense of power and
control. Not anywhere near her usual level of self-mastery, but this was heartening.
Draco Malfoy was an odd combination of tame and dangerous. Hermione knew first-hand about
male strength when it was used to harm and Draco had the potential to do her all kinds of harm—
emotional, mental, physical. Instead of recoiling from that strength (though the urge was strong),
she explored it.
Her hands turned curious. She ran fingertips across his clavicles, pressing them more firmly into
his pectorals, before stopping to touch the scars at his taut belly. She knew she was wearing a
frown and hoped he didn't think she was in any way put off by them. He inhaled sharply when her
fingers skimmed his navel. He was sensitive there. She filed away that small morsel of
information.
Venturing further south was going to give her palpitations, so she brought her hands back up,
cupping his face and liking the texture of the dark blond stubble along his jawline. His lips really
were quite lovely—well defined and expressive. Looking him in the eye was uncomfortable at
present, but she made herself. When she did, she saw that his pupils were blown wide and black,
such that there was almost no silver.
It belatedly occurred to her that he was no longer quite so passive. Nor were his hands still at her
hips. They were cupping her backside and the new pressure she was feeling pressing into the apex
of her jean-clad thighs was all him. And this particular aspect of him seemed as large and as scary
as the rest of his person. The onset of her panic was so sudden, it made her whimper.
"I think…maybe can we…perhaps…Draco could we please stop?"
He went still. Rigid, actually. Hermione blinked with trepidation as he dropped his face against her
shoulder and exhaled very, very slowly. She felt horrible about it, but decided that patting him on
the back would be poor consolation.
He stood, simultaneously lifting her up and depositing her back on the couch.
Their little experiment had been about granting her control and it would be a backwards step if she
said sorry for ending it. Though she certainly felt damned apologetic.
He had slipped his jumper back on. "I am going to bring us some food," he announced, with an
almost amusing amount of formality.
She pretended not to notice when he discreetly adjusted the front of his trousers. Hermione
wondered if it was unkind of her to feel just a teensy bit gratified at his discomfort.
Discombobulating Draco Malfoy was a feat worthy of some kind of certificate of accomplishment,
at the very least.
Time
The sleeping arrangements made her smile. That was good. There were too few thing to smile
about lately.
First, they located the smallest mattresses they could find. These turned out to be from a guest
bedrooms upstairs. There was no way to get them down the stairs apart from throwing them. They
tipped the first mattress over the bannister and it landed in the foyer with a loud bang, causing a
cloud of dust to plume into the air. Hermione leaned over the bannister to have a look, stifling a
snort at how silly the bare mattress seemed, plopped on the floor right in the middle of the late
Lucius Malfoy's stately home. Draco had a better idea about how to get the second one down to the
ground floor. In hindsight, she ought to have seen it coming. He grabbed her about the waist,
ignoring her protesting squeal, hauled her down to lie on the mattress beside him and pushed them
off. Down they went, bumping softly and swiftly along the stairs on their makeshift raft. The
second mattress slid into the foyer, turning in a gentle arc and coming to a stop just beside the first
one. Draco looked faintly smug.
Hermione was still flat on her back. She put her hand over her eyes and laughed. "I cannot believe
you just did that."
He propped himself up over her, balancing on his elbows. "Would you like to do it again?" he
asked, rather seriously all of a sudden.
She stopped smiling, now aware of his body on top of hers, even though he was bracing his weight
on his arms. "I think that was enough mattress surfing for one day."
He helped her up and then she helped him push and drag the mattresses and assorted bedding, to
the library.
They fashioned their beds a few meters apart from each other, but close to the fireplace and
surrounded by stacks of books she had enthusiastically shortlisted. If there was an apt word to
describe the set-up, it would be 'cosy'.
Romantic, too, she supposed. But that word held too much expectation.
Meals at the Manor were a minor adventure. Lucius Malfoy (the first) had been the one to come up
with, in Hermione's opinion, a brilliant method of storing secret supplies of food.
The first Lucius had been notoriously unpopular among both Purebloods and the Muggles he
consorted with in sixteenth century England. The latter state of affairs was undoubtedly the reason
for the former. It didn't help that rumours abounded regarding his jilting by Queen Elizabeth and it
was said that he perpetrated a jinx against the monarch of such lasting power that she never saw fit
to marry anyone else. It all sounded very fanciful, but you never knew, with the Malfoys.
In any case, following these alleged events, Lucius led a paranoid existence. He was convinced
that a siege or a beheading was just around the corner. While it was quite possible for a wizarding
household to seal itself off from outside dangers for a time, accessing food and other necessities
would eventually become a problem. Muggles were often mistaken in assuming that magical folk
could call into existence most anything they wished. This was only true for certain spells that did
not require a corporeal outcome. And for most others spells, the raw components of the item you
desired had to be available somewhere to begin with and you had to have Summoning rights to it.
This was why the pantries and larders of regular wizarding households traditionally had some of
the strongest wards in the home. Otherwise, your supply of icing sugar was liable to go missing if
a thoughtless neighbour had a penchant for casting almond shortbread without the necessary
ingredients close by. It was not possible to create something from nothing at all, and unfortunately,
no one had yet worked out how to transfigure furniture into pudding. Pudding without splinters,
anyway.
Lucius the First accordingly hatched the idea of secreting away reserves of magically preserved
food in a place nobody (except perhaps art history majors) was likely to look—paintings. Portraits
were so ubiquitous in stately wizarding homes that no one tended to think much of them. Draco's
father, the most recent Lucius, had thought quite highly of his namesake's forward planning. Over
the years, he had added to the collection, which was why Hermione and Draco did not have to rely
solely on Tudor dishes such as roast swan, boar's head and a stomach churning cockentrice.
There was more standard, contemporary fare like roast chicken, fruit and cheese, pies, and in one
flamboyant painting—of an inebriated Septimus Malfoy wearing a white toga as he sat upon a
black charger—six bottles of exceptional claret. All this was much more appetising than the
canned food they'd brought with them from the fleet. A more recent addition in the library featured
the late, Lucius the Second, sitting in a chair with a crystal decanter of brandy nearby.
"Pity we can't put anything more complex than meat, potatoes and alcohol into a painting,"
Hermione mused. She spoke with a mouth full of food as she stared up at a scowling, oil-painted
Lucius. Draco didn't seem to mind her lack of manners because he was just as famished. You
couldn't tell from the way he ate, though. He was the sort of person who could consume a meal,
whilst having a conversation with you without you realising he'd been eating at all.
Hermione, in contrast, had to pause every so often to wipe her fingers and make sure there was no
food stuck in her teeth. They drank from cut crystal goblets that probably cost more than Molly
Weasley's entire heirloom bone china collection. There was one piece of bread left on a dinner
plate, acquired from a still-life painting in the foyer. They both reached for it at the same time.
"You have it," Hermione said, pushing the plate towards him. She was well acquainted with the
vast amount of food Harry and Ron regularly packed away in one sitting.
"There's more. I'll get it."
Hermione wiped her hands on her jeans. "Wait, I'll go with you. I'd like to see how it's done."
Just outside the library was a painting of the late Narcissa Malfoy at a Black family picnic. It was
not an ordinary picnic considering there was some kind of marquee in the background and house
elves were pushing carts bearing pastries and a fizzy, pink beverage. Narcissa looked young,
probably younger than they were now. She stood in the sun, wearing cerulean robes and carrying a
lace parasol to shade her fair skin. Though the scene was festive, she did not look happy.
"She looks distraught," Hermione whispered, feeling uneasy. The night-time jaunt through the
corridors to fetch more food felt less thrilling all of a sudden. She became acutely aware of just
how dark it was outside the small sphere of light from their lantern torch.
Draco was staring at the painting with a curious expression. "I've never seen it like this. This piece
was one of my mother's. She added it to our collection when she married my father. It was painted
on the occasion of her eighteenth birthday. She's usually quite happy."
"Ask her?" Hermione suggested.

"Mother, is something amiss?"
The painting of Narcissa Malfoy responded to her son, but not pleasantly. Her face contorted into
an expression that was almost grotesque. Her mouth hung open low, well past the natural jawline,
in a long, agonising howl. But no sound emerged. And then, like an animation that had run its
course, she resumed her previous, distressed expression, now looking human once more.
The small hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stood on end. It wasn't terribly unusual for
paintings to behave oddly, but all the same, there was no point lingering in the dark corridor. "Let's
just get the food and go," she suggested to Draco.
It occurred to her that she probably also ought to say something comforting and correct, but she felt
like the more meaningful and perhaps more eloquent words were just beyond her reach. Her
handicapped brain could not put together variations of "I'm sorry, you must miss her" and "I know
she loved you very much" into an appropriate sentence. It was just as well that Draco was not one
for sentiment anyway. He prepared to retrieve the food, pulling back the sleeve of his jumper.
Hermione could sense his hesitation.
"Did it hurt when you did it earlier?" she asked. She was appalled to think it might actually be
painful for him.
"No," he said, "but the spell takes a small payment when the user interacts with the magic.
Psychologically, it feels like you're sticking your arm into dark, deep water without knowing what's
swimming around inside it…"
Dark magic. The Manor was rife with it. It was not inherently more powerful than Light, but it was
famously easier to direct once you got over the challenge of summoning and wielding it. The
downside, of course, was that Dark Magic was never practiced without it taking a toll on the caster.
Hermione watched as Draco very slowly pushed his hand into the painting, fingers first. She saw
the faded Dark Mark on the pale skin of his arm and marvelled at how utterly unmoved she was to
see it now. Perhaps it was just her current mental state that was affecting her usual reaction to the
symbol? She kept on staring at it, trying to summon the memories of fear, panic and loss she had
associated with Mosmorde for so many years. The memories were there, but the feelings felt as
faded as the tattoo. The Dark Mark had once meant a lot; a symbol to bind and motivate
Voldemort's supporters, and to terrorise and exclude everyone else.
Draco noted her staring at the tattoo. "It cannot hurt you, Kiska," he said, and there was such
uncharacteristic tenderness in his voice that she didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't the Mark
that had her flustered.
It was his use of the nickname again. He hadn't used it in a while, but then she supposed the past
weeks had not afforded them much opportunity to trade endearments.
"I know," she replied.
To prove it, she laid her hand on his arm, across the tattooed skin. What she felt was subtle, but
extraordinary. Currents of magic were running down his arm, essentially from him, into the
painting. That was the price of the spell, for in this instance, there could not be
something for nothing. He was feeding the enchantment. Draco's interaction with the painting
didn't register on the canvas, but when he pulled his arm out, he was grasping two large bread rolls
and a slightly squashed lemon tart. As with all the other food he had previously extricated, it was
as fresh as if it'd been whipped up by the house elves just that afternoon. Hermione peered closely
at the trolleys in the painting and true enough, there was a blank space over one of the trolleys
where the food had been taken. She studiously avoided looking at the disturbing, stationary figure
of Narcissa.
"Remarkable," said Hermione.
He repositioned the two bread rolls in his right hand in order to split the tart into two pieces.
"Will it work if I try?"
"Be my guest," he offered. He was standing disconcertingly close, so Hermione was pleased to
have a reason to put some space between them as she approached the painting.
She pressed her hand against it. All she felt was the canvas and the bumpy ridges of dried oil paint.
"Bugger. I suppose this is another Malfoy party trick?"
He waggled his eyebrows at her as he ate half of the tart. His smugness made him look a decade
younger. They could very well have been back at school. She gave him a canny look. "What else
do you have access to in this house? Half the rooms are locked."
"There is nowhere in the house that I cannot get to. Like the gates, no door in the Manor can be
barred to a member of the household who wishes to open it."
"But there are no wands here?"
"There are twelve unused family wands in total, but they are kept in the family vault at Gringotts.
What I wish to acquire here is a portkey."
Hermione's heartbeat quickened. "Where is it?"
"I have a few ideas of where it might be."
They made their way back to the warmth of the library, Hermione lighting the way with the torch,
Draco carrying the bread. Behind them, darkness reclaimed each section of corridor they vacated.
He walked ahead and entered the library first.
Hermione stopped at the doorway, frowning out into the darkness they had just come from.
Ron had once said to her that the trouble with darkness was not so much what was in it, but the
human mind's propensity to imagine what was in it. It was this same propensity that gave the
Boggart its power. Quite often, the longer you stared into the black, the more you started to see
shapes coalesce. This was how the cloak on the back of your bedroom door turned into the
bogeyman when the lights went out.
She was looking at one such…shape. The more she stared the more it turned into a hunched, loping
figure slowly coming towards her along the corridor. Hermione shone her light on it and was
unsurprised to find that the corridor was empty, but the unpleasant sensation remained with her.
Most nights, her dreams were nightmares. Or rather, they could all qualify as such.
What else would you call dreams where monsters chased you and people got ripped to pieces as a
matter of course? Hermione remembered complaining to Harry a long time ago about how boring
her dreams were and how little she seemed to remember about them upon waking. Harry dreamed
of quests and danger and ending Voldemort. Hermione had dreamed about forgetting to hand in
assignments to Professor Snape and then a few years after that, about forgetting to hand in Ministry
paperwork on time and getting fired.
Now she dreamed she was kneeling down on the floor, in a bright place without walls or a ceiling.
She was calmly focussed on stuffing Padma's spilled organs back inside her friend's broken body.
It was like the Muggle game Operation, but in reverse. There was no little red buzzer to tell
Hermione when she had put an organ back incorrectly. Dream-Hermione was not trauma-affected.
She was formidable and decisive. She got the job done and always had enough humanity left in her
after the horrid tasks were completed, to make you a cup of tea and reassure you that it would all
get better soon.
"This too shall pass," she whispered to herself. Or perhaps to Padma.
Beautiful, brilliant, almond-eyed Padma was wide open, split from neck to navel. A masterpiece to
enthusiasts of human anatomy. She might as well have been a grave-robbed specimen perused over
by Victor Frankenstein himself. Presently, she was lucid and stared at Hermione with genial
curiosity as the work progressed. Her dark, inky hair fanned out about her as if it had been
arranged.
Hermione was methodical, because that was the only way to be. She picked up the liver, weighing
the organ in her hands. People who had never seen a human liver were often amazed at how large
and dense it was.
"I miss school," said Padma. She might have sighed, only Hermione hadn't put her lungs back in
yet. "No one tried to eat you at school."
Hermione paused to look at her old friend with a sceptical, raised eyebrow. "What school
did you go to?"
"Well, OK," Padma conceded. "I suppose there were more dangers if you were the close personal
friend of Harry Potter. The rest of us had it much easier."
"Do you know what the most common cause of death is in magical children under the age of
sixteen?" Hermione asked.
"I imagine it's the same for Muggle children—accidents?"
Padma's lungs inflated and deflated even as Hermione handled them. Her heart beat in Hermione's
hands.
Hermione nodded. "Yes, but accidents due to magical misadventure, not falling out of tree or
crashing your bicycle or drowning in the family pool. We're talking about death, dismemberment
and permanent disability due to magic."
Padma shrugged, causing her partially empty insides to jiggle a little. "Magic can be volatile."
"Magical parents and schools take a very lax attitude to safety," Hermione said. She rummaged
through the pile of organs and membranes beside her, wondering if Padma's stomach was missing.
No. There it was. "Although when it came to Fred and George Weasley, I don't think there was
anything more Molly could do to keep them safe. It's a miracle one of them survived."
Hermione slipped the stomach into place. Like all the other organs, it took root, reattaching itself
inside Padma.
"What about you?" Padma asked.

"What about me?"
"Will you take a lax attitude to the safety of your children?"
"I'm not a parent."
"Not yet, but you will be."
"I dunno, Padma," Hermione said, with some incredulity. "Does this seem like a very good time to
have kids?"
"Mm," said Padma, watching as Hermione slid kidneys into place. "It's not. And you'll have a hard
time of it on your own."
"What, no father in the picture?"
"Your sons will die and then Draco will die and then you'll be alone."
Hermione paused, a coil of small intestines in her hands. "Boys? How do you know I'll have sons?
How do you know any of this?"
"Everyone you love is going to die. And at the end, you'll wish you had, too."
"Why are you saying that?" Hermione whispered. She looked down at her hands, only just seeming
to notice they were caked with blood to her elbows. She dropped the section of ileum she'd been
holding. "You would never say that to me…"
Padma sat up, causing some of her organs to slop forward. "I'm not saying anything to you
Hermione. I'm dead."
"…I'm dead."
Hermione felt Draco's firm hands on her shoulders, shaking her awake. She bolted upright, wide-
eyed and trembling.
"You were dreaming," he told her, his voice thick with sleep. He was on his haunches beside her
bed. The room was mostly dark. There were only glowing logs in the fire. A glance at Draco's
bedding revealed rumpled sheets and an opened book. He'd been reading a potions encyclopedia
earlier before he'd fallen asleep. "Is it about Patil again?"
She could only nod. The same dream, but it kept ending differently and always before Hermione
managed to put all of Padma back together again.
"This is the third night in a row. Would you like to talk about it?"
No. She didn't need to answer him. He could sense her reluctance.
They were silent for a while. And then Draco stood up. He'd been wearing a black shirt and
Amarov's s long, woollen coat for most of the day. But he'd changed into a faded, grey hoodie
before they'd turned in for the night. He walked across the room and retrieved his father's brandy
from the nearby painting, stopping at a table to grab an empty wine glass.
Draco sat on the edge of her mattress and filled the glass. "Drink it."
"It's too early in the morning," she said, by way of protest, though in truth she had no idea what
time it was.
"It's never too early for a fortifying drink," he said, with authority.
Still, she hesitated.
"It worked for Zabini." There was a note of impatience in his voice. Hermione felt a pang of guilt.
The poor, exhausted man just wanted an uninterrupted night's sleep. He'd been systematically
turning the house inside out for the last week, looking for the portkey.
She drank, coughing once as the burning liquid slid down her throat. He poured her another glass.
She drank that, too. And then he sat on the floor beside her bed and told her to lie down once more.
Only when she complied, did he pull up a knee and rest his chin upon it, closing his eyes.
"I want to forget," Hermione said. She was staring up at the intricately corniced ceiling.
"Short of magic or a blow to the head, there is nothing that can make you forget," he replied, eyes
still closed. "What you survived will become part of you. You will be stronger for it."
"Is that why you're so resilient? What happened to you? What did you have to go through to make
you into…this?" She hadn't intended 'this' to sound pejorative, but it was too late to take it back
now.
He didn't seem in the least bit offended. His eyes didn't even open. "Am I so very different to what
you remember from school?"
Yes and no, Hermione thought. Little bullies sometimes grew up into men who used power and
influence to intimidate. With a father like Lucius, there was every chance that the apple would not
fall so far from the tree. But who could have predicted that the lure of Muggle technology and
science would exact its Siren's call upon Draco? Or maybe it wasn't so surprising after all?
Curiosity was a powerful motivating force, and she could see how Draco might be intrigued by the
forbidden, reviled, alien world that was parallel to his own. Lucius might as well have slapped on a
big sign over everything Muggle—'Danger! Do Not Explore!'
"Not so very different, I suppose," she said. "And you're wrong, there is something that can make
me forget."
His eyes opened and this time he looked amused. "More brandy?"
Hermione knew exactly what was happening to her at that moment. It was no different to the
incident by the pool on the home ship. Unfortunately, this insight did not mean she would refrain
from using Draco to help her forget. Maybe she was just using her trauma as an excuse to allow her
desires to run unchecked?
It was a rare thing to surprise him and she did just that by leaning over, catching his cheek in her
hand and pulling his face closer so she could kiss him. The brandy on an empty stomach was
helping things along, of course. She was emboldened, but most of all, she was driven by the need
to momentarily cleanse her mind of the vision of a dead and suffering Padma. The kiss was soft
and tentative. He was passive, letting her change the angle and depth. He didn't push her away, but
he wasn't exactly cooperating either.
"Kiss me back," she said. She drew his bottom and then his top lip between her own, trying to coax
his mouth open.
"Is that what you want?" he spoke against her lips. Other than their mouths, and Hermione's hand
on his face, no other part of them was touching. Hermione thought that was quite deliberate,
though if she stretched her neck any more, she was going to lose her balance, fall off the mattress
and tumble into his lap. He was seated cross-legged on the floor now.
"Yes," she replied. "What do you want?"
"I want you whole again before we attempt this."
She kissed one cheekbone, and then the spot just above his eyebrow where there was a scar
sustained during his one-man takeover of the Morning Star. "That's what this is. Recovery." She
kissed the bridge of his nose before moving down to his neck, which was partially obstructed by
the thick hoodie. He'd had a wash earlier in the day and smelled wonderful to her. "Tell me what
you really want. Not for me, but for yourself."
He was not one to enjoy playing games when he was the one being toyed with. The change in him
was breathtaking. He went from sleepy to alert in a heartbeat. He grabbed her chin, holding her
kisses at bay. His grip wasn't rough, but it wasn't caressing either. He spoke into her ear, his warm
breath and stubble skimming the sensitive skin just under her earlobe.
"Hermione Granger, what I would like to do to you is not conducive to your mental well-being at
this point and requires your full participation. Lie down, get some sleep and we can talk later in the
morning about all the many and varied things I want."
Her heart started hammering in her chest. The wild fear was fluttering closer. She willed it to keep
its distance. "I want the same thing…" she heard herself say and felt terribly embarrassed. "Well,
right now just some of it…"
"Some of it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Tell me."
"You don't have to look so amused."
"Sorry," he said, though looked no less amused. His previously rigid posture relaxed. "Tell me
what you want and I'll decide if you shall have it."
He was an imperious arsehole. But she thought he might also be allowing her time to test the
veracity of her desires. Self-respect be damned, she decided. She leaned forward and whispered
into his ear, her face nearly a Weasley shade of red.
When it was done, she sat back on her mattress and stared at her folded hands in her lap. Oh, he
was a cruel sod to pretend to contemplate her request. After what felt like eons, he asked her to
make some room on the mattress and climbed in with her.
Oh God, thought Hermione. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all? She started shaking
again when she felt his hands on the buttons of the thick shirt she was wearing.
He paused.
"It's fine," she reassured. "Please proceed."
"Please proceed?" he repeated, a little incredulous. "I'm not sure I've ever received such a
motivating invitation."
She turned her head to bury her burning face into his shoulder. "Draco."
"Close your eyes," he suggested. She did and thus missed the smile on his face.
The unbuttoning of her shirt took far too long. He was deliberately taking his time. When the task
was completed, he spread open the shirt and laid her skin bare. It was cool, but not cold in the
library, thanks to the permanent fire. Nevertheless, goose bumps were inevitable and so was the
tightening of her nipples. It was too late to be concerned about her own body insecurities, and like
any other woman, she had a litany of them. She and Draco were well past that now.
She could just make out his slow, steady breaths. He was doing nothing more than looking. Her
breasts felt aching and heavy from want of touch. But he didn't so much as graze them and she
knew exactly why—because that hadn't been what she'd asked for. Damn him and his penchant for
precision.
Hermione held her breath when he raised his hand, but he brought it to her chin. He pulled down
gently to open her mouth and then, to her surprise, dipped his thumb in to moisten it. Then he
dragged that wet thumb down over her chin, along her sternum, in between her breasts, past her
navel, leaving a wet, tingling trail all the way down to the waistband of the trousers she wore.
Hermione felt light-headed.
"Ease your breathing, Kiska, or you're going to grow faint. There won't be any bad dreams this
time, I promise."
He lay down beside her now and kissed her. Oh, it was delirium-inducing. He made her kisses look
childlike in comparison. He opened her up, took his time, his tongue exploring her mouth with
light, sweeping, investigative touches that made her ache for him to use more force. And perhaps
that was the genius of his seduction, making her crave the very male power that had previously
wrought such damage.
And while she was distracted, he unbuttoned her trousers (one-handed) and pulled down the
zipper. By the time his fingers skimmed her pubis inside her underwear, she was arching her hips
up to meet his hand and improve the contact. She knew what she wanted now and it was so close,
so within reach and yes, she was forgetting all the awfulness that came before.
"More?" he said, against her mouth.
Yes.
He slid a solitary finger downwards, catching her just where she ached the most.
Hermione gasped. "I'm…oh. Oh."
"You're wet. Is that what you want to tell me?" His voice was low, teasing and if possible, even
more arousing that what his hand was doing.
She'd meant to say she wasn't sure, but ok, 'wet' it is. Oh, God. This was really happening.
"More still?"
Yes.
He added a second finger and used the pads of his fingers to rub small, light circles. He watched
her, changing the motion of his fingers in concert with what made her moan, twitch or squirm,
giving her more and then withholding so that she was a squirming ball of need in mere minutes. He
was far from unaffected, though. She could feel the length of him pressing into her hip, as hard as
iron.
"Please…" She was so close.

He reclaimed her mouth with his usual, mind-drugging, distracting kiss just as he gently slipped
one slick finger inside her. Hermione wrenched her mouth away, making a protesting noise. She
immediately clamped her legs together, trapping his hand. This was not what they had discussed.
"It's alright. I won't hurt you."
No, he wouldn't, but her stupid damaged mind would hurt the both of them by making her panic
and retreat. And then she would ruin everything. Again.
"We can do this," he assured her. "Together." And it was just that simple use of 'we' rather than
'you' that put things in new perspective. This was not just about her. She was not alone in her
desire. He was right there with her. They were partners.
Hermione relaxed her legs and he obliged by slowly moving his finger in and out, occasionally
curling it to explore her more fully. That made her gasp.
"You're so soft. So fragile. I could put marks on you without even trying…"
She was losing him a little, she could tell. His voice was thick, his breathing harsher and his words
not quite as crisp and coherent as they usually were.
"I'm not soft," she protested.
"No. Not all of you," he conceded. He eased a second finger into her. "See? There we go, some
delicious resistance."
Hermione immediately grabbed his hand, stilling his motions. It hurt, slightly. The pressure was
uncomfortable now, the pleasure decreased. She turned her head away from his searching mouth.
Draco observed this closely even as he removed his fingers, though they still hovered over that part
of her that was aching for him to touch. When she looked at him once more, he wore an expression
of gentle contemplation.
"How long were you with Weasley?"
"I…we were never really together as such, but we got intimate on several occasions."
"And was there anyone else?"
"No. Just Ron."
Oh dear. Here it comes. She supposed it was inevitable. The way things were progressing, he was
liable to find out eventually. Though the answer to the question of whether she'd ever been with a
man ought not to be something she felt ashamed about (even at her age). Thankfully, however, he
didn't press the issue.
Though he did press his fingers against her, harder this time, moving them more quickly and
randomly varying the pressure and speed until she was squirming and frustrated at not being able to
predict what he would do next. She could feel the release on the horizon, mounting, just within
reach. Even if it didn't eventuate, the journey to this point had been worth it. All other concerns had
fled. She was single-minded in her need to immerse herself in the moment, forgetting everything
else.
"Please…"
Draco lips were at her temple. His free hand had slid under her upper torso, so that he was holding
her beside him while his other hand was worked. She was glad for the anchor because she knew
her unravelling was imminent.
"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice gritty.
"You know," she protested.
"Say it," he commanded, and he was cruel to slow the motions of his hand. His fingers ghosted
over her slick, swollen flesh.
She moaned, her hips bucking off the bed, her hands clawing at the sheets. "Draco…"
"Say it."
She thought about what she must look like to him at that moment. Breasts exposed and her body
golden-hued in the firelight, chest rapidly rising and falling, back arched, toes curled, her
expression pained and intent. The image; her own imagined image was erotic to her and she
marvelled at the power of it. Also, if he didn't continue, she was going to have to finish herself off
right in front of him.
"Please make me come," she pleaded, abandoning all shame.
He obliged, seeming to know exactly how she liked to be touched. Everything earlier had been
research and experimentation. The academic part of her brain thought that the noises she made
were ridiculous. They were primal and animalistic. She peeked through her eyelashes and saw his
expression. He didn't seem to think her ridiculous at all. He eyes ran over her face, her breasts and
finally stopping at the quick movements of his hand inside her trousers. And it was this that sent
her over the edge—the sight of Draco watching himself touch her.
Her climax was, well, anti-climactic given her propensity for vocalisation in the lead up. She
imploded rather than exploded. Draco extricated his hand and released her just as Hermione curled
up into a ball and shuddered. He didn't do any more to touch her at this point and she was glad for
it, because she couldn't have handled the extra contact.
It…she…the release came in waves and it felt like the oddest, most exhilarating, wonderful kind of
anxiety. She could feel the internal contractions, quick, in rapid succession and then they eased,
such that she was able to unfurl herself and melt right into the mattress. And of course Draco
Malfoy was some kind of practiced sex genius to know that this was precisely when he needed to
drag her further into the warmth of his body and hold her close just as she burst into tears.
Merlin help her, she didn't want to cry, but there was no force in the universe that could stop the
onslaught. Hermione was quite sure she had never cried so hard in her entire life. These were loud,
long, wretched sobs that came from the depths of her. There was such a profound sense of release.
Not quite relief, but it was still tremendous. He contained her and her pitiful crying within the
confines of his arms and one leg thrown over the pair of hers. Nothing was said, because he wasn't
a 'there, there…' sort of person. He was solid and safe and trusted. And this was all that mattered.
The figure that had been standing and listening outside the library continued onwards, stopping
only when the portrait of the young Narcissa Malfoy spoke to it.
"Leave them be!" implored Narcissa, parasol in hand, the expression on her face one of acute
distress. "I didn't tell them, but please, I beg of you! There has already been so much death in this
house. He is my son, I—"
A knife slashed through the painting. It left a gaping maw in the middle of the ripped canvas and
there were no more entreaties to be heard.
Family
Hermione awakened, eyes opening to darkness and then adjusting to the dull glow of the logs in
the fireplace. She stretched and yawned. There weren't yet any slivers of morning sunlight slipping
through the corners of the wooden boards covering the library windows. She estimated it was
probably just before dawn. Amazingly, she couldn't remember feeling more refreshed and
energised in a long time.
The spot beside her on the mattress was conspicuously empty. She turned her head and saw that
Draco was back in his own bed, asleep. Hermione wasn't sure what to feel about that. No, that was
a lie. She felt a little stung by it, actually, but being Malfoy, he probably had reasons upon reasons
for not sleeping with her through the night. In any case, she was feeling too good to waste time
feeling sorry for herself.
Granted, her head was slightly heavy and there was a mild soreness between her legs, but it wasn't
wholly unfamiliar. She'd done her fair share of drunken fooling around with Ron. There was also a
less tangible wounded feeling in her chest, as if she'd sustained a blow that left no physical damage
or lasting mark. No doubt it had come from the outpouring of tension and grief a few hours ago.
The weeping had been torrential, she recalled, feeling slightly mortified. To his credit, Draco had
held her all the way through it, not speaking, but she'd felt his hand stroking her hair and the same
hand lifting her heavy hair to place soft kisses at the back of her neck, upon her temple, on her
shoulder. She couldn't imagine that he'd led a life where providing that kind of comfort had been an
even infrequent occurrence. As such, he'd done a splendid job.
Hermione felt the tears welling up again. She was a wreck, but she no longer felt unsalvageable.
Hurrah and all that.
What she really wanted to do right now was clean up. A bath would be splendid and fortuitously,
there was one bathroom in the house where hot water still ran, albeit it was quite a trek from the
library. She had already had one earlier in the week and it had been heavenly. She left her mattress,
grabbed her coat and backpack, put on her shoes and tip-toed past Draco's bed, which was closest
to the door. It was impossible not to stop and look at him, even though it felt like she was stealing
glances at something forbidden—Draco Malfoy at his most vulnerable. He was lying on his
stomach, one arm bent alongside his head, his face tucked into the crook of his elbow.
Objectively, he was a damned fine-looking adult male. This fact did not go unnoticed by most.
He'd been considered rather short when they'd started at Hogwarts, but like many other boys, he'd
caught up with the girls around third year and then didn't seem to stop growing after that. Girls and
boys alike had stared. They did the same for Harry, but where there had been awe, admiration and
hero-worship for modest, honest and plain-speaking Harry, there had been something different for
Draco.
He'd been more than a simple bully. Even the smallest children knew that crossing the Malfoys
might mean your father's Ministry job, or as some whispered, an accident befalling a member of the
family where there were no witnesses to testify that the relative in question had not merely
tripped…they'd been pushed. So yes, students had stared, including Hermione. But they'd kept their
distance because what they saw was poisonous. Too risky to engage with. It was a miracle how the
Slytherins managed to hold on to their friendships. Could any of them have trusted each other or
spoken freely? Probably not. And the sad truth of it was that Draco had been as much a victim of
the Malfoy legacy as he was a perpetrator of it.
In their later schooling years, Hermione remembered him as lanky, moody, watchful and academic.
When the vertical growth had stopped, he had obviously stacked on muscle. And it was this
strength that had saved them and others, on many occasions.
Such superficial considerations were of low importance given the state of the world, and yet there
she was, considering them. She was stopping to smell the roses, Hermione decided. There hadn't
been much time for such idle, romantic musings when they'd been teenagers. Remus Lupin had
once said to her, with a paternal twinkle in his eyes, that you had to squeeze it in when you could.
Typically, Hermione had never been one to find light-haired men attractive. Maybe that came from
spending a lot of her time with dark-haired gentleman that had all left a lasting impression—Harry,
Sirius, Snape, her father, among others. Draco's blond hair was a mess of different lengths and
ragged in some areas where the well-meaning Professor Belikov really ought to have used a
sharper pair of scissors, but this in no way detracted from Draco's appeal. His hair was rough and
haphazard, which made for an interesting contrast against his fine bone structure. She reached out a
hand, wanting to run a fingertip along his dark blond eyebrow, just above his scar, and only just
caught herself in time. He was a notoriously light sleeper.
She admired his hands, which went unbandaged now. They were strong and quick, like him. Those
hands worked in the labs, they were precise, deadly if he needed them to be, and so very skilled
when he used them on her. This latter thought made her face warm. The burn scars across the back
of his hands, meanwhile, made her stomach clench because she knew where he had sustained them,
and what he had been trying so hard to prevent.
Hermione was cognisant of the fact that Draco had allowed her to get closer to him, possible more
so than anyone had done before, but she knew there were parts of him locked away still. Parts he
did not think were for sharing. She knew this because it was her modus operandi as well.
There was a formality between them. An aloofness not borne from ill will or distrust, but from the
way the both of them chose to deal with affairs of the heart. It did not do to throw yourself, bodily,
into a river of unknown depths, when there was a nice, safe barge to take you to the other side.
You needed to keep some parts of yourself quarantined because to share too much invited
vulnerability. Harry had been that way with Ginny and though Hermione would never admit so to
Ginny, she'd secretly agreed with Harry's decision. What good would it do to give Harry such a
formidable weakness when for nearly two years, his life consisted of missions that bordered on
suicidal? Harry's decision to distance himself from Ginny was an attempt to save the both of them
from heartbreak.
To Ginny's credit, she was not the sort to pine and had simply got on with life each time Harry had
pulled away. Hermione never understood why Ginny allowed herself to be put in such a position.
Hermione knew she would not be so resilient if it was her heart on the line. Still, it was impossible
not to love at all, and so Hermione loved her parents and Harry and her friends dearly and worried
constantly about their well-being.
But falling in love was a decision. Better, safer, wiser to not fall in love, because given the lives
they led, there was an untold world of pain lying in wait for you. It wasn't about being a martyr, it
was just good sense.
So what a bloody bother then, that she was already in love with Draco Malfoy.
Hermione knew it to be the truth as she stared down at him and ached to touch him, to curl up in
his arms, hold him tightly in return and keep him safe, happy and well. She wanted these things so
much it passed beyond mere physical craving. Padma's words from her nightmare terrified her.
Hermione could not imagine a world where she had children with this man, let alone endure the
loss of him and them. But then people did that all the time, didn't they? They took those asinine
risks. Sure, some fell down and never got up from the grief, but there were hundreds of people
back in the fleet who had endured incalculable loss. Blaise Zabini was among them. It was folly to
put yourself in such a position. Hermione was adamant about this. The only recourse was
to stop loving, and she wasn't quite sure how to go about doing that.
She took a lantern torch from the mantle before making her way to the door as quietly as she could.
It opened into the frigid cold and darkness of the corridor outside. Hermione stopped short, staring
up in bafflement at the obvious bare spot on the wall where the painting of Narcissa had once
hung. She scanned the floor directly below and then to be doubly sure, walked back into the library
to see if Draco had removed the painting and brought it inside. Perhaps he had gathered it and the
other food storage paintings to a single convenient location?
In any case, it was not in the library, and she was not willing to wake up Draco just to ask about it.
Still, to make herself feel better, she unzipped their long duffle bag of ammunition and placed one
of his guns beside him, on the floor. And then she made sure her own pistol was loaded before she
set off for the lower ground, house-elf washroom. Overkill, probably, but better to be safe than
sorry.
Though it was a staff bathroom, it was decadent, by Muggle standards. There were three baths, all
of them roll-top, double ended, with centrally positioned taps in the French style, meaning that the
tubs had no legs and instead sat directly on the black and white, marble floor. In the past,
household water heating spells meant that a perpetually lit boiler supplied the Manor's bathroom
and kitchens with hot water. A separate, smaller boiler supplied the staff quarters, running off
house elf magic. The charm had not been dismantled by the Ministry investigation team. Quite
possibly, they had relied on the same bathroom as their single source of hot water for their own
cleaning and washing needs throughout their time in the house. Although the pipes were probably
much older than the ones at Grimmauld Place, they were less cantankerous. The first time
Hermione had turned on the taps, she'd been surprised that the water contained no sediment.
There was a large iron key in the keyhole. Hermione locked herself in, turned on the water and
then set about lighting the candles Draco had placed there earlier in the week. No sense wasting
the batteries in the lantern torch. After lighting six candles, she removed her clothes and
approached the tub. There were no towels in the house, so they'd been using sheets instead. There
was a pile of them folded next to the tub. The water was too hot; just the way she preferred it. She
sank in, wincing a little and the heat and the sting, and then sighed.
Belikov had made sure they'd packed the basic necessities prior to leaving the fleet. As a
grandfather to three teenaged girls, he knew this encompassed soap, disposable razors, sun-block,
shampoo, conditioning rinse, a small pair of utility scissors and a first-aid kit. He'd also thrown in a
half a bottle of perfumed moisturiser and to Hermione's amusement, a tiny department store sample
of men's cologne, no doubt pilfered from one of the abandoned state rooms on the home ship.
Grooming felt like the biggest indulgence, but oh, it felt good to lather up her hair and rinse out
shampoo that smelled like vanilla. She then massaged a small amount of conditioner through her
thick hair, twisted it into a bun and set about putting a disposable razor to good use. No wonder
Draco had been willing to barter information in exchange for a hot bath. It had the capacity to make
you feel quite human again. The glow from the candles in the dark bathroom was soothing.
Hermione rested back against the tub, drowsy and quite content. She closed her eyes and enjoyed
the steam on her face. Rinsing off the conditioner could wait…
The cold air on her face and chest startled her into waking. Hermione realised she'd dozed off. Not
for very long, considering the water was still warm. She sat up in the tub, alarmed to discover that
the candles had all snuffed out. Though it was probably daylight outside, there were no windows in
the bathroom. She could barely make out her hand in front of her face. Though she could not see it,
she was fairly sure the door was open and it was the reason why the temperature in the room had
dropped so dramatically.
But why was the door open? She'd locked it. The answer seemed obvious. Someone had managed
to enter the bathroom and that someone was not Draco. He would not frighten her like this.
There was no time to waste sitting in rapidly cooling water, pondering the what-ifs. Draco was
upstairs, sleeping and probably unaware of the danger, if indeed there was any. She had a gun in
her bag and she was going to get to it. Before she moved, however, Hermione listened very
intently, her other senses becoming more acute in the absence of anything visual to process. There
heard the steady drip-drip-drip of the faucet in the tub, the ever-present creaking of the old house
above stairs. Other than that, there was nothing.
Cursing, she climbed out of the tub as quickly as her wet limbs would allow, lamenting how
slippery everything felt because of the conditioner that ran down her body from her wet hair. She
snatched a folded sheet as she ran to the vanity, where her bag and her gun were located, clutching
the sheet to her chest.
Her wet hands rummaged through her bag. Damn it. The gun was gone, but the lantern torch was
still there. With water-wrinkled hands, Hermione turned it on, spinning around to see if anyone else
was in the room with her.
It was empty.
If there was some kind speed record for putting clothes on, Hermione broke it. Feeling marginally
more prepared for whatever was to come, she shoved her feet into her sneakers and made her way
out the door, carrying the torch with her.
Hermione ignored the fact that she was freezing. Her hair was wet, soaking the back of her shirt
and coat. She'd forgone socks, which meant that her wet feet were gritty icicles in her shoes. There
was something or someone in the dungeons, one level below the house elf quarters. The floor there
consisted of stone, which meant that sound didn't carry as well as it did on the upper levels, but if
she kept very still and held her breath, she could hear...
Scratching, scuffling and something that sounded like chains being dragged across the floor.
Typical, spooky dungeon stuff. It occurred to her that she was afraid, but calm. The bright, red
bloom of panic had not descended over her, sapping away her ability to think rationally. She felt, in
that moment, like her old self. But this was no time to revel in the realisation.
There was a staircase about ten meters in front of her, leading down to the dungeons. From below,
she heard a door creak, the baritone quality of the sound telling her the door was large and heavy.
Presently, it shut and then bolts slid into place. Footsteps approached the staircase.
Hermione quickly turned off the lantern and flattened herself against the wall. Whomever it was
clearly knew their way around the corridors well enough to navigate without any light. Hermione
was not so lucky. She could not afford to stumble around in the dark with the intruder, and so she
waited until the footsteps continued up to the ground floor, hating that they were heading nearer to
Draco. After several minutes, she was just about to take the stairs to go up as well, when she heard
the crying.
It was a woman.
Hermione clenched her fists, disbelief mingling with rage. What was this, then?
Yet another maniac who thought he could keep people locked up for his own amusement? She
sucked in a breath to calm her nerves, before making her way very quietly down the stairs. The
person who had stolen her gun was probably also responsible for the woman in the dungeons and
Hermione had no idea where they were or when they coming back. She would have to be quick.
She turned the lantern back on. If possible, it was even colder in the dungeons, likely due to the
stone and the damp. Hermione felt the chill all the way to her bones and wondered how anything
could survive for very long down there without dry warmth. There were several empty cells and it
appeared that the crying was coming from the cell at the end of the corridor. Though now that she
was closer to the source of the sound, it was more of a low, mournful wailing, than weeping.
Hermione approached the door in question, looking for a small sliding window or grate, so that she
could communicate with the imprisoned woman. There was none. It was a solid door with no peep
hole from the outside and appeared to be so tightly sealed that there was hardly any free space
around the door frame. With cold-numbed fingers, she explored the bolts that locked the door.
They weren't chained or padlocked, which meant she could slide them free.
She placed her ear against the door. "Hello," she called out. "Can you hear me?"
The crying immediately stopped. There was a scrambling noise on the other side.
"Can you speak to me?" she tried again. No response for a moment and then the crying resumed,
only now it sounded even more frantic.
Merlin, Hermione thought. What on earth had she and Draco stumbled onto?
There was nothing else to be done except set her lantern down on the cold stone and use both hands
to slide the bolts free. There was were seven of them in total; large iron bars that were the width of
her arm. Here was a room that could likely hold Felix Wallen in lycanthropic form. It would not
surprise her to know that the Manor had dungeon cells built for specifically such a purpose.
The heavy door creaked open, Hermione using her entire body weight to pull it open once it had
been unbolted. It was then that the smell hit her like a slap to the face. She staggered backwards
from the force of it, not running into the narrow corridor wall behind her, but rather, into
something else quite solid that reached out rough hands to steady her.
"Greetings, Mudblood. Come here to save the day, have you?" sneered Lucius Malfoy. He was
filthy, grizzled, emaciated and wearing rags that stunk almost as much as the cell behind her. He
was also holding her gun, but not in a way which advertised that he knew how to use it or cared to.
"I do so appreciate a meal that delivers itself," he said, before he shoved her into the room and
slammed the door shut, sealing her in the reeking darkness.
Draco's eyes opened at the sound of the door slamming, the noise echoing through the empty
house. He sat up, noting Hermione's absence from her own bed and the gun placed beside him. He
got to his feet, pulled on his jacket, picked up the handgun and checked to see that it was loaded
before shoving it into the waistband of his trousers. He also took a flashlight and rifle from their
ammunitions bag, slinging the rifle across his shoulder. The bag was then placed behind a
bookcase to hide it. His boots were pulled on next, unlaced. He moved quickly, the only thing
giving him pause was the absence of his mother's painting in the corridor outside.
Wade Out
I will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
- By E. E. Cummings
The lantern landed beside her, but it was broken, cracked and in pieces on the floor. With shaking
hands, she slid a shard of glass into her pocket, hoping it would not cut her through the denim of
her trousers. On second thought, she really didn't care if it did.
All around her was blackness.
Complete loss of control was within reach. Hermione could feel it lurking at the corner of her mind
as if it were a living thing, malignant and expectant, waiting for the right moment to pounce and
drag her away into an entirely different kind of darkness.
Tag. You're it. Panic.
Hermione would not let that happen because what lay beyond that panic was worse than the panic
itself. It was mindlessness and that was a hell she did not wish to revisit. When placed in a room
with no light and the certainty of hidden, lurking danger, the sensible thing to do was to find a
corner and re-group. She moved with stealth and caution, using the adrenaline that coursed through
her, ignoring the reptilian part of her brain that wanted to do nothing more than curl into a ball and
play dead. But the danger would not pass. It would not be so easily fooled.
The dungeon cell was large. Hermione crawled along the floor for many minutes without once
touching a wall. Her eyes were wide open, as if that would somehow permit some semblance of
sight. Instead, her hands served as her eyes and she relied on them now. She was not alone in the
room. That much was certain. The creature—at least she hoped there was just one—was nearby.
It moaned, picking up in pitch depending on what it stumbled across in the darkness. Once or
twice, it whined almost with contentment, grabbing a hold of something from the ground and then
there was the awful noise of wet mastication. There was far more than just Hermione and a zombie
in the cell. It took her a few minutes to process the fact that she was currently crawling over body
parts—legs, arms, heads, torsos, bits of hair, scalp, too many hands to count.
And blood. Merlin it was everywhere.
The smell was the first clue. It was so strong that it felt like a tangible layer of it had settled over
her skin. In some areas of the room, the human remains were piled on top of each other so much so
that Hermione had to stand up and walk around. She crawled over and through the putrid,
decomposing remains, biting her lip to keep from making a sound when her hand became lodged
inside someone's open chest cavity. And even as she did all this, she strained to listen for noises
beyond the dungeon.
She could hear movement in the upper levels.
Lucius Malfoy was alive. He'd come home. He and his wife were supposed to be dead, of course.
Killed by Aurors while being pursued years before Draco had been incarcerated. There had been a
three page write-up in the Daily Prophet and everything. So where the hell had they been all this
time? Hermione would be unsurprised to discover this was also the Ministry's doing. Secret-
keeping and internal conspiracy habits die hard, it seemed. Even under Scrimgeour's watch.
This room was obviously Lucius' charnel house and a prison for the creature he was keeping and
cared enough about to feed. It didn't take great leaps of imagination to work out whom the zombie
had once been. Hermione thought of Draco and this very nearly tipped her over the edge into
hysterics. But then her sorrow for him turned to fear, for Lucius was beyond that cell door,
somewhere in the house and though their encounter had been blessedly brief, the elder Malfoy did
seem a few Knuts short of a Sickle.
Draco was so very clever, but he would need more than that to deal with his father. Sentiment was
not one of Draco Malfoy's usual weaknesses, though he was not wholly immune to its sway, either.
Loyalty, on the other hand, had always been trickier for him to negotiate. Lucius had both these
things in his arsenal to wield over his son.
After about twenty-minutes more of crawling, Hermione finally found a wall. She huddled down
against it, grimacing as she slowly pulled bodies and body parts up around her to form a gruesome
fort, of sorts; something to deflect the scrounging zombie, should it approach. It also worked to
mask her clean, scented person with the oppressive, sharp, fatty stench of rotting flesh.
She felt around her little corner of the room. Disturbingly, not all of the bodies were in pieces. She
touched people who were more or less, whole. At least there was no shortage of fodder for Lucius'
pet zombie, which meant it was in no instinctual hurry to eat her. Perhaps its current search instinct
was more territorial?
Clearly, all of the bodies in the cell were de-animated. Most likely, they had already been dead
before being tossed inside. Hermione's searching hands found a haversack still attached to the body
of a man. She unzipped the bag and pulled out several items, taking care to avoid any plastic bags,
lest she make too much noise. There was some clothing, empty containers, empty plastic bottles,
what felt like a roll of crepe bandage, crumbs, paper and kindling. It was the man's pitiful survival
supplies.
Trying to keep her frozen hands steady, Hermione unzipped numerous smaller pockets, feeling
around inside them. She nearly cried with relief when her fingers closed around a lighter. There
was no point using it now and unwittingly alerting the zombie to her whereabouts. She'd have to
devise some kind of plan of attack beforehand. Motivated by the success of her recent find,
Hermione's hands moved more quickly through the bodies around her, scavenging what she could.
Unfortunately, there were no weapons to be found.
She stopped when she touched a tiny hand. It was attached to a small arm and a body that was still
wearing a jumper and trousers. The shoes were long gone, but there were socks (with bobbles).
Long hair. A little girl. Intrigued and propelled by an almost morbid curiosity, Hermione touched
the dead child's face. Soft, cold cheeks. A little, button nose. Hermione was amazed that something
so unmarred could exist in this place. She ran her fingers along the back of the skull and was
unsurprised to find a wound there. Further exploration revealed a slit throat, crusted over with dried
blood.
How could it be that after all she'd seen in the last year and a half, that anything could still shock
her? There ought to have been nothing left inside of her, nothing except for the raw, survivalist
mentality that people needed in order to live in this new world. Though she was not a hundred
percent sure, Hermione would put down a bag of Galleons on the assumption that Lucius had not
been feeding his dear, departed Narcissa the human equivalent of zombie road kill. No, Hermione
suspected he'd been harvesting fresh meat from amongst the living.
And that made him yet another monster.
She slipped the lighter into her pocket and leaned back against the cold, dungeon wall, aware that
if the zombie didn't eventually stumble upon her soon, she was probably going to die of
hypothermia. She was soaked to the skin, covered in muck, blood and guts. But hey, at least the
scented conditioner was now barely noticeable.
Hermione had no doubt that Lucius would return to the cell. The only question was how long
would she have to wait? A day? Days? If not Lucius, than perhaps Draco would find her, but part
of the survivalist mentality required that you didn't sit around waiting to be rescued.
Especially if you were concerned that you needed to be doing the rescuing this time.
Draco stood in the foyer, left hand hovering over his rifle, staring with unmoving intensity.
At his father.
The older Malfoy was gaunt, filthy and nearly unrecognisable. He was dressed in clothing that was
so worn, it was now all the same colour. What had once been long, silver hair hung limp past his
shoulders. In contrast to his clothing, his hair was an assortment of colours, dominated by browns
and greys. There were long, deep scabs running down his face, half-healed gouges from what
looked unmistakably like fingernail scratches. He was favouring his right side—Draco noted—
leaning heavily against the bannister. Bloodshot eyes stared back at Draco, before crinkling up
around the corners as Lucius staggered forward. The sound he made was halfway between a sob
and a whimper.
Draco caught him at the zenith of an awkward, lurching, hug, frowning down over his father's back
as Lucius held on to him. They remained like this for a while. The words that tumbled out of
Lucius were nonsensical. He clutched his son with feverish desperation, as if he would vanish into
thin air at any moment.
"I thought you were dead," Draco said, both a question and a response. And had Hermione been
there to hear it, she would have also discerned the apology in that sentence.
Presently, Lucius pulled himself away, though his skeletal hands remained tightly on his son's
shoulders. He was a shorter man now, seemingly shrunken in his emaciation. "I am dead," he
smiled, tears leaking from rheumy eyes. "Your father is dead and here I am in his place." He
touched Draco's face with rough, grime-covered hands. Lucius looked him up and down, taking in
the sight of his only child, tall and hale and the antithesis of everything that Lucius currently was.
Draco frowned in return, contemplation rendering his face much more guarded, and colder, than
before.
"My son. My beautiful son." Lucius' gaze took on a sharper edge, likely in response to Draco's
clinical cataloguing of Lucius' person. "But then I suppose that was never our problem, was it?
Never a lack of beauty," he said. He eyed Draco's rifle. "Expecting unwanted company, are you?"
Lucius made to grab the gun, but Draco intercepted his wrist and held it.
"Is mother here?"
"Of course."
"Where were you?"
"Azkaban. They didn't tell you, did they?" Lucius smiled again, revealing blackened teeth. He was
not entirely well, in more ways than the obvious. Up close, there was an audible wheezing at every
intake of breath. His skin was flushed and hot to the touch. His eyes reflected his febrile state.
"They didn't tell me you were there, either. Your mother…." He lunged for his son now, hauling
him close by the front of his jumper. Draco allowed this, careful to keep the rifle at his back. "She
was inconsolable when she learned that the Warden had been keeping you somewhere in the lower
grounds. That filthy, Muggle loving, Irish—"
"Warden Finnegan," Draco supplied. He took a step back, managing to do this so subtly that his
father did not notice.
"Yes," Lucius spat. "Kept you in a pretty glass cage, didn't he?" Here, he rose to his full height and
blinked distractedly for a moment, picking at several dried leaves that had stuck to the hem of his
threadbare shirt. "While the rest of us starved and lived with the rats…"
"How did you escape?" Draco steered him back on-topic.
"Escape?" he laughed. "No one except Sirius Black has ever managed that, my boy. Finnegan let us
out. He released us into…" Lucius looked around the empty foyer of his grand home "…this. I am
Lord of this Manor and I am powerless. It is an odd sort of torture, isn't it? I expect you know
exactly what I mean. Look at what was done to the world while we were kept from it! Inferi run
unchecked. Governments have collapsed, Magic is known to the Muggles, and my only son and
heir lies with the Mudblood that helped to put our family in Azkaban." He sneered. "What have I
done to deserve this, I ask you? What—" Wracking coughs waylaid Lucius' rant. He doubled over
and would have fallen if Draco didn't prop him up.
"Where is Hermione Granger?" Draco asked, speaking directly into his father's ear. His voice was
gentle, cajoling even, but his expression was something else entirely.
Lucius swayed in his son's arms, coughing, catching his breath. "The girl? The girl…"
"Lucius," Draco hissed, shaking his father back to alertness. "Where is she?"
"Why, she's having a little visit with your mother. Would you like to see?"
It found her.
The creature had commenced undertaking its own survey of the dungeons, aware that something
alive had been tossed inside. It held on to that piece of information, adding further credence to the
notion that it was a wizarding zombie and most likely, Narcissa Malfoy.
Whomever it had once been, it was clearly familiar with the layout of the dungeon. This was a
horrible and fascinating fact and might have made the late Dr Alec Mercer rather excited. If
Hermione had to hazard a guess, she would guess that the zombie had even attempted to create
some order amongst the remains in the room. That explained the odd piles of…things. Body parts
stacked in different areas. Hermione could only wonder at what method lay behind this madness.
Like some kind of nightmarish bower bird, Narcissa had been setting up a little nest here at Malfoy
Manor. And her husband had been assisting her.
The creature was thwarted by the stack of bodies around Hermione, but this only slowed it down. It
began to climb over the barrier of human remains. Thankfully, it was incapable of moving quietly,
releasing moans, groans and growls as it searched and grabbed. Hermione was more or less able to
gauge its position in the dark.
When it was almost on her, she kicked at what she hoped was the creature's face. There was the
sound of bone breaking, but the zombie was already recovering even as Hermione scrambled over
the barrier and ran to the other side of the room, tripping over bodies as she went.
On one shoulder, she carried the haversack taken off the dead man. It would serve to tangle the
zombie or muzzle it, if need be. There were no hard objects to be found on the ground. The largest
thing Hermione had discovered was someone's hiking boot. She held this aloft now, resigned to the
fact that she would have to use the sturdy heel to bludgeon the creature into true death. It was
coming at her now, the moan turning into an aggressive snarl. Was it hungry for flesh that still
moved? Was it angry that Hermione had messed up its interior décor? Who knew?
Timing was everything. One badly planned swing of her arm and the thing would grab her and set
its teeth into whatever part of her it could get. Mercer had pondered long and hard on this apparent
bloodlust. There may have been some basic nutrition zombies craved, or thought that they needed,
from eating human flesh (and livers, in particular). But equally possible was the simple fact that a
plague that did not find some way to spread was a dud. And for a disease that was not carried on
the air or likely to be spread via contaminated blood, there was almost no better way to guarantee
transmission of the virus than to bite into someone. Infected saliva packed a punch.
Hermione backed up until she felt cold stone behind her and, miracles upon miracles, the
unmistakable feel and sound of heavy chain coiled at her feet. What was a dungeon without some
chains to rattle, she supposed. The shoe was promptly abandoned in favour of the chain, which she
looped around an arm and began to swing.
She was scared. Very, very scared, but her propensity to be terrified had undergone an Olympic-
grade training session only recently. Her tolerance for horror was much higher than before. There
was still room for yet more terror and despair, but she had not yet reached that level. Not here, not
now.
In the meantime, she'd be damned if she was going to die as Narcissa Malfoy's home-delivered
dinner.
Lucius took him to the attic, keeping up a steady stream of oftentimes bizarre chatter the entire
time.
"You must excuse how I look," he was saying, as he slowly climbed up the winding, steep stairs to
the attic. "It's been…difficult."
There was no excusing his appearance. Not when the Manor had the facilities and resources to
feed, clothe and clean him. Lucius was not a well man. But Draco was careful to say nothing as
they walked. Distraction was the last thing Lucius could handle, at this point. The priority was to
locate Hermione and then he would see to his parents.
They walked along a claustrophobically narrow corridor that was barely wide enough to permit an
adult to pass through without turning to their side. This was a part of the house that only House
Elves ever needed to access. Lucius' leanness and hunch saw him move quickly through this tight
section. Draco's broad shoulders and rifle slowed him down. He held a torch, aiming the light beam
several feet ahead of his father. Though it seemed that Lucius did not need the light. He knew
where he was going.
"I know you've been looking for it since you've come here, haven't you?" Lucius asked, the
wheezing was very pronounced now from his exertion. "The portkey. The one I told you about
when you were a child? You've remembered. Very good."
"You have it?" Draco asked, keeping his tone calm, his voice even. The wooden floorboards here
were rough, it seemed. No, not rough. More like…sticky.
"Oh yes! Scrimgeour's little sycophants would have walked past it every day. The fools. The
mirror does not register as a magical device, not even with the most sensitive detector. It's old
magic from the jungles on the other side of the world, blood magic…."
"Does it require a wand to operate?"
Lucius paused in his tracks to give his son a smile. This one was conspiratorial. "No. That is the
beauty of it. Like the sustenance you've been acquiring from our portraits, all that is needed is an
offering."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "What kind of offering?" The floor was definitely sticky. And there was
the smell of blood, a scent that was unfortunately quite familiar to Draco.
His father shrugged with his uninjured shoulder. "Life. Enough to power the portal enchantment.
Dark Magic is costly. So costly." Lucius appeared to consult his hands. "The trick….the trick is…"
"Yes?" Draco prodded. "What is the trick?"
"The trick is to ascertain how much life is needed…"
There was a moment of weighted silence between them.

"Father," Draco said, frowning, "what exactly have you been doing here at the Manor since your
release from Azkaban?"
Lucius sighed. They had arrived at the room. He beckoned his son forward, placing his hand on
the handle of the door at the farthest end of the narrow corridor. He gave his son a look of
resignation. "I've been trying to activate the Portkey. By Merlin, I have tried! Every day, I come
here to try and I fail. I look after your mother, also. She requires so much care, you see? But our
son is here to help us now." Lucius placed his forehead against the door and shut his eyes. "My son
is here."
"Lucius," Draco hissed. "Where is Hermione Granger?"
His father did not respond. Draco moved quickly. He wrenched the older man out of the way and
threw the door open, torch held aloft.
There was nothing in the room except a single mirror.
No wonder the Ministry team had overlooked it. The mirror was anticlimactically homely. It was
made of flattened, polished metal, of the sort used as a reflective surface before the advent of glass.
The entire artefact was only about a foot or so tall, warped and dull from age and was contained
within a battered, wooden frame. While the 'mirror' was unexceptional, the state of the room was
not. The floorboards were black. Draco knew this was from dried blood—vast quantities of the
stuff. Narcissa was not there and neither was Hermione.
He'd been too eager, Draco realised. Too consumed with the need to find Hermione to realise that
his father had wanted to bring him here for a reason. And that reason had nothing to do with
locating Hermione. Draco turned to speak to his father, but was met with the butt of Hermione's
gun. It struck him in the temple and he lost consciousness as he hit the bloodstained floor.
Sacrifice
Lucius Malfoy was bleeding, his wound having re-opened from all the recent exertion.
He briefly considered stopping to sew it back up, but finally admitted that it was pointless. No
amount of stitching would seal necrotic flesh. That was the way of it. Each time he attempted this
primitive Muggle first aid, the needle sank into skin that was already discoloured and ominously
fragrant. It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe, to think, to move. For several days now,
his fever raged and his sleep-time delusions often crossed over into his waking hours. Which was
why he had initially doubted his sanity when he'd witnessed his son and Harry Potter's pet
Mudblood enter the Manor.
But no, it was real. Draco was alive and had come home!
Lucius had little time left, which is why it was paramount that he activate the portkey. Of course,
the plan had changed now. It was no longer himself that he sought to transport, but his son.
The Chavín Mirror was magical, but it had only ever existed in the Manor as decoration, a
conversation piece. As a mirror, it was useless. As a portkey, theoretically, it was meant to
function. The Mirror had been used more than two millennia ago by Peruvian wizard-priests in
ritual displays that were designed to garner the fear, awe and respect of their Muggle counterparts.
Because nothing reinforced one's supremacy and mastery over nature and the common man, than
being able to transport oneself from here to there, in the blink of an eye. The Chavín wizards of old
fashioned numerous Mirrors for their temples, for each could only hold a sufficient magical charge
to be operated just once. As was often the case with early magic, blood and life was the price to be
paid, but the damnable ritual necessitated that the sacrifice be a willing one.
So far, none of the Muggles Lucius had captured qualified.
Of course, sacrificial victims would not be required if he simply had a wand. A wand could easily
activate the portkey, but if he had a wand to begin with, he would not need the relic. Unfortunately,
it appeared that neither Draco nor the Mudblood were in possession of their wands, either.
No matter. Draco was here now and the Mirror would be used to send him to safety.
Observation of the pair over the last week revealed a relationship, of sorts. Not quite romantic, but
there was no mistaking the protectiveness they demonstrated towards each other. It was
lamentable, but these were difficult, straining times and Lucius acknowledged that one sought
comfort and allies where one could. Equally lamentable, this state of affairs meant that no matter
how well Lucius argued for his plan, Draco was unlikely to condone the sacrifice of Miss Granger
in order to activate the Mirror.
Another tribute was needed and it did not require much consideration at all for Lucius to nominate
himself. After all, he was likely to die in a matter of days, anyway. What better way to die than to
do it to save your only child? He had been intending to attack the pair in their sleep, but had been
thwarted by his declining strength and on another occasion, by the furtive pleading of Narcissa.
Not the Narcissa who was living in the dungeons, but her portrait.
It was a source of speculation as to how much insight magical portraits possessed, in relation to the
desires of their living embodiments. If Narcissa's portrait was correct, than she wanted Lucius to
end her agony. Lucius understood this desire, but rightly recognised that his wife was ill and did
not know her own mind. If there was a cure to be found, his son would seek it out. It was only
logical that Draco leave via the portkey, and once he had acquired a wand, could come back and
assume care of Narcissa. There was certainly a sufficient supply of food in the dungeon to sustain
her until such time that Draco returned. Lucius had seen to that. No sense in wasting the bodies of
the failed sacrifices. And it had been such back-breaking work to lure the Muggles to the Manor…
Lucius carried the ugly Muggle weapons (two pistols and a rifle) and a torchlight, grimacing
slightly at having to use the latter. There had been no time to fetch candles. He moved much more
slowly now, in a laboured, loping gait, keenly aware that the right side of his body was growing
numb. Little splatters of black had crept into his vision, the precursors of a faint. He bit his lip hard
enough to draw blood, hoping that the pain would jar him into refocussing. The damnable Inferi
poison was spreading fast now.
He smelled the smoke long before he even reached the dungeons to check on Narcissa. It travelled
quickly through the sealed house. Lucius was well aware of how resourceful Hermione Granger
could be, but had certainly not expected her to have lasted long enough to light a fire!
But more to the point, what had the little Mudblood done to his wife?
He made his way to the dungeons as quickly as he could, breathing harshly as he ran. Enraged at
the girl's audacity, he slid open the bolts to the door and wrenched it open. He entered the cell, by
now used to the decaying human matter than formed a sludgy layer over the stone floor. He
stepped carefully, unable to see much in the thick smoke. The beam of the Muggle torch
eventually revealed a small fire smouldering in a corner of the dungeon. The girl must have been
desperate to light it, for the lack of ventilation in the room meant that she risked suffocating herself.
But where was she? Where was the Mudblood? Was it too much to hope that she had already
succumbed to Narcissa?
Ignoring the cumbersome rifle, Lucius brandished the Mudblood's handgun. Despite having seen
such weapons fired, he had never taken the time to determine how he might use one. The gun was
heavy, but intuitively, there was a trigger and he assumed one pulled it in order to release the stored
projectile. Lucius pointed the gun in the direction of the torch beam. In his haste, he made a less
than systematic survey of the cell.
He located his wife, not by sight initially, but by sound. There were muffled growls and yips. She
was tethered to a wall, trussed up in several meters of chain and muzzled by a bag that had been
wrapped over her head and tied in place by the straps.
Lucius staggered forward towards his wife, only narrowly missing the small figure that rushed at
him from the smoky darkness, attempting to slash him with a shard of glass. The Mudblood came
again, this time the angle of the attack was odd and unexpected. She swung something small and
dark at him, hitting him hard in the jaw. The blow was enough to unbalance him. He twisted, slid
in the slimy muck on the ground and fell painfully to one knee. Lucius raised the gun to shoot at
her, but pulling on the trigger did not work. The gun was locked, somehow.
Granger kicked him in the chest, stealing all the air from him. Lucius collapsed, wheezing. Frothy,
blood-specked spittle bubbled from his mouth, telling of the fluid that had been building up in his
lungs. He felt like he was drowning. The torch was plucked from the ground and she shone it at his
face, momentarily blinding him. Lucius held up a forearm to shield his eyes.
"These are our guns," she said, in a voice that seemed decades older than the one he remembered.
Or perhaps it was just the effect of smoke inhalation. "Where is Draco?"
"Beyond your influence now," Lucius rasped. He began to cough.

"Wrong answer," she replied. Hermione Granger stared down at him for a moment before raising
something in her hands and bringing it down upon his head.
It was a boot. The Mudblood had felled him with a sodding shoe.
Hermione tipped a glass of water over the side of Lucius Malfoy's face. He came to, sputtering.
She saw his arms move, his hands attempted to come up to cover his head, but he was currently
hogtied on the dungeon floor with about twelve meters of braided, curtain ties.
She lifted his head so he could look at her. Hermione knew he was in a great deal of pain. She'd
already examined the sticky, poorly sutured bite wound on his shoulder. Lucius Malfoy was
knocking on death's door. She'd love to hasten the process, but first, she needed some answers.
After an hour of scouring the house for Draco, she was no closer to finding him and was positively
frantic with worry.
"You know how they say there's always a small percentage of the population that will be immune
to a viral epidemic? Funny how they never talk about the percentage of people who turn stark
raving mad at the same time."
He said nothing, merely sneered at her. Using her foot, Hermione flipped him over so he was able
to speak to her without lifting his head.
"When were you bitten?" she asked, apparently surprising him with the question. At first, it looked
like he was not inclined to answer, but then it came.
"Three weeks ago."
"Which means you've had Re-Gen administered since. Most people are dead within forty-eight
hours of a zombie bite," she informed. "The Ministry's been dropping single doses of Re-Gen as far
and wide as we can manage. Mostly over London. Where did you acquire yours?"
"There was…a family," he wheezed out. "They had travelled from London. I found them in the
woods, not far from the village."
Hermione thought of the body of the little girl. "You took them in. They saw that you'd been bitten.
They gave you their supply of Re-Gen. And then you slaughtered them to feed your pet zombie. Is
that about right? You've been luring people here with the promise of safety. I've counted about
twenty-two corpses in this room, more or less. Did you kill them all?
"Some were already dying when I happened upon them."
"I wasn't," she said, her voice flat. "Why do you need so many bodies to feed one zombie?"
He did not reply.
Hermione pressed her foot down against Lucius' injured shoulder. He cried out. "Were is Draco?"
"You are not fit to even be his whore," Lucius spat, his face contorted with rage. "Mudblood filth.
You are a travesty, you are—"
"Losing patience," Hermione interjected. The caked blood on her skin was starling to crumble and
peel off in little flakes. "What is it with all you blood-obsessed bigots? You're all so damned
unoriginal." She walked across the room to the struggling figure of the former Narcissa Malfoy and
placed Draco's handgun against the zombie's bag-covered head. "I'm going to count to five, Mr
Malfoy. If you don't tell me where your son is, I'm going to blow his mother's decomposing brains
all over the floor. I doubt you'll even notice the mess, given the state of the place..."
It was remarkable how much Lucius cared. He looked positively terrified for the creature.
"Please….please do not harm her."
Hermione looked at the broken, filthy man who had tried to kill her and her loved ones when she'd
been a child, who had been part of the assortment of bogeyman that terrorised Muggles and mixed-
blood families who deigned to set a foot in his world. He was a murderer and Pureblood
supremacist. Perhaps some of his current zealotry was the result of his brain slowly being cooked
inside his skull, but there was enough recognisable vintage Lucius there to obliterate any possible
sympathy. Not even being Draco's father protected him right now. Hermione was extremely
tempted to explain to Lucius that there was no 'her' any more. This was not Narcissa, but Lucius'
insanity was helping rather than hindering, at the moment.
"I don't want to kill Draco's mother, so tell me where he is," Hermione demanded, touching her gun
to the creature's head. At the prodding, it began to thrash with renewed vigour, in its chains.
"You must listen to me…" Lucius implored, looking at her intently. This was probably the first
time Lucius Malfoy had ever addressed her as if he actually had something he wanted to say to her,
rather than because she was in his way. "We both want the same thing for my son."
Hermione had had enough. She walked over to the man and bent over him.
"No, you listen to me, you crazy, son of a bitch. You are in no state to make decisions on behalf of
anyone," Hermione hissed. "Look at you! You're delirious! You've been murdering whole families
to feed a God damned zombie. Some of those people even helped extend your worthless life! Your
son needs us like he needs a broken leg. Draco is just about the most capable, ruthless individual I
know and believe me, Lucius…" She pulled on his hair so that their faces were inches apart. "I've
been out there, beyond the protection and comforts of this house and I've met people who would
have used you for live zombie feed the moment you got bit. Don't you dare play the martyr with
me! Both Draco and I have endured as much as anyone." She dropped his head. "You're
embarrassing yourself if you think your son needs you, of all things." She let the full measure of her
revulsion seep into her voice.
The response, when it came a minute later, was barely audible. "He's in the last room in the attic
corridor. You will also find the portkey that Draco had been seeking. It is called the Chavín
Mirror."
"Did you hurt him?" Hermione asked, her voice tight.
"No. He is merely unconscious."
"Tell me about this portkey."
Lucius tried to turn his head to a less uncomfortable position, groaning in pain. "Are you going to
release me?"
"No. Keep talking."
He sighed, swallowed. "The Mirror is an ancient, magical artefact. One of the first portkeys to be
fashioned, if the dealer I purchased it from is to be believed… Like a wand, it remains inert until
charged with sufficient magical energy, after which it will lie dormant until activated. When the
portal is opened, it will permit one person to pass through to an unWarded destination of their
choosing. Unus tantum. Una tantum…"
"Only one, only once," Hermione translated. "Are you saying that it will function just the one time
and for only one person?"
"Yes."
"That's why you've been stockpiling dead people," Hermione surmised. "They were to keep your
wife well fed in the event you manage to pass through the portal. Why didn't it work? You
wouldn't still be here if it had."
"The original enchantments involved sacrificial victims who volunteered to die. They did not need
to be compelled. I thought…I thought that I could circumvent that aspect of the spell by sacrificing
life that was…surplus to requirement."
Hermione wanted to shoot him. She could have, so very easily. Point and fire and Draco need
never know that it was not in self-defence. The man was already dying, besides. But a bullet to the
head was a far more humane death than the likes of Lucius Malfoy deserved.
"Does Draco know about the blood price required to activate this portkey?" she asked, attempting
to keep the tremor from her voice.
"He does now."
She shut her eyes. Draco had promised her a way home, but not at such a cost. The portkey was a
dead end. But their trip had not been for nothing. Enough had happened here at the Manor to
awaken Hermione from her damaged mental state. She knew what she had to do, and better yet,
what she could do.
There was a long list of pretty sights to be seen in a world that could be breathtaking, given the
right vantage point. Hermione added Draco Malfoy Opening His Eyes to Look at Her to the list.
His head was pillowed in her lap. At first, there was the befuddlement of the newly awakened.
Then, there was a beautiful lightness in that silver gaze that made her bite her lip to keep from
tearing up. Peace was something she couldn't give either of them, not in the current world. Too
soon, however, memory intruded and he sat up, despite her insistence to take it slow. There was
already swelling and a bruise forming at his temple.
Now, his gaze was all business. One hand grabbed her by the arm, almost too tightly, while a much
gentler hand settled at her cheek. His eyes raked across her face, a frown topping of an expression
of concerned incredulity. Belatedly, Hermione realised what she must look like. Other than her
eyelids, most of her skin and clothing was covered in blood. It looked like she's been swimming
through a river of the stuff. Her hair was black-red, slicked back and reeked of smoke. Another
bath was severely overdue.
She looked at him with large, brown eyes as her cold, blood-caked hands clasped his.
"Appearances are deceiving. I'm fine, really," she reassured him. "How are you feeling?"
He ignored the question and instead frowned as he touched her hair, which had gone rather stiff.
"It's not my blood, Draco."
"I should hope not," he said. "You'd be dead by now if it was. I gather you've encountered my
father? Where is he?
"I've locked your father in the dungeons, which, coincidentally, is also where he put me earlier
today."
"Is he safely contained?"
"Yes."
"Damn him." Draco swore. He rose to his feet, not allowing Hermione to assist him. She tried to
insist that he was in no state to be carrying a weapon, but Draco brooked no argument as he took
his rifle from her. "He's not stable."
"He's certifiably insane," Hermione corrected. "He's been luring and killing Muggles in order to
jumpstart that damned portkey!"
At this, they both turned to look at the Chavín Mirror, so unassuming and benign, resting on its
perch in the middle of the blood-stained, attic floor.
"After my bath this morning, I went down into the dungeons because I thought I heard a woman
crying. Only…"
Draco had walked over to the Mirror and kneeled, peering closely at it. Hermione saw that he was
being very careful not to touch the thing.
"It's alright, you can tell me. My mother is dead, isn't she?" he asked, almost dispassionate.
"Yes."
Hermione was unsure how to proceed. His parents had come back from beyond the grave and he'd
lost them again, all on the same day. He had to be feeling…something. She walked up to him and
spoke only after she had succeeded in swallowing the lump in her throat. "Do you know how this
thing works?"
Draco had removed his jacket so he could use the garment to handle the mirror as he turned it over.
There was an inscription on the back, looking relatively new in comparison to the Mirror's age. It
was the Latin phrase Lucius had spoken to her—Unus tantum. Una tantum
"More or less."
"Then you knew it was only ever going to be a one-way trip just for one person?"
He didn't answer her and that was answer enough. "What does it matter now?" he asked.
Hermione was furious. "Even if we did manage to activate the blasted thing without sacrificing
some nubile, young virgin, and even if you managed to send me home, then what? What happens
to you?"
He stood and suddenly he was two heads taller and looking down his nose at her. There was such
hostility in his gaze that she had trouble believing it was directed at her. It'd been a while since he'd
tried this trick. Remarkable how she could still be afraid of him. How did you love something that
could scare you? That didn't seem very healthy.
"Nothing happens to me," he enunciated.
"So, what? You're just going to sit out on your front porch and watch the mushroom cloud over
London while having a cup of tea? What were you planning to do when the fallout hits?"
Hermione realised she was being shrill, but her nerves were far too frayed to put up with Draco's
intimidation, hidden agendas and evasiveness.
"Did you want to go home or not?" he whispered. He always got quieter when he got angrier.
Hermione, accordingly, got warier. "Yes! But—"
"Then that was my goal. Is my goal. Nothing's changed."
"Are you joking? Everything's changed! We are not sacrificing anyone to get this portkey
working!"
"There are other ways," he hissed.
"Not according to your father! He killed over twenty people in his misguided attempt to use that
thing. I saw the bodies. I crawled through them, Draco. There are dead children down there!" And
that was the end of her composure. She erupted into sobs, quickly spinning away so that he
wouldn't witness her breakdown.
"Hermione-"
"You were never going to leave with me, were you? You were going to send me away from here,
away from you."
He didn't deny it now. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it was killing you to keep fighting. I think it was killing you long before we even knew
about Amarov or that the fleet existed. And…and I don't know how to keep you safe." In a rare
show of real emotion, of frustration, he stuck his burn-scarred hand out at her, gesturing at her
blood-soaked form. "Short of shackling you to me, clearly I cannot manage to keep you from
harm."
The look she gave him was raw. She wanted so much to hold him, but he would never allow it, not
at the moment. "Draco, for Merlin's sake, it's not your job to keep me safe!"
"And yet it is all I have been trying to do since the Welwyn mission..."
It was the closest they'd come to talking about 'them'. Or rather, his feelings for her, whatever they
might be. Hermione didn't know what to say. Her heart ached for him. She did not want this burden
for Draco. They were at an impasse, standing a meter away from a portkey that could only
transport one of them to safety. The cure had not yet been found, the bombs would fall over
London in less than a month and downstairs…downstairs, there was still the matter of Lucius and
Narcissa.
"Did he hurt you?" he asked now, his voice neutral once more. He used his thumb and her earlier
tears to wipe a clean streak across the blood that covered one cheek.
Hermione caught his hand and held it. She had to tell him. "I'm fine. But he's not in the best shape.
Draco, he's been bitten."
If the news of his father's terminal illness fazed him, it didn't show. "How long ago?"
She let him lead her to door and together, they exited into the narrow corridor. Draco first,
followed by Hermione. "About three weeks. He's been surviving on Re-Gen, but he's much too far
gone for another dose now."
"And my mother?"
How did one go about explaining Narcissa? Hermione hated to be the one to have to do it. "She
turned some time ago, it seems. I don't know exactly how your father got bitten, but I think it's a
fair guess that it was because he's been keeping your mother downstairs in the dungeons."
"And feeding her the bodies of the people he killed in the attic," Draco concluded.
"I think he led you here today because he wants you to be the one who uses the portkey,"
Hermione added.
"Yes, well my father does not always get what he wants," Draco said, and Hermione heard the
history and layers of pain in that sentence.
It was going to be a very long week at the Manor.

The Necessary Evils
Draco dragged a dining room chair over to the bathtub, turned it around and straddled it. His damp
shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he wore a chest holster containing a pistol. The front
of his shirt and trousers was soaked.
The bathroom floor looked like a battle zone. There was water everywhere. Strewn across the floor
was the clothing that Lucius had previously worn and clumps of matted hair that Draco had cut
from his father's head.
The elder Malfoy sat in the soapy water, sullen and silent, bony knees drawn up, hands lying
limply by his side, under the water. He stared at nothing at all, so still he might have been a statue.
The fever had dissipated. However, the bite at his shoulder was not going to improve. It was
purple, the centre of the wound weeping and sticky. The entire right side of his body had taken on
an outwardly creeping, purple tinge. Apparently, Narcissa had taken a fair sized chunk out of him.
This was the third bath in an hour and the first tub of water that had so far not turned murky within
minutes of Lucius stepping into it.
"If you're not going to clean yourself, I'm going to come over there and do it for you," Draco
threatened.
"My presentation is of little importance considering I am soon to die," came the dramatic reply. "I
don't see the point of this."
"Until that time comes, you are still Lord of this Manor and I will not have you looking and
smelling like a homeless vagabond in your own house."
Lucius's bloodshot eyes narrowed. "Does it please you to see me brought so low, I wonder?"
Draco left the room, slamming the door behind him. He only just missed the look of regret on
Lucius' face.
Several days later, Hermione was in the library, laying out and cleaning their guns. She looked up
when Draco strode in. He began rummaged through their supplies.
"How's it going down there?"
"Slowly."
She nodded. "The medication you gave him brought his fever down, but all the antibiotics in the
world is not going to stop the sepsis. All you can do now is make him comfortable."
Draco stopped to stare at her. "You make it sound like I don't know he's dying. I have medical
training. Believe me, I know."
"I know you know," she placated, aware of Draco's dark mood. "I'm just—"
"Stating the obvious," he interjected. He gave up trying to find whatever it was he was looking for
in the bag.
Hermione put down her oily rag and walked up to him, laying a hand on his arm. "Sometimes, the
obvious needs stating because talking about it helps us deal with difficult truths."
He gave her a withering look. "When we first arrived here, you were barely able to walk these halls
without flinching at the darkness. Now, you think you're equipped to counsel me about my
feelings?"
"Not quite," she said, raising her chin. "The counselling would only work if you admitted you had
feelings in the first place. Talk to me about this! You haven't said two words about your parents
since we found out there're here."
He glowered at her. "My parents are gone. My mother is a walking corpse, soon to be put out of her
misery. My father is not much better. There is nothing to talk about. Your parents, on the other
hand, are alive and well on the other side of the world, wondering what has become of their only
child."
She had not been prepared for the turn in conversation. "What's any of this got to go with my
parents?"
"Are you going to them or not?" He was referring to the portkey.
"No! I mean, yes, it's what I wanted, but no way in hell I'm going anywhere without you!"
He walked into her. She walked backwards, nearly tripping over furniture. "I want you away from
me," he seethed. "I want to not have to think about you, to not be distracted by the myriad horrors
that can befall you at any moment. You are like an open wound that I cannot heal, an illness I
cannot recover from. You make me weak. I cannot be weak in this place, Granger. It will get us
both killed."
Hermione was appalled. Mostly she was appalled at herself because of how oblivious she had been
to Draco's motivations, which were fed by his fears. She had been so self-absorbed in her own
mental anguish that she hadn't been able to see that he'd been suffering in his own, quiet, stoic way.
Their fears were the same.
She had left the fleet with him because she was terrified of enduring more loss and of failing the
people who depended on her. Draco had taken her away from those realities, giving her mind the
space to recover. And he now wanted to send her further away, to protect her, and ironically, to
protect himself from losing her.
"You're not falling to pieces," she had said to him, the week before they left the fleet.
"That doesn't mean I haven't got a breaking point. If I do, I'm not keen to know what it would take."
Merlin, she was his breaking point. Everything Richards had suggested that she do to Draco, to get
him to cooperate with Project Christmas, had actually eventuated. Richards had wanted Hermione
to become Draco's Achilles' Heel.
"…give him a weakness. Something unexpected to care about besides himself. Internal conflict can
be a powerful catalyst for change."
The epiphany felt like a punch to the stomach. It killed her to know that her return to mental clarity
(and to her responsibilities) was going to decimate him.
Draco saw the change in her expression and the dawning realisation in her eyes. "You see now?" he
asked, his voice tender. "You will go home, yes?"
"No."
"There is no other safer place!" he said. "Grimmauld Place would have already been evacuated by
Blaise. London is a dead zone. Australia remains one of the few countries that have managed their
outbreak such that their citizens can live some semblance of a normal life. Isn't that what you
want?"
A tear slid down her cheek. How could it be that she felt lighter than she'd felt in months, while at
the same time, the weight of the world had come crashing back down? She looked up at him,
"Draco, I cannot. I can't run away from this. I… We have to go back to the fleet and resume our
work. You said you would come back with me if or when I was ready, remember? I'm ready."
He looked like she'd slapped him. "I see your death everywhere I look. Doesn't that matter to you?"
Hermione thought of the warning that Padma had given her in her recent nightmares.
"Everyone you love is going to die. And at the end, you'll wish you had, too…"
How could he even ask such a thing? But she knew the real answer he was seeking. The kind that
broke hearts.
"Of course it matters!" she insisted. But then here was the rub. Here was the part of her that had
helped Harry defeat Voldemort. That sometimes also made Harry stare at her as if she were an
alien. The same part of her that made men like Scrimgeour and Barnaby Richards trust her. "But I
have to help if I can. And I can be of help to the people who are trying to make a difference. That
have died trying to make a difference. That is more important. More important than me."
"Many more like me," she'd said to him, just after he saved her life at Welwyn.
"No. None quite like you, Mudblood."
Hermione saw the doors fall shut behind his eyes and felt cold seep into her bones. Draco Malfoy
didn't unravel like normal people. None of it leaked out, nor did he lash out at her. He folded in on
himself until there was nothing left but a hard shell. He stepped around her and picked up the bag
he had discarded, walking out the door with it.
It was all Hermione could do to stop herself from running after him, grabbing hold of his hand to
stop him, and take back everything she'd just said.
The next two days were spent in silence. They ate in silence, read in silence, endured the night time
crackling of the log fire in silence before one of them finally fell asleep. During the day, Draco
spent most of his time with his father. He had even taken Lucius to see Narcissa. Hermione had no
idea what transpired between father and son, and was ignored when she asked for details.
Eventually, she was concerned enough to sneak down to the dungeons just before dawn, to see
Lucius herself.
Draco was awake, though he did not advertise this fact. His eyes opened as soon as the library door
closed behind Hermione. This had not been a night for peaceful slumber, not for either of them it
seemed.
He glanced at the clock in the far corner. It was almost time.
The elder Malfoy was kept in a clean cell at the opposite end of the dungeons, far away from the
slaughterhouse that contained Narcissa. Hermione knew it had been a difficult task, but Draco had
succeeded in bringing his father back to a facsimile of health and sanity. There was some colour in
his cheeks. The wound at his shoulder, visible through the neck hole of one of Draco's jumpers,
sported a clean bandage. He didn't reek, was clean shaven, and his hair had been cut to a
respectable length. He looked lucid, docile. Handsome, even.
Hermione took no chances.
"Miss Granger," Lucius greeted. He'd been lying in bed when she entered, but had not been asleep.
"Come to finish me off before the main event?"
Hermione left the door open behind her, her hand on her gun. The question he posed was odd, so
she replied with one of her own. "That would be doing you a favour, wouldn't it?"
He smiled, and she noted there was no salvaging what had probably been a very impressive set of
teeth, once upon a time. He sat up, wincing as he moved. While he looked superficially better, he
was close to the end. She knew what the Infection did to your insides once it took root. Re-Gen
staved it off, but it would not outlast the virus.
"If you have come to kill me, I urge you to reconsider."
"Why?" she humoured him.
"Because I'm going to activate that portkey so my foolish son can send you back to this wondrous
floating city he has told me all about." Lucius cocked his head to the side. "That is what you desire,
isn't it? To return to your people?"
She was stunned. And not just because Draco had apparently been paying attention to everything
she'd said to him. "You're going to sacrifice yourself?"
He nodded. "Unfortunately the offering cannot be suicide, so Draco will do the honours."
Hermione was horrified. "You cannot possibly ask that of him!"
"Ask?" Lucius laughed, or rather coughed. "My dear, he offered."
"You don't need to die in order for that blasted portkey to work and I will not have Draco
murdering his own father!"
"At this stage, what you want is quite beside the point, Miss Granger. It seems, even in my death,
that I may be of use to my son." Here, a series of hacking coughs shook Lucius' body. Hermione
could hear the fluid rattling in his chest. He reached up to a stool, to grab a glass of water that had
been placed there. After several long swallows, he continued, "Though it seems we are in
agreement about his intended use of the portkey. Ah, what a waste. I would much rather he be sent
away instead of you. But he will not be swayed. Not by me. Not by you. What you do have control
over is the decision to walk through that portal, when the time comes."
"I'm not leaving him here."
Lucius leaned back against his bedding and regarded her with contempt. "Then you contradict your
own wishes and you show what little respect you have for Draco's." Something like wistfulness
crossed Lucius's face. "It is such folly."
Hermione blinked. "What is?"

"Love. A terrible, debilitating thing," he mused. "The Dark Lord was so repelled by the prospect of
love and death, both of which he regarded to be inherently mortal afflictions, that he rendered
himself immune when he created his Horcruxes."
"Those Horcruxes are what killed him in the end," Hermione reminded.
Lucius shrugged. "There's always a trade-off in the quest for great power."
"You're not immune. You cared very much for your wife." She eyed him critically. "Enough to
murder for her. And you care for you son, it appears."
"I only want what is best for him."
"What you think is best," she corrected.
"It doesn't matter now," Lucius said, with weary resignation. "He is far past listening to my
counsel… Tell me, Miss Granger, do you love him?"
She was not discussing her romantic feelings for Draco with his murdering psychopath of a father.
Not that Lucius needed verbal confirmation. He simply looked at her face. "It's an affliction for
him, you realise? You harm him."
"It doesn't need to be a weakness."
"No, but for men like us, it is. He now seeks to return you to your fleet, so that you can carry out
your Muggle science and put an end to this wretched plague. I hope you succeed."
"And if I go, what will Draco do?"
"My son will do what he does best, Miss Granger." Lucius smiled. "He will survive. And he will
have a fair chance at it, without you to burden him. As you said yourself, he is capable and
ruthless. I don't suppose you know what time it is?"
"I'm not returning to the fleet without him. We'll find some other way." She wasn't wearing a
watch, but the grandfather clock in the library kept good time. "It's probably almost six, now."
"Ah, well then." Lucius looked beyond her, to the doorway. Hermione knew Draco was standing
behind her even before she turned around. She had no idea how much of the conversation he had
overheard.
She stepped aside as Draco entered the cell. Hermione looked between the two men, confusion
soon giving way to horror. "You cannot seriously be considering this?" She moved to stand in front
of Lucius, blocking Draco's access to him. "I won't allow it!"
It took effort not to wilt under the force of Draco's glare. He didn't make any attempt to touch her,
but his words might as well have flayed her. "I do not recall asking you to allow anything."
"No…" she pleaded. Not because she cared about Lucius, but because she was afraid of what his
death, this death, was going to do to his son. She spun around to face Lucius, hoping that perhaps
he would change his mind, but Draco's hand clamped around her arm before she could speak to the
elder Malfoy.
He hauled her to him. "Granger," he hissed into her ear, "Stop this. Do not make it any more
difficult for him than it already must be." Draco released her and she sagged against a cell wall,
watching helplessly as he picked up the frail form of his father and carried him out of the cell.
Hermione stood there for a few minutes, willing warmth back into her body. And then she put her
gun away, sprinted out of the dungeons and headed up to the attic.
Father and son had been preparing for the ritual, it seemed. They exuded an almost enviable
calmness. How could it seem like she was the one making an obscene intrusion?
Draco had laid down several layers of sheets on the attic floor. Upon this, Lucius now knelt,
trembling from even this minor exertion. Before him was the Chavín Mirror, casting a pale, golden
glow across his face. Draco stood in the corner of the room, holding a large kitchen knife in his
hands. He caught Hermione's eye, sending her a silent warning not to interfere.
Lucius turned to look at her, audibly wheezing. His lips were blue. "Miss Granger…be at ease.
This is a mercy. Let…let there be some utility in my death."
She ignored him and instead directed her condemnation at Draco. "This is murder dressed up as
euthanasia." Her words were unkind, but she was not feeling particularly benevolent at the
moment.
Draco walked towards her. He looked so incredibly menacing that Hermione had trouble
reconciling the knife-wielding man standing before her, with the one who jumped into zombie-
infested pits to save little children.
"I do remember your aversion to euthanasia," he drawled. "You had trouble sending off poor Jason
Lam even as he was being torn to pieces. Fortuitously for Mr Lam, I was there to end his agony."
Very carefully, he used the dull side of the blade to turn her face away. "Look away, Hermione.
This may distress you."
She grabbed the handle of the knife, refusing to be cowed. "Don't you dare do this because of me!"
"Don't be so presumptuous. It's not just for you. We will have a working portkey at the end of it,
which will mean guaranteed Transport for one of us. My father is dead either way."
Hermione realised she was dealing with pure Slytherin practicality now. Sentiment had been
filtered out, leaving tangible solutions behind. But if there were straws to be grasped, she would
grasp at them.
"You said there might be another way!"
"Probably, but we do not have time to trial other options, do we?"
"Let me do it, then." Her voice broke. "He's your father. It can't be you."
"No." And there was nothing as aggressively final as that single word.
She fled from the room. She ran out of the house, past the gazebo and didn't stop until she reached
the lake, whereupon she collapsed to her knees. The first winter snow was falling over Wiltshire.
Soft, white flakes floated about her in a silence that was so pristine, she felt like the entire world
had been preserved in some kind of giant snow globe.
Hermione didn't know what she ought to have been more ashamed of, that she thought
she should have stayed to watch Draco kill his father, that she didn't stay, or the fact that deep
down, she knew Draco had once again committed a necessary evil. Did she even bother to ask what
had become of Amarov and Honoria, or how many of Amarov's people had died in the fleet revolt?
No. She hadn't wanted to know. Easier to leave it to Draco. People like her used people like him
when there was no black and white to hold on to, just shades of grey.
Maybe Amarov had been correct? Maybe survival in times like these required more than peacetime
morals? Maybe the meek did not have what it took to inherit the earth…
Prilgrimage
The Grimmauld Place headquarters was a big, empty, rambling house when there were just two
people and a messenger owl to occupy it.
Harry found it depressing.
There was only so much conversation one could make—correction, attempt to make—with Agent
Barnaby Richards before you gave up and walked away. Harry knew the man was quite capable of
speaking to people without yelling at them, but there was apparently something about Harry that
ticked him off.
Richards' annoyance probably concerned Harry's stubborn insistence that someone remain behind
in London to continue the search for their missing team members and keep the home fires burning.
Everyone else had been moved to Taransay Island to join the refugee population that was being
looked after by Ginny and the other Weasleys. Richards didn't agree with Harry's decision to stay,
but this wasn't anything new for Harry. He was used to flying in the face of other people's
perceived better judgement. Hell, he was used to Hermione.
After a dinner of tinned corn and tuna, Harry walked to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.
Even though he knew it was pointless, he had a good rummage through the pantry for Dr Kate
McAllister's whiskey, but of course she had taken it with her to Taransay. There was no alcohol left
at Grimmauld Place, not even a bottle of bad wine, which was a shame because Harry had been
hoping for a splash of something a bit more fortifying than Scrimgeour's favourite Darjeeling.
The clanking of his teaspoon in the cup was annoyingly loud in the empty kitchen. The house
needed more ambient noise. There were no scientists seated around the dining table,
absentmindedly buttering toast as they debated findings. There was no Hermione, always
thoughtful and busy and with a knowing look that said, "Oh, Harry.'' There was no worried, weary
Scrimgeour, mild-mannered Neville and there was no Ginny, with her gentle resilience and
inhuman patience.
Project Christmas was in tatters and the saddest part of it was that Harry didn't know why. No one
could confirm what had happened to their missing friends. There were only suspicions and last
known whereabouts.
Feeling morose, Harry made his tea. He strained the leaves, used up the last of their evaporated
milk (hah, take that, Richards) and drank it. He had only just finished feeding their resident owl
when the front of the house collapsed.
"Time and distance, my dear," Molly Weasley had said to her. "Some problems are like sharp
stones. Too pointy to pick up. Best left alone, for the moment. They roll along with you, all hard
edges and a bumpy trot. But after a time, they start to smooth out, worn down by the road.
And that's when you stop to handle them."
Molly had been referring to Ron, during one summer holidays when Hermione had been desperate
enough to confide in the Weasley matriarch about the couple's relationship troubles.
If Ron had been a sharp stone, then Draco Malfoy was the whole damned quarry. Too much to
handle. Impossible to pick up. Something to be explored and mapped so others would know
where not to tread.
Draco processed feelings differently to other people—he treated them like poisons to be absorbed
and tolerated, rather than worked through. This meant that talking about it was the last thing he
was inclined to do. Hovering would not help. He would not give in to the urge to unburden himself.
There would not be a breakthrough, borne of inevitable weariness and Hermione's legendary
perseverance, whereupon he'd sit down with her by the fire and talk until the sun came up.
No, nothing as easy as that.
The lake beside Manor was immensely peaceful and Hermione might have stayed there for a few
hours if she didn't start losing feeling in her extremities. So she walked back to the Malfoy's grand
house, apprehensive at the prospect of running into Draco, but hoping she would, at the same time.
What did you say to someone who had just killed their father? What comfort could she provide him
that he would accept?
Molly's advice still applied—Draco required space; vast quantities of it.
Hermione wanted to go back to the attic, in case he was still there. Maybe he needed her help with
the portkey, or with the practical aspects of Lucius, post-demise? She doubted it. He would view it
as meddling and unnecessary. Her intuition told her that her presence during this time would not be
appreciated.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she entered the library and saw that he'd been there and left.
There was a note written on a page torn from one of the library's books. This ought to have been a
desecration, but the book had apparently been on Divination. In another time and place, Hermione
might have smiled at this. Seeing his writing brought on a nostalgic pang. Over the months at
Grimmauld Place, she must have read through dozens of pages of his meticulous recordings. His
writing was terribly old-fashioned, almost as if from another era.
Touch portkey to activate.
Dear God, it worked. The ancient portkey was alive. The ritual had been completed, which meant
that Lucius was dead.
Hermione sat back heavily in a leather armchair, clutching the note. She looked down and read it
again and again, as if Draco's thoughts were somehow discernible in those few words. It hurt that
he didn't want her or need her at this time, especially when there seemed to be nothing else of a
practical nature that she could do for him. Her eyes felt hot and itchy, but Hermione knew she had
no call to indulge in her own grief. This was not her time to mourn and she would not chase after
him to demand that he do so.
It was then that she noticed the small pile of food on the floor—all items that were not likely to
spoil without refrigeration. He had taken bread, hard cheese, dried meats and fruit from the Manor
portraits. It was all stacked beside a bookcase. There was something sad about the neat little pile.
Whatever Draco currently felt towards her, he had not shirked the responsibilities he perceived for
himself. She wished that he would let her return the favour.
Hermione got up and had a quick look through the other supplies they kept in the room, hoping for
some clue as to his state of mind. Several weapons were gone, including a rifle, clothing and some
ammunition.
And also all the alcohol.
Oh dear.
The noise was deafening.
At first it was like a giant's yawn, amplified. This was followed by the crack and crash of the roof
caving in, sliding down several storeys and taking out the entire front façade of the Grimmauld
Place residence. Nothing was as loud and booming as Barnaby Richards' yelling, however.
"They've breached, Potter! Get your ass out of here!"
Wand in hand, Harry sprinted through the ground floor, past rooms where the ceiling was starting
to crack under the immense weight of the collapsed upper floors. There was no time to send the
owl to Taransay to get them to lower their wards to allow his Apparition. He'd have to get a
message to them some other way. But he wasn't going anywhere without the Cowboy.
Richard's yelling had clearly been coming from the front of the house, from somewhere inside the
rubble. Thick dust hung in the air. It stung Harry's eyes and coated his throat, making him cough
and sputter as he climbed over what looked like a combination of roof shingles and furniture from
the upper floors.
"Richards!" he shouted. "Where are you?"
"Get out of here!" came the predictable reply, followed by a great deal of cursing. This was good,
because Harry followed that sound, climbing over bricks and mortar until he found the Cowboy,
buried up to his shoulders in crumbled chunks of roofing.
"Jesus Christ! Are you stupid or just deaf?" Richards barked. Blood was running into his eyes from
a cut on his head.
Two additional details struck Harry. One was the stark, cold fresh air that was now blowing freely
through the open house. It hit him in the face, so frigid that it was momentarily shocking to the
system. The other was that this quickly turned into the stench of decay and death because beyond
the collapsed front section, where the front door (and nothing else) still comically stood, were
several hundred zombies.
There were so many of them it was impossible to see the street. Some of the fresher specimens
were already clambering towards him. They had done exactly what Richards had feared—rushed at
the wards simultaneously, bringing down the powerful enchantments and taking the roof along
with it. Good thing, then, that the rest of the house's inhabitants had already been evacuated to
Taransay. Chalk that down to Scrimgeour and the Cowboy's forward planning. There was nothing
left in London for anyone still living. In three weeks, the bombs would fall, and then there really
would be nothing living left.
All that remained was Harry and Richards and their daily coastal search for Amarov's fleet.
"Where's your wand?" Harry demanded.
"Somewhere next to me. I can't reach it! Get out of here, kid!"
'Kid', he called him. Harry had gotten used to this, but it still chafed. He slapped a hand over
Richards' shoulder.
Richards was well aware of what Harry was attempting to do. "It ain't gonna work! You'd need me
to be clear of this mess first!"
If it didn't work, Harry risked splinching either or the both of them, or creating some hideous
Harry-Richards-rock Chimera. But one did not tell Harry Potter than something was impossible and
dangerous without Harry Potter at least attempting to do it once. Or twice.
He felt the spell take hold, felt it begin to wrap around him and Richards, and then start to falter as
the enchantment had difficulty discerning where Richards ended and the rubble began. There was a
sharp jolt, the air around them began to shimmer and Harry knew enough to end the spell before
they got badly splinched.
Bits of wood, concrete and glass was still raining down. An enormous slab of cement sailed past,
nearly taking off the top of Harry's head.
"They're coming!" Richards warned.
So they were. Harry blasted, incinerated, sliced, froze and exploded a dozen, two dozen, fifty…..
He used his chainsaw hex and for a while, it rained red. The creatures tried to encircle them, but
Harry would not allow it. If they got around him, he really would have to leave Richards or they
would both die.
But suddenly, there was a lull.
It belatedly occurred to Harry that it wasn't just the humans in the house that had attracted the
creatures. Many of the zombies ignored Harry and Richards altogether. They seemed to be
stumbling through the rubble in a kind of euphoric daze, soaking up the released magical
atmosphere emanating from the house. Some of them collapsed to the ground and were writhing
around, like cats rolling in catnip.
Others were even more sinister. Harry saw one zombie drop to its knees in front of a broken portrait
of Sirius and began to stroke the canvas, watching with curiosity as Sirius grimaced and tried to
shrink away from the creature's pawing hands. Another group of zombies looked like they were
attempting to collect souvenirs from amongst the debris, picking up random objects, feeling them,
dropping them and picking up others. This was far too much cleverness for Harry to deal.
Like a beacon, Grimmauld Place's colourful assortment of wards and artefacts had drawn out the
city's magical undead. They had all made some kind of unholy pilgrimage here, perhaps not
understanding why, but knowing that if outside the house was pleasant, than inside must be even
better. The bastards had split the house open like an Easter egg and were now feasting on its spilled
innards. Merlin, no wonder wizarding communities had not fared well during the outbreak. They
were zombie magnets. It became less of a mystery now why Hogwarts had been overrun so
quickly.
"Are you seeing this?" Harry whispered, he was simultaneously attempting to dig Richards out as
quietly as possible, using Leviosa to shift the larger chunks of rock.
"Seeing, not quite believing," Richards grunted in response.
Harry carefully slid out an enormous metal beam from where it had almost punched a hole through
Richard's rib cage. It looked like his collarbone was broken. The man had to be in a lot of pain. .
"You need to get to your wand, or else we're both dead," said Harry. "Which side is it on?"
"Left," Richards said, through gritted teeth. "You need to go." And the calm, almost gentle tone of
Richard's voice made Harry stop and look at him. Ironic, how it took something like this for
Richards to quit yelling at Harry.
Several more large rocks were removed and Harry could now see the top of Richard's left forearm.
"What's a few hundred undead to deal with when you're the saviour of the wizarding world?"
Richards chuckled. "You are such a wanker."
"Oh hey, extra points for using 'wanker'. You're practically British now."
"Kick a wizard while he's down, why don't you.
Even if Richards could locate his wand, successful Apparition still required that he be free of the
debris. Harry kept digging and levitating, moving sometimes three or four pieces of concrete in one
go. They were doing well.
But now there was new trouble.
While the magical undead were distracted, the regular Muggle variety of zombie had no problems
seeking out Harry and Richards. There were enough of them coming, attracted to the area by the
sound of the collapsing house and the shrieks of the other creatures.
"Potter…" Richards said, giving him a grim, warning look.
Harry stood and began blasting, the force of his spells strong, his aim excellent. The pile of bodies
on the street grew, causing a handy roadblock of rotting corpses. But all this new commotion had
inevitably drawn the renewed attention of the wizarding horde.
There were just so many. They had now converged around Harry and Richards, where a wall of
bodies was growing in size.
"Go!" Richards bellowed, as a zombie launched at him. Harry spun around to freeze it and was
momentarily confused when the creature's head suddenly exploded.
This was not a usual side-effect of Petrificus.
More heads exploded. Some torsos, too. The sound of gunfire was deafening. Harry dropped to the
ground on top of Richards, as bodies, blood and bullets rained over them. Merlin, there were even
several explosions that shook the ground and caused yet more rubble to fall. Grenades. Someone
was throwing grenades out there. Several creatures had not been fatally hit and continued to crawl
towards them. Harry easily picked these ones off.
After what felt like hours, but had probably been mere minutes, the gunfire stopped. The air was
awash with smoke, dust and the nauseating smell of gunpowder and rotting flesh. Harry rolled onto
his back. He heard the sound of shoes crunching over gravel and then a familiar face loomed over
him.
The girls had always found Blaise Zabini easy on the eye. In that moment, Harry thought he was a
damned beautiful sight. "My God! I don't where the hell you came from, Zabini, but thank you!"
"Hullo, Potter," said Harry's former classmate. "Is it just you here? I've been told to pick up an
entire scientific team."
"Just me and Richards. You need to get him out. The others are at a refuge on Taransay Island."
As it happened, Richards was currently being extricated from the ground by one of the most
enormous Muggle men Harry had ever seen. There were others, too. All looking slick, mean and
military-like, except for Blaise, who was wearing jeans. They were loaded down with enough
weapons to take over a small country. This was just as well because there were still more creatures
ambling about. It was not safe out in the open.
Richards was in bad shape. The man really couldn't catch a break. He had barely recovered from
being shot in the chest, for goodness' sake. Harry noted that Blaise was eyeballing his wand with
an almost lascivious expression. He did not seem to have one of his own.
"Might help things move along if you tell me what you're doing here," Harry said. He began
swiping bits of zombie from his clothing and hair.
"Draco sent me."
Harry was stunned. He grabbed the front of Blaise' jacket, this quick movement causing a small
dust cloud to plume into the air. "Is Hermione with him? Is she alright? What about Padma and
Wallen? You've come from the fleet, then?"
Blaise didn't take kindly to being manhandled. He looked down pointedly at Harry's hand, bunched
tightly around the front of his jacket. "Get your hands off me, Potter."
Harry released Blaise, narrowing his eyes at him. "Where's your wand?"
"We must go!" said the extremely large man who had his arm around Richards, propping him up.
"There is more coming."
Indeed there were. Harry could hear the distant groans, slowly growing louder.
"My wand, alas, is somewhere at the bottom of the Bristol Channel, along with almost a thousand
other wands," Blaise belatedly informed.
"Bloody hell. I sense a tale of much woe and misery," Harry said, reading in between the lines.
"You don't know the half of it." The two men walked back out into the street, stepping over the
rubble as they went. "We'll fill you in when we get back." He stared at Harry's wand once more.
"Seeing as you don't know the fleet's location, I'll have to Apparate us in groups. Unless you think
driving back to the wharf and catching boat is a better option? Because that's how we got here."
Harry didn't like relinquishing his wand, but he had little choice in the matter. He glanced down at
the gun Zabini was holding. "Trade you."
Blaise handed over his weapon in exchange for Harry's wand. As soon as he touched it, he nearly
buckled over.
Harry caught him, frowning. "Zabini, what the hell?"
"It's…fine. I'm—it's been a while, is all. Damn it, Potter, your wand is like a punch to the chest!"
Blaise said this in an accusing tone. He straightened up and sucked in a deep breath. "I'll take the
injured man by himself first."
"Quickly, they are coming!" warned the giant. He deposited Richards into Blaise's care, before
walking further down the street and picking off the approaching zombies with his rifle.
Harry ran through to the back of the house to grab the messenger owl in its large cage. He
contemplated carrying it, but decided that was silly. So he opened the cage instead and released the
bird. "Find me, if you can," he whispered.
The barn owl hooted once and flew off.
Blaise gave them a jaunty salute. "I'll be back." He Apparated away with Richards, and as
promised, returned several minutes later. But in that time, nearly all the men in Blaise's rescue team
had begun to fire their weapons. The street was swarming with zombies. Blaise took two men with
him, returned, took another three, and then another three after that.
There were six men left, including Harry and the giant.
They were being herded further down the street. The big man was shouting orders in what sounded
like Russian. He translated, for Harry's benefit. "I tell them not to lose our position. If we move
from here, then Zabini come back right on top of zombies, yes?"
"Yes," Harry agreed with that risk assessment. "We don't want that."
But it was impossible not to move, given the size of the horde they were dealing with. Harry and
the men found themselves steadily being driven down to the opposite end of the street by the
encroaching undead. With each Apparition, they had lost more firepower. Harry was not quite as
good a shot with the gun as he was with his wand. He had not had much practice. Luckily, his
companions had no such limitations.
Blaise reappeared, staggered towards the men and took four back with him. By now, he looked like
he was about to collapse, no doubt due to a combination of the Apparition workload and possibly
also the distance he was travelling. Harry had no idea where Blaise had come from.
Things were dire. Harry stood shoulder to shoulder with the big man (or shoulder to arm, more like
it). The giant threw a grenade into the back of the horde. It exploded, causing a spray that was
quite literally, pink. The thing about zombies was that even missing limbs or in some cases, half a
torso, they would still continue to advance.
Harry's gun was empty. The big man threw him a new clip. Harry had barely worked out how to
insert it when the closest zombie leapt at him. He kicked it off and was pulled down to the ground
by another. Harry rolled it over, straddled the creature and shot it in its snarling face.
Blaise Apparated into the clearing for the final run. Such was the wizard's fatigue that he fell to one
knee. Harry was only meters away when the unthinkable happened.
The zombie in the red hoodie had climbed over the rubble, above Blaise. It was scrabbling through
what had once been the second storey of the house. Harry saw it, saw what was about to unfold and
called out a warning, shooting at the creature as he did so.
Damn it all! He wasn't a good enough shot, managing to hit the thing everywhere but in the head.
The creature dropped onto Blaise, tearing into the side of his neck even as Blaise fired off a spell
that blew a hole clean through the creature's abdomen. Grey-brown intestines streamed out, but this
didn't stop the zombie from continuing to rip chunks out of Blaise, while its hands clawed at
Harry's wand in Blaise's hand.
A bullet slammed into the creature's forehead. Harry turned to see the big man lower his rifle. They
both hurried over to Blaise, who was doing his best to hold the side of his neck together.
"Zabini, hang on!" Harry pulled off his jacket and held it tightly against the wound. Blood was
spurting out between Blaise's fingers. Harry picked up his wand, wracking his brain for a suitable
spell.
"You need to leave," Blaise wheezed. "Go with Anatoli…"
"No way!" Harry countered. He looked at the man called Anatoli. "I'm going to freeze him so we
can levitate—
Blaise gripped Harry's hands hand enough to bruise. "Potter. Get to the wharf. Take…the boat. Do
not…die here. The fleet needs magic."
Harry felt what he assumed was Anatoli's hand on the back of his shirt. He shrugged it off.
"We can fix this," Harry insisted. He cast suturing spells, even though this was never to be done in
the event of major, internal injuries, unless performed by a trained Medimagic practitioner. Harry
would have given anything to have Padma there right then. He didn't know if they could move
Blaise, or how to move him without making things worse.
The bleeding did not stop and Blaise was beginning to sputter. Anatoli had resumed shooting
again.
"We go now!" shouted Anatoli.
"You got Richards out, we'll get you out!" Harry told Blaise.
"Harry…" Blaise grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him close. "Tell Draco. And G—Granger.
They're…they're at Malfoy Manor. Get them back. Give Henry to them. Promise me…"
Harry nodded wildly. "I promise."
Anatoli approached, crouching down beside Blaise. "I am sorry, Zabini."
Blaise's voice was barely audible. He looked at Anatoli. "Get Harry Potter back to the fleet."
Harry was startled when Anatoli plucked the gun from Harry's grasp and placed it in Blaise's hand.
He was practically dragged away by the big man. They were almost at the end of the street when
the gun shot sounded. Harry twisted free from Anatoli's grip, turning around to look. Blaise's body
was distracting some of the horde, but there were still plenty of them coming.
"Where's your boat?" Harry called out, as they ran down the street.
"Cah-nar-ree Wharf," replied Anatoli, apparently having trouble with the name.
Harry knew the location. He careened into Anatoli, instantly Apparating them to the wharf.
Unfortunately, they were nowhere near where the boat was moored, so Anatoli had to point out
landmarks in the distance, and Harry tried again. This time, he placed them right at the jetty. There
were a few creatures milling about, but they were too far away to be a threat.
The two men boarded the cruiser. Anatoli started the engine and took them out back out into open
water. They didn't speak again until after Harry had emerged from the luxurious bathroom below
deck, having washed both Richards' and Blaise's blood off his hands. He joined Anatoli beside the
wheel, staring out at the sea beyond the windows. It was Harry's fault this had happened. He didn't
quite know how to process this fact yet, but it would come to him. He wished very much that he
was going to Ginny, instead of to this mysterious fleet.
"Thank you for what you did."
Anatoli nodded. Harry gathered that the large Russian was a man of few words. He might have
looked like he was carved from marble, but he was not unaffected by Blaise's passing.
"I'm sorry about Blaise," Harry added, and he truly was. "Were you close?" Harry wondered if he
had been close to Zabini. Did going to school together qualify?
"Everyone is close now," came the cryptic response.
They were silent for a long while. Harry wanted to ask about the fleet, but decided to wait. There
was another pertinent question.
"Who is Henry?"
Anatoli sighed. It was an enormous sound from an enormous man. "Henry Miles
Greengrass Zabini."
Harry closed his eyes, cursing under his breath. Blaise's dying words had been to give care of his
child over to Draco and Hermione.
Now, obviously there was a hell of a story behind that.

Insight
Hermione didn't see Draco for the next day and a half. Technically, this wasn't that hard to
accomplish given the size of the Manor, but it was very cold and she worried about where he'd
been sleeping.
There were reassuring signs of him around the house, though—portraits moved, more sheets
missing from the bathroom and his boot-prints over the dusty foyer floor. She walked up to the
attic, bracing herself for what she would see when she pushed upon the door.
The room was empty, save for the Chavin Mirror. The floor held no discernible new stains and the
drop sheets were gone. Hermione crouched down to inspect the artefact. As soon as her hand came
within a meter of it, the reflective portion transformed. It was no longer dull, but alive and rippling.
It looked like the sparkling surface of a pond made from liquid crystal. The Mirror gave off a soft
sound that was not unlike static. It was as if the Mirror had not yet been tuned in to a particular
'broadcast' or 'station' and awaited a user's manipulation. She heeded Draco's advice regarding the
thing being touch-activated, and so was careful not to handle it as she approached. An experimental
pass of her hand inches away from the rippling surface garnered the desired results, in a manner of
speaking.
She saw Draco.
He was in the dungeons. For a moment, Hermione was confused as to what she was witnessing, but
then realised she was looking at events happening in real time. There was no sound, just images.
But why was the Mirror showing her this? Ah, it must be because she'd been thinking about Draco
and so the enchantment processed this as her desire to go to him. It felt voyeuristic to keep
watching, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. It was not unlike looking down into someone else's
Pensieve.
Draco held a lantern torch as he stepped through the muck of Narcissa's dungeon cell. The light
from the lantern illuminated the human debris that littered the ground. Before him was the
squirming figure of his mother, still trussed up in chains, but with the bag removed from her head.
Draco put down the lantern and for a moment, simply watched her.
Hermione held her breath. Hundreds if not thousands of people had made the mistake of thinking
they could summon to the fore some semblance of memory in the reanimated corpses that used to
be their loved ones. Not many people survived this mistake. It was easy to think that
surely…surely somewhere in there was the person you once knew? And if some part of them was
there, then they could be reasoned with, communicated with, right?
Wrong.
She gripped her hands together tightly as she watched Draco approach the zombie, worried that his
good sense would be compromised by his emotions. Perhaps that was how Lucius had been bitten?
A momentary lapse where hope blinded caution?
But then…impossibly, there seemed to be a change in Narcissa. Hermione watched with morbid
fascination. Narcissa became less agitated and then her milky gaze lifted. With the benefit of the
lantern light, Hermione saw that she appeared to be looking at Draco, studying him in a way that
Hermione knew Muggle zombies could not do.
The light also showed her for what she was—a dead human body hijacked by a virus that slowed
down decay, that took command of basic brain functions in order to reanimate its host and
maximise the potential spread of the contagion. The damp of the dungeon had taken its toll on her
body. Narcissa was slowly falling to pieces. There were only clumps of hair left on scalp that was
beginning to slough away from her skull. Part of her face looked like it was melting off, the loss of
structural integrity causing it to collapsing back inside her skull, taking one of her eyes with it. Her
lips were gone, likely due to damage inflicted from relentless feeding. Her mouth was delineated
from the rest of her face by ridges of flesh around the top of her gums where her lips had once
been. She still had most of her teeth, but they were narrow and elongated, owing to a receding gum-
line.
Her mouth opened wide, not in a snarl or to attack, but to make a sound. Hermione could not hear
what it was, but she imagined it to be a long, drawn out moan. Not aggressive, from the looks of it.
If she didn't know better, she would say it resembled an attempt to communicate. There seemed to
be a growing body of evidence to suggest that wizarding zombies really did manage to retain some
of their memories and faculties—as exhibited by the tool usage she and Draco had seen at
Hogwarts, the almost coordinated attacks of the magical zombies in Amarov's pit. And then there
was the unnerving zombie in the red hoodie that stood outside the house at Grimmauld Place, a
silent beacon for others of his kind to come and join his eerie vigil.
Draco's gloved hand rose. He aimed his gun at the creature's head.
Narcissa's mouth closed. Hermione watched as the zombie jerked forward and then slowly pressed
its forehead against the barrel of the gun. A more skeptical mind may have attributed this action to
mere coincidence, a confluence of accidental actions, but to Hermione, it looked deliberate. And if
so, the meaning seemed easy enough to work out.
Probably the worst part of it all was that Draco did not immediately shoot. Hermione could not
make out his expression and was thankful for that. This fly-on-the-wall insight was already enough
of an invasion of privacy. Mother and son remained like that for a while, and Hermione was
beginning to suspect that Draco was not going to pull the trigger. And to her horror, he stepped
closer to the creature, almost close enough to embrace, and maybe that was his attention.
"No, Draco…"Hermione heard herself say. By Merlin, if he did follow through, she would step
right through the Mirror then and there, and use their precious single portkey journey to stop him.
It was Narcissa who decided the outcome. She pulled her head back, away from the gun and then
lunged at him. This time, her teeth were bared, inches away from sinking into him. Hermione
flinched when the gun went off; the sound of the shot echoing through the house. Narcissa's head
slumped forward.
It took a few moments for Hermione to breathe normally once more. She knew Draco well enough
to suspect he hadn't been about to succumb to the same hope harboured by his father—that
Narcissa was still viable. No, rather, he had been unwilling to kill her while there had been a spark
of humanity left in her. He needed to kill a monster. And she had delivered on that need, whether
deliberately or knowingly, no one could be sure. The outcome was still a bullet through the brain.
Hermione got to her feet to pace around the room. She felt like she had somehow aged a decade in
the last ten minutes. Lucius and Narcissa were dead and Draco was bearing this monumental
burden on his own. Enough was enough. She decided she would go downstairs and find him,
whether he wished to see her or not. However, while she was alone in the attic, there was
something important that she needed to check before she sought him out.
She sat before the Mirror once more, sucked in a long breath and then held her palm up near the
surface.
Harry. Where are you?
If the portkey could only take you to unWarded locations, then it would not be able to show her the
Taransay community, if indeed Harry was there. Hermione gave it a shot anyway.
She thought of the people at Taransay, picturing the sea of refugee tents flapping in the strong
Hebridean wind. The Mirror rippled, attempting to make the connection, but produced nothing.
She tried the same thing with the Grimmauld Place house and oddly, the Mirror didn't register
anything at all. It remained flat and lifeless, as if this particular location didn't even exist. Hermione
frowned. That wasn't very reassuring. Perhaps it was because of the house's particular
conglomeration of wards?
Next, she pictured the fleet's home ship in her mind. She thought of Professor Vadim Belikov, who
was synonymous with the fleet's laboratories. The reflective surface of the Mirror rippled wildly,
recalibrated, focussed.
Hermione made a small sound.
Harry was standing beside Belikov in the home ship's pristine lab, a hand on his hip, listening
intently to something the older man was saying. Draco had been correct. Harry was indeed with the
fleet! Hermione wanted to run into his arms and squeeze the life out of him. At one point, he
removed his glasses, cleaned them and put them back on—something he tended to do when he was
trying to wrap his brain around a particularly tricky bit of logic. He looked tired, but otherwise
well. Perhaps he had just joined the fleet? Hermione scanned the rest of the scene. There was no
sign of Neville and the others. Were they all together or had some of the team already gone to
Taransay? That seemed much more likely, given Scrimgeour's backup plans.
Belikov looked haggard. Was it from the stress of managing the fleet? It was a massive
undertaking, but now that Harry was there, they had the benefit of magic.
Hermione thought about how easy it would be to touch that flickering image of Harry's face and
find herself instantly transported to the lab, no doubt surprising and delighting Harry. What would
Harry think of her decision to leave? He wouldn't believe it, probably. He wouldn't stand for it,
either. He'd be suspicious of Draco's part in the whole thing and he would demand to hear the
reasons from Hermione herself.
Which meant that Harry was coming to Malfoy Manor…
Harry was coming! Hermione would bet her life on it. She shut her eyes and thanked whatever
deity might have been listening, for Harry Potter's monumental predictability.
The image of the lab began to warp and Hermione felt a distinct pressure start to build behind her
eyes. She would need to be careful not to expend too much of the enchantment in case this aspect
of the Mirror was as finite a resource as the portkey.
One last check-in.
Hermione summoned up an image of her parents.
"Oh, Dad," she whispered, crying and laughing at the same time.
Hermione saw her father packing a small plastic crate with what looked like freshly baked scones.
He was in the kitchen of the family home. Hermione had only ever visited the place once. There
may not have been any electricity now, but it was the absence of other details that was truly
noteworthy. There were no bars or boards over the windows. In fact, unbelievably, one of the
windows was open, the Australian summer breeze stirring the short, lace curtains that Hermione's
mother had sewn. As Hermione watched, her father turned to speak to her mother.
Mrs Granger entered the kitchen, carrying several bunches of gnarly looking cabbages, still dusted
with dirt. Her father made a comment, to which her mother rolled her eyes. They packed these
supplies into the crate and then left their house via the kitchen door, unhurried and entirely
unperturbed.
If safety was what you craved, then Draco was correct to want her to go to her parents. You could
do more than just survive in Australia, you could live.
Hermione had seen enough. She wanted to share with Draco what she had witnessed through the
Mirror, but when she went down to the dungeons, he was already gone. So was Narcissa. The
absence of his parents' bodies likely meant that he had left the Manor to bury them. She was
tempted to go back to the Mirror and simply summon up his location, but felt she had already
intruded enough into his private matters for one day. Hermione didn't sit around idly waiting for
him to reappear, but rather began to proceed as if they would soon be departing the Manor together.
Whether he wanted to or not was beside the point. She was not leaving him.
The Mirror was cumbersome, but light. Even though the portkey was a one-way journey, it was
still invaluable. It would have to come back to the fleet with them. Hermione wrapped it up in a
cloth and took it downstairs to the library. She combed through the house for food-laden portraits,
gathering the ones that were small enough to carry. She checked and loaded their guns, though she
was thwarted by some of the more complicated-looking rifles that came with all manner of
attachments. Their clothing was gathered, rolled up and shoved into their bags. She packed up
toiletries and collected all the additional candles she could find. While the magical portraits did
contain a multitude of drinks, they were starting to run low on clean, drinking water. So she took all
their empty plastic bottles to the bathroom and filled them up.
It wasn't until she had walked out to the car to check that there was nothing left in the boot, that she
saw the smoke in the distance.
The sun was beginning to set. Even with the impending darkness, all Hermione had to do to find
Draco was walk towards the column of grey and black smoke rising above the tree line. Failing
that, there was always the sound of gunfire. The only thing she took with her from the house was
her gun. She stopped at the great iron gates at the front of the Manor grounds, cognisant of the fact
that she would not be able to re-enter the property on her own without Draco.
Oh well. She pushed the gates open and ran down the hill towards the village, her imagination
painted all sorts of horrid pictures. The reality was no less awful, but somewhat anticlimactic.
In the middle of the village, Draco had lit a funeral pyre within which burned two bodies—Lucius
and Narcissa, presumably. Hermione could still see remnants of the sheets that had been used to
wrap them. The fire was enormous. The tops of the flames were higher than the roofs of many of
the village shop-houses. Seated on the cold ground some distance away from the fire, was Draco.
He was dressed entirely in black, with the hood of his coat pulled up to cover his light hair. There
was a semi-automatic rifle beside him. He had one knee drawn up, over which he balanced his
arm. Clutched in his hand was a nearly empty, crystal decanter of whiskey or brandy.
There were at least fifteen to twenty zombies that Hermione could see, all of whom had been
attracted by the fire and the previous gunshots. Some were lurching toward Draco. Others were
stumbling out of cottages and shops, roused by all the noise and the roaring fire. Hermione saw one
zombie with what appeared to be fishing spears sticking out of its torso. Another zombie was still
wearing a business suit, complete with tie pin and pocket square. He might have looked rather
dapper if it wasn't for the fact that both his hands ended in bloody stumps.
Draco observed all this with a detached expression. He fired the rifle haphazardly, not really hitting
the approaching zombies where it mattered, and then went back to drinking from the heavy
decanter.
"What are you doing!" Hermione shouted. She ran to stand beside him, firing her own gun at two
nearby zombies. It took her four shots to dispatch them.
"Evening," Draco said.
He was sotted. Hermione was unsurprised, given the missing alcohol.
"Malfoy, get your arse up off the ground right now!" She walked ahead to pick off more of the
creatures. One of the zombies helpfully stumbled right through the funeral pyre. Hermione was
reminded of Agent Richards' comment about chasing down burning piñatas at Welwyn Hospital.
She shot the walking pillar of flame before it caused any more damage to the village. Several more
zombies were now emerging from the forest that bordered the road. Hermione killed off as many as
she could, until her clip was empty.
And still Draco sat on the ground, watching the fire and occasionally taking a swig.
There was nothing else to do except pick up his rifle and use it. She'd never fired one of them
before, but at this point, beggars could not be choosers. The gun was powerful. The recoil from the
first shot caused the butt of the rifle to nearly slam back into her face, not to mention the fact the
bullet flew off into the distance, nowhere near her intended target.
"Damn it," she swore, and tried again. Bracing her feet apart helped to counter the recoil, but only
just. This time, she yanked on the trigger and managed to glance her shot against the side of the
businessman-zombie's head. Not that it fazed the creature. A flap of skin flopped over its eyes. It
continued, undaunted.
It was at this point that Draco deigned to stand up. He was none too steady, she noticed. "You're
doing that incorrectly."
Hermione turned to glare at him. "You think?!"
The things this man could do to still surprise her. Acting like they had all the time in the world, he
proceeded to wrap his arms around her, his leather gloved hands settling over her own,
repositioning them upon his rifle. She felt dwarfed by him. He pressed the top of his thigh into her
backside. Hermione could feel the heat of his body even through four to five layers of clothing.
"Don't hold it so high up, you're going to knock yourself out on the recoil. Let your shoulder take
the brunt."
There was no time for further bickering, though plenty of call for it. She fired the gun and was glad
that she held it steady enough to actually hit her targets in the torso. The precision required for
headshots seemed beyond her, however.
"You're pulling too hard on the trigger," he said into her ear. He smelled of alcohol and ash. "Draw
it back until the slack is all but gone, and then squeeze."
Six, no seven zombies were only about twenty meters away.
She twisted around in his arms to give him a look of incredulity. "Draco…"
"You can do this," he insisted.
Hermione turned her attention back to the gun, holding it like he showed her, allowing him to
correct her stance, trying to ignore the fact they were slowly being encircled by the creatures. She
got one of the zombie in her sights, pulled back gently on the trigger and let the bullet fly.
It hit the creature in the middle of its face.
"Well done," he praised. "My turn."
Hermione gladly relinquished the weapon, upon which Draco eliminated the remaining zombies in
quick succession. There was nothing unsteady or imprecise about it. She glared at him. More
creatures lumbered towards the village, but they were many minutes away. By now, Draco had
picked up the decanter and was heading back to the Manor.
"We should go," he said, almost as a passing comment.
Hermione stared at his back. She didn't know if she wanted to ask if he was alright, or throw a rock
at his head.
Living
It was difficult, but Hermione held her tongue until they were back inside the house. The intense
warmth of the library was heady. For a moment, she was content to simply stand before the fire in
an attempt to defrost. Draco set down the nearly empty decanter on the carpet beside the
Chesterfield. He added his rifle to the pile of weapons in the corner and tossed his damp coat over
the lounge. The gloves came off next, followed by his boots, which he threw near the fire to dry
off. He stretched his long legs out on the lounge, closing his eyes.
"Where have you been for the last couple of days?" Hermione finally asked.
He replied without bothering to look at her. "Taking care of things."
"I was worried," she explained. ''You might have told me what you were doing or where you were
passing the time. I looked everywhere in the house for you."
"My apologies," he said, infuriatingly.
"I saw the Mirror. I used it to look in on Grimmauld Place, Taransay Island, the fleet and my
parents' house. My parents are well," she informed stiffly, wondering if it was insensitive of her to
mention that.
"The Mirror won't connect to the old Black residence or Taransay Island because of the barrier
enchantments."
"Yes," Hermione agreed. "But I had no difficult seeing the fleet. Harry's there."
This time, he opened half-lidded eyes to look at her. His voice slurred when he spoke. "Potter
wasn't there on the last two occasions I looked."
"Well, he's there now and it's likely he'll pay us a visit here, don't you think?"
He shut his eyes again, resting his forearm over his forehead. "It doesn't really matter, Granger.
You get to return to the fleet either way."
She wanted to throttle. "You're coming with me."
"You're sure of that, are you?"
"Yes!"
He said nothing more. Enough time passed that Hermione thought he might actually be asleep. It
belatedly occurred to her that she was covered in a fine layer of ash. The thought of leaving Draco
on his own did not appeal, but she decided to grab her toiletries bag and hurry downstairs for a
quick wash before laying out some dinner for them. The sooner she got food into him, the less
likely she was going to have to deal with a drunk and belligerent Draco Malfoy. And then maybe
they could talk.
Draco was reading when she returned.
He'd moved from the lounge to the writing desk near the boarded windows, having lit several
candles. His feet were propped up on the mahogany desk, ankles folded. Hermione recognised the
book. There were several copies at the Hogwarts library for the senior form to use. It was an old,
spell encyclopaedia, written in Latin.
She sat before fire and spread her hair out with her fingers, to dry it. "A bit of light reading before
bed?" she inquired.
Draco shut the book with a snap. "This one belonged to my mother. It's a signed, first edition. She
collected rare books."
Given that the original publication was at least five hundred years old, this fact was rather
impressive. As was the news that Narcissa Malfoy apparently had other interests besides enabling
the Death Eaters in her life. Hermione was cross with herself at this uncharitable thought.
"May I see it?" she asked.
Draco held out the book to her. Hermione walked across the room to take it from him, careful in
handling the brittle parchment pages, bound and rebound over the centuries. There was a slip of
new parchment at the front, bearing a short inscription, dated the fifth of June, 1980.
For my little boy on his first day.
The first of many.
Love,
Mummy
Hermione looked up at Draco. "She wanted you to have this?"
Draco nodded. "A book on the first day of every new year of my life. I used to roll my eyes at it."
He stared at the shelves in the room. "If there are any other tomes in here of some value, they are
all likely to contain similar inscriptions."
Hermione thought that was utterly charming. It was easy to think of Narcissa—and Lucius, for that
matter—as almost non-human, as embodiments of what was wrong with the Wizarding world. But
they had also been parents and people, with loves foibles and traditions.
"That's a fine legacy, Draco."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "I wonder what my legacy will be?"
"The cure," Hermione said, without hesitation.
There was little warmth in his eyes now. The nostalgia was gone. He was staring at her with
something almost akin to pity. "Do you never tire of being so fucking wholesome all the time?"
The animosity of the question startled her. "Well I don't mean to be."
He snorted. "And therein lies the source of the wholesomeness. Your complete and utter lack of
guile. You wouldn't know self-serving if it sat on you."
She frowned at him. "I left the fleet didn't I? I did that for me, not for anyone else. You're the one
that lied to me when you said you'd bring me back once I felt better! I don't know what you want
from me, Draco. It's like you actually preferred me damaged."
"I prefer you alive."

"Even if you're not going to be with me?"
He sighed and to her surprise, leaned forward in his seat and cupped her cheek. "Even if I'm not
going to be with you," he repeated. "I don't do well in communal situations."
"I know. You want your freedom, don't you?" She took his hand and gently pushed up the sleeve of
his jumper, letting her thumb slide along the sensitive, pale skin of his inner arm. The faded Mark
was revealed. "You should have thought about that before you signed your life away to
Voldemort."
Draco's soft laugh was full bitterness. "You're not wrong. And I am as responsible for this plague
as the man who designed it. You think creating the cure will be sufficient penance?"
"It's a good place to start," Hermione replied. She was self-conscious of her shivering, but was
unable to stop it.
He hooked two fingers into the waistband of her trousers and hauled her close, such that she was
now standing between his legs as he remained seated in the chair. "There's no penance for the
things I've done. For the things I do."
She didn't understand. "What else are you planning to do?"
Draco made a show of looking at the grandfather clock behind her. "Whatever I can, before Harry
Potter crashes the party."
"You're drunk."
"Yep."
He didn't even bother denying it. Draco had one arm around her waist and one hand in her hair.
The tight, wet curls were a small source of fascination. He took hold of a curl, stretched it out and
then let it spring back into place.
Hermione had tucked the hem of her large jumper and flannel workman's shirt into the waistband
of her trousers. Draco pulled it all out. She flinched when he put his hands under the shirt and
splayed them wide, his fingers dancing across the smooth skin of her back. It was a mixed blessing
that the zombie apocalypse did not come with brassieres.
Draco had been seated up until this point, and so Hermione felt like she still had some semblance of
control. That feeling evaporated when he stood up and pulled the jumper over her head, leaving her
in a red and black, checked flannel shirt.
It wasn't like before, when she was fragile and he had played a deliberate chase and retreat game
with her. She had wanted him and he had frustratingly doled out intimacy in precise portions so as
not to overwhelm her. Now, they both wanted and were ready for it, but there was a destructive
element to what Draco was doing that made Hermione very wary.
When his hands went to the buttons of her shirt, Hermione instinctively covered them with her
own, seeking to halt him.
He was halted. The look on his face both scared and exhilarated her. This was no playful interlude.
"I will stop any time you wish it."
"I, uh. I feel like we need to talk about what's happened, before we…"
"Go on," he encouraged, undoing the buttons.
"Um." Three buttons were undone. He paused, raising an eyebrow at her. "What formalities do we
need to get out of the way?"
And quite suddenly, Hermione didn't know what to say. How did one unpack their particular
problem? How did you tell someone you thought they were being noble and selfish at the same
time? Their last discussion had ended up with her telling him she thought practically everything
and everyone else was more important than them. What a disaster that had been! She was being
naïve if she thought they would be able to resolve their differences in order to allow for this—
whatever it was—to continue.
"I'm worried about what happens after," was all she said. It was the simple truth.
He finished undoing the last two buttons and slid the shirt off her shoulders, letting it pool to the
floor. Hermione was immediately self-conscious. She folded her arms across her chest and spent
time consulting her feet. This wasn't teasing kisses and exploratory caresses while sitting on the
lounge in near darkness. He wasn't being rough by any means, but there was none of the previous
affection either.
"Shoes," he said. It didn't sound like a request.
"Draco…"
"I said I would stop whenever you want," he repeated.
That was the problem. She didn't want him to stop, but nor was she sure she wanted to keep going.
Not like this.
Nevertheless, Hermione slipped her shoes off. He started on her trousers, unsnapping the button
and pulling down her zip fly. She tensed when he began to pull her trousers down over her hips. He
felt this and paused, ostensibly waiting for permission to continue. Hermione was confused. Oh, he
wanted her. She could sense that. But what he was doing felt mechanical, like a series of steps
executed in sequence, rather than two adults sharing something special. Truth be told, she was
starting to feel quite upset.
"Stop?"
"No," she said, because despite everything, she wanted this odd, strained intimacy with Draco.
She squeaked when he picked her up about the waist and deposited her on the edge of the desk. He
grabbed handfuls of the trousers and pulled them free of her legs, leaving her in a pair of highly
unflattering, beige, cotton underpants and mismatched woollen socks. Somewhere in the world
(Australia probably) people still wore socks that matched. This was not that place.
Hermione felt exceedingly vulnerable, especially since Draco was completely dressed.
"Lift," he said, in that same commanding, sterile tone.
She braced her hands against the edge of the desk to raise her bottom and promptly turned an even
darker shade of red when Draco divested her of her underwear. Now, she was completely naked,
seated on the table in his father's library. Her skin still held the heat of her bath and the scent of
soap. She immediately crossed her legs and stared at him with a mixture of desire and caution. It
was unpleasant to feel this unsure, to feel this new.
He took a few steps back and observed her. The scrutiny was almost beyond enduring. For the first
time in her life, Hermione actually wished for more hair. Something, anything to shield her from
his assessing gaze.
"I'll stop whenever you wish it."
It was like a mantra and this time, Hermione recognised it for what it was—a challenge. It was also
meant to wound.
"Yes, I heard you the first time," she said, narrowing her eyes.
He almost smiled at her. And then he began removing his clothes, his eyes raking over her the
entire time. First, his jumper, then the long-sleeved shirt and the t-shirt beneath it, leaving him in
his belted, black combat trousers and bare feet. She returned his assessing stare, staring
unabashedly as his hands went to his belt buckle and the buttons that fastened his trousers. She
kept right on looking when the trousers came off and he was as bare as she was.
Hermione swallowed (not audibly, she hoped). He may have been taking a clinical approach to sex,
but there was no denying he wanted to be here with her.
There was nothing gentle in his expression as he walked back to her, placed a hand on each knee
and parted her legs. Hermione ran her hands up his arms and then down again. As always, she
enjoyed his strength and the sensation of the dark blond hairs on his arms. Her gaze paused at the
new scar on his bicep and the much older ones on his belly, and then her gaze dipped lower. No
scars there that she could see, but rather, what he came equipped with looked liable to wound her.
Of course this wasn't the first aroused male member she'd handled in her life, but she cared about
the outcome of this encounter more so than any other.
Hermione was fascinated. She welcomed the brief surge of power she felt when she took him into
her hands. He was beautiful. Sleek and hot and the right amount of paleness that was inherent to
him, but there was a healthy flush of colour. She chanced to look upwards and was rewarded by an
expression of contained pain on his face. His eyes closed. She squeezed him and watched with
pleasure as his lips parted slightly in exhalation. Hermione tilted her face up for a long overdue
kiss.
But Draco pulled away, one hand coming up to catch her chin, his thumb running over her plump
lower lip in an odd, confusing gesture of caressing confinement. Not understanding, Hermione tried
again and he responded the same way, by holding her chin firmly.
No kissing? What was happening here? Her hurt was as great as her concern. Something was
definitely not right.
"Tell me to stop and we'll stop," he said again, his voice gritty.
She said nothing, letting her discontent show in her expression. No, they would not be stopping.
She would see this through.
Draco took her silence as acquiescence. He pushed her back until she was lying on the table,
propped up on her elbows, with her knees dangling over the edge. His palms cupped her breasts,
exploring the weight and feel of them in his hands. And then his mouth was on her.
Hermione shut her eyes, exultant. She threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling his head up. He
was distracted enough to slide his mouth against hers briefly before pulling away. Hermione
groaned, but her dissatisfaction and the denied kiss was short lived because his mouth fastened
over the top of one of her breasts and he began to suck. Her legs came up, seemingly of their own
accord, seeking to cocoon her body around him. He released the puckered, wet, sensitive tip of her
breast and began placing soft nips along the underside, drawing her flesh into his mouth, swirling
his tongue in firm, dizzying circles that automatically made her wonder where else on her body he
could perform this trick.
She was well aware that she was not the most well-endowed woman, but he made her feel as if she
was overflowing bounty in his hands, so thoroughly did he lavish attention over first one, and then
the other breast. It felt like the most natural thing in the world when that clever mouth slid down
her body, pausing to leave scalding hot kisses along her belly, and then upon each, jutting hip bone,
before he repositioned her legs.
He didn't draw it out or tease, and Hermione was certain these tricks were well within his
repertoire, too. Not tonight. On this occasion he took a more direct approach. He parted her gently
with his thumbs and executed a broad lick with the flat of his tongue. Just once. Her hips came off
the table. She was quite she she'd never felt anything so exquisite in her life.
"Say the word and this ends," he whispered against her sensitive flesh. Now it sounded like a
threat.
The words didn't even properly register until Hermione realised he'd stopped and wasn't going to
continue until she said something. Dear God, this was taking progressive consent to new and
painful levels. She lifted her head to stare at him. "Please…"
He continued his ministrations, unhurried and deliberate. Hermione was a squirming, pleading
mess within minutes. The sensation of his mouth on her was maddening enough, let alone the sight
of it. At some point, he had risen to his full height, which meant that he was holding her up off the
table, the backs of her knees rested over his shoulders, her legs dangled down over his back. His
strong hands were under her bottom, supporting the weight of her lower body, effectively raising
her to his mouth to…
Her orgasm hit unexpectedly. The sensation bloomed somewhere in her lower abdomen and
seemed to explode outward in waves. Every muscle in her body tensed. Draco had been ready for
this even if she hadn't. He had her flat on the table once more and had gently fit two fingers inside
her, catching the last of her internal contractions. It was madness. How could anything that felt this
good be borne from something that had been so worrisome moments before?
He removed his fingers and placed his hands on her thighs, spreading them further. Hermione
peeked through her lashes, watching the mesmerising concentration on his face as he took himself
in his hand and rubbed against her. She felt the size and the smoothness of him. Soft and blunt. But
also hard, hot and silky due to the wetness from her own body. He pushed, experimentally, and
Hermione felt herself start to fill up.
It was the most extraordinary sensation, alien and yet achingly right at the same time. Tiny little
internal spasms were still ongoing. She wondered if he could feel them.
The request for permission came once more, as expected. "I'll stop," he said, his voice hoarse, "if
you wish it?"
Hermione was furious that even now, he was still committed to this ridiculous quarantining of
emotions. "I wish it," she assured him, as she grabbed the back of his neck, pulling herself up to
steal a kiss. Her legs simultaneously hooked around him, drawing him in, sheathing his entire
length so forcefully inside her that he grunted from the impact.
The stolen kiss was short-lived because the pain was unexpected. She knew there was liable to be
some, but it still came as a surprise. Hermione froze. She dropped her head against his shoulder and
whimpered, her hands fisted against his back.
"Silly girl," he admonished softly, in a voice so thick it was barely recognisable. His hands were
gentle as he stoked her back, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into her hips. "I'm going to shift
you, a little. Bear with me…"
He moved, lifting her bottom and bringing her closer to the edge of the table. Hermione winced.
That small movement caused little jolts of unfamiliar pain to flutter through her lower abdomen.
She felt stretched to bursting and to make matters worse, tears were starting to well up. Damn it.
Damn her emotions, her hormones and her impaired decision making! And damn the man who was
ripping her heart to shreds with how gentle he was being with her right now.
Draco lifted her chin from his shoulder, nuzzling his lips against hers. "Kiska, that was not how I
would have done it."
"No, you would have asked for permission first," she said, aware that she sounded petulant. But his
mouth was brushing against hers again and he could make all kinds of hurts go away when he
kissed her. She wanted him to kiss her more than anything.
"You are so incredibly small," he said, and there was a definite groan in his voice. "How bad is the
pain?"
"You knew?" she asked. Of course he'd known she was a virgin.
"Yes."
She wiggled, experimentally. He made the most arousing, soft sound. Oh Merlin, it really stung.
But she could feel the pleasure to be had. It was within reach, waiting of her to engage with it.
"It hurts."
"If you—"
"Oh my God, Draco Malfoy! If you ask me for permission to continue one more time…"
"I'll take that as yes," he said, through gritted teeth. And then he pulled out slightly and slid back
in.
It felt OK. She told him so.
"Just OK?" he asked, his tone teasing, though now it looked like he was in acute discomfort.
He eased out and entered with a little more force each time. Hermione shut her eyes and
concentrated on the sensation of Draco gently filling her with each thrust. He must have read the
change in her expression, because suddenly the pace picked up. His hands on her hips tightened
and he wasn't just thrusting into her anymore, but pulling her into him. She knew some couples
could be quite vocal, but it seemed that they were mostly silent. The few noises they made came
from her—short, sharp little gasps.
She looked down between them, marvelling at how it all worked and fit. When she glanced up, she
saw that he was watching her watch them, his expression scorching. Hermione wanted to envelop
more of him than just the physical. She tilted her face up to catch his lips, knowing that it would
hurt badly if he rebuffed yet again. But perhaps they had reached a point where he would allow her
in and would no longer be so tightly guarded.
The gamble paid off. There was only a moment of hesitation before he captured her mouth in a kiss
that made her heart clench in her chest even as her spirit soared. He kissed her like he was
drowning and she was all that was keeping his head above the surface. Hermione moaned into his
mouth, her arms wrapped tightly around him, not wanting any part of the moment to end.
But it could not last forever. She felt the tension in his arms and back, felt his hand slide down to
hold her breast as he came. He broke the kiss, mostly to catch his breath, dropping his forehead
against hers. The sensation of his orgasm inside her was curious and wonderful. It was also
irresponsible, but she allowed herself not to care, at least for the moment. They would have this
moment.
She was deliriously happy and not quite sure why. Nothing had changed, really. Sex didn't tend to
fix problems. Often, it made things worse. But there was tremendous relief and satisfaction in
knowing that they could be so very good together in more ways than just intellectual and
professional.
His head was still bowed and his breathing still choppy. Hermione let her sappier emotions run riot.
Smiling, she gently kissed his forehead and the bridge of his nose, her toes curling with
contentment.
"I love you," she told him. It needed saying. If ever there was a time to tell someone you loved
them, it was these days.
His head lifted and her heart fell to see the small frown there and the previous coolness return. His
silver eyes ran over her face, almost as if he was testing the truth of her words in her expression. If
he was, the proof was plain to see. And then, to Hermione's profound disappointment, he gently
removed her arms from around his neck and stepped away from her.
Hermione watched as Draco pulled on his trousers, grabbed his clothing and shoes, and walked out
of the library, half-dressed.
She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes in an effort to stave off the tears. His rejection of her
feelings felt like a physical blow. It was almost funny how, at fourteen she'd been so devastated at
Ron's continual obliviousness regarding her feelings for him. At the time, she couldn't imagine
anything else being quite so uniquely awful. That was nothing compared to how it felt now, as an
adult. The pain was sharp and brittle in her chest.
With as much dignity as she could muster, Hermione hopped off the table, did her best to clean up
and then lay down on her mattress. Dinner was not on the cards, apparently. Sleep eluded her for
several hours more and it may have been unkind of her to think it, but she hoped Draco was equally
sleepless, wherever he was.
Journey's End
Draco stood at the sink in the house elves' washroom and turned on the faucet.
The water took a while to appear, though you could hear its distant, bellowing progress through the
old pipes. Next to the washbasin sat a candelabra with three, black candles, one of which had
recently been extinguished. A serpentine trail of smoke coiled up into the air. The remaining two
candles were still lit. Draco stared at the flames as he held his hands under the running water, the
coldness of the water was almost scalding in its intensity.
It occurred to him that he did not recall having brought the candelabra with him to the bathroom.
Nor did he recall coming down to the bathroom after leaving Hermione alone, rather disastrously,
in the library.
A quick glance downwards at his person revealed that he was not haphazardly dressed in his faded
trousers. No. He was wearing his Hogwarts school uniform—polished shoes, green and silver tie,
prefects' badge pinned to his shirt. Draco knew what he was going to see in the mirror when he
looked at it, but the sight of his teenaged self was nevertheless startling.
It seemed impossible that he was ever that young, that the current feeling of scholarly curiosity and
apprehension belonging to his grown-up self was going to look so much like fragility and fear on
his reflected, younger face.
He left the tap running and stood back from the sink, feeling an intense need to turn around and yet
acutely unwilling to do so. The sound of the water was suddenly deafening. It was a distant
tsunami, emanating through the walls and seemingly from the inside of his own head.
Disconcerted, Draco stepped forward and turned off the faucet.
But the sound of running water did not cease, though it was gentler now. It was now coming
from behind him, from the center of the room. Water collected inside one of the stoppered tubs, the
flow not overly hurried, but more substantial than a trickle. There was a draft that felt and sounded
like a breath, and one of the two remaining lit candles in the candelabra snuffed out. The single,
remaining flame flickered wildly, casting madly dancing shadows of long, mangled shapes all
about the walls of the bathing chamber.
Through the reflection in the mirror, Draco saw the finger sitting inside the tub. He refused to turn
around, out of stubbornness. There was no need. He knew who it was even before the visitor
spoke.
And unfortunately, they did eventually speak.
"Raising you was an exercise is controlling fear," said Lucius Malfoy.
The strength of that voice indicated that this was not the pile of disease ridden, bloodless skin and
bones that Draco had carried out to the funeral pyre. This was a voice from his memory.
The apparition that accompanied the voice was not for the faint of heart. Lucius appeared as a
thoroughly blackened corpse, still smoking in parts. His silver eyes, so like Draco's own, were
preternaturally bright in a disfigured, misshapened, pitch-black face. He sat in the tub with his
knees drawn up. It was a macabre recreation of Lucius' last bath, though the mood then had been
one of desolation. There was none of that now. This, at least, was slightly consoling.
The water continued to fill the tub, causing steam to billow up where it came into contact with the
still-smouldering sections of Lucius' over-cooked body.
"Is that right?" Draco said. His voice was soft, hoarse, but still echoed through the cavernous
chamber. Lucius' voice, Draco could not help but notice, had no echo. It was as flat and dead as the
man himself.
"Yes," said his father. "Your mother and I did not have the capacity to do as we desired, not in our
own lives, nor in yours." He snorted. "No Malfoy has ever had that right. Even so, your mother had
such ambitions for you. It sounds a simple thing, doesn't it? What decent parent does not wish
happiness for their child?" Lucius' eyes bored into him. "It is difficult thing to be a good parent
when you are so crippled with fear."
It saddened him to know that this was not his father talking. Lucius did not do wistful nor wax
philosophical. This was young Draco's foolish, childish desires. Draco remembered it well and this
was why it took him a moment to make his voice work in a throat that seized up, somewhat.
"I wish you had managed to overcome your fears. There is more to the world than the obligations
of the Malfoys," he replied.
Lucius smiled, revealing flat, white teeth. This small movement of his face caused flakes of cooked
flesh to settle along the surface of the water. "Ah, but you defied me and our Master. You seized
your freedom and you are not afraid."
"I am," Draco protested. "I am besieged by fear."
"What is this fear, then?" his father goaded. "Speak up, boy! Not the loss of a child. Not failure.
Not even death, it seems. What are you afraid of?"
Draco had no answer.
"If you habitually insulate yourself from the fear of potential loss, how do you know what has any
real value to you anymore?" his father asked.
The elder Malfoy stood up in the tub, the cascading sheets of water stripped his fire ravaged corpse
of additional layers of flesh. He had not been burned evenly—parts of him were still pink, other
parts were so badly incinerated that bleached bone poked through. He climbed out from the tub,
and approached Draco, black, claw-like hand extended. He grabbed his son on the shoulder, almost
painfully, and hauled Draco close to speak into his ear.
"The pain you fear, if ever it eventuates, will still pale in comparison to the beauty of what comes
before."
Draco was quite impressed with the precision of the dark dream, that it furnished this scene with
the eye-watering, smoky smell of badly burnt bacon.
"Have you stepped outside lately, father? Draco asked, incredulously. "There is not much beauty to
be found any more, no matter how far one travels."
Lucius walked over to the remaining candle and bent down to it. This simple stretch cause the skin
of his back to split open with a sickening, wet sound.
"Who said you had to go very far at all to find it?" Lucius said, with what looked like a smirk.
Draco could not be sure, given the cracked, burnt visage.
The last candle was blown out.
Her dreams were full of clawing hands, gnashing teeth and blood. Standard fare, really. But it was
the awful racket that awakened her.
Hermione sat up on her mattress, momentarily wondering if the bombs had dropped a month early.
There were loud, multiple explosions, seemingly raining over the Manor itself. And yet the roof
had not caved in and nothing was up in flames.
She flinched as a particularly loud boom caused the brass light fixtures overhead to shimmer.
Alarmed, Hermione pressed a palm against the floor and felt the vibrations there, too. She really
didn't need to glance across at Draco's mattress to know that he had not returned to her last night
and had instead chosen to sleep elsewhere.
Hermione wished she knew how to stop feeling wretched about the whole incident, but the pain
was still there, high and tight in her chest. However, the urgency was now centered on the
mysterious noise and the conspicuous lack of Draco. She got dressed hurriedly, shoved a pistol into
her jacket pocket and left the library to investigate. By the time she ran to the foyer, the noise had
ceased.
The house was bitterly cold. This was due to the front door hanging wide open. Hermione stood at
the threshold, feet splayed apart in a defensive stance, hand firm around the handle of her gun. It
was now quiet outside. She stared out into the early morning fog, not sure what she was going to
see.
Draco appeared first. Given the intense cold, he had the presence of mind to be clad in what looked
like every piece of clothing in his immediate possession, his uneven blond hair was just visible
through the opening of a dark hoodie. He saw her and his steps slowed until he was standing in the
middle of the circular carriageway. What was he doing? He looked like he was waiting. She
opened her mouth to call out to him, but no sound eventuated, just a suspended "oh" of silent
astonishment because Harry emerged rather dramatically from the mist, followed by the hulking
form of Anatoli.
Harry came to a stop beside Draco. It did something to her, to see these two men standing there
together—safe and well and close enough to hold on to and possibly never ever let go.
Draco's expression was unreadable. Harry's was its antithesis. He was crying. He was in good
company. Hermione was a blubbering mess by the time he reached her. They held on to each other
just inside the foyer, barely aware that Anatoli had to inch past them, trying to be discreet despite
his size.
Hermione pried herself away from Harry's shoulder and looked at him, really looked at him,
because sometimes his emotions showed through just like physical wounds.
"What's happened?" she whispered, so gently that it only exacerbated Harry's distress.
Thus, it was Draco who replied.
"Apparently Blaise Zabini is dead."
They gathered in the library.
Anatoli had been apprehensive, as they'd walked further into the dark house. Presently, he stood
near the door. His eyes darted around the room, as if he was concerned something was going to
launch out of the bookshelves and attack him.
Hermione fussed over Harry, frowning at the scrapes on his face. After several minutes of her tut-
tutting, he ended up grabbing both her hands to keep her still.
Draco stood beside the fireplace with his arms folded, just beyond the glow of the fire, half hidden
in the shadows. He said nothing as Harry haltingly explained about the unexpected but timely
rescue at Grimmauld Place and about Blaise's courageous last moments. He told them of his
astonishment at seeing the fleet, first-hand, of Agent Richards' positive prognosis and of the plan to
evacuate all of Taransay Island, and bring both Muggle and Magical survivors together on the fleet.
Professor Belikov had filled Harry in on what had occurred on the fleet since Hermione's capture.
If Harry had questions to ask of Hermione, he seemed to be holding on to them for now.
There was no mention of Padma or Mercer. Hermione saw the avoidance in Harry's gaze and knew
there would be time to talk about it some more and mourn properly, later. Hermione had been
telling herself this for more than a year now. Mourn your dead later, care later, cry later, break
later. Let it all sink in, later. If they didn't get the cure out to the world as soon as possible, there
would not be a later.
"It was good to see Wallen again," Harry said, with a smile.
"Yes. I imagine go. He's been through a lot."
"As have you," Harry replied, smile now gone. He frowned down at his hands. "Hermione, I'm so
sorry—"
"Will you just sit, man?" Draco said, addressing Anatoli. The large man was still hovering by the
door, looking uneasy. "The furniture is not going to eat you. Not in this room, at any rate."
Anatoli cast an alarmed glare at the Chesterfield setting and remained resolutely standing.
With a sigh, Draco left the shadows and went to pour himself a drink.
Hermione watched him toss back some brandy and frowned when he reached for more. "A bit
early in the day, don't you think?" she asked, tersely.
He didn't reply until the second glass was drained, finally giving her a lopsided, roguish smile that
somehow managed to be ice-cold. "It's shaping out to be that kind of day, don't you think?" He held
the brandy decanter out to Harry. "Potter?"
Harry watched him with a mixture of sympathy and suspicion. "No, thank you."
Draco flopped down on the Chesterfield beside Hermione, propping one leg up over his other
knee. "Suit yourself," he replied, and then proceeded to stare at Harry.
"You have something to say to me, Malfoy?" Harry asked, after several tense seconds.
"I do."
"Spit it out, then," Harry goaded. "Not like you to hold your tongue."
"Why did Zabini die?"
Hermione shut her eyes, inhaling slowly. When she opened them, it pained her to see the misery on
Harry's face. She frowned at Draco, but she might as well have been invisible, for all the attention
he was paying her.
"We were up against the largest horde I've ever seen—many of them magical. When—"
"Yes, yes. You've regaled us with this tale already," Draco said, callously. "I didn't ask you how he
died, I asked you why he died."
"Malfoy," Hermione said, warningly.
There was righteous green fury in Harry's eyes, but it was nothing compared to the regret.
"We should have taken turns Apparating the men back to the fleet once Blaise had taken me there
first."
"Only you would have been travelling across open water to a location you are not familiar with.
Apparation is complicated enough without that element thrown into the mix," Hermione reminded.
"And yet he is Harry Potter," Draco said, as if speaking to a much larger audience. "Who, if not
Harry Potter, could accomplish such a feat?"
"What's your point, Malfoy? You obviously have one. Come to it."
"My point is you still haven't answered the question."
Hermione stared at Draco with some incredulity. "Are you truly so determined to make everyone
else as miserable as you strive to be?"
She thought she was prepared for the coldness in his stare, but no, not quite. He looked at her as if
they were eleven-years old again and a thousand years of blood purity and enmity festered between
them.
"I am determined to have him answer the question because I am honestly curious."
"Zabini died because I didn't save him," Harry said, quietly. "That's the answer you wanted to hear,
isn't it?" he asked, looking up at Draco. "I'm trained for that sort of thing. He wasn't. I could have
made a different call."
"You were injured and outnumbered!" Hermione retorted.
"Da," Anatoli added his two cents. "Three hundred. Maybe more."
Harry rubbed his palm over his eyes. "It doesn't matter. My wand was too strong for him. I had no
idea he'd been without magic for so long, or I would never have let him wield it. It nearly levelled
him. I saw it. I should have known."
There was a moment of silence, punctuated by occasional pops and hisses from the fire.
"There's something else you should know, Malfoy," Harry continued. "Zabini's last words to me, as
a matter of fact."
Draco rolled the glass idly in his hands, waiting for Harry to continue.
"He said he wanted to leave his son in your care." Harry looked at Hermione. "Yours and
Hermione's."
"What?" Hermione said, stunned. "He wanted us to care for Henry?"
"Yes."
"Us? Why us?"
"I can't say. I'm just telling you what he wanted." Harry sighed, plucking at a loose thread on his
jacket. "His dying wish, as it were."
When Hermione looked at Draco, she saw the hardness of his profile. He raised his glass and
sipped from it, his jaw rigid.
"You're coming back with me, aren't you?" Harry asked her. "Malfoy said you would be. And I
don't mean just for Henry. You're coming back for the fleet, for the mission?"
She dashed away hot tears with the heel of her palm. "Yes," she nodded. "I'm going back." She
frowned at Draco, feeling something almost akin to hatred for how so very difficult he was being,
when everything else was already so difficult.
But then she saw the tremor in his hand, as he held on to his glass so tightly she worried he would
crush it. She saw the tightness in his shoulders, the familiar arrogant, defiant tilt to his chin. Only,
this time, she saw it as a protective mechanism. She saw, once again, the eleven-year old boy who
felt that the world owed him a living while he simultaneously walked around with the biggest chip
on his shoulder. He knew little else than to be difficult because life to him had always been a
particular kind of difficult in a way that was different to what she or Harry or Ron or their peers had
known.
Maybe censure, distrust and low expectations only fed into some sick, self-fulfilling prophecy?
Maybe knives only knew to be sharp because all anyone ever wanted from them was to cut?
She looked at Harry. "Give us a minute."
Hermione didn't speak until Harry and Anatoli's footsteps were out of earshot. Steeling herself, she
knelt before Draco on the carpet, taking the now empty snifter of brandy from his unresisting
hands and set it down upon the floor. She held his hands next, startled at how cold they were as
she ran her warm fingers over the healing, burn-scar tissue.
If she was rebuffed yet again, she didn't know how her pride or her heart would survive.
"You and I…." she began, "we don't have to…be. I get that we're not in the best position to make a
proper go of it at the moment. I know you want me to have my freedom, but I only have a short
window of time to do something truly, spectacularly good. And if I succeed, then I'll have more
options, freedom and choices than I can poke a stick at. I'll go see my parents, I'll live with them,
perhaps. But I can't do that with any lightness in my heart, if I don't return to the fleet now to help
while I can."
She wished he would look at her. His eyes were still downcast.
"I want you to come back with me. And I'm not going to try and sell the idea of a pardon, or of
redemption, to you. It's all rather hallow at this point, I know," she admitted. "I don't even want you
there because I think it's the only way to keep you alive. As much as I would worry about you, I
have no doubt that you could probably survive just about anything. The truth is, I don't even want
you there because I need you."
And it was this that made him look up at her, curious.

"I don't need you, Draco," she said, nodding, emphatic. "I did when I was lost in my own head for a
bit, but now, I don't need you for myself and I don't even need you for the cure. Belikov has your
formula. As Harry explained, with the addition of Yoshida, McAlister and with whatever help I can
provide, we will make that cure. I want you there because I want you there. And if that isn't
enough…" she shrugged. "So be it."
It was torture to remain still and impassive when his hand eventually came up and his cold
knuckles brushed against her cheek. He looked at her so closely she felt like his eyes were tracing
over the invisible lines of where she had been broken and stuck back together again.
"You're you again," he concluded.
"More like a new iteration," she said, uncomfortable at this unfamiliar emotional intimacy. She
stood. "Gather the rest of the ammunition. Most of the paintings are in the back of the car, as is
your father's horrid portkey mirror. I'll have Harry reduce everything so we can carry it. We'll meet
you out the front in a few minutes."
He stood, dwarfing her, as usual. "Definitely you again."
Hermione didn't allow her relief to show until she had exited the library, grabbing on to a wall to
support herself as she sagged against it. Draco Malfoy was honestly going to be the death of her.
She caught up with Harry in the foyer, who looked with concern at her red face and wet cheeks.
"So is he coming with us or what?"
"He's coming," she nodded, still in mild disbelief.
Harry groaned. "Brilliant. So much for my hopes, dreams and prayers. Maybe I should have asked
Professor Yoshida to make me one of his little wishing charms."
She smacked him on the arm, but was glad when he drew her into a hug. "They're not wishing
charms. They're called ema."
Harry rested his chin on her head. "Are you really alright?"
Hermione laughed. It was odd hearing it. "Is anyone, anymore?"
Harry grunted. "Fair point."
Anatoli emerged through the front doors, looking rather put out, which could have meant anything
from mild irritation to imminent disaster.
"We haf problem."
Hermione could hear a storm brewing outside.
Draco dragged the hood of his jacket over his head. Not that it helped. He was soaked from the
moment he set off from the front step of the house. Harry and Hermione joined him and Anatoli at
the gates to the Manor grounds, whereupon Harry cast a shelter spell over the group, deflecting the
rain. Anatoli was still very unnerved by magic, but was glad to be out of the freezing wet.
"Why are they here?" Hermione asked.
Standing beyond the big gates were about fifty undead, with more lumbering down from the
village road with each passing minute. Not exactly the most agile of predators, the zombies were
even less so in the wet. They slipped, stumbled and fell over, some of them almost turtle-like in
their inability to right themselves again. Clumsy or not, the sheer number was going to be a
problem, considering the small team needed to be well clear of the grounds and the anti-
Apparation wards before Harry would be able to take them back to the fleet.
"You recall those explosions you heard earlier?" Draco said. "Potter decided that the best way to
attract our attention from outside the ward boundary was to shoot off a loud, gaudy spray of red
and gold fireworks all over the Manor." He gave Harry a look. "How very male of you, Potter."
Harry rolled his eyes. "It's a Quidditch celebration spell I've used at tournaments. It bloody well
worked, didn't it? How else would I have got you to come out and open the gates?"
"Of course it worked. I heard it. Granger heard it. Clearly about every undead specimen within a
five kilometer radius heard and saw it, and are presently on their way."
Anatoli cleared his throat. He had two automatic assault rifles slung across his broad back. "More
coming. We go now."
"What's the plan, boys?" Hermione asked.
Harry had another question. "Anatoli and I Apparated here just outside the village. I didn't think to
check how much closer we could have gotten before the wards bounced us back. Do you know
how far away from the gates we have to be?"
Draco shrugged. "Dunno. Never really had occasion to test it—stand back," he warned, as one of
the creatures shoved an arm in between the bars of the gate. Its black-nailed fingers just grazed
Harry's collar.
"Guess," Harry hissed.
"Could it be two meters, could be ten. Could be halfway between here and the village."
"Tremendously helpful, Malfoy. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Potter."
"Maybe if we wait, they'll lose interest and wander off?" Hermione hazarded.
Draco looked at Harry. "Is that what happened at Grimmauld Place?"
"No," Harry admitted.
"So then we have no choice but to shoot our way through," Hermione said. "And get far enough
away so Harry can give the spell a go."
Harry didn't look convinced. "We only have Anatoli and one wand between us." He stared at Draco
and Hermione. "Tell me you two have guns and know how to use them."
Hermione's answering smile was slightly scary.

Return
Hermione's ears were still ringing with gunfire when Harry dropped them on the top deck of the
home ship in a display of group-Apparation that would have made his DMLE trainers applaud.
Apparation was not a risk-free form of travel and not advisable when moving between largely
unfamiliar locations. It was additionally dangerous when cognitively impaired, over large bodies of
water, between land masses and in the middle of crowds. Harry's decision to bring them to the top
deck was a strategy straight from the textbook – the area was out in the open, spacious,
uncluttered, and an easy enough mental target.
Only no one had been expecting the sodding hurricane.
As cold as it'd been in Wiltshire, it was nothing compared to the arctic wind currently lashing at the
fleet, causing the large cruise-liner to bob up and down like a toy boat in a toddler's bath. It was
impossible to see any other ships in the fleet. The rain, with a side-order of marble-sized hail, was
coming down sideways so violently that it blistered Hermione's exposed face. She reached out a
hand to grab the nearest person, which turned out to be Anatoli. He was, quite literally, a port in the
storm.
"Come to me! I'll Apparate us inside!" Harry yelled, sounding too far away for comfort. Hermione
felt Anatoli drag her towards Harry's voice.
There was a sound like a page ripping, only the page must have come from a book that was the size
of a mountain. This was the best way to describe the noise of the thunder, muffled oddly by rain
that was so heavy, Hermione could not see more than a few feet in front of her. Her companions
seemed to be tall, dark blobs beyond her waterlogged eyes.
"Where's Draco?" she called out.
Her voice was sucked into the vortex of the wind. There was a bright flash of colour from above, a
whirling dervish of red and white. One of the awnings from the top observation deck had been torn
free from its moorings. It summersaulted through the air, making a loud whooping noise as it came
at them. Hermione shoved Anatoli in the back, feeling like she'd run into a brick wall. Even so, he
lurched forward just far enough and the enormous awning, twisted mental struts and all, went
sailing past, smashing into the deck. Hermione was now on her hands and knees, attempting to
regain her bearings when a horrendous feeling of vertigo assailed her.
An enormous wave smashed into the side of the home ship, causing the vessel to lurch to the right.
She dug her nails into the wooden deck and managed to hang on. Someone else slid past her.
Harry? Or was it Draco? Anatoli fared even less well, probably owing to his large size. There was
no purchase to be found on the slippery ground.
At the next nauseating lurch of the vessel, he slid away from Hermione without making a sound.
The ship rose to such an extent that the floor seemed momentarily vertical. Hermione was now
falling, with the slick deck at her back. She hurtled towards the ship's metal railings, unable to do
much more than brings her hands up to brace for the impending collision. At about a few feet
before impact, she felt the air leave her body when Draco grabbed her around the waist. It was like
being punched in the stomach. He was holding on to a thick, twisted strand of fairy lights, winding
several tight loops around his forearm and wrist. Just below him, was Harry and Anatoli, both also
holding on to strands of lighting along with the bags they had brought with them from the Manor.
"Do you have her?" she heard Harry roar. He was too far away to grab, which meant group
Apparition was not an option. "Stay where you are! I'll come back for you!" And with that, he
wisely disappeared first with Anatoli.
The ship dipped again.
"Here we go, hang on," Draco said into her ear. Hermione didn't need to be told twice, wrapping
her legs around him. She had no idea what the fairy lights were attached to, but she hoped Amarov
had spared no expense in that regard. If either of them went overboard, Harry could eventually find
them with magic, but he may not be able to do it before they either drowned or froze to death in the
icy water.
Banana lounges, tables and other bits and pieces sailed past them, slamming into the railing or
pitching into the broiling ocean. It was pointless trying to climb back up the rope of lights until the
ocean calmed somewhat, especially since they had no idea if the cables were going to hold.
She blinked rain from her eyes, unable to do much more than look at Draco's infuriatingly calm
face. They were nose to nose, so close she could see the blue flecks in his grey irises. The rifle
slung around his shoulders was jutting painfully into her hip. He had her quite effectively pinned to
the deck, with his right hand around the lights and his left hand grasping the lowest rung of the
railing. She could well imagine how much strength this required.
"Lovely day to be on the ocean," he said, or shouted rather, in order to be heard.
The situation was utterly ridiculous. They'd just mowed through a horde of zombies, using a
combination of spells and gunfire, only to Apparate right into the worst storm Hermione had ever
seen up close.
Could the world, just for one God-damned minute, give them a fucking break? Her hands were
frozen claws, affixed to the front of Draco's sodden coat. She swore so enthusiastically that she felt
him laugh.
Harry returned, appearing nearly on top of them. No time for pleasantries. The ship must have
lurched again, for Hermione felt the familiar queasiness in her stomach. But there was no need to
hold on any longer because Harry deposited the three of them on the floor of Belikov's laboratory.
They lay there for a moment, wet and slightly dazed. Hermione sat up and sneezed three times in
succession.
"Alright?" Harry said, with a small smile.
She was just about to respond when Anatoli doubled over and spewed the contents of his stomach
into the lined trash receptacle that a very astute Belikov was holding out.
The Professor helped her to her feet. "Welcome back, Miss Granger."
"You've caught the start of the second laboratory shift," Belikov explained, as he dug through the
storage cupboards and threw them some white, monogramed towels. "We're working in three
shifts, with overlap at the end of the first. Dr Wallen and Dr McAlister have just finished the
evening shift about half an hour ago. If you go to their rooms, you might still be able to catch them
before they go to sleep. Professor Yoshida is currently on the Rodderick, dispensing treatment."
"What's wrong with the passengers on the Rodderick?" Hermione inquired, thinking it had to be
something fairly serious to require the attentions of the potions master.
"Head lice," Belikov said, smiling. "Stay clear of the ship for the moment, if you can manage it."
The deep back and forth rocking of the vessel was enough to turn the hardiest stomachs. Several of
Belikov's lab team looked green, clutching the edge of their workbenches with white-knuckled
fingers as they tried to get some work done. In the far corner, someone was vomiting into a plastic
bag.
Hermione dropped her towel to the floor, attempting to mop up the copious amounts of water that
had been transported into the laboratory with them. Harry peeled off his jacket and jumper,
announcing that he was heading to his room to get showered and changed. Draco, meanwhile, was
heedless of the fact he was dripping wet as he spoke in low and serious tones with two of the
scientists. One of them was bringing up something to show him on a monitor. It looked like Re-
Gen test results. Hermione was just about to walk over to join him, albeit with a great deal of
slipping and sliding as the ship continued to do its best impression of a seesaw.
Just then, however, a woman pushed through the gawking crowd of scientists, stopping just in front
of Anatoli. It took a moment for Hermione to recognise her—it was Marina, the second mate of the
Cassiopeia and one of the instrumental players in the coup against Amarov. She opened her mouth
to say something, but then seemed to decide against it. For a moment, it looked like she was about
to turn on her heel and storm off, but then appeared to change her mind. Marina was a tall,
formidable looking woman, but even so, the top of her head barely skimmed Anatoli's barrel-like
chest. Undaunted by his size, she swung her hand, seemingly intent on hitting him in the face.
Hermione watched in mild fascination. Marina's hand never met its mark. Anatoli caught her wrist
in mid swing and held it there.
He said something in Russian. Hermione had no hope of deciphering it, but some type of sounds
were universal. This had apology stamped all over it.
Belikov cleared his throat. "Hermione, I don't think you've been formally introduced to Mrs Marina
Berezin."
Hermione shot the elderly scientist a blank look.
"Anatoli's wife," he clarified
"Marina is your wife?" Draco exclaimed, from the opposite side of the lab.
Had Hermione not been on the brink of hypothermia, she might have grinned at how shrill and
incredulous he sounded. He was rarely either of these things.
Anatoli looked aggrieved. "I tell you about her many times!"
"Yes, but you failed to mention she is the same woman who armed Blaise and I when we were in
the Pit! Nor did you mention she was the one responsible for helping us free the fleet!"
A shrug was all Draco got out of Anatoli.
Ever the diplomat, Belikov added, "I believe Anatoli was simply trying to protect his wife."
Everyone, including Marina, stared at Belikov. Marina was clearly not the type of woman that
required much looking after.
Marina was not done being angry with her husband. She unleased on him, alternating between
yelling and shoving at his chest, which, as Hermione had recently experienced, was much like
pushing at an oak tree. The scolding was mostly in Russian, but Hermione managed to grasp the
gist of it. Anatoli had failed to tell his wife that he'd left the hard-earned safety of the fleet to
venture out into zombie infested Wiltshire.
This, as always, was what came of caring about people. Hermione's attention shifted from the
arguing couple, to Draco, who had apparently decided the domestic squabble was no longer worthy
of his attention. He was frowning down at a stack of printed results, occasionally glancing up at
the scientist who was explaining the output. Less than fifteen minutes back in the lab and he had
already put on his scientist hat. He did not enjoy being idle.
She was beginning to understand Draco's reluctance to attach himself to anything or anyone. How
ironic that the scion of one of the magical world's last great Pureblood houses so eschewed
attachment. His early years had been spent amidst great material wealth and an undeniable
fondness for prestige, power and influence. And then the war had descended on all of them,
obliterating childhoods, innocence and certain assumptions about how the world ought to be.
Attachment was weakness, as the Berezins were demonstrating for them right now. The more you
grew attached to something also meant a greater likelihood of eventually coming to rely on it in
some fashion, to depend on it. The more you cared, the more you had to lose. Perhaps Draco was
as much a product of Voldemort as Harry was. The difference between the two men was that
Harry, who had come from nothing, drew strength from the relationships in his life, despite the
obvious risks. For Draco, who had been born with everything, the opposite was true.
Perhaps Draco sensed that he was the subject of Hermione's unexpected musings. He looked up at
her, his light eyes searching. She felt pinned in place, like a frog being dissected.
"Get yourself dry before you freeze," Belikov fussed. "And then a bowl of hot soup, yes?"
Too late, Hermione thought. She was sure she was already frozen to the spot.
"Soup would be heavenly," she admitted, aware that the Professor was looking at her with some
concern. Hard to blame him, really. She'd been shell-shocked the last time she'd seen him. "Don't
worry about me, I know my way around the galley. However, I do have a few things to unload
first, clothing included. Can you direct me to where I'll be staying?"
Belikov looked confused. "With Draco, I assumed? Now that our Magical residents are integrated
into the fleet, space is at a premium. However, we have not reassigned Draco's quarters to anyone
else."
There wasn't enough effective circulation in her face to blush. It really wasn't surprising Belikov
assumed she and Draco were together. After all, for a short while, she had assumed the same thing.
"Of course," she said, with a wan smile.
"Henry treats the cabin as home, you see?" Belikov explained. "We've tried not to cause too much
unnecessary upheaval since he lost his father."
Henry. Dear God. How could she have forgotten about the little boy Blaise had, for some
unfathomable reason, given over to Draco and her to look after. She had so recently been a
complete mess and Draco wasn't exactly the nurturing type. What the hell were they going to do?
"Henry…how is he? Where is he?"
Belikov glanced down at his wristwatch. "He should be at school now."
Hermione was surprised. "I had no idea the fleet had a school. Is that the best place for him to be
right now?"
"There are two non-Magical schools at the moment, to be precise. One for the little ones and we're
still trying to source instructors for the high school. There are three hundred and eighteen children
under the age of sixteen in the fleet, Miss Granger. A third of them are Magical. Most have not set
foot in a classroom for almost two years. As for young Henry, what the boy needs now is some
consistency. He insisted on attending today and we didn't see fit to stop him."
"I'd like to see him."
"The children study on the 'Peia. I'm sure Marina can take you back with her just in time for lunch."
Belikov glanced warily at Anatoli's still-glowering wife. "If you ask nicely."
Draco appeared beside Belikov. He'd by now stripped off his sodden coat and scarf. The spiked
tips of his hair were still dripping water.
"You're going to catch your death of cold," Belikov informed him.
"There's worse things to catch at the moment."
Belikov sighed. "You've seen the data, then."
Hermione glanced between the two men. "What's wrong? Is it Re-Gen? Does it need to be tweaked
again? I can help."
"Re-Gen's not the problem," said Draco, pushing back his wet hair. "It's doing what it's supposed to
do. Based on what I'm seeing here," he held up the notes, "with the help of McAlister, Wallen and
Yoshida. D.R.A.C.O. has been successfully replicated."
"Oh my God," Hermione whispered. She grasped Belikov's arm. "You've done it!"
"Not quite, I'm afraid."
"I don't understand. What's the problem?"
It was Draco who answered. "We have no way to properly test it. Without successful test results,
we have a 'maybe' cure. We need something definitive."
"Why can't we test it?" Hermione took the notes from Draco's hands.
He inclined his head. "See for yourself."
Hermione skim-read through two pages before looking up at the men. "Seeing as I'm not an expert
in virology, all I can gather here is that the virus has mutated to such an extent that using original
samples collected for Project Christmas are no longer appropriate? But I thought D.R.A.C.O. was
broad spectrum? Isn't it meant to work on almost anything?"
"Apparently not on the current strain of virus that we've tested it on. The serum is meant to induce
apoptosis in virus-infected cells," said Draco.
"Cell death."
Draco nodded. He looked at Belikov. "But the success rate is so far…what? Sixty percent?"
"Less, about fifty," said Belikov, tiredly. "But I don't think it's to do with the efficacy of the serum.
I think it's more to do with the fact we don't have a suitable variation of samples on which to
robustly test the cure."
"What are you testing it on?" Hermione asked, frowning. "If not the samples Honoria took from
Grimmauld Place, I wasn't under the impression that you had any Undead left in the fleet to
harvest?"
At this, Draco gave Belikov a pointed look. "I've only just learned the answer to that question. Are
you going to tell her or shall I?"
"Tell me what?" Hermione demanded.
Belikov walked ahead. "Better that I just show you. Come with me, please."
Mercy
The crew of the home ship had been very busy indeed in the short space of time that Draco and
Hermione were away. There was a proper hospital now, in the sense that two large staterooms had
been liberated from their disgruntled, privileged former occupants and now combined to form an
infirmary. Men were treated in one room, women and children in the other.
Belikov took them through the women's infirmary first, which was light, airy and also completely
empty.
"No patients?" Hermione asked. She was glad for it, for it meant the fleet was recovering.
"Nothing urgent at the moment," Belikov replied. "Immediately after the revolt, we were inundated
with everything from malnourishment to abscessed wisdom teeth that needed to be extracted. Dr
Prestin was put to good use. Currently, we still have a few cases of pneumonia. That's about it."
"And head lice," she reminded.
He smiled at her. "And that."
"I trust you have Prestin closely guarded while he works?" Draco inquired.
From Belikov's expression, this was clearly something he took very seriously. "Most assuredly so."
He looked momentarily angry. "I voted against keeping him on the fleet, but the committee had
made its decision. Doctors take an oath, as you know. Prestin is being held to it."
"I'm aware of the Oath," said Draco, referring to the Hippocratic Oath.
"Did you?" Belikov asked. "Take the oath?"
"I never finished my training, remember?"
Behind his spectacles, Belikov's eyes narrowed slightly in sagelike contemplation. "Pity. You
would have made a fine physician, Draco."
"My father would have been so proud."
"He surely would have." Belikov was entirely sincere.
Draco cast Hermione a look of amusement, at the shared, private joke.
It was unsettling when they played at normalcy. Conversations between them that weren't about
work, survival or words spoken out of mere necessity were few and far between. There were
volatile emotions between them, yes, but Hermione wasn't sure if she and Draco were
proper friends, even.
"What's in the next room?" she asked. "You're keeping it locked for some reason?"
Belikov's genial expression dissipated. He took a key card attached to a lanyard from one of his
trouser pockets, and proceeded to unlock the door.
In stark contrast to the previous room, the men's infirmary was shuttered and dark. The air was still
and heavy with familiar magical unguent and regular antiseptic. Belikov switched on the lights,
revealing an identical room, save for a large metal and glass rectangle erected in a corner.
Hermione recognised it as the cell that had been used to house little Eloise Withinshaw for
experimentation.
"You've moved the holding cell here?" she stated.
"Yes. Its modular design made it quite simple to dismantle and put together again."
Draco asked the next sensible question. "And are you planning on keeping anything inside it?"
"It depends," said Belikov.
"On what?"
Belikov walked to a section of the room that was obscured behind white screens, pulling one of the
screens to the side so Draco and Hermione could see the bed that lay beyond.
And the patient that rested upon it.
"On whether he survives."
Hermione hadn't realised she'd been backing away from the bed, until she felt Draco behind her.
His hands settled around her upper arms, steadying her. His grip was almost painful.
Alexander Amarov squinted under the brightness of the lights. He might have brought an arm up to
shade his eyes, except that both arms were fastened to the bed rails by cable ties wrapped with
strips of foam. For his comfort, Hermione assumed.
He looked much as he did the first time she'd seen him, trussed up on the kidnappers' fishing
trawler. Which was to say, he did not look well at all. Amarov was all angles and hollows. One arm
was heavily bandaged up to the shoulder. His eyes were closed now and his breathing was sharp
and shallow.
The shock of seeing him alive gave way to a pressing need for answers. She turned to Belikov,
whom she noticed had put himself between Draco and the patient.
"I am to assume this is an example of your Hippocratic Oath in action?" The cold formality of
Draco's question nearly made Hermione wince. For his part, the elderly scientist looked miserable
to have sprung this on them.
"There will be no killing in my infirmary."
Hermione was startled at the very suggestion, but then she got a look at Draco's expression and
took a cautionary step away from him. He took out his pistol. How ironic that the most frightening
thing in the room at the moment was not the murdering psychopath on the bed, but someone who
was technically meant to be one of the 'good guys'.
"Then it's just as well that I attempted to kill him in the very arena he had designed for that
purpose," Draco seethed. "Why did you pull him out?"
"I didn't save him."
"What do you mean you didn't save him?" Draco demanded, his brows knitting together. "Who did
it?"
Belikov's reply was a wry look.

Draco made an exasperated noise, turning away from them for a moment. His left hand came up,
pressing his closed fist against his forehead. The gun was still in his rigid grip. "Zabini," he
concluded.
Hermione was shocked to learn this. Blaise had more reasons than most, to want Amarov dead.
"What did you do to Amarov and Honoria?" she asked.
It was time to know. Whatever had been done to them, she felt a part of it and would share in the
knowledge, if not the responsibility.
When he didn't immediately answer, she went to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Draco?"
"He did the only thing that made sense at the time," answered a soft, rasping voice.
Amarov was alert now and seemed to be addressing only her.
If the sight of him was enough to temporarily scatter her newly balanced emotions, the sound of
his voice just about tipped her over the edge. In that moment, Hermione felt like she might go
under again. She fought the urge to draw in great, gulping breaths. The light in the room began to
take on a sparkling quality. Suddenly, she was lightheaded.
And then she felt Draco take her chin in his free hand and raise her head so that she was forced to
look at him or close her eyes. So she looked. He said nothing, merely stared at her with an intense,
silver gaze that took her breath away for all the wrong reasons.
It was just like that stolen moment they had shared in the empty cabin, after she had saved Belikov
and Wallen in the Pit. She knew, in that moment, that all she had to do was give him the most
subtle indication and he would put a bullet between Alexander Amarov's febrile, gimlet blue eyes.
It was madness for anyone to have that kind of influence, to be able to make that call.
Yet she could not deny the distant, muted, scream that was still buried deep inside her. The one
that was fuelled by revenge and bloodlust. She couldn't yet utter Padma's name without it feeling
like a punch to the gut.
Hermione tore her gaze away from Draco, unwilling to be further tempted by the dark promise held
there.
"Mr Malfoy," Amarov said, filling the heavy silence. "It's good to see you again under much
more….civil circumstances. Vadim, you can stop dancing on eggshells now. I don't think he's
going to kill me in your infirmary." Amarov glanced down briefly at the gun that was still in
Draco's hand. "At least not at the minute."
Draco gave Belikov a haughty look. "A word, Professor? In private?"
"Certainly," said Belikov, looking like he'd been expecting it.
"I'll take her back to the cabin first," Draco said. It didn't sound like a suggestion.
Hermione was immediately irked. "'Her' would like to stay for the moment, thank you."
"I'd like to speak to Vadim," Draco emphasised. What he meant to say was I'd like to speak to
Belikov about sensitive, Amarov-related matters without an emotionally fragile woman in the
room.
"Then do so," she replied, coolly.
He was not easily swayed. "Will you wait outside for me?"
"No. I'd like a word with Amarov, actually."
Draco looked at her as if she'd grown a second head. "I am not leaving you alone in a room
with him." She wondered if Draco was aware that he was pointing wildly with his gun.
"'Him' is in no state to hurt anyone," Amarov spoke up. He coughed from the effort. The sound was
sickly and hollow. "Vadim can verify this."
Three pairs of eyes turned to Belikov, who said, simply. "Alexander is dying."
"Why the hell did Zabini let him out?" Draco demanded of Belikov, who was glad that the young
man had put his gun back into its holster.
They were standing outside the infirmary, trying (and failing) to keep their voices down. People
walked past them on their way to the lab or to the other floors, casting alarmed, furtive glances
mainly in Draco's direction.
Belikov shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. If I am correct in our assessment of Mr Zabini's
motives, I'd say he wasn't entirely in agreement with your plan to execute Alexander and Miss
Cloot. He decided that speaking to you about it at the time was going to be, er, spectacularly
unproductive, shall I say?"
"Among his many other heinous crimes, that genocidal lunatic you are wasting your precious time
on, is responsible for the deaths of dozens of his own people and more of mine, including Blaise's
own wife. He put you into the Pit to be ripped to pieces by Felix Wallen, who prior to that, had
been tortured by Amarov's men. I don't understand what Blaise was thinking."
"There is another theory that might explain his actions. A more acceptable one, perhaps?"
Draco's frown deepened. "Go on."
"We needed a viable test subject who was currently infected, but had not turned. You had one at
your London laboratory. Was Mr Zabini aware of that fact?"
"Yes, I'd mentioned it to him." The young wizard blinked. "Our subject was a wizard named
Ronald Weasley."
"I've read the notes," Belikov said. "You were able to test Re-Gen on this Mr Weasley."
"Until it stopped working." Draco narrowed his eyes. "You said you had no means to test
the serum, not Re-Gen. Why haven't you administered it to Amarov?"
"Mind you, we didn't think we required a live, Infected subject to test the serum on until recently.
Prior to that we'd been using simulations and the Infection samples from your London team. I'll
have you know that Mr Zabini only retrieved Alexander after he was aware we needed a live host.
But Alexander was severely maimed in the Pit. His injuries were substantial and the spread of the
Infection has been vastly accelerated in him. Re-Gen is doing what it can, but unless he stabilises,
he is going to eventually turn. However, giving him the cure before he is fit enough to receive it
will almost certainly kill him."
Belikov did not like the look on Draco's face. "Indeed?" Draco said, a dark blond eyebrow rising.
"Such absolutism from a man of science. How can you be so sure?"
"I am sure."
"And I am of a mind to test that surety."
"If we kill him now, for no other reason than out of spite, we may never have another subject to
work with!"
"I am not asking you to do it out of spite," Draco hissed. "We have three weeks to deliver Re-Gen
and a working cure to the Americans, or those bombs will fall. We don't have the time!"
"Young man, I am aware of the ever present deadline! Believe me when I tell you that I think of
nothing else!"
"Then how long are you willing to wait?"
"Give us one week," Belikov said, exasperated and slightly deflated. "Let us reassess Alexander's
suitability then. If he recovers marginally, we will have a near-viable subject to test on."
They were silent for a moment, as Draco contemplated the idea. "No," he finally said. "I will
acquire someone for you before then."
Belikov was aghast. "You're going back to the mainland to…to find a volunteer from among the
still living? Are you mad?"
"I am not mad," Draco snapped, surprisingly (and almost amusingly defensive), "there were tests in
prison."
The Professor tried a different approach. "Even if you manage to find suitable volunteers in time,
all of you barely survived your last excursion to London. Mr Zabini did not survive at all!"
"I will not be making the same mistakes that Blaise did."
"Now it is you who is sure of yourself. Mr Zabini rendered his son an orphan when he left us. And
you are proposing to risk doing that to Henry all over again?"
Mention of Draco's responsibilities with regards to Henry Zabini clearly caught him off-guard.
Belikov surmised this was mostly because Draco wasn't used to having to care about other people.
"Henry has Hermione," came the clipped, icy response.
It was time to take the kid gloves off. "And who will she have if you don't make it back?"
Hermione was at her best when she was occupied and felt useful. Like Draco, idleness did not suit
her. During the war, her superiors had known that it was always a good idea to give Hermione
Granger a task. Failing that, she would create one. And quite often, Hermione Granger's initially
modest research tasks evolved into major missions that required Harry Potter, a team of Aurors and
at least an eighty-percent chance of success.
Accordingly, she didn't stand around and wait for Draco and Belikov to return, or for the inevitable
stomach somersaults to assail her while she remained alone in the room with Amarov. Padma had
trained her well when it came to looking after Ron. Hermione set to work reading the chart
attached to the foot of Amarov's bed, so that she could learn more about the treatment protocol that
was being administered. What she read gave credence to Belikov's claim that Amarov was truly in
a bad way. His arm had been savaged. In fact, Hermione wondered why they simply hadn't
amputated the partially eaten limb.
Dr Prestin and Belikov had done their best to stabilise Amarov's vital signs, but they were
fluctuating. His organs were probably failing. The first dose of Re-Gen had been administered long
after the recommended time frame (which was within twelve hours of being Infected). This
indicated that Amarov had been in the Pit for quite a few days.
An eternity, almost, when you were being eaten alive.
She peeled off her wet jumper, leaving only a blue tank top underneath. Amarov watched her as she
quickly braided her hair and secure the ends with bits of twine. She pulled on two sets of gloves, a
face mask and a clean set of surgical scrubs from the supply cabinets. He was silent as she went
through her observations, writing them down on his chart.
"What do you suppose they're discussing?" he said, eventually. His voice lacked the vigour and
clarity Hermione remembered from before the coup. But there was nothing lacking in his gaze. It
still had a predatory quality about it.
Hermione found she couldn't be bothered putting up a front. "A number of things, probably," she
said, as she took his blood pressure. "But I imagine Vadim is trying very hard to convince Draco
not to shoot you."
"What would you do with me?"
She shrugged. "Use you to test the serum. If they're not intending to already."
"I volunteered for that."
"Really?" she said, with a snort. "How noble of you to put your hand up for the cure when you're
already Infected."
"Alas, Vadim informs me I am too weak to survive it."
That would explain why Belikov had said earlier that they still did not have a means to properly
test the cure, Hermione thought, with a small frown. That had to be what the two men were
discussing outside. This was bad news. She would pry more details from Belikov later. Perhaps if
Re-Gen was able to sufficiently stabilise him? But there was so little time…
"May I have some water?" he rasped, eyeing a glass on the side-table.
It would have been so easy to inflict what small doses of suffering she could upon him, but there
was no satisfaction to be found in torturing an already deathly ill man. Too, it was not in her.
There was a covered pitcher of water on the table. She filled the glass and lifted his head so he
could drink. He drank some, but was waylaid by a coughing fit. Hermione wiped the water at his
mouth and waited until he'd recovered. Even through her gloves, she could feel his fever. His chart
indicated that he'd already been given a great deal of drugs to bring down his temperature—enough
to kill a horse, in fact. It wasn't enough. She took some small cloths from a drawer, and then
searched for and found first-aid ice packs in the fridge. After wrapping the ice packs with the
cloths, and kneading the bundles to make them as malleable as possible, she placed two alongside
his neck. One was laid across his forehead and two more slipped under his knees. She remembered
how Ron had suffered with the excruciating joint paint when he'd been feverish in the early days of
his Infection. The ice had relieved this, somewhat.
Amarov shuddered. His eyes squeezed shut. "Thank you. That feels…ah, thank you."
"What happened to Honoria?" she asked, her voice flat.
He sucked in a rattling breath. It made Hermione very uneasy as she typically associated that sound
with being far too close for comfort to a zombie.
"She saved my life."
"How?"
He smiled now. It was a rueful smile. She could easily discern his past beauty, though it now lay in
ruins. "By being eaten first. Have you ever seen a zombie feed, Hermione? No, I don't mean as
you're fighting them off, or running away from them, but have you ever stopped to actually
watch…."
She correctly sensed the question was rhetorical and so gave no reply.
He continued. "We think of them as mindless beasts, but when they're not in a frenzy, they're
actually quite, well, methodical. Mr Malfoy doesn't do anything by mistake, you realise? Honoria
and I were tied to our chairs and placed at exactly the same distance from the creature. It was
always going to be a matter of chance as to whom it would consume first."
Hermione was relieved to discover that she still had it in her to be horrified at the details of
Amarov's intended execution, though she tried her best not to let this leach through to her voice.
"And I suppose Honoria lost?"
Amarov nodded.
"She loved you," Hermione said, thinking that perhaps she did have it in her to torture, after all.
"Did she ever tell you that?"
It was remarkable how little this appeared to move him. Or perhaps appearances were deceiving.
"Yes."
"She betrayed her own people for you."
"Yes."
He turned away for a moment. "It seemed like she was screaming forever. I can still hear it."
Hermione's voice was hard and brittle when she spoke. "I'm somewhat familiar with that sound."
"I imagine you are," he whispered, with eyes that were now glistening. "And when the thing had
had its fill, it lapsed into a sort of hibernation."
"We used to call it 'powering down'," Hermione said, wondering why she was bothering to have
any kind of practical conversation with him. "Once sated, or what passes for satiation, it's
counterproductive for the creatures to keep hunting or feeding until they burst. They turn still and
silent."
He swallowed audibly. "At the time, I assumed it was salvation, but it was just a temporary stay of
execution. Two days later, it roused itself and came for me." There was a short, humourless bark of
laughter. "And then it was I who did the screaming."
"Until Blaise came."

"Until he came," Amarov agreed. His voice was mostly a whisper now. She strained to hear him.
"Did he say anything to you?" She asked. Hermione knew Draco would want to know the precise
circumstances by which his friend had acted against Draco's wishes.
Amarov hesitated.
Hermione pulled a chair close to bed and sat on it. This was potentially valuable information and
she meant to get it out of him.
"Tell me," she said, softening her voice.
"He said something to me, but I have not told Vadim."
She had to lean in close, to be able to hear him now. There were tiny broken veins all across his
pale face. The skin around his eyes was sunken and paper thin. She had seen the same thing
happen to Ron.
"Why?"
"It suited me to have Belikov think that Blaise Zabini saved me because of his conscience."
"How do you know it wasn't that?"
"I know, my dear Hermione, because as Zabini dragged me from the Pit, as I saw bits of my own
torn flesh falling off of me, he said to me, 'This is not mercy'. I assume he felt Malfoy had been too
soft on me, you see? He thought I deserved a far worse fate for what I had done to him, to his
family, to your people. He wanted me to be a lab rat, at best, or to turn slowly, at worst." Amarov
contemplated this. "Although I may actually have that the wrong way around…."
Another series of coughs racked through him. Hermione stood at the ready with the glass of water,
when he beckoned for it.
"Thank you," he said, shutting his eyes. And then much more softly, "You smell like the rain."
When he opened his eyes again, she saw a familiar covetousness there, only now it was tempered
by suffering. "Have you ever seen someone turn right before your eyes?"
"I have," she said, against her better judgement.
"Tell me." Now there was fear.
Hermione thought about how best to describe it. She thought about the Herculean conflict, the
battle she had seen raging within Ron and his heartbreaking terror at the realisation that he was
losing. She been so close to him when it happened; could have counted the freckles on his face.
"You can see it leave their eyes," she said, in a voice that sounded faraway to her.
"See what?" he asked. "Life?"
She nodded. "Their humanity."
Amarov reflected on this. After a while, he said, "I'm sorry."
"For?"
"Everything. It means less than nothing to you now, of course, but let it be known—I am sorry."
"It won't change anything," she replied.
"I know," agreed Amarov. "Has your opinion of Malfoy changed, though, I wonder? Now that you
know what he did to me and Honoria?"
"No," she said, and she knew that he could see right through that lie. It was either a great talent of
his, or maybe a particular skill he had developed when it came to her, specifically.
"He's like me, you know? A product of necessity. We are monsters." He smiled. "The other thing
we have in common…is you."
"You don't have me," she said, hating the tremor in her voice.
"True," he nodded, and she had never seen him so earnest, or try to be so earnest, "It's not for lack
of trying. And unfortunately, I tried to take what I had no right to." He gave her an assessing look.
"Has he? Had you?"
The question ought not to have disturbed her so profoundly, but it did. Suddenly, she greatly
regretted engaging him. Even at death's door, he was not toothless. He'd been trying to unsettle her
the whole time.
He processed her silence, looking at her with something that looked disturbingly like pity. "I see.
It's not an easy thing, is it?"
"What?" she managed to say.
"To be just like Honoria. And me. To love someone who doesn't want it."
Henry
Draco stood over the sleeping boy, watching for the space of a minute, two minutes.
Henry's little chest rose and fell under a duvet. Occasionally, he twitched in his sleep. The ship
engines hummed powerfully in the background, soothing in their constancy, a tangible reminder of
safety and control in a world where these things were in short supply. Breakdown meant potential
catastrophe. The fleet was life.
The sleeping arrangements were thus: Henry slept on one end of the modular, L-shaped leather
lounge. Draco occupied the other end, though he mostly slept on a musty, fold-out sofa that
Anatoli had dragged into the laboratory.
The cabin's king-sized bed was occupied, after much hesitation, by Hermione. She had anticipated
that Henry would share it with her, but there was a lot about little Henry that people were getting
very wrong lately.
Draco walked to the edge of the bed, looking down at the sleeping woman. The enormous bed
made her look even smaller. Hermione was squashed up against one side, probably on the odd
chance that Henry would wake up in the middle of the night and crawl in with her. Draco was
under no illusions that all the extra space was for him.
There was always too much space. Too much space to fill with actions that were pointless and
words that had become meaningless. All that sustained and connected them now was the work, and
the little boy that Blaise Zabini had left in their charge.
In the darkness, Hermione was all neat profile and outlined curls, sleeping on her back with one
hand up beside her face, palm facing the ceiling, fingers gently curled. As always, it was difficult
to curtail the powerful, elemental urge to touch her, but Draco was adept at dealing with the
difficult. The sensation had been mastered within the first few days at Grimmauld Place (with
occasional lapses). It lived just under his skin, with roots extending deeper into parts of him that
were seldom accessed and were utterly useless (if not detrimental) to his survival.
"Hi," said a small voice at his side. Henry was now wide awake and sitting up in his bedding. He
was watching Hermione, too, because she was the reassuring 'night light' that Henry would never
admit to needing, but looked to in the darkness, nevertheless.
It was a cold, hollow feeling for Draco when he recognised the expression on the little boy's
face. Longing. Also, fear at the prospect of forming any further attachments, because that exposed
you to the pain of loss. And Henry had so recently lost everything. Protective mechanisms had
kicked in. It would take a long while yet before he learned to temper that aspect of him. Of course
the tragedy was that such feelings needed to be schooled at all.
"You should be sleeping," Draco whispered. Previously a precocious chatterbox, now it was hard
enough to get even a few words out of him. For some reason, however, Henry didn't seem to mind
talking to Draco.
"Are you going to the lab now?"
Draco nodded as he sat on a chair to pull on his boots. "It's my shift."
Henry resumed looking at Hermione. Draco took this as his que to attempt a tentative, verbal
nudge.
"It'll be much more comfortable in the bed. There's plenty of room. Why don't you climb in?"
After the space of several breaths and an almost comically enormous sigh, Henry said, "No, thank
you."
"She's waiting for you."
"I know," he replied, sounding much too old in that moment. Henry wrinkled his nose and pulled
the covers up higher. "Maybe later, if it gets really cold…"
There was hope yet for the boy. After all, it took tremendous willpower to remain impassive in the
face of Hermione Granger's persistent affections.
There was a phrase Hermione had once heard her mother's best friend, Agnes, say. Agnes had been
newly separated from her husband at the time, which meant many weekend afternoons in the
Granger family kitchen, crying into the cups of tea her mother kept pouring (or Chardonnay, if
there was less time to dinner then there was since lunch).
"It's impossible!"
"It will get better," consoled Mrs Granger. A young Hermione sat at the kitchen table, eating or
reading or playing, but still listening with mild interest to the adult conversation.
Agnes wept. "It's parallel parenting, Monica! We are ships in the night when it comes to raising
Daniel."
It was apparently Agnes' weekend with her baby. Daniel often sat in Hermione's old, wicker high
chair, at the table, chewing on anything within reach, or eating cake. Hermione remembered very
little about the boy, except that he'd been perpetually sticky, even after a bath. She didn't like
sharing her toys with him.
'Ships in the night' was not quite how she and Draco were looking after Henry. There was contact
and communication, although it was perfunctory. How odd, thought Hermione. She and Draco
were not married, had no children of their own and yet there they were, effectively sharing custody.
Equally odd was having to work according to someone else's lab roster. Traditionally, Hermione
was the Patron Saint of Roster and Timetables. Not here, though. Belikov took charge. Mindful of
their child rearing duties, the Professor had not rostered Hermione and Draco on the same shift.
Therefore, Hermione spent most of the daylight hours with Henry, as he accompanied her on
general fleet errands, for there was no excuse for any fleet resident to remain idle in this new
iteration of fleet management.
Six days in and everything was still so new and raw. She looked now, at Henry, as he ate lunch
with her in the galley. He was dressed in clean clothing and shoes that fit. His beautiful, wild hair
had been recently rendered more manageable. Hermione had learned, belatedly, that it was not to
be combed. She suspected Henry knew all about that, but had said nothing to her as he'd sat in front
of the mirror and endured Hermione's well intentioned ministrations.
There was no joy in the food he ate, and by all accounts, it was good food today – freshly made
chicken meatballs in canned, marinara sauce, served with rice because the fleet cooks were only
just making and drying a new batch of pasta. He ate just enough so that he wouldn't be nagged to
have some more. And then he returned to his drawings. Caring for little Henry involved a lot of
protracted silences, throat clearing and asking if he needed or wanted anything. Hermione felt
hopelessly inept. There was no precedent to rely on, no data to crunch numbers that were hard-
earned from trial and error.
And it was all error, frankly.
She wanted to ask Draco how he was managing things. Was he doing any better with Henry? Did
he have any insights to impart?
They were not parents, so parenting was not quite what they aimed for. Henry certainly deserved it,
but Hermione felt that the title was something you earned from a child, rather than a pair of shoes
that fate decreed you filled.
When Henry wasn't at kindergarten or was Hermione's tiny shadow as she helped organize the
fleet, he stayed in their cabin and drew in his dog-eared exercise book. Or he drew in the galley,
seated at the empty tables after the breakfast crowd had cleared out.
She called him 'sweetheart' and 'love' and other endearments that rolled off her tongue with
surprising and sincere ease. She enveloped him in many unsolicited hugs, searching his solemn
little face for….she didn't know what, really. This seemed to be the least she could do. Henry was
impassive, reserved and was possessed of manners that were so tragically out of place. This was not
progress. Four-year old boys were not supposed to be like this, but then Hermione resigned herself
to the fact that the world in general was not supposed to be like it currently was.
Harry entered the galley just then, taking a seat across from Hermione and Henry.
"Anatoli said I'd find you here." Harry peered into Henry's half eaten bowl of lunch. "Hullo, Henry.
Nice drawing."
Not even the close attention of Harry Potter could coax a smile from the little boy, but his manners
were impeccable. "Thank you," replied Henry, shyly.
"You're all done with your food?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry's appetite was the stuff of legends. The child nodded without
looking up from his drawing, sliding the bowl across to Harry, who quickly speared a meatball
with a fork.
In a much lower tone of voice, he spoke to Hermione, "We're approaching Taransay Island in about
ten minutes. Belikov wants you up on deck. I'm not sure what wards they've got now, so it would
be good if we had you on standby to advise us if anything goes awry."
Hermione cast a glance at Henry. Equally softly, she replied, "Someone will need to mind him."
"Malfoy will do it."
She frowned. "Draco's just finished a sixteen hour shift. He's in no state."
The bowl of meatballs and rice was now completely spotless, which ought to have been impossible
given that Harry had been using a fork. It was a talent.
"Belikov's just gone to wake him up. He can handle a couple more hours. Drop Henry off at your
cabin and then meet me upstairs."
It was unlike Harry to be so brusque. Hermione could see the tension on his face. He was worried.
She covered his hand with her own. "Taransay's fine, Harry. I wouldn't be surprised to know
they've been thriving. Ginny and everyone will be quite well. You'll see for yourself."
"I know," he said, slightly sheepish. He stood, ruffling Henry's abundant hair. "Thanks for lunch."
This time, Harry earned some eye-contact. Hermione repressed the urge to feel slightly envious.
When Harry was gone, Henry turned to speak to her. "Am I to go to the man now?"
It was a reminder that despite how withdrawn Henry appeared to be, he heard everything you said
and understood most of it.
"Yes," she said, touching his arm.
Hermione was curious and not a little dismayed to see the look of relief on his little face.
Minutes later, Draco answered the cabin door barefoot, with wet hair, dressed only in a pair of fresh
trousers. He bypassed any form of greeting towards Hermione, going straight to Henry instead.
"Got some new art for me?" Draco inquired. Despite his recent shower, he looked terrible. His face
bore the stamp of severe exhaustion.
Henry seemed to consider the request, squirming a little on the spot, because even grown-ups
found it difficult to hold Draco Malfoy's unwavering gaze for very long. Even if Draco did look like
he was liable to fall asleep against the door jam.
But Hermione knew from experience that Henry was unlikely to engage. He would not respond, he
would—
"Yeah, I've done three drawings," came the reply. "Four, if you count the one the wolfman helped
me colour in…"
Hermione stared with disbelief. That was more than ten words in a row.
"His name is Felix, Henry. Not 'the wolfman'."
"Sorry. Felix," Henry corrected.
"We're slowing down," Draco said to her. The change in tone, the timbre of his voice did odd
things to her nerve endings.
They shared a cabin together, slept meters apart from each other and were effectively raising a
child together. And she hadn't been this close to him, nor spoken to him properly, in days.
"What?" she blurted, suddenly stuck for words.
He spoke again, sounding oddly gentle. "The engines are slowing down. We've arrived in the Outer
Hebrides."
Right. They were at Taransay. "Yes," she said, pushing back her untied hair. "I should probably
get up there."
"You're wanted," he agreed. Hermione wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement. She avoided
his eyes. That searching, silver gaze had a palpable weight to it. The trouble was the only other
thing she could fix her eyes on were the latticed scars across his torso.
"I'm not sure how long I'll be."
"Take as long as you need." He smiled then, but it was for Henry's benefit and Hermione didn't
need a Masters degree in Draco Malfoy to know it went no further than his face. "We've got plenty
to occupy us, don't we, Henry?"
Again, miraculously, Henry peeked out of his grief-stricken shell. "Uhuh."
"You need to rest," she insisted. Or perhaps 'advised' was a better word. No one had yet worked out
how to tell Draco to do anything he didn't want to.
"I'll survive," he replied, and then Henry was ushered inside the room. With a parting look, Draco
shut the door.
More than a little discombobulated, Hermione stood outside the cabin, much like she'd done the
night Draco had had his first bath at Grimmauld Place. This time, she would not be seeking out
Kate McAlister's private supply of scotch whiskey. Instead, she sucked in a few calming breaths
before setting off for the elevator.
Yes, Draco would survive, but she wondered what it would take for him to want more than mere
survival. By the time she arrived above-deck, however, all thoughts of Draco were pushed from her
mind.
As if the wild, wet and icy Hebridean wind wasn't enlivening enough, there was a bit of a kerfuffle.
"What's wrong?" she called out to Harry, who had just dismounted from his broom, landing on the
deck in a jog. Many other crew members were present, dressed as if they were embarking on an
Arctic expedition. Hermione realized she was severely under-dressed and was thankful when Harry
touched her shoulder with his wand and quickly muttered a water-repelling charm.
Marina approached Belikov, ostensibly from her navigational position on the bridge.
"It is gone!" she shouted.
"What's gone?" Hermione demanded, looking between Marina and Harry.
Harry replied. "Taransay Island. The whole island isn't showing up on the ship instruments. I just
did a fly-by, there's nothing out there but waves and froth."
Belikov was baffled. "What do you mean it's gone? How does one misplace an entire island?"
Hermione worked it out fairly quickly "It's not misplaced. Taransay's been Warded. I can't blame
them, after what happened when that barge of zombies ran aground. They're probably using some
kind of Dislocation Spell, considering they're not even showing up on radar. It will redirect
everything around the entire mass of the Island."
"Can the spell redirect nuclear fallout?" Harry wondered. It was an idea worth pondering.
"Probably not, and it's certainly not an experiment anyone could safely run in time."
Belikov rubbed at his furrowed brow. "This…spell. It can make the Island disappear?"
"Not disappear," Harry clarified, "it's just been rendered invisible to detection."
"Can they see?" Marina asked. "Can they hear?"
Hermione nodded. "I'd wager they can see and hear us just fine, although it will be a challenge in
this weather." She looked at Harry. "Perhaps the same Quidditch fireworks display you used at
Malfoy Manor might be suitable in this instance?"
Still looking rather grim, Harry held his wand up. "Go, go, Gryffindor."
Reflections
Ginny Weasley's first week on the fleet was productively spent.
She allowed herself only three hours alone with Harry in this cabin, before throwing herself into
work. Surprisingly, there was minimal grumbling from Harry about this. There was also no sex,
despite the fact Ginny was as keen as ever. The joy of being reunited with him again was so acute,
it hurt.
This jubilation had quickly transformed into an insatiable need to have him in any way she could
manage. But alas, it was not to be. They cuddled and talked instead. No fireworks, metaphorically
speaking. Oh, the horrible things she'd imagined had happened to him…the anger and resentment
she'd felt because he'd once again done whatever the hell he'd wanted, without consulting her.
These were their perennial issues.
Harry was the hero and Ginny was pigeonholed into the role of hapless love interest with no real
agency, good sense or say in the matter. Served him right that she'd dumped his arse no less than
four times already, and this included one declined proposal for marriage.
But now, things were different. Now, the stakes were so damned high, their personal problems felt
trivial in comparison. Ginny wondered if this was what it was like to be Hermione, who
encompassed two and a half Harrys in terms of personal responsibility.
Harry had held her close and tight. He was depleted in energy and in spirit after he updated her
regarding recent events. Ginny was strong, but she not made of stone. She'd gone through most of a
box of tissues by the time he finished telling her about the horrors of the fleet prior to its liberation,
and about Padma and Blaise, and about what Hermione endured at the hands of Alexander
Amarov.
"Where is he being kept?" Ginny had asked, in a deceptively neutral tone. Her mind was a black-
blooded swirling mess of knives, broken glass and other sharp things.
Harry gave her a canny look. "Why do you want to know?"
"Just curious."
A snort was his initial reply. Harry read her easily enough. "You sound about as convincing as
Agent Richards when he asked the same question."
"The Cowboy is recovering well?"
"I think so. He's calling me 'kid' again."
"Almost back to normal, then," Ginny concluded.
Harry grabbed her chin so that she would look at him. "Leave Amarov be. If we were allowed to
damage him further, he'd be dead by my own bare hands, already. That is, if Richards doesn't get to
him first. Malfoy's already had a turn. Belikov says we need Amarov. There's a lot more work to be
done on the cure."
Yes, Ginny had overheard Belikov consulting with Wallen and Professor Yoshida earlier in the
day. The lab work was not going well. They'd hit a wall, Belikov said. Amarov was not shaping
out to be an ideal test subject, unlike Ron had been, back at Grimmauld Place. They were having
trouble simply keeping Amarov alive.
Despite the similarities in their predicament, no one spoke about Ron's role at Grimmauld Place.
Ginny had long ago consoled herself with the fact that Ron would have wanted to help. That meant
something. Saying they'd 'used' him would be an insult to her brave brother. He'd absolutely have
insisted on contributing to the creation of a cure. Who among them would have not wanted their
death to actually mean something, when so many millions had died for nothing already?
Thinking of her brother still felt agonising. The pain was physical and metaphysical. The state of
the world kept her very occupied, which was why the quiet moments were the worst. If you kept
busy, the grief had trouble tracking you down and overtaking you. Hermione had told her this,
when Ginny had confessed her inability to deal with the fact that Ron was terminally ill.
Sometimes, Ginny disliked Hermione for her practical stoicism. Harry felt the same way. It wasn't
that Hermione didn't feel. She felt very deeply. It was that she made the rest of them look like self-
indulgent twats in the way she managed to shove her feelings into compartments to deal with at a
later point.
Thankfully there was more than enough to do. Ginny saw the strain on Draco Malfoy's face, as he
pushed himself nearly to the point of collapse. She and Malfoy hadn't engaged in a single
conversation since she'd joined the fleet, and this suited Ginny just fine. She didn't like Malfoy.
Never did, never would. Whatever was going on between Draco and Hermione (even Harry was at
a loss to explain it) was serious, however. Serious-bad or serious-good? Ginny had no idea and
Harry was terrible at speculating about romantic entanglements. All she knew was that Draco and
Hermione had surpassed some kind of breaking point. You got the sense that an explosion was
long overdue, but was on hold because the cure was the priority. How very Hermione-like, Ginny
mused, rather uncharitably. Ginny wondered if they knew they were holding back a hurricane.
Hermione was juggling her tasks in the lab while looking after a small, traumatised child. Both
jobs required a level of attention and commitment that made Ginny shudder to imagine. Having
children was not something she or Hermione thought about very much. It was a ludicrous notion
while they'd been fighting Voldemort. It seemed no less ridiculous now. Ginny didn't know a lot
about kids. This may have had something to do with being the youngest in her family. No nappies
to change, no younger siblings to watch while her mother sorted out the ironing. Hermione
probably had scant experience, too. However, she was good at most things and Ginny got the sense
that her friend was baffled about how to handle Henry. Which was ironic because by all accounts,
Henry Zabini was the world's easiest child.
Ginny saw the subtle despair on the faces of Kate McAllister, Professor Yoshida, Felix Wallen and
Belikov. It made her once again glad that she was not a sodding genius and was not relied upon to
create miracles in test tubes. Word of the failed cure was spreading fast. Many felt that the fleet
should pull anchor and sail as far away from the impending fallout as quickly as possible. Others
felt that the Americans needed to be reached, somehow, and reasoned with. Some
actually wanted the bombs to fall. Most who felt this way were Magical, not living in the UK and
did not harbour the same inherent horror and fear of nuclear warfare as the Muggles did.
In the past week, two smaller vessels were emptied, their Muggle inhabitants reassigned to other
ships in order to accommodate the transfer of all of Taransay Island's mostly magical refugees.
Ginny appreciated that it was a difficult time for all. Trust was a precious commodity. While the
fleet was by now used to the novelty of Harry and his wand, hundreds of wand-bearing wizards
and witches was another thing altogether.
Professor Belikov was the fleet's elder statesman and was in high demand, but his attention was
required in the laboratory. Accordingly, he assigned Harry, an enormous former security guard
who introduced himself as Anatoli, and Marina, a stern-faced ship pilot, to the task of resettling the
refugees. After making sure her family was settled in, Ginny assisted however she could, whether
this involved transporting supplies between ships or soothing nerves. It helped that she was female,
perceived to be unthreatening and not prone to holding her wand out as if expecting a horde of
rabid Muggles to attack.
The same could not be said for all the magical refugees.
"Mr Barnes, either you stash your wand or I'm going to do it for you. And you're not going to like
where I put it," said Ginny, through clenched teeth. Several Muggle children and their alarmed
mother were within earshot.
The man she'd addressed was clutching a carpet bag of Reduced belongings as if anticipating their
confiscation at any moment.
"What if they—"
"What if we left you on Taransay?" she countered, her impatience evident. "Would that suit you
better?"
He gulped. "No."
"Then stop using your wand to punctuate sentences."
Barnes stowed away his wand, still looking uncertain. Uncertainty was fine. Ginny could handle
that. Mutinous was another matter.
Several of the younger wizards were not enjoying being told what to do by their Muggle peers.
Minor scuffles had broken out. Nothing major. A few cases of, "Oh yeah, are you going to make
me?" followed by shoving and shirt-fronting. Neville and a dozen other more level-headed wizards
had volunteered to permanently remain on the refugee vessels to maintain law and order.
As tetchy as the newcomers were, they were subdued by the sheer, imposing scale and spectacle of
the fleet. Ginny reminded herself that many of the magical folk had never been out on the ocean,
let alone amidst such modern Muggle technology and amenities. It would take a while for
everyone to get used to everything, and each other.
As always, it was the women who provided an undercurrent of stability and calm. Ginny saw their
initial, goggle-eyed expressions, but they rather efficiently got on with life. Bedding was organised.
Children needed to be cleaned and fed of an evening. Meals were prepared. No matter how
disgruntled, the men were kept busy with tasks, asked to fetch this or do that. By the end of the
first week, kids were giggling and playing tag in the corridors, teenagers were making calf eyes at
each other, grandparents were tucking grandchildren into clean beds, on full stomachs. No one had
been dragged off and set alight (some idiot had been spreading tales of the Salem witch trials). No
one had to pay for their room and board with their own valuables. No one had been harmed or
molested in any way.
And everyone had been allowed to keep their wands.
Ginny could well appreciate how anxious this must have made the Muggles. It was testament to
Belikov's positive influence and leadership that such trust had been extended to the magical
contingent of the fleet. It would not do to abuse this trust in any way. There had already been
enough tragedy and violence.
It was sundown. Malfoy would have left his cabin to start his night shift in the labs. It was time to
run a special errand. Ginny stopped by the cabin occupied by her parents and George. There were a
few moist looks shared between Ginny and Molly when the small bundle was handed over, but
they agreed it was the best use of Ron's wand.
Ginny delivered it to Hermione.
Henry had gone to sleep in the late afternoon, tired by a week's worth of excitement brought on by
the fleet's newest residents. The fleet now housed just under a thousand children. Friendships were
already forming in the midst of games and play. Oh, the resilience or children, Hermione thought,
as she glanced towards Henry's sleeping form. They were a marvel, to be sure.
The Taransay ships, as the rest of the fleet were now calling them, had been filled and stocked and
were now an established part of the fleet. There was a new normal and it included an almost even
number of Magical and Muggle fleet residents. There'd been a few hot collars to begin with, but
everyone had settled down with admirable patience.
Hermione spread a box of notes before her on the bed. Unwilling to disturb Henry's sleep, she'd
only left a single lamp on. This was not ideal for reading, but her eyes had adjusted after a while.
She read for hours, until a headache threatened to split her head in two. She drank some water and
reached for a small packet of paracetamol in the bedside drawer. The headaches were new, as was
her sudden ability to detect smells that previously had never bothered her before. But then, she
paused. On the table was Ron's wand, having been delivered to the cabin personally by Ginny
earlier that evening. Hermione picked up the wand and placed the tip against her temple, casting a
simple pain-relieving spell.
It felt like heaven to use magic once more. Prickly, electric, heaven. She wanted to bathe in the
feeling, to curl into a ball and quietly soak up the kaleidoscopic feelings that travelled from her
hand, up her arm, across both arms, to her body, seeming to rush back to her core and then expand
outwards again, connecting with something in the ether and awaiting her mind to focus on another
spell.
After Ginny had left, Hermione tried almost a dozen spells, feeling gluttonous and delirious. Of
course, Ron's wand felt like Ron, so all the spell casting culminated in a few minutes spent sobbing
into a pillow, as a rush of emotions assailed her like a rugby tackle. And then, she'd put the wand
away and resumed reading the notes. Occasionally, she'd come across Draco's beautiful, slanted
writing, running a fingertip over the words.
Abnormalities in catecholamine and cortisol levels (Mercer to confirm), he'd written down.
Decreased release of noradrenaline impairing uptake of Re-Gen. Did G account for this?
'G' stood for Granger, she assumed. And yes, G had accounted for it. In the very first version of
ReGen, injections of noradrenaline were administered in the event of a severe drop in blood
pressure of the Infected person. This provided a more optimal environment for ReGen to work its
magic, so to speak. Later versions didn't require this intervention.
McAlister needs reminding.
What of? Hermione wondered. The next line hinted at an answer.
Whiskey had been jotted down in a series of different fonts, which included bubble writing.
Hermione had to smile.
And soberingly, right next to that, was a bullet-pointed list of experiments they had never got a
chance to run.
Project Christmas' resident Guinea Pig, he'd called Ron.
Hermione swallowed. It hurt to read that. She pushed aside the folder, wondering why she was
even bothering, telling herself that she needed to be able to rationalise her decision. It didn't take a
review of the notes to help her make up her mind. She'd known what she'd needed to do days ago.
She packed up the folders, putting them back neatly into the box and pushed the box just under the
bed. One last check on Henry, who was sound asleep. She smoothed back his hair, kissed him
gently on the forehead and climbed into bed, leaving the lamp on. The time on the digital bedside
clock told her it was 4:13am. Hermione made sure to turn off the alarm. There was a chance Draco
would not even return to the cabin, choosing to sleep on the futon in the lab instead.
But she had gambled on poorer odds than that.
At 5am, thirty minutes before the start of Hermione's shift, the cabin door opened. As always,
Draco moved silently across the room. On most nights, she would not even realise he had returned
until the clock alarm—always set to a low volume—woke her up. As was his wont, after pulling
clean clothes from the drawers, he headed directly to the bathroom for a shower. When he
emerged, he would sleep on his end of the lounge.
Hermione waited until she could hear the water. Feeling calmer than she'd thought she'd be, she
rose from the bed and walked across to Henry to tuck his bare feet under the covers. It was
amazing how children slept. Some mornings, his head would end up where his feet had been at the
start of the night. Satisfied that he was still in deep sleep, she proceeded to the bathroom door.
Pausing just outside the door, she pulled off all of her clothing – pyjama pants, jumper, t-shirt,
thermal singlet, socks and underwear. She thought about just leaving the clothes in a pile on the
floor, but then gave in to the urge to fold the lot and place it on a chair beside the dresser.
At the dresser mirror, Hermione caught a quick glimpse of her reflection, and was instantly wary.
She had an embattled relationship with her reflection that entire year. Terrible things tended to
precede and proceed her mirror-assisted ponderings. If you were a Sybil Trelawney-type, you
tended to be careful around mirrors.
This time was different, however. Backlit by the low golden glow of the bedside lamp, Hermione
saw a woman who carried tangible and intangible scars. Physically, the scars marked her as
unique, more than anything else superficial. There was nothing particularly special about her. She
was not tall, nor was she tiny. She was not particularly fit or unfit. Not beautiful and not
unattractive. She wondered if her breasts were any bigger. They didn't look it, but they were
definitely more tender. She was smart, but her reflection could never advertise that. Unless you
looked in her eyes, perhaps? She touched the shrapnel wound in her upper thigh, and then ran her
fingers across the puckered scar at her abdomen where a bullet had tried its best to rip through her
insides. She realised her hair was still in a braid. Hermione pulled the braid apart with her fingers
and then spread her curly hair over her shoulders. It was so long now that it nearly reached her
waist. There was the scar at her forehead that Padma had told her not to feel embarrassed about.
She didn't. She looked at her body, flatteringly lit as it was, and thought about the tangible and
intangible things that had shaped her that year. She placed a hand at her still-flat belly, turning so
that she could view her profile in the mirror.
She felt a strange, uplifting sensation. Sometimes, there was such power in acceptance.
Hermione padded across to the bathroom door and opened it. There was no lock. Amarov had not
permitted one when Draco had been kept in the room and no one had seen a reason to install one
now.
Thank goodness for small mercies.

Heartbreaker
Once Hermione shut the bathroom door behind her, she was engulfed in steam-drenched darkness.
Draco was apparently a fan of showering with the lights switched off.
Um, OK.
Well, maybe not so OK… She took three steps before her hip collided with a corner of the marble
vanity. Some colourful swearing ensued. That was going to bruise. Also, it was probably polite to
announce her presence.
"It's only me," she called out, rubbing her hip.
Hermione heard the smooth slide of the large, glass, show stall panel being opened. The sound of
the water hitting the stone floor was momentarily louder.
"And here I was expecting a nocturnal visit from Potter. This is a pleasant surprise."
Draco's reply was the epitome of unperturbed, aside from also raising some not unpleasant
imagery. There were double standards at play here, and Hermione found she was actually thankful
for that. Most women would not take kindly to being surprised in the shower without a standing
invitation, or without the authorities being summoned.
It occurred to her that he was holding the shower door open so that she could enter. It also occurred
to her that you could probably fry an egg on her face. Not that he could see her blush. He may have
the reflexes of a cat, but even Draco Malfoy could not see in the dark.
Hermione stepped into the shower stall and waited until he'd shut the heavy glass door once more.
The steam was making the pores of her skin twitch.
"Um," she said.
"Um, indeed," he replied. Even his voice sounded wet and naked. Predictably, he made no move to
touch her. Damned, difficult man.
Carpe diem, she decided. Because who knew how many diems were left? Hermione stepped
toward him and reached for his hands. She could only just make out his silhouette in the darkness.
Grabbing his wrists, she placed them around her waist. Her own hands lifted to circle around the
back of his neck. She raised herself on her toes and tilted her chin up. If he pushed her away or
resisted, she'd apologise for the intrusion and leave him be. But somehow she guessed the odds of
this happening were very slim indeed.
He did not resist or push her away.
The first brush of her lips against his infused Hermione with a sense of triumph. His torso was
stock still, but she felt the unfurling of his hands against her waist. They tightened and drew her in
closer until she was flush against the length of his body, and oh, other parts of him were clearly
rather perturbed. There was an immediate fluttering low in her belly, an excitement that manifested
in gathering, liquid heat.
"To what do I owe the company of your pleasure?" he asked against her lips.
Her brain was working at half-speed. She had to think about that for a minute. "You have that
backwards."
His large, warm, wet hands slid down to grasp her backside, caressing, lifting and then squeezing,
before travelling upwards until her was cupping her breasts in his palms, rolling her nipples in
tandem between thumbs and index fingers.
"I don't think so," he said, voice thick.
Her breasts were extremely tender. Sore, almost. His gentle kneading was too much to bear.
Hermione squirmed.
"Kiska."
"Uhuh?" she whispered. His mouth was on her neck now. She realised she was leaving fingernail
marks in his biceps and immediately made a muffled sound of apology, rubbing the crescent
shaped indents.
"Why are you here?" he inquired.
It was difficult to focus. He helped by pushing her back into the slate-tiled wall of the shower stall.
There was a crater-like fissure in the tile, just above the cold water tap. Hermione had long ago
suspected that Draco had put it there. The stone carried the heat of water rather well, but it was still
comparatively cold against her back. This jarred her, thankfully.
"I should think it's obvious what I'm doing here."
The strength in her voice buoyed her confidence. She raised herself on her toes once more, to try
and lure him in for a proper kiss, but he kept his mouth just out of reach. Hermione was frustrated.
This was more than just unsated lust at work. She actually yearned to be closer to him, to feel his
skin on hers, to have him near her. And if not, to know where he had gone and when he was
coming back to her. She wanted to be with him until she carried his scent. She imagined his hands
on her in different ways: to inflame, to soothe aches, to provide affection, support and comfort.
Maybe it was hormones making her feel like this? She wanted the Reciprocated Romantic Love
Package, because the Unrequited Love Starter Kit may have been easier to acquire, but it was total
bollocks.
"What do you want?" he asked.
It would not do to tell him what was in her heart. There would be time for that later. She settled for
a simpler message, instead. Abandoning the quest for his elusive kiss, her hands came up between
them and she wrapped both palms around the entire, granite-hard length of him – right fist on top of
left.
Before he could take her hands way, she began to twist them, pumping her tightly squeezing fists
up and down in near unison, dragging his hot sensitised skin back and forth, and occasionally
flicking her thumb across the tip, for good measure. She was rewarded with a growl of pleasure and
likely before he could school his body, his hips bucked into her hands.
Draco tried to pull away, but she left the support of the wall at her back and went with him, her
small hands still working. Recent virgin she may be, but she wasn't entirely without experience. his
breathing began to grow ragged. Suddenly, he didn't sound quite so in control any more.
She kept working, picking up the pace.
"Hermione." His hands grabbed her wrists and with a soft grunt, extricated himself from her
clenching grasp. "Stop that before I make a mess all over your pretty toes."
Hermione placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss against his chest, testing her teeth against a taut,
pectoral muscle. "That would be a waste."
His grip on her wrists tightened to the point of pain.
"Oh, and regarding your question? I do know what I want."
"Yes?" he asked, and it was gratifying to note how distracted he sounded.
"I want you inside me."
She took his left hand, kissed the burn scars across the top, placed another, gentler kiss on the
sensitive skin of his wrist, and then slid that hand down her wet body until his fingers rested
between her legs. Still, he hesitated, caught between some kind of sadomasochistic inner demon,
and plain old-fashioned, primal lust.
Good thing for Draco, then, that Hermione was the independent sort.
He could remain passive all he wanted, so long as he allowed her use of his hand. Part of her was
hiding under a pile of blankets, embarrassed to the point of mortification. Another part of her was
revelling in this strange, new power.
It was divine. His fingers were the antithesis of hers; thick where hers were slender; blunt nails
where hers were sharp. The pads of his fingers were callused and brought about the most delicious
friction as they rubbed over her in small circles.
His right hand clamped over her breast. She didn't even think he noticed. Hah! Time to up the ante.
Hermione was hyper-sensitive. It had to be the new hormones coursing through her, because her
most intimate parts already felt swollen and tender. With slight trepidation, she curled two of his
fingers and pushed them into her. Several thrusts later and Hermione wasn't even really holding on
to his hand any longer. He had shifted so that she was leaning against him, moaning slowly as her
head lolled back against his chest. When she released his hand, he took over. Draco changed tack
slightly, moving the same two fingers in and out of her while using this thumb to catch on the most
exquisitely sensitive part of her with each slow penetration.
She came in seconds, nearly sliding down to the shower floor. It was an odd orgasm, the likes of
which she had never experienced before. The spasms were sharper now and seemed to roll through
her in deep, centrally focussed waves, culminating in some rather serious cramping. Hermione
wanted to double over and clutch at her abdomen for a moment, but Draco had other ideas.
The change that came over him was frightening. No more passive bystanding. Now he moved over
her with determined, masculine purpose. She was still dazed from her climax as he turned her
around to face the wall, pushing her legs apart. He slipped one strong forearm under her breasts,
lifting and locking her in place. The sound he made as he filled her would be saved for the long,
cold, lonely nights that may very well be in her future.
It was too much, however. Hermione tensed from the still largely unfamiliar intrusion. She tried to
find some leverage along the tiled wall, but there was one. Given the difference in height, she was
effectively impaled upon him, balancing on the tips of her toes. Not one to withhold constructive
feedback, Hermione mouth opened to say something, but all that came out was a strangled sob.
Draco immediately pulled out, turning her around in his arms. There was concern in his voice.
"Too much?"
She could only nod, still not quite enjoying the odd, cramping sensation.
He kissed the furrow between her brows, simultaneously rubbing up and down her arms. "I'm
sorry. Would you like to try something else?"
"Alright," she whispered, hating that her inexperience was casting a blight of formality upon an
otherwise flawless seduction.
"It should feel better in a minute," he soothed, and then he was looking at her oddly. From what she
could make out in the darkness, he seemed conflicted. Intense. His hands came up to cup her face.
Hermione didn't even dare to breathe as he pulled her to him.
The kiss was well worth the brief discomfort from earlier. It was like the wall between them had
been liquefied. Decimated. It was pulverised into dust. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed her
like she was the cure for all the ills in the world. It was sweet, carnal, dominating and tentative, all
at once.
When he finally pulled away, they were frantic. He picked up one of her legs and wrapped it about
his waist, and then lifted her and walked until her back was once again at the slate wall. Unlike
before, he reached between them and guided himself into her slowly, as if savouring each
surpassed centimetre of depth. When he was fully inside her, Hermione released her pent up breath
in a soft whimper.
Draco thrust at a steady, maddeningly gentle pace, control evident in his focussed expression and
the precision of his movements. Hermione enjoyed this, but not nearly as much as his gradual
unravelling. Soon, the thrusts were no longer at regular intervals, nor were they particularly gentle.
He slammed her into the wall, burying himself to the hilt until they were pelvis to pelvis and he
was hitting parts of her, deep inside, that were causing all kinds of alarming sensations.
Suddenly, he tensed above her, withdrawing. He braced a palm against the tiled wall above
Hermione's head and tried to slow his breathing. Draco wasn't in a mood to speak, but the pointed
look he gave her was explanation enough.
They could not continue without protection.
Ah, yes. Protection. He had no idea there was a wand in the bedside table, not that they needed it.
In any case, Hermione took matters into her own hands.
She spun him around, so that his back was against the wall, before dropping down to her knees.
There might have been a few, feeble sounds of protest, but there was complete silence when she
took him in her hands and did all the things she had been fantasizing about these many months. The
warm water beat down at her back. She idly wondered if they should feel bad about wasting so
much of it, even if it was all recycled...
He really was quite glorious.
Hermione wished the lights were on. Her imagination was terrific, but it probably didn't hold a
candle to what Draco Malfoy looked like as he watched her make love to him with her mouth. She
loved it. There was something sinfully exciting about reducing Draco to a breathless, almost
keening state, utterly focussed on every slip and tug of her mouth; on the firm, laps of the flat of
her tongue along the underside of him. In that moment, he was simpler. He was not the former
Death Eater, the convicted criminal, the scientist or the gun-toting anti-hero. He was just a man.
She actually heard the back of his head connect with the wall when she gingerly scraped him with
her teeth. Draco began to thrust, probably against his better judgement. Four or five thrusts later
and his fingers tightened on her shoulders.
"Kiska—" he warned, and the presumptuous man wrapped a hand around her chin as if mere
human strength could disconnect him from her in that moment.
She shoved his hand away and slide him into her mouth as far down as she dared. Her gag reflex
was more sensitive now, so she didn't think it wise to be quite so high-achieving. Her reward was
his complete surrender. Draco pulsed repeatedly into her mouth with a harsh groan. As per her
earlier sentiment, not a drop was wasted.
Hermione remained on her knees, squinting up at him with her hand shielding her eyes from the
spray of the shower. Sanity returned, as did reality. He turned off the water and pulled her up to her
feet. Hermione was unsurprised to find Draco was already laying down bricks and mortar,
rebuilding his stupid fortress.
His hands were shaking slightly when he handed her a fluffy white towel and bathrobe. The lights
were turned on and Hermione was momentarily blinded.
"Your shift has started," he said, and Hermione took some comfort in the fact he sounded like he'd
swallowed a bucket of nails.
"I know. And you have to get some sleep," she countered. "Henry will need you soon."
He said nothing, but at least, he hadn't run off. Possibly because there was nowhere else to go. She
wanted to kick him when he approached her, still stark naked, to kiss her chastely on the forehead.
Then he pulled on his clothing and left her in the bathroom to get dressed in privacy.
Well, this part was familiar.
When she emerged not long after, Draco was already asleep on the lounge. The bed remained
empty. She retrieved Ron's wand from the bedside table. Hermione stood over Draco for a minute,
making sure he was well and truly down for the count. She may have also fantasised about
smothering him in his sleep.
"Draco," she whispered.
There was no response. His breathing remained deep and even. He slept the sleep of prolonged
exhaustion. There was no need to use magic. After once more tucking Henry's feet back under the
blankets, Hermione picked up the box of notes from under the bed and headed not to the labs, but
to the infirmary, instead.
It wasn't like her one mission in life was to make Draco Malfoy's life difficult. It was just that
sometimes, saving the day required breaking the occasional heart.
Decisions
For Alexander Amarov, the process of dying was a simple case of taking a back seat and watching
as the Other gradually took him over.
He wondered if anyone had bothered to actually ask an Infected person what it felt like. Not the
pain, aches, chills, nausea, disorientation, weakness, fever and gradual shutting down of the body's
organs. No, he was referring to what it felt like, psychologically. If someone bothered to inquire,
Alexander would happily convey the experience, for posterity.
In the beginning, it felt like a mood – the kind where you give in to the urge to be difficult, or
irritable, usually knowing that it was because of hunger, fatigue, pain or something else
identifiable. You knew that the bad turn was temporary and that you would find your way back to
equilibrium eventually.
Not so when you were Infected.
The 'mood' was a permanent fixture—oddly both inside and around you—a darkness that spread
like a neurodegenerative plaque, casting out insidious tendrils across the brain. Through inertia and
potentiation, the diseased network strengthened over time, such that the Other was there in the
background in every action that you made, every thought that you had.
If Alexander was thirsty, he drank, but the Other reminded him that no matter how much water he
consumed, his thirst would not be slaked. The skin around his bite injuries had started to crack and
scab. Had his hands been free, he would have scratched, but the Other whispered in his ear, telling
him that scratching was not enough. It would have goaded him to dig harder and deeper, to rent his
own flesh apart until it chunked in his hands.
It was a good thing, then, that they had tied him down.
These macabre thoughts were not confined to his own person, unfortunately. He watched the
people around him – Belikov, Prestin and others who came to tend to his injuries and treat him. If
he unfocussed his mind and let the Other run unchecked, he no longer saw other people as people,
but as…living units of unfulfilled purpose. They were not prey, because it wasn't hunger that he
felt, exactly. The virus did not require its host to consume human flesh to survive, although
newborn zombies did seem to have a penchant for certain fatty and nutrient-rich organs. What the
virus wanted was to survive, and for that to happen, it needed to spread.
Alexander began to fixate on movement. The whirring drone of a desk fan, the swaying arc of a
piece of paper as it fluttered to the floor, the pulse of the infirmary lighting that regular, human
eyes could not detect. These movements beguiled him, but not nearly as much as people. People
were unpredictable, and as such, Amarov's Infected gaze was drawn to them.
The next step in Infection, he realised, was for this beguilement to turn to bloodlust and a need to
devour and tear apart. When that happened, then the Other had taken over and Alexander the man,
would be no more. Re-Gen waged a brave but ultimately futile battle within his body. It staved off
the inevitable and afforded him the dubiously beneficial position of lucidly observing as his
faculties were hijacked by the virus.
The scientists would use him until he was use-less. It was exactly what he would have done under
similar circumstances. There was also the small hope that the cure could be fine-tuned in time to
save him. He knew the odds of this were slim to none, but the team had already worked miracles.
Perhaps one last miracle was in store?
Not many people had cause to enter the men's infirmary. If they did, they were outpatients and
were not there for long. Other than that, the medical staff came to check on him, to feed, wash him,
and change his bedding and to see to his toileting needs. They observed, drew blood and injected
him with yet more Re-Gen, as if that was sufficient to keep him going for another few days. There
was no conversation. No one wanted to save him, which was ironic because they needed to.
To his surprise, Hermione Granger began to visit the infirmary more often in the last week.
The first time, she came with a trolley full of equipment. This was prior to the Taransay refugees
joining the fleet. She might have enlisted Potter to assist her with magic, but she did not. With
pronounced physical effort, the trolley was half dragged, half pushed across the room, wires and
cables dangling. At first, Alexander assumed she was setting up a secondary workstation to run
more tests on him, but he soon learned that the machines were for some other purpose.
Soon, the glass cell that had been relocated to the infirmary was filled by the things Hermione
brought—a table, chair, medical instruments. Alexander knew the cell was there to contain him, if
or rather when he turned. Was that eventuality more imminent that expected?
If the cell wasn't now being outfitted for him, then what was Hermione doing with it? And why
wasn't anyone else assisting her? The answer eluded him and he was too weak to engage her in
conversation she was likely to ignore anyway. The next time she came, yet more equipment was
wheeled in. A tarp was tossed over the lot, such that it looked like superfluous lab equipment. On
the third occasion, she carried a microscope. Alexander wondered if anyone else was noticing the
items were going missing from the labs.
It was impossible to see exactly what she was doing inside the glass cube, as Alexander's bed was
faced away from it, but he could hear the bleeps and blops of the equipment as it was turned on
and calibrated. One evening, while he'd been in the throes of a painful fever, he opened his eyes
and saw Hermione standing over him. Her expression was unreadable, which was unusual for her.
He wanted to tell her his insides felt like they were on fire, but his mouth was too parched to be of
much use. All the joints in his body were in agony. It felt like he was being drawn and quartered.
Even in the middle of the fever haze, he was acutely aware of her. He wanted to ask for help. Or
mercy. He wasn't sure yet.
"You're going to die soon enough," she replied, somehow answering both versions of his unspoken
question.
She smelled…different. There was something almost tantalising about her scent. It was intense and
heady. It made his empty, shrunken stomach clench painfully. He could feel his pupils dilating,
and suddenly, the already meagre lighting of the infirmary was too much. He turned his head away
from the lights, making a guttural noise to convey his agony. Even so, the urge to grab hold of her
was unholy. Although he had no idea what he would do next if afforded the opportunity.
The shock of an icy-cold washcloth laid over his forehead and closed eyelids succeeded in muting
whatever nonsensical words he'd been working up to. It provided some relief from the burning.
She gave him some water to sip. There was a tug at the cannula on his left hand, followed by the
cold flush of saline and then…something else. Something that quickly imparted bliss in its wake.
Soon, the searing pain in his limbs lessened, as did the pounding of his head and the sensory
overload.
"Thank you," he rasped out.

"Try to keep it together until next week," she told him. "And then feel free to cark it."
When he'd awakened later, he wondered if he'd simply imagined their interaction. But then he felt
the washcloth beside his face. And he was still relatively pain free.
Yesterday, Alexander's former personal physician, Dr Prestin, visited in the morning and ran his
observations. As always, a guard stood close by. Prestin was not trusted by the fleet and rightly so,
Alexander mused. He was an unpleasant man, but had been loyal to Amarov.
"How long do I have?" Alexander asked him.
"It's difficult to say," Prestin replied, as he changed the dressing of Alexander's bite wound. He cast
a sideways glance at his watchful shadow. "I am no expert on this disease. Belikov says it could be
days or weeks."
Alexander shut his eyes, but then opened them in surprise when Prestin pushed something into his
hand. The doctor leaned over his patient, making a show of tucking in the bed sheets.
"Die on your own terms, Alexander," he whispered. He straightened up, peeled off his gloves and
smock, and tossed them into separate HazMat receptacles. "I am done," he told the guard,
imperiously.
Alexander didn't dare look at the item in his hand until Prestin and his guard was long gone. He
lifted his head to glance down, wincing at the use of protesting abdominal muscles. His hand
opened. Prestin had apparently given him the gift of mercy.
It was a razor blade.
Hermione's visit to the infirmary very early that morning was unexpected. The wall clock just
above the infirmary doors told Alexander that her shift had just begun in the labs. She had no cause
to be there at this time of day. All she carried with her on this occasion was a cardboard box. She
set it down and without bothering to pull on any protective clothing, not even gloves, proceeded to
draw his blood.
"Good morning," he said, with his permanently hoarse voice.
To his astonishment, she actually looked at him and spoke. "Good morning, Mr Amarov."
"Why are you here so early?"
The smile she gave him was miraculous. And quite wry. "I'm rather late, actually. I should have
done this days ago."
"Done what?" he wanted to ask, but his voice failed him.
There was the scent again. It was maddening. He shut his eyes for a moment, hoping it might help
him to calm down. Unfortunately, all he could think about behind his closed eyelids was grabbing
her and squeezing and squeezing until something gave, until bones cracked and blood began to run.
The razor blade was safely tucked under his left thigh, just beside his cannulated hand. It would be
an easy thing to reach for it now, as she moved around and over him, entirely focussed on her task.
Her long, unbound hair brushed the side of his face. It was slightly wet. For some unfathomable
reason, she was not taking any safety precautions with regards to the Infection. The virus was only
transmitted through blood and could not survive in the open for very long, but still, there were
protocols…
She collected her samples and then retreated to the glass cube in the corner of the room. It wasn't
until she had stepped away from him that Alexander saw the wand sticking out of her trouser
pocket. And then, he heard the soft, wind-sucking swoosh of the cell door opening. There was the
hum of machines turning on, either via electricity or magic. An odd thing happened then. Or rather,
a series of odd things.
The air pressure in the room changed. Alexander could feel it in his ears. This was followed by a
sharp burst of energy that swept over and through the Infirmary in a sparkling, golden glow.
"No," he called out, trying to twist his body so that he could look at the cell. The part of him that
was quintessentially Amarov had finally realised what was going on. "Don't…" he wheezed.
Inside the cell, she could not hear him or see him. He would need to attract her attention.
Or perhaps, not her attention.
As it turned out, the easiest part of escaping from the infirmary was using Prestin's razor blade to
saw through the bonds at his wrists. It was slow work, with the foam padding of the cable ties
proving to be the most annoying part to cut through, as they kept twisting around the ties. After
about twenty minutes however, his hands were free. This small exertion had him panting and
perspiring already.
Getting off the bed and onto his feet proved to be the trickier part. His heart was racing from the
exertion, sweat beaded across his forehead and he heartily wished for an additional dose of
morphine. It was adrenaline that kept him going. Belikov had explained that his body was growing
more and more adept at producing it. He winced as he extracted his urinary catheter with wildly
shaking hands. After pulling out his IV tube, he tumbled off the bed, knowing that it was a
painfully long way to the floor.
Once on the ground, Alexander took care to stay low, so that Hermione would not see him should
she chance to glance in his direction. The screens around the bed provided initial cover. The floor
was pleasantly cool and Alexander took a moment to simply soak up the cold. The difference in
temperature between his palms and the linoleum was stark. He managed to arrange his limbs into a
crawling position and quickly discovered that he did not have the strength to pull himself up. The
IV stand loomed just above him. He grabbed on to the metal pole and using the wheeled stand as a
support, staggered towards the infirmary door. The doors were ridiculously heavy, but he managed
to slip through with the IV stand, after a minute of wriggling.
Once out in the corridor of the ship that used to be his, in the fleet he had once presided over,
Alexander Amarov had yet another decision to make.
Bloodshot-eyed and en déshabillé, Draco opened his cabin door. He was initially confused to find a
lone IV stand and no one standing beyond the threshold until the wheezing sound at his feet
captured his attention.
Amarov lay in a heap on the carpeted ground, in the foetal position. He reached out an arm towards
Draco, who ignored this plea for assistance and instead hauled the sick man up by the front of his
sweat-drenched shirt, until they were at eye level.
"Please tell me that this is an elaborate attempt at suicide. If so, I'm quite happy to drop you, shut
the door and go back to sleep."
His last reserves were long faded. Darkness loomed, but before Amarov passed out altogether, he
forced out a single word - both warning and entreaty.
"Hermione."
Stay
"Harry?" Ginny said, her voice muffled by her pillow.
"Harry."
"Harry!"
"Yeah. Wuzzat?"
"Someone's at the door."
"What?"
"Someone's pounding at the door."
"It's too early," groaned Harry. "We've barely been to bed."
Ginny grunted her agreement, but nevertheless shoved at the love of her life. "Answer the door. It
sounds urgent."
With a sigh, Harry sat up, fumbled around on the dresser for his glasses, slipped them on and then
padded over to the cabin entrance. He opened the door, squinting through the brightness of the
corridor lights. To Harry's surprise, Draco Malfoy stood before him, looking like he'd dressed in a
hurry. His jumper was back to front and he'd shoved his feet into unlaced boots. The most alarming
part, however, was the fact that he was holding an insensate Alexander Amarov like a rag doll, by
the back of the man's shirt…
Harry's alertness level went from 0 to 100 in less than a second.
"What's wrong?"
"Give me your wand." The quality of Draco's request gave Harry the distinct impression that the
other man might have snatched the wand right out of Harry's hands had he been holding it at the
time.
"What's going on?" Harry demanded, although he knew there was probably only one thing in the
world right now that could make Malfoy look this crazed. "Where's Hermione?"
"She's in the lab attempting to infect herself with the virus. Give me your fucking wand."
There was a soft gasp. The cabin lights were switched on. Harry realised Ginny was standing
beside him now. He was glad for that, as he was for her hand on his arm.
"Merlin, are you sure?" she said.
"I'll be certain once I'm down there." Draco looked at Harry with genuine menace. "But I appear to
be delayed."
Harry was not about to relinquish his wand. He was already looking for his sneakers, nearly
colliding with a desk chair as he stumbled into his shoes. "I'm coming with you."
The tightening of Draco's jaw was all the emotion he displayed. But he said nothing more.
"What about him?" Harry asked, inclining his head to the unconscious Amarov. "What's he got to
do with this?"
"He came to tell me what Granger was planning." And before anyone could process that surprising
detail, Draco dropped Amarov at Ginny's feet. "After you see to him, will you watch Henry?"
Ginny was clearly eager to accompany the men to the infirmary, but she agreed to the request
without hesitation. "Of course. Do you need me to send anyone else to you? Belikov?"
"Send everyone," Draco said. And then he held out his arm to Harry. No further clarification was
required. Harry would take Draco's arm, and they would Apparate directly into the infirmary.
"Wait!" Ginny cautioned. "You should know that I gave Hermione Ron's wand earlier today…well
it's yesterday now…."
"You didn't tell me this!" Harry said.
"I'm telling you now!" Ginny huffed. "So don't go Apparating right into the middle of anything
that's going to get you splinched!"
Anyone who doubted Hermione Granger's magical skill and talent had obviously never
encountered one of her custom-designed wards. It was this same skill that had enabled Grimmauld
Place to stand for as long as it had. While working at the Ministry, she was frequently headhunted
by private magical security firms, eager to sell expensive, state of the art warding to their clientele.
Luckily for Scrimgeour, Hermione was not one to be swayed by galleons. For her, it was all about
the research. Her motives were not entirely altruistic. She happened to really enjoy her work.
Harry was taking no chances with splinching and so was careful not to Apparate directly inside the
infirmary. The two men appeared just outside the doors. Even so, they could feel the force of the
wards, which seemed to give the impression that the walls of the infirmary were bowing outwards.
Draco was the first to enter, stalking past Amarov's empty bed, heading directly to the glass cell at
the far end of the room. Harry followed. The men were surprised to be able to approach right up to
the glass. Touching it was impossible, however. Any attempt to do so resulted in them being
pushed away, rather like repelling magnets. It was quite possible to maintain such powerful wards
over a small space such as the cell, though it would only be temporary without constant upkeep.
Harry didn't know what to make of the fact that Hermione may have been planning this for some
time.
Inside the cell, Hermione had fashioned a little bed for herself. There were blankets on the floor
and this was where she currently lay. Elsewhere in the cell was a desk, a chair and various pieces
of laboratory equipment.
"What the hell are you doing?" Draco demanded. Harry thought the cold fury in his voice might
have almost been enough to wither the wards.
Hermione sat up amidst the bedding, looking a little muzzy. She groaned when she saw them.
"Why can't you just stay where I put you?" she said to Malfoy.
"Is that what…is that why you…earlier?" he said, silver eyes narrowing.
Harry stared, goggle-eyed. He had never heard Draco so inarticulate before.
"You wanted me out of commission," said Draco, in an accusing tone.

Harry saw the blush that stained Hermione's cheeks. "God, Malfoy. Not everything is about you. I
just…" she avoided Harry's eyes, sighing. "I just wanted some respite. Something to ease this
coldness between us." Her expression hardened. "Clearly, it didn't work. As usual, you were about
as talkative as a monolith, and just as obtuse."
"Hermione…" Harry began.
"Stay out of this, Harry," she snapped.
"Like hell I'll stay out of it! Are you going to tell me what you're doing in that bloody cell! And
why Amarov nearly died trying to warn Malfoy?"
"Amarov did what?" Hermione asked, standing up. She tried to peer over the screens on the other
side of the room, but couldn't see anything. "He escaped and came to tell you I was here?"
It was Draco who replied. "Yes. Weasley's seeing to him now, and to Henry."
"You're supposed to be minding Henry until noon," Hermione admonished.
Draco took a step forward, stopping mere centimetres away from the ward's repelling point. "I
would be," he said, in a sinister, silky voice, "but it appears I'm in the middle of thwarting his
adoptive mother's asinine attempt to kill herself."
"I am not trying to kill myself!" She made a noise to convey her frustration. "Do you think I enjoy
skulking around behind everyone's backs? If I'd told any of you what I was planning to do here,
you'd have balked!"
"Can you blame us?" Harry shrieked. He kicked the glass, only to be shoved back by the wards.
Furious, he attempted several ward-breaking charms. To Hermione's consternation, Draco began
offering suggestions—some of which Harry had never even heard of. The first few did nothing, the
second batch literally fizzled and the final spell caused the entire room to shudder.
"You're going to snap the ship in half if you keep that up," Hermione hissed. "The wards are on a
timer. In a few hours, the door will open on its own. Be patient."
"Like hell I will! Come out this instant!" Harry roared.
The infirmary doors burst open. Malfoy didn't take his eyes off Hermione, but Harry turned around
to look. It was Belikov and the remaining members of Project Christmas. Ginny had obviously
briefed them. Their expressions ranged from incredulity to horror.
Belikov was the first to approach the cell. "Hermione," he began, sounding so painfully gentle that
Harry felt like a raging brute, "what on earth are you doing in there?"
She ran a hand through her hair, her exasperation evident. "This is not what I'd planned. All of you
aren't supposed to find out for at least another few hours…"
She was right, Harry thought. Her absence from the labs would not have caused any alarm to be
raised until mid-morning, probably.
"Why would that matter?" Belikov asked, frowning. "What happens in a few hours?"
Harry could feel Malfoy practically vibrating with rage beside him. "What have you done?" he
asked.
She ignored Malfoy and looked at Belikov. "Vadim, I've left my notes in the box on the table.
They explain everything."
Belikov quickly retrieved the notes, spreading them across a table. The various members of Project
Christmas, with the notable exception of Malfoy, poured over them. There was a great deal of
flipping pages and muttering.
Malfoy lowered his voice, but not so much that Harry didn't hear. "I want you to tell me what
you're doing. I think I deserve that at least."
Her façade of confidence wavered slightly. "Draco, look. This is going to be the worst possible
way for you to find out, and please believe that I never wanted this. But I couldn't tell you. You
have to trust me."
"I'm trying to," he hissed, looking baffled. "You—"
"You're pregnant." Belikov made the announcement. He was clutching her work and looking at
her, clearly stricken. "Oh, my dear girl…"
"What?" Harry shouted. He turned to Hermione, stunned. "You're pregnant?!"
"Have you already Infected yourself?" It was Malfoy who asked the question. It was posed almost
casually, in a calm, mildly inquisitive tone. The silence proceeding it was excruciating for
everyone in the room.
Hermione's reply seemed to be addressed to Draco directly. "Yes," she whispered. "I did it using
Amarov's blood. I'm so sorry." Her eyes filled with tears. "Please, just listen—"
Malfoy turned on his heel and walked out of the infirmary. The doors slammed behind him.
Hermione made a small, distressed noise, muffling it with her clenched fist.
"Is it his?" Harry asked.
The withering look Hermione gave him was one she had been honing to perfection since they were
eleven years old.
Harry, meanwhile, looked like he was about to be ill. "I don't understand what's going on…"
Wallen was pale, but very composed as he continued to skim through Hermione's notes. "She's
infected herself because she is pregnant."
"That's really not helping me understand!" Harry said. He was so overcome that Kate McAlister
walked over and put her arm around him.
"There is precedent for this, in medical magic," Wallen explained. He looked at Hermione. "If I
may?"
She gave him a watery smile. "By all means. It may sound less insane coming from you."
He paused to gather the information in his own mind. "Before modern healing charms were
formulated and taught to Medimagic practitioners, the essence of a charm had to exist in the first
place, before the charm could be created, mastered and then replicated by others."
"The essence?" repeated McAlister. "What do you mean?"
Wallen tailored his explanation for the benefit of the Muggles in the room. "Sometimes, the origins
of a charm can be as simple as a thought, an action, a feeling. Sometimes it's an object or a
substance. It can be blood, for example. Blood magic is powerful. The first Healers were known to
deliberately infect a pregnant witch with a disease, and if she survived, the resulting immunity that
resided in the mother was ten times as strong as anything else a charms expert might be able to
create, because the essence of that charm was a small quantity of maternal blood. Short of mortal
blood sacrifice, and if given freely, there is nothing else more potent."
"You're talking about immunity that's shared between a mother and foetus?" Kate McAlister
interjected. "How does that help us here and now? If Hermione's infected, that makes her just like
any other test subject. Why does her being pregnant make a crucial difference?"
"Hogo," said Professor Yoshida, almost so quietly no one heard. "In Japan, we say it is hogo from
mother to baby….to mother."
"But how does it help us with the cure?" McAlister pressed.
It took Yoshida a moment to come up with the correct translation. "Protection."
Wallen nodded, holding up Hermione's notes. "It's all in here. She's utilising microchimerism."
"The research on microchimerism is still very new," said Belikov, concerned.
"Perhaps in the Muggle world," Wallen conceded. "In medical magic, it's part and parcel of
prenatal biology. Hermione's infected herself and in doing so, infected her foetus. The baby is
magical, I am assuming?" he cast a slightly embarrassed glance at Hermione.
"Yes," she said, in turn narrowing her eyes at Harry.
Harry was staring at the increasingly calm faces around the room as if insanity was catching. "And
what if the baby's a squib?"
"What's a squib?" Belikov asked.
"A non-magical child born to magical parents," Wallen replied. "Squibbing is hereditary among
wizarding families and more prevalent among Purebloods. It's unlikely, but not impossible."
Harry pulled a chair to the cell and sat down heavily. "So what happens now?" he asked Hermione.
"I'm going to wait for about three hours, which is past the point where Re-Gen can be
administered."
"You're not even going to give yourself any Re-Gen?" Harry asked, incredulous.
"No, the virus has to take. Properly take. At which point, I'll administer our serum. And if it works,
like any other healthy test subject, I'll be immune to the disease."
"And how does this hogo concept play a role?"
"When the serum works in me, it will work for the foetus as well. The foetus will pass across
microchimeric cells into my bloodstream. These are like no other cells in the body. We can harvest
them."
"They're like stem cells?" Belikov inquired.
Wallen nodded. "And within those cells will not only be a tried and tested treatment, but a
supercharged cure which has been proven to work in a test subject that is both Muggle and magical,
bearing a child that is half Pureblood." He stared at Hermione. "All bases will be covered. And if it
works…"
"When it works," Hermione corrected, "it'll be a timely miracle."
Belikov was still sceptical. "How do you propose to deliver this 'timely miracle' to the Americans?
We have forty-eight hours before the bombs fall. The fleet is already safely in international
waters."
"Malfoy and I brought a portkey from his home. It's called the Chavin Mirror. A portkey basically
opens a portal to another place. Usually, it's a pre-determined, fixed location. But this particular
portkey will allow a single trip to any location."
"You mean the Wizarding Senate in Washington?" Harry surmised.
"Yes. There's no time to extract the serum from me and we still have no way to communicate with
the Americans. So I'll go to them and they can synthesize it there. I'll see Secretary Beaumont
directly. Agent Richards is familiar with the location, so he can direct the portkey."
"My God," said Harry, with his head in his hands. "Why didn't you tell us any of us?"
"You would have locked me in my cabin until I 'came to my senses'. Tell me I'm wrong."
He realised he could not.
"If it was Ginny in my place," Hermione proposed, "would you have let her?"
Harry's reply was instant. "No."
Hermione's expression hardened. She looked at the others. "Face it, none of you would have
allowed this."
Belikov tossed a folder of notes down on the table. He looked like he'd aged ten years. "Yes, with
good reason!"
"It will work, Vadim," Hermione assured. "If you don't trust me, then trust in the serum that we've
made. I'm going to be fine and it will be well worth it in the end."
"It will work," Wallen echoed. He looked around the room. "At this point, all we can do is give the
plan a chance to succeed."
Kate McAlister sighed. "Alright, Hermione. Now that we know, is there anything you'd like us to
do out here?"
She now looked markedly less self-assured, but spoke up nonetheless. "Could…can someone go
and find Draco, please?"
Agent Richards was not good at taking orders, which was ironic for a former soldier.
He'd been told to 'take it easy' and 'rest in bed' and to 'quit making the women cry' and other
condescending things bleated to the elderly and/or infirmed. He may have been skirting retirement
for the last few years, but he'd be damned if he sat back and watched while London burned and the
British Isles were rendered uninhabitable due to nuclear fallout.
He had grown rather fond of the English, as demonstrated by the fact he could even think up the
phrase 'rather fond of'. They'd been a positive influence on his manners and grammar. They were
also very brave, even if getting them to agree to anything was like putting socks on a rooster.
While the wounds in Richards' shoulder, leg and chest were healed, the long-term damage was
another matter. The stiffness from tendon and muscle tears was taking more time to fix, owing to
his age. Humiliatingly, they'd given him a cane to use. Mostly, he used it to intimidate.
Professor Belikov managed to find some kind of physical therapist from among the Muggle
residents to come to the home ship and poke at him. He didn't mean to insinuate that the lady's
qualifications were all hokum, but how did you get better from bending and stretching while flat on
your back? Better to strap on a weapon and get back on the horse! Now there was useful therapy.
Things were serious at the moment.
Hermione Granger had barricaded herself in the ship's clinic and had volunteered to be humanity's
most important lab rat. Richards had a few things to say about this foolish bravery, some of them to
Hermione herself, but his presence and his brand of expertise was not required at the moment. This
was all on the egg-heads. They would have to prevail, and if Granger had anything to say about it,
they would.
Potter had mentioned he was looking for Malfoy. Apparently, their resident Death Eater had not
taken the news very well. Richards was almost sympathetic. After all, in only a month, Malfoy had
gone from an untethered free agent, to a father of one (and perhaps soon, a father of two). He wasn't
in all the usual places on the ship, Potter had said. Though Potter was not in the best frame of
mind, which was probably why he didn't think to look in the room where they were currently
keeping the home ship's cache of weapons.
Richards literally ran into Draco as the younger man exited the room, carrying a bag.
"Slow down, son."
The greeting may have been neutral, but Richards had, in fact, grabbed Draco by the front of his
coat and slammed him into the corridor wall. Unsurprisingly, he was dressed for the outdoors.
"And where the hell do you think you're going?"
Draco righted himself, though he seemed uncharacteristically passive. The look on his face, from
the brief glimpse that Richards caught, almost made him wince. There was no fire in his eyes. He
wasn't even holding on to the bag of weapons with any great effort. The strap hung limply in his
slackened grip.
"Get out of my way."
"I think you need to get out of your own damn way."
Draco made to pass him again, but Richards caught him in the abdomen with the cane and shoved
him back up against the wall.
"Let's talk"
"I have nothing to say to you."
Richards glared at the young wizard, long and hard. And then, "You're all hat and no cattle."
Malfoy stared.
"All gurgle and no guts."
"All—"
"While I appreciate your colourful rustic idioms, if you don't release me, I'm going to have to hit
you."
Richards let him go, though he did not let him pass. "You're a coward." Predictably, this had no
effect whatsoever. He tried a different approach. "Would it interest you to know that what you're
going through now is partly my fault?"
Now, Draco at least looked slightly curious, which was an improvement on dead-in-the-eyes.
"What's your fault?"
"I'm going to tell you a little secret. Something that was only ever between me and Granger. But
I'm not doing it standing up." Richards hobbled over to the weapons room and grunted in
resignation at the broken lock. "Someone will need to fix that," he muttered. He pushed open the
door, stepped inside the room and turned around. "You comin'?"
For a moment, it looked like Draco would simply leave. He stood there, conflicted, thinking. But
then apparently making his decision, he joined Richards inside the room. The heavy bag containing
what was probably extra ammunition, was dropped to the ground.
Richards found a chair and was visibly thankful for it. He sat heavily, propped up a sore leg on a
crate and observed the walking ice furnace with a bad haircut that was standing before him. He
wondered if perhaps Potter would have a better shot at this, but then decided that the encounter
would probably end with another broken nose.
"Back at Grimmauld Place, just before the Welwyn mission, I said something to Granger…
something she didn't much care for."
Draco waited to hear the rest.
"I basically told her to seduce you."
Not a muscle moved on his pale face. Not even a flicker. "I can see the utility in that," Draco said,
in his fancy accent.
Richards laid his cane across his lap and tapped his fingers across the polished wood. "Of
course you can. Granger didn't. She told me to go fuck myself," he informed, with a snort. "You
don't think like she does, which is why I proposed the idea in the first place. In your messed up
head, loyalty, family and relationships are things that make you weak, make you soft and easy to
hurt. And I get that you grew up with an asshole for a father and a family legacy built on blood,
gold and pickin' the wrong, damned side every single time. I also get that you've had to survive in
some pretty awful places…" Richards lowered his voice as he gentled his glare, "doing some pretty
awful things."
Well look at that, thought Richards, with satisfaction. The son of a bitch could not hold his stare.
That was a first. "Suffice it to say, Hermione Granger is nothing like you."
"Yes," Draco agreed. He was looking at the floor with a small frown. A muscle was twitching in
his tightly clenched jaw.
"I know what it's like to have something that's almost too good to be true, after what feels like a
lifetime of living in the cold dark. After having to be alone and careful for so long. It's like letting
the sun in. It's like going to sleep because you choose to, and not because you're so tired, you think
the exhaustion might actually kill you…and if it did, you might not care because no one can hurt
you when you're already dead." Richards learned forward in the chair. "You see, son, I wanted her
to infect you with hope, because when I met you, you had none. Hope is powerful. Good
manipulators use it like a tool. We use it in interrogation all the time. Hope can put doubt in the
heart of zealots and it can make strong men weak, because it makes them dare to care."
Draco was shaking now. His black-gloved hands were balled into fists at his side. His throat
worked.
"She did it. She made you care," Richards said.
"What do you want from me?" Draco asked, his voice breaking. He raised wet, silver eyes, finally
looking at Richards. "I've done everything you people have needed me to do. I tried to protect you
from Amarov's wrath by leaving with Honoria, but you sent a team directly to him. I saved
whomever I could after that. I freed the fleet. You have my formula…" A tear slipped down his
cheek. "What more do you want?" he asked, in such a small, agonised voice that Richards sighed.
"Nothing, son." Richards got to his feet and approached. He reached out for him, but Malfoy
flinched away. "It's not about what I want, it's about what you can have. You can't leave because if
you do, it will be the most fucked up case of self-sabotage I have ever seen."
More tears fell. Draco violently swiped at them with the back of his hand. "I cannot stay here."
"Why?" Richards demanded.
Draco walked backwards until he felt the wall behind him. It was the farthest he could get from
Richards without leaving the room. He shook his head. His breathing was ragged. "It's all wrong.
I'm not what they need…"
"Who? Granger and Zabini's kid? Your kid?" Richards sighed. "You're exactly what they need.
You have a family now. You get to come home to them. Do you know how many people out there
would kill to have what you have? You get to watch your kids grow up and you get to do a better
job at it than your dad. Though I think that's setting the bar a little low…"
Draco shook his head. Richards had never seen such raw, exposed fear on Draco's face.
"I can't watch her die."
"From what she's saying, you won't need to. Her methods may be annoying as hell, but she's
thought this plan through. She's not out to kill herself. Or your baby."
Draco turned away, he swiped his hand under his nose and dashed away more tears. "You don't
know anything about it."
"Are you serious?" Richards replied and he actually laughed. "The two of you are the biggest
cliché in the business! I don't know what's sadder. Your lack of faith in her, or the fact that girl
anticipated everything you're doing and thinking right now, and she still had the balls to go through
with it." Richards grabbed a handful of Draco's winter jacket, shaking him as if this would dislodge
a seed of understanding.
"Stay."
Draco shoved at him, weakly. "No…"

"Stay."
Draco shoved him again. "Get off me," he said, his voice breaking.
"You love her."
It was like watching the demolition of a building. Draco staggered away from Richards, holding
his forearm in front of him as if that could protect from words and reason. And then he seemed to
cave in on himself. He slid to the floor, bringing his knees to his chest and dropping his head onto
his folded arms. There, he released shuddering, agonised sobs, shoulders heaving.
Richards sighed. He'd have to get on the ground too, he supposed. In a less well-oiled fashion, he
slowly lowered himself to one knee, and then another, before eventually sitting on the floor.
"Let it out, son. Let it out. It's long overdue."
Draco raised his head, the look on his tear-streaked face was one of utter desolation. When he
spoke, his voice was hoarse and desperate. "I love her….so much that I don't know what to do. I
love her such that I cannot even think. I saw what it did to my father, to Zabini. I cannot keep
Hermione safe. The more I try, the more I learn that it's…it's impossible."
"Son, now you listen to me," Richards growled. "You're not your dad. To love someone is not to
control them and lock them away so you think the bad parts of the world can't touch them. That's
not real love, that's something else you don't want for Hermione. To love someone is to be there
with them and face those hard things together."
The young wizard cocked his head to the side and gave Richards one of his penetrating, scrying
stares. It was always unnerving for the recipient.
"Did you have such a person in your life, once? A wife?"
Richards nodded. "I sure did. She gave me two beautiful girls who are every bit as sassy as their
mama."
"She's dead, isn't she?"
Honestly, Richards couldn't understand what a smart girl like Granger saw in this kid.
"Yeah, Malfoy, she's dead."
Draco was contemplative. "You blame yourself."
"I sure do, but that doesn't mean I regret a single moment of the twenty-six years we spent
together. With the right person, every day is a gift."
They sat in silence. Richards' bad leg was throbbing by the time Draco finally unfurled, and with
his usual grace, got to his feet in a fluid motion. If he left now, Richards would have to let him go,
and not just because his joints seemed to be fixed in place.
Draco stood over him for a moment, his expression cast in stone. The only indication of any earlier
emotion was his red-rimmed, swollen eyes. He gave Richards his hand, pulling him up to his feet.
Hope
Hermione was throwing up into a plastic bag when Draco walked into the infirmary. When she was
done, she tied off the bag, carefully placed it inside a HazMat receptacle and then took a sip of
water from a plastic bottle. Slightly overwhelmed by the painful cramping in her stomach, she
could only grit her teeth and wait for the spasms to ease, all the while watching Draco warily.
Yoshida, Wallen and McAlister were making preparations with the other scientists in the lab
upstairs. Belikov elected to stay behind to keep an eye on Hermione, while Harry was still
searching the home ship for Draco.
Belikov clapped a hand on Draco's shoulder. "I thought I might see you here again." He looked
immensely relieved. "She's been asking about you." If the older man noticed Draco's red eyes, he
had the tact not to mention it.
"I ran into the Cowboy," Draco explained.
"You know, I'm not sure why you all call him the Cowboy."
"He had a hat."
The Professor nodded. He gave Hermione a genial smile, while simultaneously leaning in a little
closer to Draco, to whisper, "She's deteriorating rapidly. It must have something to do with the
particularly direct method of infection she used. It's spreading at an accelerated rate. This spell, or
whatever you call it that's keeping us out, it will last another hour and fifteen minutes. I don't like
it."
"There is not much about this to like, Vadim."
"I mean I don't like her chances of being in any state to administer the serum herself when that
timer runs out." Belikov explained. "At this rate, I'm not sure she'll even be conscious!"
Draco watched as Hermione lowered herself to the floor and crawled into her nest of blankets,
pulling the covers over her. She was shivering. "I'll administer the serum."
Belikov's eyes widened. "You think she'll let you in there?"
Draco responded with a request. "Give us the room. Tell the others to come back in an hour."
"So late? I'm not sure we can keep Potter away for that long! Are you certain?"
"Positive."
"Alright," the Professor conceded. "If anything changes, let me know at once."
After Belikov shut the infirmary doors behind him, Draco went to the medicine supply cabinets
and extracted several vials and syringes, slipping them into his pocket. He knew Hermione was
watching. When he approached the cell, she was curled up in a ball. Draco joined her on the floor,
lying down so they were facing each other, but separated by six inches of reinforced, bullet-proof,
be-spelled glass. He could see Ronald Weasley's wand beside her.
The Infection was wreaking havoc on her nervous system. Small spasms rocked her body. Her lips
were trembling and tinged with blue.
"You came back," she said, swallowing. Her eyes took in his jacket. "Were you going
somewhere?" It was mostly a rhetorical question. She knew exactly what he'd been attempting to
do.
Draco shrugged with one shoulder. "Thought I'd go for a bit of a walk. Stretch my legs. Get some
air."
"In the m-middle of the Danish Straits?"
He wrinkled his nose. "You know me. I like a challenge."
She smiled, and then squeezed her eyes shut as a spasm momentarily robbed her of breath.
"Harry…found you?"
"Richards found me," Draco corrected.
Hermione stared at him. Her forehead knitted into a frown. "I'm not coming out yet, Draco. We
have to wait."
"I'm not asking you to come out."
"You're angry with me." She stated the obvious.
"Yes."
"But you understand why this had to be…to be done."
Draco bent one elbow and propped up the side of his head in his hand. "It didn't have to be done,
but I understand why you're doing it."
"I'm doing it to save…lives. Countless lives. Yours, Henry's…"
"At the possible risk of your own life, and our child's."
She turned away to stare up at the ceiling, blinking away tears. Her pupils were dilated and Draco
could see the network of tiny, red capillaries showing up through the now unnaturally pale skin of
her face. "It was m-my decision…to make."
"And what about me?" he asked. "Do I get a say? I'm assuming I am the father?"
Hermione groaned. "Not this again. Harry's already had a go at me."
Draco appeared to ponder the possibilities. "You've been awfully chummy with poor, old, Vadim.
Anatoli thinks very highly of you, though I think you'd be concerned about Marina finding out and
killing you with that machete she carries around. Wallen shares a shift with you in the labs. There
was also that young lad I saw you give directions to the other day. I hear a moment of indiscretion
is all it takes."
She broke into a coughing fit, and then rolled her eyes. "Hilarious."
"I beg to differ," he said, as he watched her struggle to breathe. "There is nothing funny about this."
"I know," she said, with a wheeze. She winced as another spasm hit.
Draco turned to look at the wall clock.

"Be patient," she whispered.
"I don't think I will be, if it's all the same to you?"
"I'm…n-not coming…out,"
"I know. So I'm coming in."
She frowned. "What? No."
"Let me in, Granger. Put the wards back up after that if you want."
She stared suspiciously at the bulge in his jacket pocket. "I'm not letting you administer Re-Gen."
"That's just as well, because I'm not carrying any." He pulled out the packets and vials in his
pocket. "See? Painkillers. Anticonvulsants. And when it's time, I'll give you the serum myself. Let
me in." He could see how badly she wanted to believe him. "You asked me to trust you earlier,
now I'm asking you to do the same for me," he told her. "Do you remember when you found me in
Azkaban?"
A cough. "Yes. It's a bit hard to forget."
He looked around the cell. "It was under rather similar circumstances, actually. Only I was on the
other side of the glass. And do you remember when I grabbed you while I was in that basement
cell at Grimmauld Place?"
She nodded, jerkily. "You said I should trust in your sense of…self-preservation."
He approached even closer, causing the ward boundary to crackle. "I'll let you in on a little secret.
Mostly, I make decisions that benefit me. And at this moment in time, it suits me to help you.
Because if you pass out and miss that deadline to administer the serum, you're going to die. And if
you let me in and I force you to take Re-Gen, you'll never trust me again, and I lose you. I will not
let either of those things happen."
Her brown eyes were wide with the very same thing she had infected him with months ago – hope.
"Why?" she croaked.
"Because I love you and I'm terribly selfish."
Hermione put her face into the blankets and wept.
"Let me inside so I can help you. Don't do this by yourself. I won't have Henry growing up thinking
you suffered alone in that bloody cell, because you didn't have enough faith in me to be there with
you." Draco got to his feet, placing his hand against the glass and gritted his teeth with frustration
when he was pushed away. "Hermione," he said, choking up. "Please…"
The wards came down.
Draco stood there, stunned for a moment before he hurriedly unlatched the door and stepped
inside. He stripped off his jacket and went to Hermione, picking her up off the floor. She was
burning up.
"Everything h-hurts," she said, into his chest. "Having trouble…b-breathing."
"I know." He raised her into a seated position and then administered medication for the pain and
fever. And when she seized again, he gave her an intramuscular injection to ease the convulsions.
After a few minutes, she seemed to be breathing more easily. She sat across his lap, her head
resting against his shoulder.
"I used to think unkind thoughts about you while we were at school."
The unexpected admission made him raise an eyebrow.
"I mean…not during our last few years at Hogwarts, when you were trying to kill us every now
and then," she proceeded to clarify. "I'm talking about in first and second year. I really hated you."
"I'm not surprised. There was even less about me to like, back then."
"How so?"
"I was a scrawny little whelp, half a head shorter than you." He shrugged. "I was more popular
with the girls only after fourth year."
She tilted her head back so she could look at him. Her hand came up to lay against his unshaven
cheek and Draco had to reign in his panic at how cold her hand was now. Belikov was correct – all
the Infection symptoms were happening in fast-forward. "You were so handsome," she said, her
brow furrowing as if this was perplexing to her.
"Were?"
"Are," she corrected, waving her hand dismissively. "Even though you're all scarred and scary now.
But you never really went after the girls, did you? You always seemed…preoccupied. Is it odd that
I admired that? I think I hated you less when you were more dangerous. I think as I got older, I
understood how complicated the politics of it all was."
"Our last three years at Hogwarts was a preoccupying and complicated time for all."
"Harry still managed to squeeze in romance while fighting Voldemort," Hermione informed.
"The day I take a leaf from Potter's romantic playbook is the day I ask Anatoli for fashion advice."
Her eyelids began to droop. "I like Anatoli," she slurred. "Even if he did shoot Mercer." This
appeared to trouble her greatly. "I was there. I saw it. I don't think he had a choice at the time…"
"Anatoli likes black velour and gold chains. And yes, he had little choice in the matter."
"You wear black a lot." She tried to touch the sleeve of his jumper, but her hand would not
cooperate. He caught it and threaded his fingers through hers, aware that her fingernails were
starting to turn blue.
"Black is good for hiding…and hunting," he told her, his throat tight.
"Is that what we had…a romance?"
"I believe the technical term is 'being in love', Granger."
She began to cry again. "I was under the impression that you are not given to such...passions."
Draco nodded, his chin bumping against her head. "I was under the same impression. It appears I
was incorrect." He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up so he could kiss her. She tried to
turn her head away.
"Don't…please. You might get…sick."
"If I do, I hear there's a cracking team of geniuses whipping up a cure as we speak."
She didn't have the strength to protest. Hermione moaned when he took her mouth in a gentle, yet
thorough kiss. She was breathless from more than just the emotional onslaught when he pulled
away, her eyes finally closing. "I do love you, Malfoy," she whispered.
He pulled her close and told her he loved her back in every way he thought she might like to hear
it. Direct. Flowery and fanciful. Using metaphor and simile. And while he was on a roll, threw in
some Shakespeare. The Muggle Studies tutoring Lucius had forced on him often come in handy at
the most unexpected moments.
Hermione managed to squeeze his hand before passing out.
Draco looked up at the clock. Twenty minutes to go.
When Harry and the others entered the infirmary shortly after, Hermione lay in a bed, hooked up to
the machines that had previously been monitoring Amarov. Belikov was the first to her bedside.
"How long has she been unconscious?" he asked, lifting her eyelids to check pupil response.
Draco pushed a hand through his hair. "Not long. Less than ten minutes. I've only just finished
getting her stable."
Harry was beside himself. "It's not too late to give her a shot of Re-Gen!"
"No!" Wallen and Draco both said, simultaneously.
"What is wrong with you?" Harry cried. He was distraught. "Look at her! She's dying!"
When no one moved, Harry raced to the medicine cabinet. "The hell with you! I'll do it myself…"
He began pulling medicines out of the storage cabinet, reading labels until he found what he was
looking for. He tore open a fresh syringe packet with his teeth, filled the syringe with Re-Gen, and
ran back to Hermione's bedside.
Draco grabbed his arm. "You are not giving that to her," he hissed. "I'm going to inject her with the
serum, as per her plan. That's what's happening."
Harry reached for his wand with his free hand, but was waylaid by Belikov. "Harry, listen to him!"
He looked up at Wallen. "Felix, please go and fetch Miss Weasley. Hurry!"
"No need," said Draco. He was already aiming Ron's wand at Harry. "Immobulus," he whispered,
and Harry was still, his expression one of frozen fury and fear.
Yoshida touched Draco on the arm. He was carrying an unlabelled vial of amber-tinted liquid. It
was the serum.
"Time now," he said, pointing to the clock.
Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love
- Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2

Brave New World
The first time she woke up, the eyes that watched her were grey and the expression was both fierce
and tender. He spoke, but his voice sounded tinny and distant. Machines were beeping and she felt
constricted by the adhesive patches attached to various parts of her body and the wires leading
from them.
She forgot where she was and why she was there. It didn't matter. She could slip away and it would
not matter.
Death bothered only the people left behind
The second time she woke up, there was no one there. The past became a mosaic of horror as she
hyperventilated.
Azkaban was a sealed tomb and a monster's playground. Draco Malfoy was its well-kept secret.
Mira Khan's dead eyes were open in a head that was almost cleaved in two by shrapnel. Her hand
never stopped twitching. Jason Lam screamed and screamed Hermione's name. Elizabeth Kent was
cold on the floor of the Grimmauld Place lab. She was a macabre sleeping beauty, because Avada
Kedavra left no physical trace. Ron loved her and Hermione loved him since she was a child. He
tasted her with his black tongue and she inhaled the sickly stench of death on his breath. He wept
as he turned. Alec Mercer was goofy and sweet and brave. He belonged in the lab, not on a boat,
carrying a gun. Padma…perhaps the bravest of them all. Padma was whimpering as she lay in
pieces, on the metal grating of the Pit. Amarov was an impossibly heavy weight as he climbed on
top of Hermione, his azure, gemstone eyes were going to be the last thing she saw as he choked the
life out of her. Draco Malfoy stood before her, showing her his arms which were soaked to the
elbows with his father's blood. Henry sat atop a pile of dismembered bodies in the Malfoy
dungeons, holding a squirming, newborn baby, still covered in its white vernix. He said something
to her, but there was no sound.
"It's alright, Kiska. You're safe."
The voice grounded her. It was a tether to reality. Hermione followed it back to tranquillity, and to
sleep.
The third time she woke up, there were no beeping machines. She tried to help herself up because
she really needed to use the bathroom. She felt disoriented, but oddly energised. There was no pain.
Her breathing was no longer laboured. Suddenly, a pair of familiar green eyes loomed over her.
"You're going to give me grey hairs," Harry accused. "Where do you think you're off to now?"
She told him.
"Oh," he said.
He helped her up and she didn't even stumble when she walked across the room to the water closet.
The fourth time Hermione woke up, she was of the opinion that Henry Miles Greengrass Zabini
had the most gorgeous topaz eyes in the world, with eyelashes that cast shadows across his elfin
face.
Someone had apparently given him a new notebook to draw in. He was kneeling precariously on a
chair and had spread the notebook open across Hermione's blanket-covered midsection. She
yawned, stroking his hair.
"Henry, get off the bed," Belikov scolded. The Professor was stacking shelves.
"It's fine. I've slept quite enough," Hermione said, smiling. She sat up. "What are you drawing?"
she asked, but she already knew.
"Zombies," he said, without looking up. He was wearing an adorable frown of concentration.
Belikov and Hermione shared a look. He'd been drawing nothing else since he was told about his
father's death. She cleared her throat. "May I see?"
"Uhuh." He turned the book around to show her, speaking in the slightly lisping, husky manner of
small children. "That's me and you and The Man and that's the zombies."
The colour red featured prominently in the artwork.
"Henry," she said, pulling him up into the bed to lie next to her. "You know that we're all very safe
here, don't you? There aren't any more zombies in the fleet."
"OK," he said, and this was as superficial as every other 'OK' he'd given them in response to similar
reassurances. What Henry needed was time and evidence of safety. Mere words could not reach
him. Pattern recognition dominated. Henry would learn to relax a little when his caregivers quit
dropping like flies.
She really wished she could guarantee that.
Draco strode into the infirmary, carrying a duffle bag and more supplies for Belikov to replenish
the clinic's dwindling supplies. Hermione felt a twinge of guilt. She was the reason the restocking
was necessary.
"Good morning," he said, looking at her carefully. After putting down the bag, he came to the bed
to scoop up Henry and then sat on the chair. Henry resumed drawing, now perched on Draco's lap.
It was probably pregnancy hormones messing with her mind, Hermione decided, but the sight of
Draco and Henry together made her want to smile and cry at the same time. A year ago, the idea of
Malfoy caring for a child would be some kind of sick joke. She tried to imagine him a holding a
baby in his arms, and failed.
"You look much better," he said. He needed a shave, and she fervently hoped he wouldn't have one
any time soon. The clipped, dark blond beared suited him. It was unfair. Exhausted men could still
look sexy, while exhausted women looked haggard.
"I feel really good, actually." That was true. There was a lingering cough and weakness in her
joints, but otherwise, Hermione felt better than she had in weeks. The only reason she was in bed
was to catch up on sleep. She had just woken up after fifteen hours of rest.
"Has Harry got the Mirror ready?"
A thinning of the lips was his response.
"Malfoy—"
He didn't bother disguising his frustration. "You're still in no state to Transport."
"I'm perfectly fine now."
"You came this close to dying."
"But I didn't" she countered. "You gave me the serum and it worked, just as I said it would. Now I
need to get to the Wizarding Senate."
"We have absolutely no idea what's waiting for you on the other side."
"I'll have a wand, remember?"
"A wand is not going to do you any good if the portal drops you in the middle of a horde."
She swung her legs off the bed, looking for the bag of clothing he had brought. "Draco, I need to
go. What I have inside me," she said, touching an open hand to her chest, "it's important."
"To what are you referring?" Draco's tone was arctic cool. She marvelled at his ability to drop the
temperature in the room using only his voice.
Belikov suddenly materialised at the foot of the bed, a plastic smile plastered across his face.
"Come on Henry, let's go see what Uncle Anatoli is up to."
"He's sleeping," Henry informed.
"We'll wake him up," said Belikov, unperturbed. "Off we go!"
Hermione shot the Professor a grateful look. "Henry," she called out. The little boy had already
taken Belikov's hand. He turned to look at her. She hoped her eyes weren't too shiny.
"I'll see you soon, alright?"
There it was again, that soul-flaying look of distrust. "OK."
When the pair had left, Draco remain seated, while Hermione located and picked up the bag he had
brought. She disappeared behind the bed screens to get changed. It was pointless giving Draco the
silent treatment. He was liable to stay silent indefinitely. It was not a game you could win.
"We can talk about it that when I get back," she said, as she buttoned up a pair of thick, cord
trousers.
"'It' being the child you're carrying."
Well of course he'd notice that she was trying not to grow too attached to her pregnancy, lest
something untoward happened while she was with the Americans. She didn't even know how she
felt about being pregnant, beyond the unexpected utility of it. The dire circumstances of the last
month had not allowed for any sentiment to be factored into her plans. Did that make her a
horrible, mercenary, unfeeling person? A person unfitting to be anyone's mother?
Hermione emerged from behind the screen, fully dressed in trousers and a shirt, under two
jumpers. The shoes were sturdy, thick-soled boots on loan from Ginny. She carried a bulky,
hooded winter coat and thick scarf in her arms. Draco had also sourced a pair of thermal insulated
gloves, which were tucked into the coat pockets. There would be snow in DC.
"Come here," he said, standing.

I'm not your pet, she wanted to retort, even as she went to him. Instead she said, "Can we not argue
about this right now, please? I need to focus and it's hard enough…."
He had washed and changed into a worn, brown t-shirt and pants. He smelled amazing. Her new
superpower was being able to smell whatever cabbage-laced atrocity Anatoli had recently been
eating. Perhaps it wasn't surprising that one of the few things that soothed her overactive olfactory
faculties was Draco's scent. Did this have a biological explanation?
Ignoring their disagreement, she pulled him close and nuzzled at the scratchy warmth of his neck,
inhaling slowly and deeply. She could feel the heat of his body, the hard curves and lines beneath
the thin t-shirt.
"Listen to me, Granger. I'll support whatever decision you make, but we're going to make it
together this time." He squeezed her upper arms for emphasis.
"You're referring to our…other options? To not keep the baby after all this?"
"There are alternatives."
"It's just…how could we decide to not go through with it, or to give it up to someone else,
when this child is the reason we now have a viable treatment and cure for the Infection? How
hideously ungrateful is that?"
"So you would have this baby out of gratitude? A sense of obligation?" She could feel the rumble
of his voice, through his chest.
"Yes, and you make it sound so horrible."
"And yet you're also afraid to have this child, even with my full support. What is it that you're
scared of?"
Hermione wanted to tell him about her dream, about Padma's warning in the dream, but she
couldn't. Even if it was ludicrous, she was still afraid that telling him might make the dark
prediction even a fraction more likely to happen.
"What's there not to be afraid of?" she scoffed. "Who brings a baby into a broken world where the
dead devour the living? Where people treat each other with barbarity?"
"That world will change for the better now, thanks to what you did yesterday."
Hermione tilted up her head to look at him. "What do you want to do?"
It was impossible to read the expression on his face, which meant he was purposely keeping his
true feelings from her. "I don't want anything I say to unduly influence your decision."
"But you said it was your decision, too."
"My decision will accommodate yours."
She frowned at him. "That sounds like you don't care either way!"
He was losing patience with her. "Would you prefer it if I was less reasonable?"
She just wanted him to feel, damn it. They were talking about having a baby together and he was
neither excited, nor hesitant. How did that help her to know what to do? What was she supposed to
think?
"Malfoy, we hardly get along or agree on anything. We haven't lived together properly. We've
never been around children much before Henry, and we were both raised without siblings. How are
we qualified to do this?"
He seemed to seriously consider the question. When he replied, Hermione was expecting
something profound.
"There are books," he said.
She blinked. "Books."
"Yes," he nodded, emphatic. "Books on keeping babies."
"Keeping babies? You make it sounds like we're planning on breeding chickens." Merlin, she
started to laugh. It was the pent-up tension seeking a release valve. The giggles were not assisted
by his earnest expression.
"I'm saying that we're not stupid. We can learn."
That was certainly true.
"OK." She nodded, sobering. "We'll do some research."
Being in a romantic relationship with Draco Malfoy was the definition of awkward. Hermione
supposed it shouldn't surprise her that when they weren't busy surviving, they would begin the task
of getting to know each other better. When it came down to it, she didn't really know anything
about him that wasn't relevant to life in the zombie apocalypse. Just because he almost single-
handedly engineered and carried out a coup against a despotic, genocidal madman didn't mean he
could be relied upon to change nappies or volunteer at the school canteen. The visual of Draco
wearing a plastic apron and hair-net, serving sausages and mash to school children nearly made her
chortle.
What was his favourite colour? Novel? Dish? Did he have any hobbies before Death Eating had
taken up all his free time? What were his views on gay marriage and climate change? Mac or PC?
Was he a cat or dog person? How did he take his tea? What did he think about the lack of
separation between the executive, legislative and judicial branches of wizarding government? Did
he believe in spanking?
Good lord, what was his position on House Elf rights?
"You're looking at me strangely," he commented.
Potential revelations were forestalled by the appearance of Harry, who Apparated into the middle
of the room.
He looked grim. "Belikov said you're up and about."
"I am indeed," she replied, giving him the thumbs up. "I'm good to go."
"Alright, then. Richards is standing by with the Mirror."

Journey
They set up the Chavín Mirror in Amarov's old quarters, of all places. Harry opened the door and
walked ahead of them, but Draco paused beyond the threshold with Hermione. She stopped short in
front of him. It didn't take a genius to understand why.
"It's alright," he said, his hands coming up to hold her arms. "Amarov's not being kept here.
Belikov has him in the women's infirmary for the moment."
"I know." Her nodding was just a tad jerky. "And besides this wasn't where the…the worst of it
happened. But I probably spent most of my time in this room when I was playing houseguest."
"If it helps, I'm told by Belikov that these quarters will be converted into a fleet nursery over the
coming weeks."
Babies. Toddlers. Nappies. Laughter. Colour. Children would cleanse the bad memories right out
of the room. Yes, that did help, though she had no pressing desire to think about children at this
point…
"Hermione?" Harry asked, from inside. His dark expression indicated that he misunderstood her
hesitation. "You don't have to do this, you know?"
"I know. I don't have to – I want to," she attempted to reassure. Unsuccessfully. Harry was
harbouring the same expression as Draco, recycled from the previous day. She stepped into the
room and took a look around. It was different now.
Amarov's quarters were completely cleared of furniture, save for the dining table where he had
ordered the fleet captains to join him each evening. There was certainly enough space in the room
for an entire crowd to see her off. Though with portkeys, space was never a prerequisite. That was
the whole point of them. As it was, there was only Richards, Harry, Draco and Rufus Scrimgeour.
"Sir," she said, dispensing with formalities and giving the Minister for Magic a hug. They had
barely crossed paths since he and the other refugees from Taransay had joined the fleet. He served
on the fleet council now, representing the magical residents. Her former boss looked older, felt
small and frail in her arms.
"Miss Granger," he said, in his familiar, dour voice. He always gave the impression that you were
about to be told off for doing something naughty. Though to be fair, in Hermione and Harry's case,
they probably deserved it most of the time. "You are well?"
It was Harry who replied. "Of course she's not. Look at her!"
Hermione shot Harry a quelling look before going to greet the Cowboy. "Good morning, Richards."
"What? I don't get a hug?"
She hugged him, cane and all. As she pulled away, she gave the men a pointed look. "I'm fine and
I'm doing this."
To her relief, the Cowboy grinned. "'Course you are, seeing as even tall, blond and brooding here
couldn't stop you."
"Thank you," she said to him, pleased to have at least one person's vote of confidence. She glanced
at Draco and suddenly wished she hadn't. He wasn't hostile, but his stare was lacerating. Hermione
wanted to hold his hand, but she was worried he might not let go when the time came.
"Right, let's get down to business," announced Richards, waving his cane for emphasis.
He dumped a haversack on the table and proceeded to empty its Reduced contents in order to show
Hermione what she was going to carry with her. There was extra clothing, a waterproof tarp, a
camp fire starter kit, flares, food, water, a knife, and first aid kits of magical and Muggle varieties.
Hermione thought this looked to be like a lot of camping gear, but didn't question Richards'
motives. She didn't want to be caught ill-prepared. Richards showed her a small folder which
contained all their pertinent lab notes, in hard copy. There were three USB memory drives, one of
which was attached to a slender, silver chain.
"Wallen and McAlister worked through the night loading these up. They're all identical. Two you'll
keep in the bag. The third you'll have on you at all times." He put down his walking stick and
slipped the chain over Hermione's head. She tucked the dangling end of the chain into her jumper
and shirt. Meanwhile, Richards reached into his pocket and extracted a folded, wrinkled envelope.
"What's this?" she asked him.
"A copy of my original Project Christmas orders, along with my badge number and branch details.
If any Senate goons give you trouble, use it. You wave this around like a peace flag, you hear me?
Drop my name like it's going out of style. Any Senate or military personnel in the area, whether
Muggle or Magical, will help you."
There were also two firearms and a box of extra ammunition. Richards slipped one gun inside the
bag and handed her the other. Hermione recognised it as a Glock. Months ago, Richards had
personally instructed Draco and Alec Mercer in its correct usage, prior to the ill-fated Welwyn
mission.
At Malfoy Manor, Draco's alcohol-assisted lessons with the rifle had been more…educational. And
probably more effective. Nothing helped your aim quite like a burning zombies charging at you.
Hermione picked up the gun. No matter how many times she'd held a firearm or had cause to use
one, the heavy weight was always surprising.
Richards watched her with narrowed eyes, liberally crinkled around the corners. "You gonna be
alright with that? Potter says you were a decent shot back at the Malfoy house."
Yes, she would be alright. After all, this was a mad world where witches needed basic knowledge
of how to load and fire a gun. Hermione ejected the clip and then pulled back the slide to check if
the gun was loaded. It was. She snapped the slide back and inserted the magazine until it clicked
into place.
"I'll be fine."
Richards grunted to convey his satisfaction. "Malfoy will give you Weasley's wand. The guns are
only Plan B."
She wished she'd had this briefing with Richards prior to everyone else being there in the room.
Harry was not handling the situation well. He swiped her bag off the table and held it away from
Hermione, as if that alone could keep her there.
"Harry—"
"This is insanity! You nearly died yesterday and now we're sending you to the other side of the
world?"
She tried to snatch the bag back. "No one's sending me anywhere. I volunteered, remember?"
This was a poor substitute for the private conversation they really needed to have, and it suddenly
occurred to her that she hadn't even been thinking about Harry. In the past, any emotional strife,
any deep and meaningfuls….well, they were usually nutted out with either Ron or Harry, if not the
both of them. But Ron was gone and for a long time, it had been just Hermione and Harry. Now,
Harry's position was effectively usurped by Draco. After all this was over, she and Harry would
have to work out what this meant, in terms of their friendship moving forward.
Harry leaned in close, his eyes spitting green fire. "We both know there are some situations that are
so arse-fucked shitty that volunteering is just a nice way of saying someone has to die!"
"You'd know all about that, I expect?" Hermione asked, an eyebrow raised. She didn't intend to be
unkind, but her nerves were frayed, she had a splitting headache and she just wished that Harry
would, for just one minute, give her a fraction of the trust she extended to him so frequently. She
was tired of battling. "Or do you alone hold the rights to running off and doing whatever the hell
you want?"
"Then you agree this is a daft plan?"
Hermione closed her eyes and pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead. They did not have time
for this. "Unlike you, I don't do daft plans. I'm not intending to die."
"Neither was Ron when he got bit!" Harry whirled on Richards, realising that Hermione would
give no quarter. "Do you even know what state the city's going to be in?"
"Nope," said Richards.
"—or how many members of the Senate have stayed behind?"
"Nope."
Harry nodded with grim finality. "Is there anything you do bloody know?"
"Sure. I know that she's not going anywhere near the city."
This was news to Harry and Hermione. "You have another location for me?" she asked.
"I do. If Potter will calm down and shut up for one second, I'll be happy to elaborate."
Harry threw Hermione's bag back onto the table. "It doesn't make a difference! If anyone should be
going, it should be me!"
"You're right," Draco said, so quietly, it might have been missed altogether if his words hadn't
stood out in such contrast to his previous silence. "As you say, Potter. You should go."
Hermione stared at Draco in bafflement.
"Yes," said Harry, looking slightly suspicious.
But Draco was not finished. "Or rather, I should go. I can assist the Americans to synthesise the
serum, after all. Or maybe Richards should go? He has home-ground advantage. Or perhaps our
Minister? Seems fitting, given he's trying to save his constituents."
"What are you getting at, Malfoy?" Harry barked.
"Most of us in this room have already accepted the fact Hermione is quite literally carrying the
cure to this plague. Only one person can pass through the portkey. And only once. Ergo, she goes,
we stay. Your last minute tantrum is time wasting and distressing to the one person you're
ironically trying to help."
Harry cast a swift look at Hermione, who glared back at him, angry and forlorn.
"You don't want her to go any more than I do!" Harry accused.
Draco actually laughed this time. "Potter, you of all people should know that force of wanting is
not always enough. Even for us, even for magic."
"Harry, please understand," Hermione pleaded.
But he wouldn't. He gave Hermione one last look of betrayal-tinged despair before he left the
room. Hermione made to go after him, but Draco stopped her.
"Let him go."
Richards looked unimpressed with Harry's dramatic exit. "In a few minutes, he's gonna to regret
not being here."
"He'll live," Draco said. "Finish briefing Hermione. Scrimgeour and I will set up the portkey."
While Hermione conferred with Richards, Draco dragged the Mirror closer towards him at the
dining table and took a seat. Scrimgeour hovered over his shoulder.
"We've calibrated it as best we can," the Minister explained. "It's a remarkable artefact, one your
father might have used more regularly had he considered its potential."
Draco cast the older man a brief, narrow-eyed look. "For the Ministry, potential is a euphemism
for 'tool'. Potter had tremendous potential, I hear….along with being an exemplary tool."
Scrimgeour was unperturbed by the dig at Potter and the less than charitable suggestion that the
Ministry had rather mercenary agendas. "This Mirror can be used to track the state of the Infection
globally. It's useful. In the short time we've had it, I've managed to view every single Ministry and
foreign ally site I can recall. It doesn't just connect you to locations, but to people."
Draco turned in his chair. "So that's how you found a location for Secretary Beaumont?"
"Yes," Scrimgeour said. "And it's not anywhere she would ordinarily be…even if it's somewhere
she should be, because it's remote and therefore, safe." There was the smallest sliver of emotion in
his voice.
"Where is she?"
"At a cabin in the White Mountain National Forest. It is about seven hours' broomflight from the
Capital."
"How do you know about this place?" Draco asked, although the look on his face indicated he
already suspected the reason.
"I've been there before, seemingly a lifetime ago." The Minister glanced across the room at
Barnaby Richards. "Agent Richards was aware of my former…association with Secretary
Beaumont. He had no luck finding a suitable location to which Miss Granger could Transport. I
was brought to the portkey late last night to consult on a suitable exit point." Scrimgeour looked
concerned now. "I have no idea why Secretary Beaumont is at the cabin, but she is there
nonetheless. The Mirror will only show us outside, which means the inside is Warded. And the
only person who can get inside to be able to do that, is Rebecca."
Draco touched the worn wooden frame of the Mirror. The close proximity of his hand to the
polished brass surface caused the reflective pane of the mirror to ripple. The initially concentric
ripples began to follow the direction of Draco's hand, like iron filings drawn by a magnet.
"I am assuming you heard about what my father was attempting to do at the Manor?" Draco
inquired, almost casually.
"The sacrificial victims?" Scrimgeour's already non-existent lips thinned even more. "Yes. I was
told."
"And you're somewhat familiar with portkey magic?"
The Minister nodded. "Rather unwillingly, truth be told. The law dictates that all activated portkeys
in Britain be submitted to the Ministry for inspection, registration and licensing. My signature is
required on the applications. I've seen just about every type there is."
"Out of curiosity, how many people would my father have needed in order activate the Mirror
without a wand?"
"I'm hardly an expert in blood magic, but you're after my best estimate?" Scrimgeour asked.
Draco nodded.
"Hundreds. The life-force required to charge a device like this for a single trip would have been
immense. It was never meant to be a practical means of travel."
"It appears that my dear, departed father was well off the mark."
"I daresay," muttered Scrimgeour. "It certainly paints a rather grim picture of how the Mirror might
have been used in its heyday. We cannot write over that dark history, but we can add a new,
brighter chapter."
"There seems to be quite a bit of that going on." Draco passed his hand back and forth over the
Mirror's pane, watching the ripples give chase, and occasionally shuddering, as if sentient. The
battered wooden frame wasn't a uniform colour. There were darker splotches. Blood, probably.
Both old and new. "Some stains don't fade."
Scrimgeour gave him a measuring look. "We are close to the end of this. Does my official Ministry
pardon still interest you, young man? I'd say you earned it."
A small smile proceeded Draco's reply. "You would say that, wouldn't you? Because you know
what wasn't in my file – the part I played in creating the Infection with Hendry Tan, under
Voldemort's orders. An efficient pardon means less questions about my role in the Infection and in
the subsequent cure. It will suit the Ministry to have that information never see the light of day."
The Minister's stare lost all warmth now, not that there was much there to begin with, where Draco
was concerned. "Mr Malfoy, given the state of the world, I think we are beyond caring about such
things as reputations."
"Perhaps," allowed Draco. "But my experience is that once normality resumes, people will bay for
blood. And you won't have the credibility to lead them anymore or pardon anyone, frankly."
"You're talking about accountability," Scrimgeour surmised. "Yours and mine. What it is that you
want now, Mr Malfoy?"
Whatever reply Draco might have provided was forestalled by Richards and Hermione approaching
the table. "Are we ready?" the Cowboy asked.
"I believe so," said the Minister, still staring beadily at Draco.
"You're keying in the location?" Hermione said to Scrimgeour. "I thought Richards would be the
best person to know the lay of the land, so to speak?"
Richards actually looked amused. "Yeah. That's what I thought, too. I dialled up every location I
could think of. Official department addresses, offices, safe houses, warehouses, training
facilities….there was nothing. Nada, zip, zilch. We were beginning to think the Senate had packed
up and moved altogether." He shifted his gaze to Scrimgeour. "But then I figured we're not lookin'
for the Senate. We just need the Battleship."
"That would be the US Wizarding Senate Secretary, Rebecca Beaumont," Scrimgeour helpfully
corrected.
"I tried to track my boss, but no go," Richards continued. "Couldn't get a lock. She was either dead
or in a Warded area. So I had the Minister give it a shot."
"And it worked?"
Scrimgeour looked slightly pained. "Secretary Beaumont has a holiday home—"
"Love nest," interjected Richards.
"—in the mountains."
The Minister stood before the Mirror and held his palm over the reflective surface. The pane
shimmered. A small depression formed in the center, as if a stone had been dropped into a thick,
viscous pool of molten brass. And then, an image coalesced.
Hermione leaned in closer to examine a scene that was by now familiar to the two older men in the
room, having called it up many time in the previous hours. Forrest, snow, tress, shrubbery, rocks,
dirt. The ground was lower in the background, giving way to a small valley and snow-capped,
green and white mountains in the distance. The light that bathed the scene looked new, still
carrying the faint blue glow of a recent dawn. It was beautiful.
"What time is it over there?" she asked.
"We're about six hours ahead, so it's just after sunrise," said Richards.
Hermione worried at her lower lip. "Can we see the cabin itself?"
"Unfortunately not," Scrimgeour answered. "The structure appears to be Warded, which is a good
sign. It means someone's home. Someone magical."
Richards consulted the small expanse of wilderness presented in the Mirror's narrow visage.
"Lookin' good so far. Conditions are holding. Plenty of trees and ground cover. Snow fall looks
manageable, though it'll be knee deep in some parts, so watch your step. The Mirror only gives us
about an 80 degree view of whatever is directly in front of the portal exit. The cabin should be
behind you when you arrive."
"That still leaves 280 degrees unaccounted for," Draco pointed out. "In terms of the periphery—"
"It'll be terra incognita," Richards finished. He didn't look pleased about it either.
"From what you've seen, has anything moved past this point of view?" Hermione inquired.
Richards shook his head. "There's been no movement whatsoever. But you keep your saddle oiled
and your gun greased, just in case."
Hermione took her thermal gloves out of her pocket and pulled them on. "I'll be casting as soon as I
get through, don't you worry."
"Fighting zombies in the woodlands is a little different than in the city."
She tried to pull on the haversack, and then realised the straps needed to be adjusted to
accommodate her thick clothing. "I imagine so."
"It's better, actually," Richards continued. "You can lose 'em real quick. Just lay low and they lurch
right past."
Draco got to his feet and handed Ron's wand to Hermione, which she used to cast an insulation
charm. This was followed by a water-proofing spell over her entire person, paying special attention
to her shoes. Finally, she slipped the wand into a holster which she attached to her trousers. She
caught a brief glimpse of herself in a wall mirror and thought she looked like an intrepid wilderness
explorer. Feeling the part was a different matter altogether, however.
"How stable is the portal channel?" she asked. "Do you think you'll be able see me after I go
through?"
It was Scrimgeour who answered. "We won't know for certain until we try. As for stability, at the
moment it's sound." He demonstrated by holding his hand just above the wavering image of the
woodlands. "See for yourself."
Hermione pulled off one of her gloves and held her hand just above the reflective pane.
"Do you feel it?"
She did, even though she already knew what she was going to experience. Just as it had been at
Malfoy manor, the connection to the image displayed on the reflective pane was strong and solid,
despite being broadcasted across continents. Portkey magic wasn't the gentlest way to travel. You
didn't arrive, as much as get dumped. There was no telling how much of a rough ride it would be,
using such an ancient specimen.
"The connection is as sharp as any modern portkey," Scrimgeour assured. Hermione knew he was
something of an authority seeing as he had to personally sign off on every portkey held within the
UK.
"You got everything?" Richards barked.
Hermione pulled on the haversack and then proceeded to pat herself down. Her puffy, hooded
jacket was a dark purple, insulated with layers of down. She felt rather like an inflated eggplant.
"Yes, I think so."
"Remember to stay low, stay quiet. Get to the cabin. If the Secretary is not there for any
reason, stay in the area. Create your own shelter if you need to. You have enough food for a
month. We're comin' to you, in any case."
"You're crossing the Atlantic?" she asked, incredulous.
"The fleet council decided this morning that it's the best course of action to meet with our US allies
regardless of the outcome of your mission. The east coast is as good a place as any to keep the
fleet. We don't want to be anywhere near the Western Europe fallout if those bombs fall over
London."
"How long will it take?"
"Marina says we can be in Boston in about fifteen days, if we accommodate our smaller, slower
boats. We got more than enough fuel for the trip."
She considered the plan in its entirety. "When you get there, you won't know if I've been
successful or not if the Mirror can't show you."
"Yeah, we will," Richards said. "We have active sensors, sonar, radar antenna. If there's a nuclear
blast big enough to take out London, you can be damned sure we'll know about it."
Hermione nodded, feeling more confident that she probably should.
"It's time," Scrimgeour said. "You want to catch as much daylight as possible."
Draco stepped forward, taking her hands in his. "You will come back to me, Granger."
She rested her forehead under his chin. "Yes."
"Both of you," he added, slipping his hand under her coat and fitting the warm, flatness of his palm
over her belly.
Hermione's composure evaporated like so much mist. She felt tremendous relief. How terrible that
love could feel both empowering and debilitating at the same time. Draco was almost correct to
eschew it.
"That's what you want, then?" she said, her voice breaking.
"It's what I'm feeling," he replied. "I believe you were accusing me of not having any about an hour
ago."
Her smile was radiant. "Thank you. I really needed to hear that."
He bent down so he could speak directly into her ear in a low and ominous voice. "If you do not
return, I will find you and I shall be very put out."
"Oh? What will you do? It will be hard to top escaping Azkaban, surviving mortal combat with
zombies and the overthrow of Alexander Amarov."
"Return to me, and to Henry, or I may just go on a murdering rampage. Bad things happen when I
don't get my way, Granger."
She shuddered. "Don't even joke about it."

"I don't joke."
That wasn't true. He did tell jokes on occasion, only his delivery was so dry you
were almost tempted to take him at face value. He called his methods 'flexibility'. He didn't have
the same pre-programmed brakes that the rest of them did. There were no distinct lines in the sand,
just wide open beaches. She was still holding on tightly to his hand, she realised. And just when
she thought there might be an issue after all, Draco simply released her and stepped away. She was
oddly proud of him for this.
Hermione took Ron's wand out from her holster, a barrage of offensive and defensive spells at her
lips. Ron was very much with her in that moment, even if Harry was not. She didn't feel alone. That
had been one of the immeasurable benefits of having the two boys in her life. And now, she had
magic once more, rendering her formidable in new and interesting ways. Hermione reached out a
hand to touch the Mirror pane, feeling the familiar hooking tug catch her just behind her navel.
A/N:
Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality - Emily Dickinson
In memory of Mr Alan Rickman (1946 – 2016)

Of Gods and Monsters
It was possible to imagine the response the Chavin Mirror's parlour tricks might have garnered in
pre-Inca times. What or whom had been sent through the portals? And where had they emerged?
These facts were relegated to antiquity. All that was left were the legends of feats performed by
wizard-priests who had probably wielded more power and influence than the aristocracy they
served.
The present feat consisted of sending one Hermione Jean Granger to the far side of the world,
across several thousand kilometers of ocean and land (much of it mountainous), into a winter
wilderness of ambiguous safety. She had disappeared without ceremony, which would probably
have made those Peruvian priests of old turn in their graves. The Mirror was, after all, an artifact of
ceremony, for all its homely appearance. After Hermione had Transported, all that was left was the
shuddering, vibrating hammered copper pane and a dense fog that seemed to pour out of it in
rivulets—insubstantial, undulating tentacles of fog that filled the room. Only you couldn't
actually see the fog. It wasn't condensed water vapour suspended in the air.
This was a fog to be felt by the mind. Amarov's quarters, though large, quickly felt suffocating.
The Mirror pane turned a dense, almost tactile black, and the metal seemed to collapse inwards.
There was an unpleasant cracking sound as the wooden frame started to splinter.
Belikov held on to the back of a chair for support as he staggered. Richards was equally affected,
but not so much that he was unable to give Draco an urgent look that required little elaboration.
Trouble was that they needed a wand. Only Scrimgeour had the good fortune of still possessing
his.
The room now felt completely devoid of air. It was like the atmosphere and…something else even
more fundamental—their very life essence?—was being sucked into the ruined portal as it self-
destructed. Perhaps this was normal? Perhaps it was the price paid for casting blood magic without
the customary offering of life?
"Sir," Draco wheezed, as he dropped to one knee. It felt like his vitality was being drawn out
through his skin.
Scrimgeour, looking even more wizened than usual, lunged forward to sweep the shuddering
portkey to the carpeted ground. He aimed his wand and cast a spell that destroyed the artifact.
When the smoke and cloud of dust and burnt carpet had cleared, there was a hole in the floor, but
no sign of the Mirror.
The Minister sat down heavily in a chair. "I'm beginning to understand why your father left that
thing well alone all those years…"
Draco walked over to check on Belikov, who was leaning on the dining table with both hands. "Are
you alright?" he inquired formally, giving the old man some room to recover.
"It felt as if my very soul was being siphoned from me…" Belikov said, clearly shaken. He had an
unusual look on his face. Draco was very familiar with what condemnation looked like. This was
that and then some. "So this is also part of your people's magic, young man? This is what it can
do."
The question was issued rhetorically, but it was important to clarify. "Not our magic, Professor. It
is just...magic, which is not inherently good or bad. Its effects and outcomes are up to the wielder."
"That device would have consumed us and everything else around it! A veritable black hole!"
A still-breathless Richards entered the conversation. "No. I think there would be have been a
threshold point reached. What we just experienced was the price of sending Hermione through the
portal without offering anything in sacrifice."
"Would that have been a fixed sacrifice, do you think? Only a few lives?" Belikov asked, and
unfortunately, Richards missed the sarcasm, perhaps because it was so uncharacteristic of the
Professor.
"Probably," said Richards.
"Forgive me if that doesn't fill me with comfort, Agent Richards. This is what Alexander feared
from all of you, isn't it?" He stared beadily at the three wizards. "No wonder ancient people
thought you were gods." His expression softened when he turned his attention to the smoking hole
in the middle of the room. "Did Hermione get through?"
It was Draco who answered. "She would have, given the Mirror attempted to collect payment for
her passage."
"So what do we do now?"
"Now, we stick to the plan. We set course for Boston Harbour."
Amarov's personal doctor, the despicable Prestin, was being kept in a room near the galley on the
home ship. Previously, Belikov had wanted him close to the infirmary where he was constantly on-
call to tend to Amarov. After Amarov's recent escapade, however, no one apart from the laboratory
team was allowed to treat him.
The fact was that Prestin was no longer a rare commodity in the fleet, given the eight other medical
healers that had joined from Taransay Island. But there were those amongst the Muggles who
refused to be treated with Medimagic, and the Fleet Council felt that these few should be indulged
while the new alliance between Muggles and Magicals was still so new and fragile.
There was no room for idle hands in the fleet. Everyone had a job. This was true for the two
volunteers who currently kept guard outside Prestin's room. As was the wont of the fleet Council,
numbers permitting, Magical folk were to be paired with Muggles. This was meant to encourage
'increased cultural understandings' between the two groups. What it actually did was allow each
group to feel like they were keeping tabs on the other, which worked to alleviate anxieties. Today's
volunteers were a short, buxom young witch, and a Muggle man who was snoring so loudly, Draco
could feel the vibrations through the floor. He had made a little bed for himself, using his rolled up
jacket as a pillow. The witch was much keener in her duties, standing in tense anticipation as soon
as she saw Draco approach.
"I'm here to see the prisoner."
"What for?" she asked.
Her defiant attitude was unexpected. In this new iteration of the free fleet, Draco had grown
accustomed to two kind of reactions from the residents—people either walked rather
briskly away from him when he approached, or they responded with various renditions on the
theme of "yes".
"I'd like to take the good doctor above-deck for a midnight stroll," he replied, aware that fatigue
and annoyance meant he spoke to her in a low growl. It had been a very long day, working to get
the fleet on course.
She was undaunted, even taking a step towards the door of the makeshift cell, putting herself
directly between Draco and Prestin. Her gaze flickered to the foyer, where a grandfather clock
advertised the time. "It's four in the morning."
Draco's smile was as warm as the waters they currently sailed through. "Better late than never."
The young woman's considerable, titian-coloured eyebrows snapped together. "I know you, you
know? And I also know people are saying that Prestin was the one who got that Amarov chap out
of the infirmary."
"Are they saying that?" Draco asked, mildly. "I never pay attention to fleet gossip."
She had the audacity to wave her wand under his nose. "You can't just do what you want with
prisoners. We're not about that sort of thing anymore."
Merlin save him from bleeding hearts and democracies. "What are we about, then?"
"There are rules. The Council enforces them on behalf of the entire fleet."
"I'm on the Council," he deigned to remind.
She was aware of this fact. "Yeah, but they say you can't be bothered showing up to any of the
meetings."
He was finished being amused now and so put the full force of his displeasure into his stare. The
young witch paled and took a step away.
"What is your name?"
"Magenta Caterwaul."
Some names were like barnacles. You carried them around without realising it, whether you
wanted to or not. Harmless, but also near impossible to dislodge. This particular one was hard to
forget.
"Are you by any chance related to Heliotrope Caterwaul, the Hollyhead Harpies' Seeker?"
"She was my mother," confirmed Magenta, and there was something in the way she said 'was' that
filled in the blanks. These days, there were more dead and undead then there were living. No one
was untouched by the Plague. Not even survivors.
"Miss Caterwaul, you should know that I'm going into that room to fetch Prestin, whether you
cooperate or not."
The wand hovered in the air. Magenta contemplated him for a moment, before seeming to make up
her mind. A quick glance was cast towards her sleeping partner, before she leaned in, rose on her
tiptoes and whispered to Draco. "Listen, if you're looking to work off some…you know….tension.
I'm happy to help out in that regard, but I can't let you have Prestin." The look that accompanied
this offer was about as subtle as her name.
There'd been a time when the prospect of a tumble in a dark corridor with the likes of the feisty
Miss Caterwaul would have appealed. But that time was a very long time ago.
"I used to have one of your wanted posters in my bedroom," she added, just in case he doubted her
sincerity. "Mother said it was in bad taste."
"I'm inclined to agree," Draco muttered, massaging his forehead. Daybreak wasn't too far off. He
needed to see to Henry and didn't have time for this. Accordingly, he grabbed Magenta by her
wand arm, divesting her of the wand in question, and simultaneously twisting her casting arm
behind her back.
She opened her mouth to scream. He could have done any manner of things to her and her hapless
partner at this point, but all he needed was a head start.
"If you scream, I'll Hex you," he whispered into her ear.
Her mouth closed with a sharp click of teeth.
"I'm going to hang on to your wand, but I shall return it to you when my business with Prestin is
concluded. For your own safety, I suggest you and Constant Vigilance over there sit tight until the
next shift comes to relieve you, got it?"
"Yes," she lied.
"Good." He released her. "Out of curiosity, which wanted poster was it? There were several
versions."
"The one with the beard," she said, massaging her elbow. "I didn't much care for it. I liked the first
one better."
Draco knew the poster she meant. It had been printed the year he became an official fugitive from
the law. The Ministry had used a school photo because that had been the most recent one they
could acquire. It was all too easy to forget he'd spent almost half his life as a professional criminal.
Harry was elbow-deep in sacks of flour, oats and grains when the woman found him.
One of the Muggle forklift operators had accidentally dropped several crates onto the floor of the
storage hold during an unfortunate mishap involving mistaking 'Stop' for 'Go'. If they were to
salvage the food, an appropriate spell would need to be applied in order to recover the spilled
contents without also collecting all the dust and dirt off the floor. The first spell was ill-chosen and
had resulted in a cloud of flour that unhelpfully blinded everyone for ten minutes. Lesson learned,
and after much sneezing, Harry was attempting to be more discerning with his next choice of
clean-up spell.
"Mr Potter!" the young woman called out, running to him from the open doorway. All work was
suspended as she relayed to him the cause of her concern.
"Where is Malfoy now?" Harry asked, wading out from amongst the spilled grains.
"Upstairs, I imagine," she said. "On the top deck. He said he was intending on taking some air with
Dr Prestin."
The excuse was almost insulting. It was cold enough outside for small puddles on the deck to
freeze.
"I think he means to, er…" the young witch trailed off.
"I think he means to, er, as well," Harry said, resigned. He was already making his powdery way to
the doorway. "Have you told Belikov yet?"
The witch hesitated for a moment, before shaking her head. Harry understood this. Even within this
new climate of Magical-Muggle cooperation, people tended to want to settle their
troubles within their own communities. This meant not going to Vadim Belikov, even if he was
Chair of the fleet Council. He was Muggle. He was Other. He was also not going to like this.
"Alright." Harry thought quickly. "Just keep this between us for now. I'll go and find Malfoy and
Prestin."
He was just out the door when he heard the witch speak to the foreman, who was still complaining
about the cloud of flour.
"Have you tried an Undo Last Spell?" she suggested. "It works really well for simple magical
mishaps."
Trust the younger generation to think of spells Harry had never even heard of. If only Undo Last
Spell could be applied to, well…everything.
Prestin didn't start crying until Draco ordered him to remove his underwear.
The crying came after the begging, which came before the bribing that didn't work very well at all
because Prestin had nothing Draco wanted. Only that wasn't strictly true. He was about to give
Draco something he wanted very much.
"Please, don't…" sobbed the man. His teeth were chattering so loudly that he was having trouble
articulating his words. His running, red nose leaked a trail of half-frozen snot, all the way down to
his bare chest.
With the man's underwear now discarded, Draco pointed at Prestin's feet with Magenta Caterwaul's
wand. "Socks and shoes, too."
"Please…."
"Remove your socks and shoes or I'll take both feet off at the ankles and toss them overboard."
Prestin bent down and proceeded to unlace his loafers with wildly shaking hands. "Why…why are
you doing this?"
The man's genitalia was currently attempting to retreat inside his body. Draco realised he'd been
asked a question. It was rude not to respond. "You thought you'd got away with it, didn't you?"
Now completely devoid of any clothing, Prestin wrapped his arms around himself. "I don't know
what you mean."
"Don't you?" Draco took a step toward the shivering man, who was so desperate for warmth that he
leaned in and tried to shelter against him. Draco responded by shoving him away with a gloved
hand. "You are the last of Amarov's generals; the last surviving member of his inner sanctum who's
still living with the fleet. The only reason I didn't put you into the Pit with Amarov and Honoria is
because the fleet needed a doctor."
Prestin backed away from the encroaching Draco, until his bare back met the frozen metal safety
railing. He winced. "No. Wait! You…must understand. I was only-"
"Only what? Following orders?"
"It was a matter of survival! Amarov would have killed me!"
"And was it a matter survival when you slipped him a blade earlier in the week? He could have
done anything, gone anywhere, hurt anyone."
Prestin opened and closed his mouth. "It was mercy! I gave him the blade so he could end his life!
You were using him for experimentation!"
"Like you people used Eloise Withinshaw? Where was her mercy?" Draco asked, his voice very
soft now. He grabbed Prestin by the neck.
"Malfoy! Stop!" Harry shouted. He was sprinting up the deck towards them, stopping when he was
a few meters way.
Draco didn't look the slightest bit alarmed, though he did raise an eyebrow at the fact that Harry's
black hair was liberally dusted with white. "Potter. Was wondering when you'd show up. You're a
professional thwarter, you know that? Have you finished your sulk over Granger not needing you?"
"Fuck you, Malfoy."
"Guess not."
"Step away from Prestin! Belikov wants him alive."
"Vadim is used to disappointment."
Harry began walking towards them very slowly. "I'd like to kill this son of a bitch as well, but this
is not justice. This is revenge."
Draco surprised him by nodding. "So?"
"He will answer for his crimes, but you and I…we're not the ones to make him pay."
"He was complicit in everything Amarov did. He watched helpless, half-starved Magicals,
including Henry, be put into the Pit to be torn apart. He treated those that survived only to ascertain
if they'd been Infected or not. We can only imagine what he did with the ones that were. He left
hundreds of sick Magical folk, including Henry's mother, to die in abject, diseased misery. He
watched Patil and Hermione fight for their lives in the Pit. He drugged Hermione, stripped her and
then left her to be raped by Amarov. He—"
"Stop." Harry held up a hand, eyes shining. "I get the picture."
"Do you? If his victims can bear to have these things done to them, you can bear to hear it, Harry."
Draco's use of his first name had Harry blinking in surprise for a moment. "Nevertheless, killing
him won't change any of that."
"What do you say, Doctor?" Draco asked Prestin. "You saw fit to impart your special brand of
mercy on your former employer. Should I take a leaf from your book?"
Prestin swallowed convulsively, his lips blue. His eyes were fixed on the wand Draco held. "I
cannot change the p-ast. I cannot undo...what I have done."
Harry approached yet closer. "Think about what Hermione would want..."
Draco stared at Harry, his expression intense and unfathomable. "You know he's responsible for
letting Amarov go?"
"You can't kill him." Harry was buoyed by what he thought was hesitation on Malfoy's face.
"You won't kill him."
"You're right," Draco said, "I won't kill him. The cold will." He took a step forward and shoved
Prestin hard, in the middle of his chest. The naked man tipped over the safety rail and screaming
the whole way down, was pitched into the sea.
Harry rushed forward to look over the railing, seeing nothing but frothy ocean and the wake left
behind as the home ship clipped through the water.
"Damn you," he whispered, still staring at the dark water. "You had no right..."
"We have the other healers from Taransay now."
Harry spun around to face him. "That's not a justification for murder!"
"He was a danger to the fleet."
"You killed him in cold blood!"
Draco stared at him. "Is that an attempt at a pun?"
Harry was incredulous. "You're a certifiable monster, Malfoy. I've known that from the moment
we first met as children. I honestly don't know what Hermione sees in you. She must have a thing
for monsters."
"Or maybe monsters have a thing for her." Draco tossed Harry the wand before turning on his heel
to leave. "On your way to tell Vadim about the very bad thing I've just done, please return that to
Miss Caterwaul, with my thanks. As it happened, I didn't need it."
Ginny answered the door, unsurprised but disappointed to find Draco standing on the other side of
it. She hoped it would be Harry, who was currently seeing to some sort of grain explosion in the
storage bunkers. He was not one for pleasantries, was Draco Malfoy.
"Anatoli said you have him."
She wanted to tell him off. She wanted to be angry at Malfoy and Hermione for treating Henry
Zabini like an obligation that got handed around from adult to adult until his guardians were done
with whatever life and death matter-of-the-moment they was seeing to. But Ginny knew she would
be incorrect in such an uncharitable assumption. They were all just doing the best they could and
she was probably angry at herself for not being of more instrumental assistance to Malfoy and
Harry at this time.
Instead, she was stuck bloody babysitting. Henry was a wonderful little boy, but Ginny was a poor
substitute for the continuity and consistency of care he deserved. Besides, she could not be angry at
the completely beleaguered expression on Draco's face. He must have been weary indeed to show
it.
"He's sleeping."
Malfoy nodded. "I'll take him."
Ginny ushered him into the dark, quiet cabin, where Henry was curled up in Harry's spot on the
bed. She bent down to wrap the child more securely in his blankets and stepped aside as Draco
scooped him up.
"Thank you," she heard Malfoy say, as he left with his son.
Deliverance
Nothing made you appreciate the precision of modern magical travel like being transported via an
ancient portkey of dubious accuracy. Hermione felt like her body was warped and stretched beyond
the limits of human endurance. And yet, she endured.
It didn't hurt, exactly. But nor did it feel particularly pleasant. She gritted her teeth and willed
herself not to give in to motion sickness, if for no other reason that she was liable to be smacked in
the face with her own sick. Padma had once explained that motion sickness was an evolutionary
trigger to warn humans on the occasions when they might have been poisoned. In a time when the
human diet relied on foraging, nausea told you that those berries were bad, or that mushroom was,
in fact, a toadstool. And then you threw up, and remembered that you did.
Her body was currently advertising the fact that it did not like what was happening, not one little
bit. And it would be a long time before she forgot the wretched sensation. Hermione tumbled about
like a lone sock in a dryer and then there was a sudden, sharp shock of dry, cold air before she
landed face-first into thick snow.
She sat up, spitting out melting ice. She wiped her face with the back of her gloves and then
brought her legs into a kneeling position. The conspicuous lack of weight and confinement about
her shoulders meant that her backpack had flown off. She spotted it, lying half buried in the snow
several meters to her left. She'd reached out a hand to grab it.
"Move a muscle and I'll blast you!"
After being at sea level for so long, the mountain air was comparatively thin. Hermione's gradually
changing biochemistry probably made her notice that fact even more. Her chest felt tight, as if
there was a rubber band pulling it back in place after each deep breath. She reminded herself to
breathe through her diaphragm to avoid hyperventilation, though the urge to suck in great big
pointless gulps was difficult to resist. Adrenaline buoyed her along, however, as did her inherent
completionist nature. She was responsible for seeing this task through and she took responsibility
very, very seriously.
At present, she was inside the sheltered warmth of the Wizarding Senate Secretary's cabin in the
woods, having been escorted at wandpoint before some semblance of trust was established. A
healthy fire crackled in the fireplace directly across from the armchair Hermione occupied. The
cabin wasn't exactly small, though it was cozy due to a combination of log-fire and magic. There
was an L-shaped kitchen with all the mod cons, including a Thermomix. Hermione had no idea
why any magical person would require such a device, but then she'd never been able to adequately
explain Arthur Weasley's obsession with things than ran off batteries, either. The spacious lounge
room was adjacent to the kitchen and directly across from a small hallway leading to what looked
like two bedrooms and a bathroom. A large, red and black Aztec-print woven rug covered the floor
by the fire, upon which rested a four-piece, chocolate leather sofa set with cushions that matched
the rug. There was a soft, chenille blanket with bobbled piping lying across an arm rest. Hermione
tried (and failed) to imagine the Minister for Magic in the cabin, relaxed, unguarded…smiling
indulgently at the tall, somber woman who was still staring down with unblinking focus at the
notes and paperwork Hermione had brought.
"I thought you'd be taller," Rebecca Beaumont offered, without looking up. She turned a page in
one of Draco's many notebooks. There was a pile on the floor comprising of paperwork she had
already read in the last hour. Someone had even thoughtfully provided scrap paper, pens and a
highlighter.
Hermione nodded. "I've heard that before."
"You're lucky I didn't kill you, you know? That portkey of yours temporarily collapsed all my
wardings. Coming here the way you did was risky."
"Life right now is risky," muttered Hermione.
Beaumont finally looked up. "Arguably. Our right to exist has become a battlefield."
"Unfortunately there are some people who think living is a privilege, not a right," Hermione added.
The older woman sighed, looking down at the notes once more. "Yes. Alexander Amarov. This is
fairly intense reading you've provided me with, Miss Granger. It says here that he's alive and you're
holding him on his fleet?"
"It's not his fleet."
"No," agreed Beaumont. "Not anymore."
"We're keeping him, but we'll hand him over to you at your earliest convenience."
Beaumont nodded. "The Admiral will be thrilled to take him off your hands, I'm sure."
"The Admiral?"
"Admiral Titus Grey. The current commander of the US response to the outbreak."
Hermione frowned. "I don't understand. You're not the Wizarding Senate Secretary?" That would
certainly explain why she was in this cabin and not heading operations in the Capital.
"Not any more. I resigned when it was determined that Project Christmas, my brainchild, was an
utter failure."
"We haven't failed!" Hermione insisted. "We've had no way to communicate with you before
now!"
"An assumption that was not lost on anyone, I assure you. There is a vested interest among a few in
power, in launching that air strike."
Hermione didn't doubt it, but she was not interested in their magical/muggle political squabbles.
"You wanted us to create a cure. We've done that. The deal was that you leave London be!"
"Hermione, you and I want the same thing. I'm not the one you need to convince, with-" she held
up the stack of notebooks, "-all this."
"So I need to speak to Admiral Grey?"
"I'll contact him immediately. We've maintained a single, secure Floo channel open for domestic
and international communications with our NATO allies and what's left of the UN Security
Council. I'll ask Grey to add your fleet to the channel a soon as possible. You say that these ships
are making their way into Boston?"
"Yes. And I want your guarantee of their safety. And mine."

"I can't guarantee you anything, Hermione. I have no authority any longer. And let's face it, Grey is
not a wizard and he's trigger happy at the best of times. He will do whatever it takes, even if it
means opening you up from neck to navel in order to get what he needs from you."
Hermione was silent for a moment. "How nice to know that Alexander Amarov doesn't appear to
hold the patent on barbarism."
"One of among the many reasons I resigned," Beaumont said, tiredly. "Listen, I know a little bit
about you from what I've read and from what Rufus Scrimgeour has told me. I'm aware of what
you're likely to sacrifice if it means we could harvest the cure from you."
Hermione paled. 'Harvest' ought to have been a wholesome concept, but not the way Rebecca
Beaumont said it.
"I don't mean to frighten you, Miss Granger. I'm just stating facts as I see them. Admiral Grey will
see them, too."
"I did not come here to die or to have my unborn child murdered," Hermione replied, tightly.
"Of course not." Beaumont stared at her long and hard. And then, she stood. "Rest, Hermione.
Drink. Eat. You look long overdue for some sleep. Your pregnancy has barely begun to take root
and it's imperative you don't miscarry from stress."
"Stress," Hermione snorted. "This baby was conceived in nothing else." She looked up at
Beaumont. "Do you have children?"
Hermione's question seemed to catch both of them off guard. "I do. And grandchildren, too." An
unasked question hung in the air. To Hermione's surprise, Rebecca Beaumont laughed. "Oh, God,
no. Not with Rufus! Your Minister and I were…we were a very long time ago."
"Your family is safe, then?" Hermione inquired.
"All alive and well. And will continue to be so, thanks to you." There was a sheen to her eyes now.
"You've come through, just like Rufus said you would."
"At great cost, I'm afraid."
Beaumont's previously warm smile cooled considerably. "I don't doubt it. Miracles are limited in
my experience and never, ever without great cost."
It took two days.
Admiral Titus Grey arrived with a squadron of soldiers and three Wizarding Senate agents cut from
the same sturdy, stonewashed denim as Agent Barnaby Richards. Honestly, they could have been
clones (minus the Cowboy's signature hat). Hermione felt slightly homesick just looking at them.
The Admiral did not stand on ceremony. He marched up the porch and pounded on the cabin door
in a manner that suggested he was angered to find any door shut against him.
There was no love lost between the former head of the Senate's political arm and its beefy, red-
faced military commander. Hermione realized the extent of the animosity between Beaumont and
Grey and this caused her confidence to wane. Was it too much to hope that their powerful
American allies managed to get along with each other? Probably. After all, the fleet's present
peaceful sailing had not come into being without going through a baptism of blood and fire, quite
literally. Nothing tested bureaucratic cooperation quite like a zombie apocalypse, she supposed.
If Grey was as much of a warmonger as Beaumont suggested, he would need to be soundly
convinced as to the likely success of Project Christmas' cure for the Infection. He did not seem the
sort to take anyone's word for it, least of all Beaumont's. And he did not look like the kind of man
to sit down over a cup of tea to study runic chemical formulas. He'd want a live demonstration,
Hermione feared.
"Wipe your feet before you enter," said Beaumont, her voice colder than anything the weather
could conjure. Grey obliged. He was portly; easily three times Hermione's size, but wasn't a very
tall man. The former Secretary looked down her nose at him as he walked past.
The soldiers waited outside, leaving the Admiral to enter, flanked by the Senate agents. He
removed a black beret, tucking it into the wide belt of his fatigues. Under the hat, he was
completely bald, save for a stark, white beard. Combat Santa, Hermione thought. Project
Christmas had indeed come full circle.
"This her?" he said, eyeballing Hermione.
"Hermione Granger," said Hermione, holding out her hand. For a moment, it looked like Grey
wouldn't take it, but then he did. His handshake was firm and vigorous. She noted his gaze slipping
from her eyes to her abdomen, lingering there ever so briefly. Beaumont had warned that she'd left
out no detail for the Admiral.
"I would have preferred to be dealing with your Minister," Grey said, bluntly.
"Unfortunately, Minister Scrimgeour was not fit to travel."
The Admiral grunted. "The Secretary says you used a two thousand-year old portkey you found at
the Malfoy estate to get here."
"I did, yes. Since you dismantled the Floo networks, we had to improvise."
He nodded. Under the beard and scowl, Hermione thought he actually looked slightly impressed.
"Clever. And dangerous to travel to that part of England without any magical firepower. The
Malfoy place is a goldmine of dark artefacts, so I hear. What other interesting things did you find?"
Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy. A dungeon full of murdered zombie fodder. Doomed love.
"Nothing much else, really." Hermione replied.
"You and your people have done their part. I'll take the cure off your hands."
Hermione produced a folded piece of paper. "We're more than happy to give it to you. But first, I
have conditions."
Grey ignored the proffered paper, instead raising a bushy white eyebrow at Beaumont in a look
that said, "What the fuck is this?"
To which Beaumont replied with an equally dry look that said, "Just read it."
The Admiral turned his attention back to Hermione. "Young lady, the only thing you have of
interest to me is what the former Secretary here says might be the end to the plague."
Hermione nodded. "And you'll need me to manufacture more in a hurry."
"Fine. So we'll take you too."

The subtle shifting of the three agents in the room was barely noticeable, but when you were
paying such close attention, you noticed.
Hell was freezing over, Hermione decided, for she actually wondered what Draco might do in this
situation. She tended to get emphatic and exasperated when others got obstinate. Draco Malfoy got
very quiet and personal.
"You can try," Hermione said, her hand hovered over Ron's wand, tucked into her holster. She
knew that Grey knew she was outnumbered, outgunned and thus, bluffing. But the bluff was
Hermione's shorthand for the kind of desperation that would result in at least a few members of his
retinue getting seriously hurt. And this, Grey also knew.
"We're wasting time that we don't have!" Beaumont interjected. "Titus, the British team has
delivered what they've promised. The least you can do is call off the bombing until our people
determine the legitimacy of this cure!"
Grey appeared to be unmoved, but Hermione's hopes rose when he barked, "Show me your
conditions."
Hermione handed over the paper. The two women waited as the Admiral scanned its contents.
"The fleet is to retain its sovereignty until such time the residents choose to disembark," he read,
with a bemused look at Hermione. "You think you're a floating country?"
"For now, yes."
"Some of the equipment and supplies on your ships may be valuable to our fight. You have oil and
you have the ability to refine it yourselves. You have a mobile, large-scale water desalination
device."
Hermione had expected this. "We're happy to share what we have, through trade. You're not taking
anything from us that we're not willing to part with. That includes people."
He continued reading down the list. "You're demanding clemency for Draco Malfoy? Why? I
thought he already had Scrimgeour's pardon?"
"Draco's clemency applies only to the United Kingdom. The context we're asking for is…
international."
"Only the ICC can make that ruling, and I'm sorry to inform you, but it's a been a while since
we've heard from The Hague."
"Until such time the ICC reconvenes, I want your assurance that the US will support Draco
Malfoy's petition, should it eventuate."
"Miss Granger, the United States is not in the habit of supporting pardon petitions to the
International Criminal Court when we don't even know what the pardon is for!"
"Nevertheless, those are my conditions."
Grey gave her a beady-eyed look. "He's the father of your baby, isn't he?"
It was pointless to lie. "Yes."
"I'd like a word with the former Secretary outside," said Grey.
Beaumont and the three agents left Hermione alone in the cabin. With some relief, she sat down in
the chair closest to the fire and clasped her hands tightly together to stem their shaking. Whatever
the Americans spoke about, it didn't take long. Everyone came back inside after about ten minutes
of deliberation, including the entire squadron of soldiers who looked rather cold and miserable by
now. They filled the room and it took Hermione effort not to draw her wand. If they chose to
overpower her, there would be nothing she could do. The world, winter and all, somehow contrived
to hold its breath.
It was Beaumont who broke the silence and delivered the good news. "Pack up, Hermione. We're
heading back to the base. Your fleet can rendezvous with us at Thompson Island."
"I said I'd wait here for them," Hermione informed. "Only because Scrimgeour knows the location
of this cabin. I have no way of contacting him to make alternative arrangements."
Admiral Grey looked almost insulted. "We have at our disposal what's left of the United States Air
Force and Navy. Rest assured we'll find your fleet and let them know."
There was something, dare he say it, magical, that seemed to happen to Henry's socks when they
were off his little feet. To be precise, they disappeared. Draco unpegged all the fresh laundry that
had been drying on a makeshift clothes line in the bathroom and tossed it onto the bed. He hung,
folded and rolled until there were five items left, all of them odd socks. Even with the benefit of
magical replication, it was not practical to consistently be asking for more clothing. Every fleet
resident had been given a supply that was meant to last.
"Henry," said Draco, calling the boy from his drawing.
Henry came and stood solemnly beside his guardian. "Yes."
"Do you know the whereabouts of your missing socks?"
"No," said Henry, predictably. He stared at the display of odd socks on the bed, deep in thought.
Eventually, he said, "You know, maybe it was elves that took them?"
"As much as that would make Hermione very pleased indeed, I doubt it was elves."
What followed was a brief lecture on Looking After One's Things and Socks Don't Grow on Trees,
though Henry wasn't too know about a particular breed of Russian Wool-Oak that was the
exception to the rule.
Draco had nothing personal against domestic chores, but the stark difference from doing laundry,
to the mad, desperate intensity of working in the labs (and occasionally killing zombies and other
evil creatures) was enough to give him mental whiplash. It wasn't that there wasn't plenty to do in
the fleet. It was just that none of them were used to the lack of urgency. Creating the cure had been
all consuming and for many on the Project Christmas team, they had been thoroughly consumed.
Draco couldn't help but remember the wizarding circus that had passed through the family estate
when he'd been just a little older than Henry. There were conjurers, jugglers, a mobile menagerie
and a stilt walker that was so tall, he could see clear over the top of Malfoy Manor. Draco, who had
no trouble with heights, knew this because he had climbed to the roof of his home to wave at the
man as the circus departed from the village.
"How do you do it?" young Draco had shouted to him. It was a matter of skill, balance and
practice, he assumed, for in the few days the circus had been in town, the stilt-walker had never
once stood still.
With a smile, the man shouted back, "You stop, you drop!"
And so it was for many on the Project Christmas team. There was euphoria, briefly, and then
depression. They dropped. Some people hadn't managed to get out of bed yet.
There were also, rather unkindly, small wagers afoot as to when Draco would throw in the
proverbial towel and take off, abandoning Henry and the absent Hermione. No one who knew
Draco very well participated in these bets, of course, even if Harry did tell Draco 'where to go' at
least once a day.
Draco helped Henry to dress and made the bed while the child cleaned his teeth. Breakfast was
next on the agenda when Vadim Belikov appeared at the door.
The look on the old man's face was familiar, welcomed and dreaded all at the same time. "You're
needed up on deck! There's a helicopter!"
"Who is it?" Draco asked, already pulling on his boots. Henry stood at the bathroom doorway,
toothbrush paused in his mouth.
"It's the Americans! Hermione's done it!"

Betrayal
By the time Draco, Harry, Anatoli and Professor Belikov joined Agent Richards up on the top deck
of the home ship, the helicopter had already landed on the raised, yellow helipad. The pilot
remained in the cockpit, while two, heavily armed, helmeted men exited the helicopter and
climbed the stairs that led down from the platform. It was difficult not to notice their submachine
guns.
"Well, good morning to you, too," Harry muttered, his hand tensing around his wand. He felt
Draco touch him lightly on the arm.
"Easy," said Malfoy. "We need to ask about Hermione."
One of the helmeted soldiers jogged up to then, pushing back his visor. His partner approached
next, holding a large, insulated, rectangular bag. The first solder stared beadily at each of the men
until his eyes rested on Belikov.
"You're Vadim Belikov?"
"I am," answered the Professor.
"I am authorized by Admiral Titus Grey to transport the war criminal Alexander Amarov to a UCC
facility. In return for your cooperation thus far, we've been instructed to provide you with a
thousand individual doses of X19, for your people."
The second soldier handed the bag to Professor Belikov. Belikov laid the bag on the deck,
unzipped it and produced a small vile of golden liquid for Draco to inspect.
"X19?" inquired the Professor. "You mean more of the D.R.A.C.O sample we provided? In other
words, Hermione Granger has been successful in helping you manufacture the cure. Why then have
you not returned her to us?"
"Where is she?" Harry demanded, and the way he asked this brought down a curtain of tension.
"Clearly she managed to get to Secretary Beaumont to give you the sample! The plan was for her
to meet us here in Boston!"
"I assure you Miss Granger is well and will remain at our facility for the moment," was all the
soldier said, but the man wasn't even looking at him. He was staring past Harry, at Anatoli. The
business end of the machine gun lifted ever so slightly. "I suggest you ask your man to stand
down."
All eyes were on Anatoli now, who appeared to be brandishing a handgun. At some imperceptible
gesture from Draco, Anatoli sullenly shoved his weapon back inside his jacket.
Richards had had quite enough. He brushed past Harry and Belikov. "I'm Agent Barnaby Richards
of the US Wizarding Senate Intelligence Division under Magical Affairs Secretary Rebecca
Beaumont. Identify yourself, soldier."
"Commander Paul McPherson, US Northern UCC."
"Where is Secretary Beaumont is this chain of command?" Richards asked. "Is she stationed at
your facility with Admiral Grey?"
"I don't have that information at this time."
"Which is it, son? You don't know if Secretary Beaumont is at your base, or you don't know the
whereabouts of your commanding officer?"
"I'm not at liberty to reveal that information," repeated McPherson, stony-faced.
Richards was fast losing patience. "We would like Hermione Granger returned to our crew,
Commander. Are you at liberty to do that?"
"I appreciate that you made arrangements with Miss Granger, but I'm afraid those are not my
orders, Agent Richards. However, if you would like to see Miss Granger, I am authorized to take a
member of your crew back to the facility, in addition to Mr Amarov."
Richards narrowed his eyes at the solider. "Just two? That whirlybird of yours can take five, in a
pinch. How much fuel you carrying?" But no one was surprised when McPherson remained
tightlipped, because to provide a definitive answer was to reveal the likely distance from the fleet to
the military facility.
"My orders are to retrieve Amarov and take one other individual, if requested. And I'm afraid you
will have to come with us immediately. We'll also need you to leave behind any weapons and
magical paraphernalia."
"Magical paraphernalia?" asked Belikov.
"He means wands," Harry said, through gritted teeth.
"Why?"
"Orders," said Richards, with a sharkish smile at Commander McPherson. "If you'll excuse us for
a moment, I'd like a word with my colleagues." Richards waited until the soldiers were back on the
helipad, before he opened his mouth to speak.
Harry beat him to the punch. "What the hell is going on?"
Richards ran a hand through his silver hair. "It's unusual that Beaumont isn't calling at least some
of the shots. I would have expected her to come here herself. It could be a matter of caution. I don't
know anything about this Admiral Grey, and our new friend, Commander McPherson, isn't
telegraphing very much. But we have to remember that the US government has just recently been
told the plague was engineered by magicals. I think some distrust is expected."
"The feeling is mutual," Belikov said, in frustration.
"You're technically one of them, Prof," Richards pointed out.
"Then I should be the one to go to Hermione," said the Professor.
Harry was shaking his head. "I'll go."
Belikov clearly thought this was a bad idea. "Expecting us to send an unarmed wizard is
unreasonable. The last time your people were asked to relinquish your wands, Amarov attempted
genocide!"
"They're not Amarov," Harry reminded, sounding slightly hopeful. "This is the United States army,
remember? They're the good guys."
"I thought these men are from the navy?" Belikov asked.
Richards provided clarification. "They're both. Northern Command is a Unified Combatant

Command. It's whichever combination of branches that's needed by the Department of Defence."
"I still don't like it."
"There's not much to like," Richards agreed, "but at this point we're out of options."
"We could smuggle something through. Sneak it into the facility. How would they know if it's
magical?" Harry pondered.
"They'll know," Richards said. "Before I was stationed with Project Christmas, all the remaining
US bases were being equipped with jerry-rigged detectors. You can't walk past the front gates
without Muggle and Magical weapons checks."
"We can take them. Make them talk. Keep helicopter," offered Anatoli.
Belikov shook his head. "Nyet, my friend. Not while they still have Miss Granger."
Draco had been largely silent up until this point. He unbuttoned his coat and removed a gun, which
he handed to Harry. The knife in his right boot came next.
"So you're going, then?" Harry surmised, unsurprised.
"Yes."
Harry scowled. "I know it's still a new gig for you, Malfoy, but you've got responsibilities."
"I remember. I'm going to see to one of them. Will you and Weasley look after Henry in my
absence?"
"Merlin, you don't even need to ask. Henry's going to be livid that you've left him again. How will
we stay in contact?"
"If something's wrong, you'll know. Go with Belikov and Anatoli to organize Amarov's transfer.
Brief the Minister."
"And pray tell how will we know if everything is not alright, you enormous git?"
"You'll know if I don't come back," Draco said, as he walked up the stairs to the helipad. "We
won't be far from here, or else these men would not have been able to reach the fleet. Give me one
week."
"And then what?"
"And then, Potter, you do what you do best. You perpetrate a daring rescue."
Sometimes she dreamed she was in her old room in Oxfordshire, in the safe haven of her childhood
bed, comforted by the sound of her parents preparing dinner downstairs in the kitchen. Sometimes
she was walking through London or Diagon Alley, shopping list for the new school year clutched
in her hand. Other times, she patrolled the Hogwarts corridors, reminding second years to walk, not
run. One time she was in Grimmauld Place with Ron and Harry, when they were younger and
laughed more, before the dead outnumbered the living. One nightmare had her back on the
Morning Star, where she ran barefoot, through dark, metal-grated corridors that reeked of death.
On this occasion, however, she was in the Hogwarts library. A facsimile of home. It was a
weekend morning, her mind explained, and she went along with the narrative.
She selected several books from which she hoped to extract information that would be of some use
to Harry in the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Time is a strange beast in dreams, and
by the time she had leafed through the first compendium of aquatic sorcery, the sun was low
outside the stained-glass windows. She was not alone.
He was seated across from her and he was young, golden and fairly vibrating with vitality. Today,
he was dressed in his school uniform, despite it being the weekend. This was the only incorrect
detail to mar the fantasy. There was a prefect's tie, slightly askew, and white school shirt rolled up
at the sleeves in a way that would have garnered Professor Snape's ire. He sat back in the chair, one
ankle balanced over a knee.
"Why bother?" he inquired, his silver gaze weighted with contempt as he stared at her book. She
knew this mood. He was bored and up for a round of Bait the Mudblood.
She felt her face go slightly pink. As much as she would loudly and frequently profess to be
unfazed by his bigotry, he had an uncanny ability to make her want to stand up a little straighter,
smooth her frizzy hair and hide her bitten-down fingernails. He also made her want to kick his arse
in every class test, which was a useful motivator for academic excellence. She looked up from her
book and the sentence she'd read and re-read four time now.
"What, no little children to torment this afternoon?" she drawled. "You usually have to work your
way up to me."
He rested his forearms across the table, leaning closer such that his chair now tilted forward on two
legs. He was close enough that he cast a shadow over her page. The world went a little unfocussed;
the edges of the dream wavered in the distance. She breathed in his familiar, subtle scent and
marveled that she knew it to be familiar at all. Why, this boy was practically a stranger, wasn't he?
And yet she could not stop herself from moving into him, closing her eyes as she gently rested her
forehead against his, feeling certain when they actually touched, he would surely vanish. But he
did not.
"You can't save everyone," he told her and this time, his voice was much deeper. She glanced
down between them and saw hands that were his and simultaneous not. These were older,
bandaged, scarred. She wanted to kiss him, and was scandalized at the very idea.
Fortunately, Harry intervened. He was now standing above her, looking harried and was wearing
the oddest clothes…
"Hermione!"
She wanted to shush him. Madam Pince was going to materialize and deduct a million points.
"I need you to wake up."
The urgency in his voice was all it took. A panicked Harry Potter was more than sufficient reason
to abandon her dream. Hermione opened her eyes, waking up into what felt like the world's worst
hangover. She groaned, attempting (unsuccessfully) to lift a hand to massage her sore head. To her
puzzlement, she saw that both hands were partially immobilised with cannulas, of which only one
was in use. Frowning, she followed the line to an IV stand, hurriedly pulling both stand and bag
closer so she could see what was being fed into her veins. She relaxed. It was just fluids to prevent
dehydration.
Hermione sucked in a shuddering breath as she ripped out the IV line, causing thick, dark blood to
spurt out of the untapped cannula. She grabbed a corner of her blanket and pressed it to the top of
her hand, applying pressure. All around her were a tangle of tubes and wires attached to monitoring
equipment. She appeared to be inside a hospital room.
"Harry?" she whispered, his name conveying about a dozen different questions. For a moment she
thought he might be yet another aspect of a dream from which she had not awakened, but when she
touched him, he felt solid and real.
"I hate to rush you," said the man she loved like a brother, "but do you think you can walk?"
Of course she could walk. What kind of question—
Hermione looked down at herself, beyond the mess of wires, and felt her stomach do a somersault.
Though, given the size of her belly, she doubted there was space for such internal gymnastics.
"Oh my God…" She gripped the metal railings of her hospital bed, her eyes huge. Somewhere near
her head, one of the machines was starting to beep.
Harry wasn't beside her any more. He was at the door of her room, opening it slightly to peek
outside. She caught a glimpse of green and grey-flecked linoleum and mint green walls. Hermione
looked at him now, really looked. He was dressed in a hodgepodge version of Auror gear,
complete with flying goggles strapped to his head, nearly hidden amidst the mess of his unruly
black hair.
"Harry…" she said again, placing a shaking hand over her abdomen. Her own body felt and looked
completely alien to her. Her limbs felt sluggish. Her arms were thin, the muscles emaciated from
either long term illness, lack of use, or both. Her feet felt thick and swollen under the blanket. She
wriggled her toes and realised they were encased in pressure socks.
"The baby's doing fine," Harry reassured, incorrectly assuming that was what she wanted to know.
And well, yes, she did, but dear God, one thing at a time. He'd walked back to her bedside now,
and the emotion in his eyes made her want to cry. "Do you know where you are?" he asked, very
gently.
She was about to mouth the word 'no', but then some distant part of her brain began nudging
forward memories. Hermione blinked. "I… I don't know." She grabbed him hard with her other,
cannulated hand. The needle stung under her skin, but this was clearly the least of her worries right
now. "Harry, what's happening?"
"You are in an underground facility in Charlestown Navy Yard. We've been searching for you for
eight months."
"What?" she hissed. "That can't be!"
She had just left Rebecca Beaumont's mountain cabin with Admiral Grey, hadn't she? She had
struck a deal with the Americans and expected to meet the fleet in Boston, just as they had planned.
Had the Americans reneged? There was no other explanation. She had trusted them.
"Have I been here this whole time?" she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
Harry produced a bandage and began wrapping up her bleeding hand. "We don't exactly know
where else they might have taken you initially, but you've definitely been at this particular facility
for at least three months. I only managed to find you last week, and since then, we've been working
on a way to get you both out safely."
"Both?" A disoriented as she was, she could read him like a book. He wasn't referring to her
unborn child. "Who else is here?"
Harry looked like he regretted telling her.
It was amazing how much of her focus could be commanded into existence, from sheer force of
will. "Where is he?" she enunciated. The machine at the head of the bed was beeping again.
"Please calm down. I don't know yet, but trust me when I say we are not leaving here without him."
"You have to find Secretary Beaumont! Does she know what Grey's done? Can she get to Draco?"
Hermione threw off the blankets.
"Hermione, listen to me. Rebecca Beaumont is dead. Grey disposed of her because his intent has
always been to run his own command here without any oversight."
Beaumont was dead! Hermione shut her eyes as her mind raced. That explained why the plan had
gone to absolute shit. Rebecca Beaumont's ethics and professional kinship with Agent Richards had
been the only insurance against Grey doing whatever he wanted. And the bastard had killed her to
progress his own brand of command.
"What about the cure?" she asked, terrified of Harry's answer. "Dear God, please tell me Grey
managed to get it out to the people…"
Harry nodded, a small, sad smile appearing. "For the first time in three years, the living are
winning."
"Then I don't understand. If Grey has the cure, why has he been keeping me here? Why is Draco
here as well?"
"Once he had you, it didn't cost him anything to keep you here in case they needed to extract
something from you or the baby to modify the cure. You were his golden goose, after all. Only one
of us was allowed to come and see you, and of course, Draco insisted that it be him. He was meant
to check back with us a week after his departure, but we never heard from him or Amarov again
after they left."
"Amarov is here?" Hermione was incredulous. "Why?"
"They're planning to charge him with war crimes in some version of a tribunal, if they haven't
already. Grey is trying to legitimize a new government and he's decided that this requires
scapegoats. I tell you, there's nothing like end of the world that brings out all the despots in the
making."
Hermione extracted the second cannula. This one did not bleed quite so much. Harry helped detach
the various cords and cables, and then helped her off the bed. "Easy does it. How do you feel?"
Her feet felt soft and squishy, and her legs were weak, but otherwise, she was OK. Apart from the
distracting memory loss.
"How is it I don't remember the last eight months? Surely they haven't been keeping me drugged
the whole time?" She was suddenly worried for the baby.
"You haven't been drugged," Harry said, evasively.
All the telltale indications were there. Her grogginess was not from a sedative. "I've been
Obliviated, haven't I?"
Harry nodded, his expression a blend of anger and sympathy. "Many times, probably. They have
several magical staff on the base."
She swallowed, but the knot of revulsion and hate was overwhelming. What else had they done to
her? Had they performed tests without her consent? Had they hurt her or the baby in doing so?
How else had she been violated? Merlin, had they hurt Draco?
"I'm going to be sick…."
Harry helpfully procured a metal bed pan. He held back her hair as Hermione emptied the contents
of her stomach, which did not appear to be very much at all. After that, he gave her a sip of water.
She desperately needed to pee. Her head was pounding. Harry dragged forth a chair and forced her
to sit down. Her hair hung past the middle of her back now and was in a sorry state. Hermione
hastily braided it to keep it out of the way. Harry turned out the contents of a duffle bag, handing
her a large, long sleeved t-shirt and dark blue sweatpants that looked like they'd been donated by
Anatoli. There were also a pair of trainers.
All modesty was put aside given the circumstances. She needed Harry's help to untie her hospital
gown and step into the trousers, which thankfully came with a drawstring. Having no waist to
speak off, Hermione settled for tying the drawstring beneath her belly. She felt enormous, thick-
fingered and clumsy. She could never be accused of being a large-chested woman, but the current
state of her breasts were incongruent with this notion. They had to be at least two cup sizes larger
than usual, with light blue veins networked across her pale skin. There was a moment of
fascination as she stared down at the taut, shiny skin of her belly, with the dark linea
nigra vertically bisecting her abdomen in half. And she still had a month to go? Good God.
"Was Malfoy a large baby?" Harry asked, doing his best to be conversational. He had to put her
shoes on for her.
"I have no idea," Hermione admitted. And as if thinking of Draco had caused it, his son or daughter
suddenly kicked. "Oh!" Hermione gasped, placing her hands on her belly.
"What is it?" Harry demanded, instantly worried.
She replied by placing his hands where hers had just been, and he felt the movement, too. His
delighted grin made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. She tried to imagine Draco in his
place and could not. He'd probably just nod in clinical acknowledgement and give her a non-verbal
equivalent of, "Very good, Granger. Carry on."
"You don't have a wand," she noticed, in an accusing tone. "Harry, what kind of rescue is this if
you don't have a sodding wand?"
The look he gave her was vintage Harry. "I have a plan."
Hermione listened as he relayed it.

Saving Grace
The entire subterranean portion of Admiral Titus Grey's four-level military complex was subject to
a magic repelling boundary powered by wards originating from the lowest level. Harry had spent a
painstaking two months tentatively nurturing contact with civilians working on the site, so that he
could eventually barter this bit of information.
These priceless, insider gleanings had cost the fleet several weeks' worth of food and fuel, and the
promise of sanctuary. Harry would have traded much more than this for Hermione's guaranteed
safety.
The wards were such that they encompassed the entire facility spreading outwards from an original
casting point measuring only a single square meter. Dismantling the wards without triggering an
array of alarms proved to be a tricky business. Harry was nothing if not resourceful, however, and
with the Cowboy's help and Scrimgeour's experience with such security measures, he eventually
developed a workaround.
"What we could not take apart, we moved instead," he explained to Hermione.
"What do you mean 'moved'?"
"I mean the bit of space the original spell caster was standing in when he or she erected the wards.
Turns out the effect of the casting space is fixed, but its position is variable. It's the single flaw in
an otherwise clever system. We uprooted this space and moved it, placing it as close to the external
gates as possible without touching the ward boundary. It's far enough to still reside within the
confines of the wards so as not to sound any alarms, but close enough for an able-bodied person to
make it to the anti-apparition boundary and get the hell out of here when they need to."
Hermione processed this information, impressed. She told Harry as much.
"Thank you," he said. "But it would have been much faster work with your help, truth be told."
Now all they had to do, he explained, was to sneak past three or four guards standing at their posts
along the three subterranean floors, before arriving at the fourth floor on the ground level.
She swallowed audibly. "Is that all?"
"You can do this."
Hermione was less certain. She felt slow and sluggish; her mind addled by the sinister pressure of
mangled memories. And then there were her emotions. Under useful adrenaline was a less useful
urge to run around screaming, breaking things and hurting people who deserved it. Not that she had
any time to indulge in such urges. The stomach churning fear for Draco's safety already threatened
to steal away what little courage she had left.
"What time is it?" she asked. She had no idea if it was day or night. The lighting was fluorescent
and windows were non-existent on the lower levels. Somehow, it felt important to know. It felt
important to regain some control and mastery over her environment.
"It's just before dawn," Harry replied, holding the door open for her.
How fitting, Hermione thought, as she walked through.

Three or four guards turned out to be more like six, and it was disturbing to note they were little
more than teenagers – all gangly limbs and angles, dressed in mismatched fatigues. Harry, who had
been surreptitiously monitoring their patrols for so long, knew them all by name or call sign. This
did not mean he had any sympathy, however. He shoved Hermione into a broom closet full of toilet
paper and went to enthusiastic work with a taser.
"Where on earth did you get that?" Hermione asked, when he finally retrieved her from amidst a
cascade of fallen toilet rolls.
"Anatoli. Without magic, guns would have been too noisy."
"And lethal," she added. There was no evidence of the fallen soldiers. Harry had already dragged
their unconscious forms into an empty room. "What kind of operation is Grey running here?" The
question begged to be asked. The man had been holding her against her will and was virtually using
children to guard his base.
They avoided the elevators, taking the stairs. Hermione fully expected a random solider to turn a
corner and stumble upon them, but Harry assured that two weeks of surveillance had allowed him
to more or less memorize duty rosters. Also, there seemed to be markedly less guards on patrol
than expected.
"Admiral Grey is no Amarov, if that's what you're asking."
Hermione expelled a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. "That explains why I'm still in
one piece. Draco is well, then?"
Harry gave her a solemn look "Yes, I would have told you, otherwise. Last I heard, he's being held
in a cell on the second floor. They were talking about subjecting him to a tribunal of some sort."
"What kind of tribunal?"
"Criminal proceedings."
Hermione was horrified. "If anyone was going to be on trial, I thought it'd be Amarov!"
"Don't you worry, apparently he's already had his day in court."
This was unexpected. "What, with legal counsel and everything?"
Harry shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. They can toss him in a cell to rot for the rest of his
miserable life, as far as I'm concerned."
"How are we going to get to Draco?"
Harry took her hand and pulled her into a stairwell. "You're not going, I am. You're heading to the
safe space. There's a wand there for you to Apparate out of here. You'll be able to see Ginny
beyond the boundary fence. Go to her. Don't attempt any long distance Apparition in your state, do
you understand? Go to Ginny. She's in line-of-sight, waiting for you. And Neville is standing by in
case anything goes wrong."
She stopped in her tracks. "What about you and Draco?"
"Ginny will come for us after you've vacated the safe zone. It can only fit about one person at a
time. It's likely the alarms will be triggered as soon as Malfoy and I enter the zone because of the
tight fit, but we're just a short distance to the end of the ward boundary. We can easily sprint the
remaining few meters where Ginny will pick us up." He stared pointedly at her belly. "You're in no
shape to be running anywhere. Ergo, you go first."
She knew that this was no fly by night plan; that it had been thought through and dissected, and not
just by Harry. But that didn't mean she had to like it.
"Damn it," she said, under her breath.
"Hermione. I'll get him there, don't worry!"
She was incredulous. "How can I not worry about the two of you? They'll be shooting at you if
they see you! I have no idea what these people are capable of." Her voice broke.
The look Harry gave her was heartbreaking. He lifted a hand to wipe away a tear from her cheek.
"You probably have the best idea of us all, sadly. But you can't remember."
They were now at the top floor now, about to leave the dark stairwell, "If you tell me my memory
loss is for the best, I'm going to hit you."
He sighed. "Quite the contrary. I've always felt that Obliviate should be the fourth Unforgiveable."
Hermione watched in almost sullen silence as Harry opened the stairwell door, wincing slightly at
the creaking. She needed to use the bathroom so very badly that she was in danger of making a
mess in her trousers.
"Is it clear?" she whispered.
"Yes," he said. "The exit to the backyard is the fourth set of doors on your left. Walk through them
and don't you dare stop for anything until you reach the base of the old guard tower. The safe zone
is marked with red spray paint. You'll find the wand buried in the dirt. You'll be able to cast from
there."
"Harry..."
"Hermione, for Merlin's sake, just go!"
She went.
Hermione felt like she was walking, no—stumbling around in someone else's skin. The dissociative
sensation was horrible. Her feet felt soft and tight at the same time, the result of edema from days
of bed rest, probably. The skin around her hands and wrist was papery, dry and pale. She had been
indoors for quite a while and unless they have been providing her with intravenous supplements,
she was likely deficient in Vitamin D. That was not ideal at all for an expectant mother.
The baby seemed to be sitting very low, but nevertheless, there didn't seem to be any room for her
ribs. Hermione had to marvel at how there could be any space for her lungs at all. The short
journey from the infirmary to the top floor had her panting; her body unaccustomed to such
unexpected physical exertion. Meanwhile, her full bladder was a disaster waiting to happen.
This was not how she wanted to experience pregnancy.
In fact, she wasn't even sure if she wanted to experience pregnancy at all, but decided that such
thoughts were probably the result of her current circumstances. It was difficult to contemplate any
sort of connection to the child growing inside of her when carrying it still felt so…well, new. No
doubt, she would regroup once she, Harry and Draco were safe and reunited with Henry. She would
do what she knew she could for now, reach deep into her reserves and marshal the strength
required to take the next step, and the one after. She could do this. There was precedent after all,
bitterly earned.
She walked past the third door – just one set of doors away from the precious freedom Harry had
promised her – and paused.
The third door was the Ladies' Room.
Hermione felt a hysterical urge to laugh at how ridiculous it was that such a place existed at all.
Who cared about civilized facilities in times like these?
She did, that's bloody who.
The corridor was completely clear. Harry had assured her of this. There was no one about to
discover her and she'd be damned if she was going to piss in her pants when she'd already endured
so many other indignities. As quickly as she could, Hermione ducked into the toilets and picked
the stall farthest from the door, just in case someone walked in. She left the stall door
inconspicuously ajar, threw a wad of toilet paper into the toilet bowl to mask the impending noise
of what was surely to be an epic stream, and nearly wept with relief as she relieved herself. When
she was done, she felt halfway human again.
With renewed confidence and a noticeable spring in her step, Hermione exited the stall and it was
then that she noticed the barred windows. The lure of sunlight was strong, after so long spent in
artificial, perpetual day. She paused momentarily to peer out into what initially appeared to be an
empty courtyard.
Only, it was not so empty.
Dear God. Hermione gripped the window bars with white-knuckled fingers before her legs could
give out.
She would recognise his familiar gait anywhere. No wonder the entire base was so conveniently
deserted. There was more happening here than just Harry's meticulous planning and luck.
Everyone had gone to the courtyard to witness what appeared to be an impending execution.
Amarov and Malfoy were dressed in identical black jumpsuits. Both had their wrists bound with
cable ties and their eyes covered with blindfolds. Amarov was already tied to a wooden post, facing
a row of armed soldiers who looked ill at ease even from where Hermione stood watching. The
shock of seeing two soldiers escorting Draco to a second wooden post just beside Amarov nearly
brought Hermione to her knees.
There was no slump or stagger in his walk. He all but swaggered out there and Hermione could
have wept from the utter Malfoy-ness of him.
The soldiers began tying him to the post, facing what was to be his firing squad.
Not that Hermione stayed to observe this eventuality. She was already out of the lavatory, down
the corridor, hurling open the doors to the courtyard. Harry had been incorrect in his assumption of
her incapacity to run.
She ran like the wind.

Faith
Hermione did not run into a hail of bullets. This was just as well, because suicide was not on the
agenda.
Harry, she thought, feeling a strange calm dilute the treacle thickness of her her initial panic. Find
me.
It was Grimmauld Place all over again, when Honoria Cloot had cast Imperio over her, and Harry's
name had been a mantra in her head.
Admiral Titus Grey stood beside his phalanx of executioners, looking positively apoplectic. "Stand
down!" he bellowed to his men. "God damn it, stand down!"
The last rifle lowered just as Hermione collided into Draco. She didn't waste any time looking at
him and instead immediately spun around to face the Admiral. At her back, Draco was tall, solid
and a lot steadier than he ought to have been, given the circumstances. He didn't speak and for that
Hermione was glad. She didn't think she'd be able to keep her emotions in check once she heard his
voice.
Grey stalked into the center of the sand-covered clearing, stopping about ten feet from her, his
hands coming to rest on his hips. She was relieved to see he hadn't bothered arming himself with
his sidearm.
"Hermione Granger," he enunciated, managing to convey vast quantities of frustration in those five
syllables. The Admiral looked a great deal more haggard than she remembered. The last eight
months had not been easy on him either, she surmised. She hoped she was the reason. He scowled
at her, his gaze dipping low to her belly and then back up again. "How the hell did you get out
here?"
She ignored the question, not willing to implicate Harry. "You cannot shoot him."
One bushy eyebrow rose. "'Course I can."
Hermione reached behind her to clutch at Draco's jumpsuit, as if that alone would be enough to
thwart any attempt to separate them. "I demand to know why you are executing this man!" Low in
her abdomen, an odd cramp began to blossom. A small movement in the periphery garnered her
momentary attention. She glanced sideways at Amarov, who wasn't so much standing as hanging
off his post. Still, it was a miracle he was alive at all. Here was living proof that the cure worked.
Harry, any second now would be good.
"This man," said Grey, sounding more put out than anything else, "has been found guilty of
facilitating the development of biological and toxin weaponry, the prohibition of which is listed in
Article 1 of the Geneva Convention." The line sounded well-used.
"There are extenuating circumstances, Admiral. Not the least of which is the fact he's responsible
for the cure."
"I know," snapped Grey, impatient.
She employed her most condescending Head Girl tone. "He's also entitled to a trial."
Grey rolled his eyes. "Oh, he had a trial. And a lawyer."
"He had legal counsel?" she asked, immediately skeptical. "Who?"
"You."
That admission caught her completely off guard. Her raised eyebrows nearly disappeared into her
hairline. "What?"
"Might've escaped your notice, but we're not exactly spoiled for choice when it comes to attorneys.
You were his legal counsel when you decided no one else on this base was competent enough or
unbiased enough to perform said role."
Hermione was surprised and simultaneously…not. Well, it made sense. It was entirely something
she would do, wasn't it? Apparently she had defended Draco, albeit unsuccessfully. Though she
had no doubt the deck had been stacked, and not in his favour. Her mind raced. "Look, if you're so
keen on following the rules, there must be an appeal I can lodge on his behalf?"
"There will not be any appeal. I've explained this to you already and I'm getting real tired of you
running around my base ordering my men around like it's your own personal God-damned
apocalypse!"
This, too, did not come as a surprise. Heavens, it sounded like something she'd do.
Grey walked up to her and she began to worry he was going to attempt to grab her. "You're not in
the UK anymore, Miss Granger. This country is under martial law. We're trying to rebuild, but
before we can do that, we need to restore some semblance of law and order. Hundreds of thousands
of survivors are counting on what we're producing at this very facility. We run things on an
expedited basis now, pumping out the cure and dealing with looters and all the other scum that's
risen to the surface of this boiling mess. No room for freeloaders or war criminals waiting in jail
cells using up resources. I don't much care how you run things on your fleet, but we do things
differently here."
"Surely he can help you," Hermione insisted, confused at such unnecessary, extreme measures.
"Isn't he better off alive?"
"Oh, he helped us a whole bunch, and then he had his trial and we found him guilty." Grey turned
to Amarov, as if suddenly disgusted to find him there. His face twisted into a sneer. "Just like this
son of a bitch."
Her next question was rhetorical and uttered in a near-whisper. The words felt cold and dry in her
mouth. "I defended Amarov too, didn't I?"
"Did a decent job too, even if you hated every second of it," Grey informed.
Merlin, Harry. Please find us.
"Listen—" Hermione began, but Grey held up a hand. His not inconsiderable patience was spent.
He leaned into her, fairly spitting at her face when he next spoke. She could feel the tension
radiating from Draco's body now and worried about what he would attempt to do. Not that he was
in a position to do anything.
"This isn't our first rodeo," he hissed. "Each time you come out of your memory funk, I have to
remind you of all the ways you attempt, on a damn near daily basis, to fuck with me. I realise you
and your floating freak show are used to feeling real special, but right now, I'm the circus master,
got it?"
"Fuck with you?" she countered, aware she was fast running out of stalling tactics. If Harry had
reached Draco's cell by now, he would have realised Draco had been moved. "You've kept me here
against my will!" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Where is my wand? I'm assuming I arrived here
with it from Beaumont's cabin?"
Grey didn't miss a beat. "You handed it in."
"Rubbish," she spat. "After what happened to the magical folk that Amarov took in, there won't be
a wizarding individual who will ever again willingly relinquish their magic to Muggles, no matter
how well reasoned or diplomatic your entreaty. You broke our agreement that was mediated
through Rebecca Beaumont, and then to top it off, you've had my memory erased who knows how
many times! I wake up pregnant up to my earlobes and find you're about to execute the very person
responsible for creating the cure!"
Grey snorted. "It was your husband's idea to wipe your memory."
There was a definite pain now, more than a tightening and more than a cramp. She resisted the
urge to clutch at her abdomen, but had begun leaning back against Draco, for support. His
breathing had changed. It had previously been harsh, but now she could barely hear him.
Good heavens. Draco had suggested using Imperious on her? She was going to murder him,
provided Grey didn't beat her to it. Hermione had many questions, but they all seemed to pale in
comparison to, "My husband?"
The Admiral took delight in her shock. "Never gets old. For the record, this'll be the second time
I'm telling you that I agreed to marry the two of you. And yeah, we wiped some of the more
troublesome parts of your memory. But I only resorted to that after you tried to bust your man's ass
out of jail no less than six times. Damn near got yourself killed in the mix."
"And what pray tell did Rebecca Beaumont do to earn her fate? You killed her, didn't you?"
Grey actually looked genuinely regretful. "She'd been warned."
It didn't take a genius to guess what might have happened. "She tried to get me out of here, didn't
she?" Hermione asked, quietly. "Because you broke your agreement. When are you going to be put
on trial, Admiral Grey? Who will be your legal counsel, I wonder? Or are you above the law?"
The Admiral leaned in close. "For the sake of the surviving citizens I swore to protect to my dying
breath, on these grounds, in this building, in any matter that concerns you, I am the law!"
"You've got the cure. You don't need either of us."
He sighed, his remorse seemingly genuine. "I wish that was true. We need a contingency plan in
case the cure stops working."
"And that's my baby, isn't it?"
He said nothing, and this was answer enough.
"How can you do this?" Hermione asked, and she also knew the answer to this question. Her brief,
terrible association with Alexander Amarov had provided useful insight into what certain men with
power did when there were no checks and balances. It was almost possible to feel sympathy for
Admiral Grey. He was like Amarov, in his own demented way, determined to carve out his version
of order from chaos, and utterly convinced he was doing it for the greater good.
"I have not been unkind to you, Miss Granger. I've reminded you of this also, repeatedly."
"Imprisoning me here, threatening the life of my child and executing my husband is not a kindness,
Admiral." Hermione braced her feet apart. "I'm not moving from this spot."
"Yes you are. I'm not in the habit of gunning down unarmed pregnant women," he said, tiredly.
"No." Another cramp seized her.
"Out of the way."
"Go to hell."
Grey sighed as he drew his weapon, aiming it at the middle of her chest. He cocked the gun.
"Move and stay in one piece, or remain where you are and I'll send this bullet right through you.
Either way, Draco Malfoy is not going to live to see another sunrise."
Harry was coming. She knew he was.
Hermione lifted her chin, hoping he wouldn't notice it wobble. "You're not going to kill me."
"The bullet doesn't have to kill you. Just him."
She opened her mouth to speak, but belatedly realised that she could not. In fact, she could not
seem to move a muscle. It was impossible to even blink. Hermione felt like she was suddenly
encased inside invisible concrete. She struggled to expand her lungs in order to draw in breath.
Directly in front of her, Grey was experiencing the same difficulty. His face turned a blotchy
purple, eyes bulging. The strange cramp in her belly sharpened to the point that she would have
cried out in pain had she been able to. It felt like a band was being tightened across her lower
abdomen. She wondered if the baby was caught in the same, painful frozen state.
To Hermione's profound relief, Harry appeared in the small space between her and Grey. His
expression was almost frightening in its ferocity. The light around them began to bend and warp
into the unmistakable shape of a cube, as if the undulating rivulets of a heat mirage had been
harnessed into straight lines. The cube contracted and suddenly an old fashioned klaxon alarm
began to sound, originating from somewhere within the building. It was deafening.
With nothing else to lose now, Harry had set off the building's magic detectors by uprooting the
magic-enabled safety zone from the backyard, and repositioning it here and now to contain them
both.
"Draco!" she cried out, reminding Harry not to forget about him. She thought she saw him roll his
eyes.
Harry wrapped his arms around her. Hermione shut her eyes as they Disapparated.
Hogwarts
For most people, Apparation is disorienting.
It's akin to a moment of drunken vertigo, or when you stand up too quickly with low blood sugar.
For some few, it's a pleasant sensation of nothingness for a brief moment; a split second of
complete peace because you have just dissembled every atom in your body and some part of your
magical brain is busily focused on putting the physical you back together again in a completely
different location in space and time. There have been reports of severe depressives repeatedly
Apparating in an effort to seek respite from their mental anguish.
Splinching is, rather famously, just about the worst thing that can happen when Apparation goes
wrong. A lapse in attention could see you appear at your destination in a mangled state 'not
conducive to life' (this was the official wording used in the Coroners' reports). Or inside a wall. Or,
in one celebrated case, on board a Soviet S class submarine, nearly causing a minor nuclear panic.
But bodily transmutation and simultaneous portal casting is advanced, adult magic, and there are
guidelines for its safe practice. Some of these are spelled out in law and are more or less the same
rules that govern driving, except that you don't need to be wearing your eye glasses when you take
the test. You cannot Apparate while under the influence of mind-altering substances or if your
mental or physical capacities are impaired. Depending on where you live, there are also rules that
tell you how far you can Apparate, where you can Apparate to, and how many you are permitted to
take with you. The history books have it down that the farthest anyone has ever travelled via
Apparation (and lived to tell the tale) was approximately 1570 miles. A young, spell-book printer's
apprentice vanished in Norfolk in 1834, reappearing in Estonia. There is still debate as to whether
this was done on purpose. That he was missing most of his clothing and all of his body hair was a
side-note. The point was that transcontinental Apparation could technically be accomplished. In his
youth, Voldemort had made several round-trips between the UK and Berlin, for example. But it
was a feat that undoubtedly took great skill, focus, intent and immense reserves of power.
Harry had two out of the four. That he lacked focus and intent was not entirely his fault, given it
was an unexpected emergency. Hermione didn't re-appear so much as drop from a point near the
ceiling. She landed hard on her side and was winded. There was an obligatory moment of panic
because she could not see, but then her eyes adjusted to the low light. She was indoors. Despite
this, there was a crispness to the air; a freshness that was new…and old. Familiar, more like.
She didn't know how long it was before she sat up, coughing, because of the plume of dust that
floated through the slivers of sunlight cutting across the dark floor from boarded up stained glass
windows. She palpated her belly, not knowing what to look for, but reassured when the baby
gratified her with a series of kicks. It took a few more seconds of blinking and surveying before she
gasped in shock. The same little nook. The same shelves, though now mostly barren and iced with
cobwebs. The smell of ancient parchment. Her stomach clenched with memory and it was more
than just the dry air that caused her eyes to tear up.
Hogwarts! They were in Hogwarts!
"Draco?" she wheezed, looking around her, growing more fearful by the second. "Harry?" But she
was alone. No, not quite. She could hear footsteps in the corridor outside. They were fast and
purposeful, and decidedly human.
"Draco!" she called out again. The footsteps stopped, and then they were running. She could not
see the main library doors from where she was sprawled on the floor, but she heard them fly open.
Three breaths later and it was not Draco, but Harry who appeared. He looked like he'd been in a
boxing match. The entire left side of his face was bleeding, his left eye was swollen shut to a slit.
The left sleeve of his coat was torn to shreds and stained with blood. Thankfully, he still retained
his wand.
"What happened?" Hermione demanded.
"Got stuck," he said, clearly shaken. His exertion to find her was costing him dearly.
"Do you mean during Apparation?" she asked, aware she was practically shouting at him. She was
on her feet now and gingerly prodding at his wounds. "God, Harry. Were you nearly splinched?"
He swayed, likely from blood loss. Hermione glanced around the alcove, finding and presently
dragging a chair to him and forcing him to sit down. He was shaking like a leaf, and his skin was
icy cold as she investigated his injuries. "Where is Draco?"
Mutely, Harry sat, blinking at her from under dark hair and a torrent of blood seeping from a deep
laceration under his scalp. Hermione took the wand from Harry's slack grasp and immediately
worked on sealing the cut. This relatively simple first aid spell set her nervous system alight, given
that she had not used magic for many months. The sensation was almost unbearable; a strange
restlessness that zinged up her casting arm and into the rest of her body. She stomped her foot in an
attempt to alleviate a build-up she didn't quite know how to describe. Inside her belly, the baby
kicked again and fretted. The horrid cramp came back again, only now it felt like a metal claw had
caught hold of her from the inside, and was twisting…
"Hermione?" Harry asked, concerned.
The pain eased, and then passed. Focusing on her task at hand, she used the wand to slice a strip of
material from her sleeve and gently wiped the blood from Harry's face. "Harry," she said, more
forcefully this time, "where is Draco?"
Harry looked like he was about to pass out. She quickly transferred him to the floor. His arm had to
be broken and there were what looked like dozens of splinters of wood buried in his flesh.
Hermione was horrified, but determined not to show it. She was beginning to suspect that Harry
had partially Apparated into a solid object – a piece of furniture, most likely. He must have pried
himself out, breaking bones in the process. How he had managed to transport himself across
oceans, let alone with others in tow, was something to be marveled at later.
"He's OK." Harry said, belatedly. "He's fine."
"Thank God!"
"Said to come to you…it's dangerous. He's gone to find Grey…he's here."
"Who? Admiral Grey?" Hermione repeated, stunned. "He's here at Hogwarts?"
Harry nodded. "Brought them all. Didn't mean to. I didn't-"
"Shh. It's alright, Harry. Just rest," she said, his head in her lap. There wasn't much room because
of her belly. "I'm so, so sorry." And she was, for she had been the reason for the change in Harry's
carefully crafted plans. She wasn't sure what to do for his arm. Cuts were one thing, mending
broken bones was best left to a medical magic practitioner. Draco could do it. She thought of
Padma, too, and this did not improve matters. Hermione gently slid Harry's head off her lap. She
used the wand to excise a seat cushion from a padded armchair, and used the foam padding as a
pillow for him.
"I'm going to find him."
Harry's closed eyes snapped open. "No! It's not safe! I said I'd stay with you here!"
"Harry, I have your wand. And if Draco's in half the shape you're in, I'm not leaving him anywhere
near Titus Grey!"
His green eyes were clouded with pain. She wanted to cast an analgesic spell, but she didn't dare
until she knew the extent of his blood loss. Otherwise, she could very well kill him. Harry grabbed
her hand, wincing as she pulled away from him. "No…not just Grey…"
"I need to go," she insisted. "I'll come back as soon as I can, I promise, Harry."
"Not just him!" he said, so forcefully that Hermione had to hold him down. "Amarov is here as
well!"
They were in Hogwarts. Not just within the grounds, but inside the Castle. Potter could not account
for it. He told Draco he'd been aiming for the dockside warehouse where Ginny Weasley was
sequestered with Neville Longbottom. The Scottish highlands, to put it mildly, was way off.
Apparating inside the Castle ought to be impossible as long as the Castle's formidable wards, aged
into congealed permanence, still stood. It occurred to them that the wards may have been
dismantled since Draco and Hermione last visited the Castle more than a year before, but Draco
doubted it. Potter was just the right sort of wizard to put such impossibilities to the test. They had
travelled from the US east coast, across the North Atlantic, covering an expanse of more than a
thousand miles. It had been stretch for Potter to take Hermione and Draco with him, let alone
Amarov and Grey. The Apparation field had to have been considerable indeed, and the power
immense, to have carried all of them. Unfortunately, there was little left over for any attempt at
precision, and that was why the five of them had been scattered to the four winds upon arriving.
Draco had the good fortune of being deposited on his feet, directly inside the Castle's enormous
double doors, almost as if invited. He wasted no time using a slab of broken, jagged stone to saw
off the cable-ties that bound his wrists. There were three gargantuan metal beams slotted across the
doors, one on top of the other. The beams had not been installed during Draco's tenure at school.
They were a more recent addition and spoke of the desperation that must have gripped the school's
residents, during the worst of the outbreak.
Harry appeared with a crash in the Great Hall. He was entangled in the worst possible way with
one of the long, wooden dining tables that were strewn across the large room. A painful few
minutes were spent working out how to break Potter free from the table without causing him too
much damage. His arm was in bad shape and would require some strategic manipulation and
treatment.
"Get off me," Potter hissed, shoving at Draco. His face was contorted with pain. "It's fine."
It was not fine, but Draco was content to avoid any excuse that would distract him from locating
Granger. Knowing her, she was already in trouble.
"Here, try this," offered Potter, casting a Location Spell. He explained it was similar to what he and
Hermione had relied on to find Draco in Azkaban.
The spell displayed all persons currently contained within the Castle. It told them that Hermione
was in the library and appeared, thankfully, to be whole, hale and moving about. With some
surprise, the spell also told them several other things, all of it unwelcome. A careful, skulking
figure, tagged under the name 'Alexander Sebastien Piotr Amarov' was on the second floor. An
odd-shaped smudge beneath the name 'Titus Robert Grey' was at the foot of the stairs leading to
the Astronomy tower. Grey, unlike Hermione and Amarov, was not moving at all.
"Shit," swore Potter, scrubbing his uninjured hand through his blood encrusted hair. "This
complicates matters."
Not terribly, Draco thought, but he was used to keeping such thoughts to himself.
Further revelations were equally disturbing.
"What the bleeding hell?" Potter exclaimed, squinting at the hovering, translucent, three-
dimensional Castle blueprints. "What are we looking at here? That can't be right."
It appeared that they were not the only people in the Castle, though 'people' was probably not the
correct word. The unnamed figures, and they were undoubtedly human-shaped, seemed to be
grouped in the kitchens. They were moving strangely, squirming together like a mass of thick
earthworms.
"Why are they all huddled together like that?"
"It looks like a nest," Draco offered.
"Of bloody what?"
But they both knew.
"That's impossible," said Potter. "This spell shows you people. Real, live, people! Not zombies!"
"Magical zombies appear to have a quite unique capabilities," Draco said. He recalled the body of
Argus Filch, and the dead caretaker's conspicuously missing organs. "And these ones have
potentially been here for a very long time, no doubt attracted by all the magic."
"And what, you think they've been evolving or something? Forming some kind of demented
zombie community? Nesting?"
"We need to get to Granger before anything else finds her," Draco said, by way of reply.
"I didn't mean to bring the other two," Potter said, blinking blood from his eyes.
Draco frowned at the cut on his head. "Sit down so I can see to that."
But Potter swatted at his hand. "There's no time! We find Hermione and get the hell out of
here! Now."
They agreed that Potter was in no shape to go traipsing around the castle, in the event he ran into an
armed Grey, Amarov, or whatever horrors were in the kitchens. Potter agreed to go directly to the
library to locate Hermione and there he would wait with her. There was a brief argument about
who would take the only wand available.
"I'm not sending you to watch over my wife and unborn child with just your wits, which I hasten to
add, are even duller than usual at present," Draco snapped.
Potter was too unwell to register the insult. Though he was not so far gone that he missed other
notable news. "Your wife?" he said, his voice rising an octave.
Draco sighed with impatience. "Her idea. She was running out of options to shield me from Grey's
mission to condemn me as a war criminal. She thought marrying me might offer some protection. I
had little choice in the matter."
"How romantic," Potter muttered. His stare was very cool all of a sudden. "You're the one that
suggested she be Obliviated, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It's a long story and too complicated for you to wrap your wounded head around, at the minute."
He seethed. "You fucking bastard. She deserves so much better."
Draco's smile could have cut granite. "As of this moment, I am the preferred alternative to Amarov.
He must not find her before you do, Potter. Or before I find him."
Harry left without further issue. As agreed, Draco waited. Ten minutes, then twenty minutes.
When he did not come back, Draco surmised Harry had managed to locate Hermione. For anything
else to have happened was…well, it did not bear thinking about. And there was much to think
about.
He went to Titus Grey first. Locating the Admiral did not require any great skill or cunning
because the man was mostly embedded inside a stone wall. Draco was unsurprised. The image in
the location spell had provided a sober hint as to the Muggle man's fate. Only about a third of his
face, the top of his shoulder and the tips of the fingers of one hand was revealed. What a pity it
wasn't the hand holding the revolver. The rest of him was encased within limestone. His purple,
swollen face was a mask of acute agony. The corner of his pinched mouth opened and closed, his
single bulging eyeball widened and fastened onto Draco.
"Plsss…plssss…"
Draco rummaged through the only accessible pocket of the Admiral's uniform. Inside, he found a
small, weatherworn notebook, a pencil, and an extra clip of ammunition. This was useless without
the gun, but he took it anyway. There were no pockets on his prisoners' jumpsuit, so he slipped the
notebook and clip into the top of his lace-up boots. Idly, he wondered if Grey's policy was to
recycle the boots after prisoners were executed. Probably.
When Draco made to move away, he felt something catch hold of him. It was the Admiral's
fingers. They were desperately gripping at the material of the jumpsuit.
"Plsss…." begged Grey.
Draco didn't look at him as turned on his heel and walked away.
Offspring
Harry fainted. Frankly, she was surprised he'd lasted as long as he did.
Hermione didn't quite have Seeker reflexes or any great acumen for flying, but she could be
counted on to respond when needed. Unfortunately, a pregnant belly was a new and annoying
variable that had to be factored into all kinds of awkward, spatial equations. Take running, for
example. Feeling unbalanced due to her much lower center of gravity, this present maneuver saw
Hermione practically sliding across the floor to catch Harry, before he fell into a glass cabinet next
to Madam Pince's long abandoned desk.
"Uff," she grunted, as they collided against the stone wall, together. Thank goodness for the shock
absorbing superpowers of amniotic fluid, she thought. Of course, there was the possibility that her
recent adventures had damaged the baby, but the frequent strong kicks and general restlessness of
the child told her that he or she was doing OK. For now, anyway.
Harry was not a large man, but there were few things as immovable as an insensate person.
Hermione allowed him to slide gently to the ground before she used Leviosa. He looked painfully
young and vulnerable as he bobbed up towards her. She was in possession of their only wand, with
no capacity to Disapparate them while they were still within the anti-apparition Castle boundaries.
They would have to use the Quidditch pitch, just as she and Draco had done what felt like a
lifetime ago. It was her responsibility to rendezvous with Draco, and get Harry some proper
medical aid as quickly as possible.
There was another reasons why a medical facility was their next logical destination.
Another pain – and if she had to be honesty with herself, she might as well call them what they
were – contractions – stopped her in her tracks. Hermione gasped, her eyes screwed shut. Gone
were the imaginary, internal, metal shears. Now, it felt like a blender had been turned on and was
whipping up her insides. The pains were terrible now and, she guessed, much closer together.
Granted she had no idea what to expect while expecting, Hermione nevertheless speculated she had
probably been in progressive labour for the past couple of days. When the most recent contraction
passed, she drew in a shaky breath, finding that she needed more concentration than usual to even
cast a simple Lumos. Her magical focus was wavering, and it seemed fitting that being in bloody
labour would be the thing to bloody well do it.
"Harry?" She peered at his pale face, wishing that he would wake up and not leave her alone in this
awful situation. "Harry, can you hear me?"
No use. He was out cold. She checked his pulse. It was erratic, but strong. She was just about to
take another look at his injured arm when a noise in the corridor outside made her freeze.
"Nox," she quickly whispered.
Dying breaths are sometimes referred to as 'rattling'. Hermione had always thought that odd. She'd
been around the terminally wounded and dying, and there had never been any rattling. It was
usually desperate gasps, gurgles, or a thin, emphysemic wheeze. This noise, however, was a rattle
fit for the Victorian gothic. It was as if the air was being summoned from deep, infernal depths,
rather than drawn from their surroundings. This was not the sound of life. It was death on legs and
it was now standing mere meters from her and Harry, in the darkness.
The stench of the creature made her head spin. Curiously, it wasn't the familiar decomposition that
she was used to. This had a more robust, dare she say it, healthy quality to it? It was musky and
animal-like, she decided, suppressing the need to retch.
The room was almost nearly pitch black, so she relied on her excellent memory of its layout to
work out her and Harry's location relative to everything else in the library, and to the Castle in
general. She had a wand, but magic was only as good as her ability to see what she was wielding it
against. To create any light was out of the question on the off-chance they had not yet been
discovered. But then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the rattling breath stopped. Zombies did not
need to breathe, she reminded herself, her mind whirling through the possibilities. Perhaps this one
did not know that?
Hermione stood completely still, clutching at poor Harry probably a little too tightly. It felt like she
was suspended in a spiders' web. The slightest shudder would cause the sticky, silken strands to
vibrate, alerting the waiting predator as to her whereabouts. She might have escaped unnoticed had
Harry not jerked slightly in her arms. It was too much to hope that the zombie would lurch along,
none the wiser.
She had the presence of mind to release the unconscious Harry and float him up towards the safety
of the ceiling, before she began casting.
What she had not been counting on was the fact her zombie stalker appeared to be brandishing a
wand of its own.
The calamitous noise was almost enough to convince Draco that an entire wing of the Castle had
surely been razed to the ground, such was the enormity of the shockwave and the resulting cloud of
dust that rolled down from the upper floors. Draco ran towards the direction of the library. Where
there were stairs, he took them two or three at a time. He skidded to a sudden halt outside the
remains of the library entrance for no other reason than because Alexander Amarov was standing
in the dust halo of what had once been the doorway, an antique pistol in his free hands.
"Hello, Malfoy," said the most evil man in the world, "we have a problem."
It was her fault they had ended up in Hogwarts. She'd just been dreaming about the library, hadn't
she? She'd been longing for the feel and memory of home and perhaps had unwittingly affected
Harry's emergency Apparition GPS. It was her fault Harry's rescue plan had all gone to shite, but
what else could she have done? Watched Draco be shot and executed? How had it come to that,
anyway? Why hadn't he done what he always did – find impossible ways to break free from
impossible prisons? Why had he just…given up? How dare he? She was angry at him, at herself, at
Harry.
Tears ran down Hermione's face. She was worried about Harry, though he was still safe, floating
somewhere high in the library rafters. She'd tried her best to avoid offensive spells that could
potentially bloom upwards and injure him. Her assailant had no such concerns, which was why
Hermione decided she was probably also crying for the dozens if not hundreds of precious,
irreplaceable books that had just been blasted into oblivion.
However, she also cried because both her wrists were fractured and it hurt so much that for a
moment, all she saw was sparkly whiteness. Her hands had been bent backwards in the aftermath of
an offensive spell that no sane person would have cast in such a confined, stone-lined space. The
zombie wizard was neither sane nor a person, and so did not care about its wellbeing in the same
way. As it was, Hermione's in-the-nick-of-time defensive magic caused its upper torso to be gashed
open, revealing yellow ribs and blackened, shiny intestines that threatened to spill out with every
lurching step. One knee was bent inwards at an unnatural angle, which meant its left leg was now
no more than an unbending prop on which to bear weight as it walked. Nevertheless, it still had the
capacity to pluck Hermione's wand from her useless hands, haul her to her feet, and pull her along.
They walked, slowly and painfully, towards the kitchens. The agony of her broken bones was
almost a welcome distraction to the continuing contractions. She honestly didn't know how much
more she could endure.
"Who are you?" she asked. She scanned her surroundings, taking stock of all the possible escape
routes. There were plenty, if she was willing to make a run for it. Hogwarts was home ground.
Even in her injured state, the creature could not hope to hold her for very long in this place, and not
with that leg. She could even make a grab for the wand, though wondered if the pain of using her
hands would be the end of her. "Where are we going?" No reply. "Oy! Where are you taking me?"
The creature spun around towards her and to her dismay, opened its mouth. It made garbled sounds,
but they were unintelligible. She saw, even in the low light, that its tongue was gone. Pulled out?
Swallowed? Cut off? It didn't matter. It was telling her that there would be no conversations. The
fact that it was trying to tell her anything was astonishing.
While the rest of the world had been battling for survival in the Muggle urban centers, the zombies
in and around Hogwarts had been left to their own devices. With the fledgling knowledge that
Magical zombies were a breed unto themselves, Hermione could only surmise that these specimens
had evolved. They'd marinated in the dense, ancient magical environs of Hogwarts, Hogsmeade
and the Forbidden Forest. They'd even retained or possibly regained the ability to wield wands.
What did it want with her, though? It had not tried to eat her. That was something.
By now, they had entered the kitchens and the stench became ten times as bad. Hermione stared in
horrified amazement at the congregation of Undead standing before her. There had to be at least a
hundred, perhaps more. There was enough natural light in the kitchens to illuminate the situation.
They were dressed oddly, not in rags stained with blood-encrusted suppurate. No. These creatures
had clearly acquired new garments and though their application of them was haphazard and
clumsy, it was clear they had attempted to clothe themselves. There was a hierarchy. There was
some semblance of order where there was nothing but mindlessness and chaos in every other horde
she had previously encountered.
Her captor shoved her forward, presenting her to what Hermione could only assume was the leader
of this community.
Or leaders, it seemed. There were two of them; what had once been a man and a woman. They'd
been young when they'd died, and were well preserved, as zombies went. The woman – petite and
dressed in a billowing, torn, white frock— was cradling a small bundle wrapped in a dirty shawl.
She approached Hermione, her gait frighteningly quick and loping despite the too-long dress. What
followed was an inspection not unlike what Ron had attempted to do moments before Draco had
permanently ended him. Hermione remained still and trembling, her injured hands held stiffly by
her side as the female sniffed, poked and prodded.
When she was satisfied, she let out a low whine to her male counterpart, before shoving her bundle
towards Hermione. Unable to grasp the bundle with her injured hands, Hermione held it to her
chest using her forearms. A flap of shawl fell aside and there seemed to be an expectant and
impatient expression on the dead woman's withered face.
There was not much that could shock Hermione any more, but this very nearly did. It was a baby.
Very dead, but only recently so. Its face was grey and bloated, but it still held the echoes of what
had once been cherubic, good health. A quick glance around the horde confirmed that the child
could not have belonged to any of them, all of whom had died many months if not years ago. This
baby had belonged to the living. With its knitted pink bonnet with satin ribbons untied under the
chin, to the terrycloth sleepsuit and pacifier still attached with a plastic chain to a tiny, yellow
cardigan adorned with tiny pearl buttons, the child had been loved. Perhaps it had even been loved
by its dead adoptive mother, who had no possible hope of keeping it alive.
"I can't…" Hermione swallowed, looking down from the dead baby to the dead woman, with tear-
stained eyes. "I can't fix this. I'm sorry."
But oh, Hermione had misunderstood. They were not after a fix. The female zombie blinked her
milky, blue-white eyes at Hermione. She had been blonde once, but now only wispy strands of
matted, straw-coloured hair clung to a mostly bald, misshapened head. She drew back thin purple
lips, revealing similarly coloured gums that had receded, such that her teeth were long and pointed.
She gave a slow, low cry and placed a skeletal hand across Hermione's belly. The hand suddenly
clawed, scratching Hermione's taut skin, even through layers of clothing. The dead woman
growled. Somewhere at the back of the horde, one of the other female members stepped forward,
produced an enormous, filthy, kitchen knife.
Merlin. They didn't want her to bring a dead baby back to life. They were looking for a
replacement.
The two men stood about five meters apart from each other, identically dressed in their black,
prisoner jumpsuits.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" remarked Amarov. He ran a finger across the mother of pearl that was inlaid
into the pistol's handle. "I wonder how many Muggles it's dispatched in its time?"
"Where did you find that?" Draco asked, almost accusatorially.
"I found this rather well maintained relic in a display case in one of the classrooms. Along with
powder and ammunition, in case you're wondering."
"You'd need to know how to load it."
A glint of amusement. "Little known fact, I have an extensive collection of seventeenth century
flintlock weapons. Muskets mainly, but also a few dueling pistols just like this beauty."
"It probably won't fire," Draco countered, his gaze unwavering.
Amarov cocked the pistol and pointed the gun at Draco's head. "Care to place a wager?"
"You've only got a single shot."
"That's all I'll need." Amarov smiled, but then lowered the gun. "Luckily for you, I'm saving that
shot. Hermione is in trouble."
Draco frowned. "When is she not? Where is she?"
"I regret that I arrived several minutes too late to be of any service to her. Your resourceful little
wife was caught up in a fierce wand fight with a zombie." Amarov glanced around the ruined
library, looking impressed at the extent of the destruction. "Evidently, she did not go quietly."
"A wand fight with a zombie," Draco repeated. "Did you perchance fall and hit your head when
Potter deposited us here?"
"Ah, so that's how we were rescued! Potter transported us! But I read it was impossible to do that
within Hogwarts' grounds?" One black eyebrow rose. "That is where we are, isn't it? The erstwhile
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?" He stared around at the walls, with some
reverence. "I cannot tell you how many times I've tried to find this place. It is very well hidden."
"First of all, yes, we're in Hogwarts and yes, it's impossible to find, let alone Apparate into the
Castle itself, but apparently Harry Potter succeeded in finding a way to circumvent a ward that's
been holding strong for ten centuries. Second, Granger and I were rescued," Draco corrected, with
icy clarity. "You and Grey were an unhappy accident."
"Grey is also here?" Amarov asked, surprised.
"In a manner of speaking. Where is she?"
Amarov looked serious again. "Downstairs. The…thing took her. It has a wand, Malfoy. It was
using it. It was in control, not ravenous," he hurriedly reassured, at Draco's murderous expression.
"It seemed to have no interest in feeding on her. It wanted her for God knows what other purpose."
Draco was silent.
"Look, I'm telling the truth! We don't have time to debate this. We need to find her!"
"Wizarding zombies," Draco said. "You're suggesting they appear to be even more advanced
here?"
"Looks that way to me." Amarov stared at him with narrowed eyes. "Christ, you don't have a wand,
do you?"
"I gave it to Potter, who must have given it to Hermione." Draco ran a hand through his hair.
"Where the hell is Potter?"
"I know where he is," said Amarov, carefully.
Draco glanced at him. "Good. Tell me and I'll make your death relatively painless."
Amarov laughed, though there was little authentic mirth in the sound. "I know I'm a dead man. I
haven't been saved from Grey's firing squad, so much as given a momentary reprieve. This is
borrowed time. Let me enjoy it."
"Do you know where Potter is?" Draco demanded. "If he's able to, I'll need his assistance to
retrieve Granger."
"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" Amarov asked, his voice softer now. "If Grey hadn't done it,
you'll finish the job. There is no ending to this story where I remain alive in a world where you're
still breathing."
"Where is he, Alexander?"
Amarov led Draco into the remains of the library and pointed up to the ceiling, where a still
unconscious Harry continued to float.
"Clever," Draco remarked. "She probably saved his life."
"I imagine they do that a lot for each other?"
"Repeatedly and unquestioningly, since the age of sodding eleven," Draco muttered, in a slightly
long-suffering way. "Now, help me find something to catch hold of him and pull him down."
It took them two brass curtain rods, tied together with tasseled curtain tie-backs. When Harry was
weighted down before them, Draco rushed to examine him. His arm had bled through the
makeshift sling Hermione must have fashioned for him before they were attacked. Draco tore a
strip of curtain and hurriedly re-dressed the wound. Throughout all this, Leviosa still held strong.
"Why is he like that?" Amarov asked. "I mean, why is he still like that?"
"For the very best of reasons," Draco replied. "It means she's alive and well. The spell would cease
to work if she was badly injured or unconscious. Or dead."
Amarov looked jubilant. "I told you they're not interested in her for food!"
Draco was not so sanguine. "Yes. However, it's the other reasons that concern me."
Wits
It made its slow, lumbering way back to the nest after an unsuccessful morning of trying to catch
woodland animals near the greenhouse. This was a difficult task when the weather was wet, but
sometimes there were birds, red squirrels and the occasional stoat. Very rarely, there might even be
a deer and during those times, they ate very well indeed.
However, on this morning it was distracted from its hunt because something was happening inside
the castle. Something important. It had felt the expending of powerful magic, as if a large stone had
been thrown into water, creating concentric ripples that travelled outwards.
Like others of his ilk, it was sensitive to magic. This was why they had made the big stone castle
their home. The castle had a name and perhaps some of the others knew it from the time before,
but names were not important any longer. The walls pulsed with magic. The air was thick with it.
Magic was the beacon that had summoned them here from far flung villages across the Highlands.
Those who were lucky enough to make the journey were rewarded with the nurturing effects of the
castle's magic, raising them from mindless, ravaging beasts into a new way of…being. Death was
not the end. A lucky few even developed the ability to wield wands.
Those who sheltered at the castle were like pieces of many jigsaw puzzles. They were remnants of
past lives. What kept them together, what enabled them to recognise each other, co-exist,
communicate and for some, use magic, was necessity. They knew there was strength in numbers.
Most had managed to regain some memories from their former lives once the decay to their bodies
was slowed. It was never a complete picture, for their brains were irreversibly damaged. Even so,
the creature knew it once had a vocation, a home, and a family. It had even owned a pet — a
shaggy, brown, rangy looking animal that followed its master everywhere.
It could picture the dog if it cared to dig deep enough for the necessary information. It remembered
the feel of fur under palm, the salty, dank smell as the animal bounded out of the shallows, holding
a stick in its mouth. Of its human family, the creature had fewer recollections. These were made of
swirling darkness, heat and fire, the wail of a woman, the feel of its hand wrapping around a much
smaller one. They were not pleasant memories and so the creature did not seek them out.
It knew other things. It knew, somehow, that it came from Loch Lamond. It had made its
unknowing way through abandoned towns, passing burnt-out husks of buildings and vehicles, and
bodies and bones picked clean. There was the occasional whimpering terror of a person. It
remembered digging its fingers into skin and ripping. It'd torn hair from bloody scalps, muscle
from bone. It would fit it thumbs into eye sockets and pushed all the way into wet, squelching
warmth, until the kicking and fighting stopped. It remembered the sound of tendons snapping, of
cartilage popping, of bones being snapped in two and the buttery smell of marrow.
Once the problem of daily survival was overcome, old human habits eventually came to the fore.
As much as they tried to mimic their past lives, merging old wants and needs with their new lives,
there was one yearning which could not be so easily satisfied. They could not increase.
They were an unchanging number and this meant they were doomed. They would be the first and
last of their kind. Contentment turned to resentment. This was a cause of much sorrow for the
community. What good was a flock that had no young to tend? Some among them had ventured
away from the castle, far beyond the point where the magic could exercise its healing effects. They
were brave, these few. Two had returned with a child – a small, pink, squirming thing that made
loud noises for two days, and then less so on the third. On the fourth day, it was silent. Living
children seemed to need more than just magic to survive.
The creature was about to re-enter the castle when it was stopped. A living man appeared before it,
seemingly out of the mist itself. Tall, fair and golden, he was the antithesis of walking death. He
carried a Quidditch bat.
The first swing was at the creature's legs, instantly breaking the kneecaps. It found itself on the
ground, confused and afraid. The next swing was aimed at the head, but was thwarted because the
creature's arms came up instinctively to shield itself. It opened its mouth to cry out for help, but
there was no one to hear it.
The bat sought an alternative target. The third swing came down upon the creature's chest with
such force that the brittle rib cage collapsed into the chest cavity. Sharp shards of bones punctured
organs and protruded outside of the body.
Stop. I want to live. I want to be, the creature might have protested, but it could not make the
words.
The man began to search it, divesting the creature of its precious wand. Another blow came, this
time, a kick to the head.
"Plssssss," it said, trying to turn over so that it could crawl away.
But the living man was merciless. He brought the bat down one last time. The creature's face caved
in.
The last thing that passed through its plague addled brain was the phantom sensation of a dog's
warm, sandpaper tongue licking its hand.
"Nicely done." Amarov peered down at the corpse. "Is it dead?"
Draco crouched beside the body, wiping blood from the wand he had just taken.
"Yes. Properly dead."
Amarov's cobalt gaze rested on the wand, looking curious. There was a glint of…something else in
his eyes. Envy, perhaps? Loathing, probably. "How do you speculate they're able to use magic?"
"I imagine the same way I do."
"Hmm. This phenomena needs...further study."
Draco shot him a cool look. "You're just the person to run that operation, aren't you? Seeing as
you're no stranger to using magical beings as lab rats."
"We do what we think is best in difficult times," said Amarov, not in the least bit perturbed at
being reminded of his crimes. His blue eyes hardened "Like you did, when you left Honoria and I
in the pit to be eaten alive by the Withinshaw girl."
"That was a mistake."
Surprise flashed across Amarov's fine featured face. "You think so?"
Draco rose to his feet. At full height, he was able to look down his nose at the Russian. "I should
have stayed to make sure she finished the job."
This wrung a snort from Amarov. "You're a mismatched pair, you realise? You and Hermione
Granger."
"So everyone keeps reminding us. Come on, we need to keep moving."
It was likely the dead child had been acquired from a living family and had probably starved to
death or died exposure, after being taken by the creatures. Eager to replace it, they appeared to be
planning to cut Hermione's baby from her body. The pain of the intermittent contractions and her
injured hands was all but forgotten as a renewed surge of adrenaline kicked in.
This was not time for anthropological speculation. There was a thrill running through the ranks of
creatures. They were positively wild with excitement. She tried to locate the one who had captured
her, with the notion of snatching her wand back, but it was lost in the throng. Hermione made a run
for it before creatures could sufficiently organise themselves. They may be conscious, and thinking
beings, and perhaps even capable of feeling, but they were still animated corpses. Despite being
heavily pregnant and in the middle of labour, she was sharper and quicker.
With her hands all but useless, she shoulder barged into open doors to get through them. Luckily,
the creatures were not in the habit of using door handles to close or locking anything. Hermione
had already decided on a route of escape. The safest way to get out of the kitchens and back to the
ground floor was through the inconspicuous little tunnel and hatch used by the house elves to
transport food to and from the Great Hall. During her S.P.E.W days, Hermione had through the
route demeaning and hazardous for the poor elves. But now, she couldn't have been more grateful
for its existence. The corridor was so narrow that if the creatures decided to give chase, they would
be forced to come after her in single file. In the absence of a defensive or offensive strategy, the
best way to escape a horde was to prevent a horde from forming in the first place.
She located the long abandoned corridor, hidden behind empty grain sacks, rusted metal buckets
and a pile of ancient firewood covered in layers of cobwebs. It felt about five degrees colder inside
the corridor due to the damp that leached through the stone from the underground channels of
water that ran deep beneath the castle. There was moss and slime and the sound of dripping water,
not that this slowed her down any.
As she travelled further away from the kitchens, the light gradually disappeared. Hermione
extended her forearms to feel her way along the tight passage, ignoring her growing anxiety as the
corridor grew narrower and narrower. She had taken the same route once or twice with Ron and
Harry during their numerous school days escapades. Perhaps she had misremembered how small
the space was, how low the ceiling? She could no longer stand up. The moss and slime eased her
passage, but not nearly enough to slip her along at her preferred pace.
Behind her, she could hear them coming. The snarling, hissing, skittering and low, baleful moans
echoed along the stone walls.
A contraction seized her. Hermione stopped. For the space of a few breaths, all she could think
about was getting through each wave of excruciating pain and was simultaneously terrified the
creatures would reach her before she could gather her wits once more.
The space in front of her was suddenly illuminated by a bright, white flare. The sight of Draco
robbed her of breath. He was standing in what looked like plenty of space. This ought to have been
impossible, but then things often seemed that way when magic was involved. She saw the wand in
his hand and made an inarticulate sound of utter joy. There was no time for pleasantries, however.
"There're coming," she gasped. And even as she spoke, the walls around her expanded. She could
move freely once more.
"Get behind me," he ordered, with a ferocity that might have been frightening if it wasn't being
employed in her defence.
As Hermione predicted, the creatures at the head of the line didn't stand a chance. Draco picked
them off, one by one. Still, they kept coming. It must have been mere minutes, but felt much
longer by the time Hermione reached the wooden ladder leading up to the hatch. The ladder's
incline was incredibly steep.
"Climb!" Draco roared. She could barely hear him above the cacophony of screeches and snarls.
The floor was saturated in gore. Hermione's feet squelched and slipped in the muck. Her clothing
was sticky and wet. She could not climb. Not easily, at least. Draco was not to know her hands
were broken.
One of the creatures burrowed through the bottleneck pile of its dismembered comrades, squeezing
itself through the plug of human remains. It launched itself at Draco, knocking him backwards
against Hermione. Draco stabbed the wand directly into the creature's eye socket. The spell that
followed caused its head to explode wetly over the both of them.
"Amarov!" Draco shouted, wiping grime from his face. "Now would be a good time!"
To Hermione's astonishment, the hatch at the top of the ladder flipped open, flooding the chamber
with light. Alexander Amarov reached down for her. When her feet were on solid ground in the
Great Hall, she spun around and was relieved to see Draco standing on top of the hatch. Amarov
hurriedly slid the metal bolt back into place.
Draco was unrecognisable. He was completely drenched in dead blood; from his hair—which was
dripping a dark, thick red—to his shoes. Hermione saw his familiar, beautiful eyes, uncanny and
bright in his bloodied face. He took quick stock of her, lingering a moment on her ruined hands.
"Can you hold a wand?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
She shook her head, quite aware that they seemed to be simply staring at each other.
"Potter is safely hidden where you instructed," Amarov interrupted. "I had to tie him to a post to
keep him from floating away like a God damned balloon."
"Harry!" Hermione suddenly remembered where she had left him. "Is he OK? Where is he now?"
It was Draco who answered. "He'll be alright once we get his arm mended. We've hidden him in
one of the Quidditch stands."
Of course! Just as she and Draco had done during their visit to the library more than a year ago,
they would be able to Disapparate from the Quidditch pitch, where the wards were weakest.
"Granger, give me your hands."
She did as requested and had to bite her lip from crying out when Draco worked on them.
"What happened?" He used the same stabilizing spell he would have cast on Harry's arm, though
Hermione suspected the analgesic charm was working a lot better on her than on Harry's open
wounds.
"There was an explosion during my wand fight with…uh, one of those things."
Draco frowned as he noticed her singed eyebrows. "Any other injuries?" He was lifting her hair,
running his sticky fingers along her neck, collarbone, down her arms and back.
Well, I'm about to have your baby.
"No."
"Can you walk?" His eyes narrowed at her in scrutiny. She wanted to tell him, but the fact was that
no good could come of it until they were safely away. Plus, Harry would just worry even more.
To her silent relief, he didn't bother waiting for a response. Instead, he picked her up and strode
quickly with Amarov into the west wing, across the overgrown court yard, and towards the
Quidditch pitch.
A wave of sparkling, soothing warmth bubbled through Harry, starting from his chest and
expanding outwards to his extremities. The throbbing pain that had set up residence in his injured
arm lessened. He blinked, raising a hand to shield his eyes against the glare of the sun overhead.
Sunlight? He was outdoors. He could feel and smell wet grass under him. There was no stench of
death here. He tried to sit up.
"Take it slow," said a voice. "I've just pulled you out of a rather solid faint." It was Draco, but it
was also a monster from a nightmare. He looked like he'd been dipped head first into a vat of
blood.
"Hermione." Harry whispered.
"I'm here." Her face appeared in his field of vision. She did not look any less macabre than Malfoy.
"I'm fine," she assured, taking in his concerned expression. "It's mostly cosmetic, I assure you.
How are you feeling?"
Harry grabbed her shoulders and squeezed, immensely glad to see her. "Light headed, but OK.
Dear God, you two look like you've been through hell and back..."
Draco's face loomed over him once more. "We're not quite out of it, yet. I need you to return us to
the fleet. Do you think you can do that, Potter?"
"He can't take us anywhere," Hermione protested. "Look at him! We can Apparate someplace else
in the interim—"
"The fleet is safest," Draco interrupted.
"What if the same thing happens again and we end up stuck in a stone wall, like Grey?" said a third
voice. Harry turned to it, squinting to focus his vision. It was Amarov.
"What the bloody hell is he doing here?"
"You brought him with us, remember?"
Harry sat up, brushing away concerned hands. He was not going to fuck things up like he had done
with Blaise Zabini at Grimmauld Place. Ever since Zabini's death, Harry had been preparing. "I can
get us back. All of us," he said, starring daggers at Amarov.
Draco leaned back on his heels, looking skeptical. "Is the fleet still in Boston?"
"Yes."
"That's more than 3000 miles, Potter."
"I can do it."
"If we do this," Draco cut in, looking between Harry and Hermione, "we need to clear our minds so
that Potter can focus." He stood up and held out the wand for Harry. "Alright then, Potter?"
With a grim expression, Harry took the wand and then accepted the hand that Draco extended.
When Draco hauled him up, he bent low and said, "It will be easier with less people."
Harry knew what was coming, and realised that in his own weird way, Malfoy was seeking his
approval. Harry nodded.
Malfoy turned to Amarov next. "Do you still have the weapon you found?"
Obligingly, Amarov reached into his jumpsuit and pulled out what looked like an old dueling
pistol.
"I'm afraid that cannot travel with us."
"Ah," conceded Amarov, handing the weapon over to Draco. He probably assumed it was a
technicality relating to Apparition, or perhaps a question of their lack of trust in him. Too late,
however, Amarov saw the expression of confusion on Hermione' face, and the more telling look on
Harry's.
The Russian took a cautious step back from Draco, who by now had cocked the gun and raised it.
"Tell me, does this still have the one shot?"
Amarov didn't run. He didn't plead. He looked at Hermione.
Hermione was stunned. Even more so, when Harry's arm held her so that she could not intervene.
"Draco, you can't. Not like this! Harry, tell him!"
"I'm sorry for what I did," Amarov said to her. His unflinching blue stare was the last thing she saw
before Draco pulled the trigger, firing the small, round lead bullet into his head.
For all its age, the pistol fired perfectly, leaving a white puff of acrid gunpowder smoke in the air.
Draco tossed it to the ground beside Amarov's body.
Harry took Hermione's face in his hand. "Time to go. Are you ready?"
"I…" she stared at Amarov's body. "Yes."
"Clear your mind."
She felt Draco envelop her from behind, holding her securely between himself and Harry. She felt
the beginnings of the spell coalesce around them.
"On three…"
Home
The residents of Amarov's fleet had developed their own way of communicating between the ships.
There was radio, which the Muggles preferred. Some of the smaller boats saved their battery power
by simple hanging off the side of the ship and yelling out news to their neighbours.
It helped if you had any magical folk on board, of course, because then sonorous came in quite
handy. There were not nearly enough wands to go around, since Amarov's magical purge. The fleet
committee got around this problem by developing a wand-sharing roster, so that each vessel could
see to its magical needs in a fair and consistent manner.
It said something anthropologically interesting about the social evolution of the fleet that its
population had not been naturally divided into Muggle and Magical in the months following the
liberation from Amarov. Rather, people seemed inclined towards affiliation with their vessel of
residence. And it seemed that their overarching loyalties were to the fleet itself.
Supplies were distributed with an eye for transparency. The late Blaise Zabini's meticulous record-
keeping system was maintained and made public. Squabbles were unavoidable, but were deemed to
be a normal part of a healthy democracy, and provided plenty of evidence that disputes could be
solved in ways that did not involve throwing people into a pit to be used for bloodsport
entertainment.
The fleet was a floating, transient village, but it also had a very specific job to do - the reproduction
and subsequent distribution of D.R.A.C.O X19 to as many communities as they could safely reach.
In eight months, they had reached many, and had seen both the extent of the devastation wrought
by the plague, and the hope that the serum brought to counter it.
With its own supply of oil and the means to manufacture it into usable fuel, the fleet did not have
any such restrictions on the distances it was willing to travel. This also made them a target, but they
now had wands to protect them, and it would be a foolish lot of pirates who attempted a raid. There
was the constant worry that government agencies would attempt such a an attack themselves.
Governments were not to be trusted in the current geopolitics, because they tended to be desperate
to hold on to what little power and control they still wielded.
News of the very recent demise of Admiral Grey had caused both relief and simultaneously, more
uncertainty. It was unclear if he had been running an entirely rogue operation devoid of any
representation by the US Wizarding Senate. Though his execution of former Secretary Beaumont
seemed to strongly imply this. Barnaby Richards no longer had a clue as to whom he needed to
report to, or what his mission was since the cure had been developed. He was, in essence, a free
agent. No more 'Agent' Richards. He was just Richards, or the Cowboy, which some of the fleet
residents had taken to calling him.
Professor Belikov maintained his position as the unofficial head of the fleet committee. He was a
naturally honest man who was not in the market of habouring secrets. As such, the residents were
informed of all manner of news and forecasting pertinent to the fleet. No one vessel knew more
than another, which seemed to limit suspicion and mistrust.
Thus, did the news spread quickly when Harry Potter returned to the fleet with Hermione Granger
and Draco Malfoy. By now, these names were known by more than just the Magical folk.
Foghorns were blasted. Radio chatter was at a peak. Sonorous was rampant. On one vessel, some
unfortunate drunken soul attempted to light fireworks from a dinghy and ended up having to be
rescued from the water.
And then, everyone went a bit silent because they were told that the next best thing they could
possibly hear, if they were quiet enough and patient enough, would be the rare and treasured cry of
a newborn baby over the fleet radio.
The contraction might as well have been a bucket of cold water dumped over her face. It brought
Hermione back to consciousness with a sharp jolt. Her hands clawed, gripping at whatever was in
the immediate vicinity. Normal Apparition was disorienting at the best of times, and Harry's long
distance attempt had been anything but normal. Hermione felt like she'd been tumbled through a
long, fathomless void.
There was no void, this time. Hermione's hands found purchase in the form of Ginny Weasley. This
simple action decimated her already considerable pain threshold, given that her hands were still
broken. She howled like a wounded animal.
"Can't you give her something?" she heard Ginny say, saw her friend's expression of concern and
anger. This was followed by the sound of discussion, the pink-plonking of glass, and then the noise
of wrappers being ripped open.
She had been expecting a needle, but it was the coolness of an expert charm that passed over her.
Hermione sank back into the bed as the agony in her hands vanished. Tense, sore muscles began to
relax. She noted that the pain relief unfortunately did not extend to the lower half of her body. The
pain was lessened there, but was still acute enough to make her aware of what her body was
attempting to do. Another contraction hit and it was unbearable for about half a minute. When it
was over, her mind resumed taking notes.
Hermione realised that her hair was wet from a recent washing, and that her entire person was
clean and smelling pleasantly of disinfectant soap. She was quite naked under a thick blanket.
There were other people in the room, and indeed, it was a room. Reasonably appointed with very
familiar medical facilities. Although anything would have been preferable to the military base she
had lived on for eight months, or the recent vulnerability of Hogwarts' Quidditch pitch.
She was back on the home ship. Harry had done it. He'd gotten them back safely. Not all of them
had returned, of course. Amarov's blue gaze flashed briefly in her memory. She remembered his
resigned expression just before Draco had shot him.
"Ginny?"
"Here I am," There was Ginny's freckled face again, hovering above her. "And more importantly,
here you are. You've been unconscious since Harry brought you back." The youngest Weasley's
expression telegraphed reassurance and happiness. "They're both fine, by the way," Ginny told her.
"As per usual, Harry is a bloody legend."
"They'll sing songs about him," Hermione agreed.
"I reckon they'll sing songs about Malfoy, too."
Hermione snorted. "Any songs they sing about him will have to come with a parental guidance
warning..."
Ginny stepped away for a moment, allowing an enormous woman in a white smock to loom over
Hermione, all but blocking out the overhead fluorescent lighting. Hermione's hands were duly
examined.
"Aye, these hands are a right mess," the woman clucked. "Just as well I'll be catchin' the bairn. You
just do the pushin', lass." And with that pronouncement, she swept back the blanket that covered
Hermione's lower half, uncaring that Hermione was naked.
"I beg your pardon," said Hermione, with a Malfoy-esque coolness that made Ginny cough. "You
could at least introduce yourself first."
"You'll be beggin' for a lot more than pardons before we're through today!" the woman said, with a
warm chuckle, "My name's Rhona. I'm tellin' you now that we're out of all the strongest doodahs I
usually offer my mothers to help with the pain. Luckily, we're well stocked in whatever it is your
lot can provide." She pointed haphazardly to another nurse standing nearby. A mediwitch,
Hermione noted, given that she was carrying a wand. "Now, then. Spread your legs and I'll have a
wee look, shall I?"
"The head's engaged, right as rain," Rhona informed all and sundry. "Fetal heartbeat is nice and
strong. Baby's in position and in quite the hurry! Of course, all that running around you did before
you got here would have helped! I always say, gravity is midwifery's friend!" Rhona turned to
Ginny. "You should go and fetch the da, if he's willing to be present?" she asked.
"I imagine he would be," Ginny said. She patted Hermione on the arm when another contracted
arrived.
"Where is he! Why is he not here?" Hermione hissed out through gritted teeth. Damp curls were
plastered against her sides of her face. There were two high and bright spots of colour on her
cheeks.
The assisting mediwitch laid a hot water bottle against Hermione's lower back. Hermione had many
colourful things to say about the complete inadequacy of this addition to her pain management.
Rhona responded by offering Hermione a puff of pethidine from a gas mask. Hermione swatted her
hand away. "I'm having a baby extracted, not a sodding tooth!"
"Which one is he, again?" Rhona asked. "The peely wally one with the glasses, or the tall, posh one
that looked and smelled like he'd been dipped by the ankles into a barrel of fish guts?"
"Fish guts," Ginny said, by way of confirmation.
"Go on and get him, will you?" Rhona whispered to Ginny. "It's getting close."
Ginny nearly collided with Draco Malfoy as he exited the elevators at the end of the corridor. He'd
washed, but he looked like he'd completely skipped drying himself off, before pulling on borrowed
clothing that had achieved the dishevelled trifecta of being unzipped, unbuttoned and back to front.
The man looked like he was currently held together by a network of cuts, bruises and exhaustion.
Ginny rather suspected he needed to be lying down in a hospital bed of his own.
"How is she?" he asked. He practically shouted the question seeing as he had run past Ginny
without stopping.
She hurried to run alongside. "Baby's coming."
"No complications? She's been through recent hell."
"None that the midwife has mentioned. It's all very textbook-like since she woke up. Belikov and
the rest of the team are waiting downstairs...just in case there are any issues."
On that sobering thought, Malfoy said, "And Potter is still being treated?"
Ginny wished he would slow down to a brisk jog. It was difficult to run and speak at the same time.
"Yes. He'd be here now, only Belikov gave him something that would knock out a centaur."
They reached the delivery room, and Ginny grabbed Draco's arm just before he entered. It was like
trying to stop a moving locomotive. "Right then, this is where I make my official handover."
"I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you stayed," he said.
"It should be just the two of you now. Well, before it's the three of you," Ginny said, with a grin.
"I'll be waiting with the team. Hell, the whole fleet's waiting. Good luck, Malfoy. Merlin knows
you both deserve it." With shining eyes, she hugged him, uncaring that it was awkward and stiff
and entirely unreciprocated. "Thank you for bringing them back to us. Thank you for all that you
did to keep the fleet safe. I don't know what I would have done if… I'm..." She turned her chin up
to look at him, wondering if she could perhaps see something of what Hermione managed to see in
the man on a regular basis. "Just, thank you."
Draco watched Ginny Weasley walk away. He took a slow, deep breath, and then pushed the doors
open.
Upon noticing his arrival in the delivery room, the assisting mediwitch immediately held out a
smock for Draco to step into, and gloves for his hands. Once prepared, he nudged apart the screens
beside the bed using his elbows, and went to Hermione.
She stared at him as if he was pain relief personified. Unlike the fleet, their communication left
much to be desired. Draco did not speak a single word to her, nor Hermione to him.
"Her blood pressure looks low," he declared, somehow managing to convey his contempt for
Rhona's professional capacities in a single, clipped sentence. "What pain relief have you
administered?"
Rhona was wholly occupied seeing to the delivery. "Perhaps a soft word or two might be of better
use at the minute!"
Draco gave her a look that would have withered a less resilient individual. "How far along are we?"
"If you'd like to step over here, young man, you're about to see for yourself! Oh, well done lass,
keep going!"
Draco took his position beside Rhona, his face registering no other emotion apart from clinical
concern.
"One big push, Hermione, that's it! I can see the head!" Rhona turned to the assisting mediwitch.
"Bring the mirror so she can have a look." A mirror was positioned, and Hermione lifted her head
to see her progress for herself.
"The head is through! Stop pushing just for a moment, my dear. Small quick breaths before the
next contraction. That's it!"
Ever the star pupil, Hermione did precisely as instructed. Rhona cast a glance at Draco, who was a
shade of white not often seen outside of a blizzard. "Mind you don't fall into the sterilised
equipment."
"Madam, I am medically trained. I do not faint."

"Pardon my saying, but you look like a harsh word could knock you out. And pray how many
bairns have you delivered, eh?"
"Three." And there was just a little something in his voice that made Rhona's eyes narrow.
"Foals," he belatedly clarified.
The midwife guffawed. It was an odd sound, given the context. She beckoned for the other nurse to
hand Draco a small, pre-warmed blanket. "Be at the ready, my lad."
Hermione's entire body tensed as the next contraction came. "Hermione," Rhona said, her voice
calm and clear as a bell, "we're going to get the bairn's shoulders through now, alright? You're
almost done."
It was unclear whether Hermione heard or not. Nevertheless, she screwed her eyes shut and was
already bearing down with an enormous, focused push. The baby's shoulders came through,
followed by the rest of him.
A pair of scissors and a hemostat was presented to Draco, who stared at these implements mutely
for a moment, before managing to find his voice. "Can we give them a few minutes before we cut
the cord?" he asked, hoarsely.
"Aye," Rhona agreed. Seeing as he did not appear to know what to do with the baby blanket, she
took it from his slack hands, and gently wrapped the child.
The baby had started up a loud, reassuring wail. Smiling and cooing down at the infant, Rhona
wiped the face, cleared the tiny nose and mouth, before handed the squirming bundle to his father.
Her next instructions were delivered more gently. "Why don't you introduce your son to his mum,
while we clean her up a bit? There's a good lad." It was unclear as to which 'lad' she was referring.
Draco handled the baby as if the boy was made of the most fragile glass. He took his son to
Hermione, placing the child in her arms. He then pushed aside the edges of the blanket so they
could both get a better look at the little boy who had chosen to arrive after one of the most difficult
and eventful of days.
"Goodness," Hermione said, gazing down in wonder at the tiny, puckered, pink face. She stared up
at Draco with wide brown eyes. "Oh my goodness."
"Yes," was all Draco could manage. And then he fainted, for the second time in his life.
The Recovery Act
It was the first post-Plague Christmas that felt like a genuine celebration. Or at least, that was how
Harry saw it.
Five days to Yule and decorations were to be found everywhere there were people. A collective
effort was being made to announce, in no uncertain terms, that the world was in recovery since the
advent of what had come to be known as the Orion Serum.
Recovery was not normality, however. There were still dangers. The remaining zombies
constituted a mostly predictable risk. Humans, on the other hand, were capable of a cornucopia of
horrors. A special British task force operating under the auspices of the Recovery Act, had been
assigned to uphold law and order.
Magical folk fared much better than their Muggle counterparts, and this continued to be a source of
friction between the co-mingled populations. The fact that the Infection had magical origins did not
help the situation. Emergency laws became permanent laws, and concessions from the Magical
side had been heavy indeed in an effort to allay Muggle concerns.
It was blustering and overcast by the time Harry arrived at Netherton Village, West Yorkshire.
Crowds were a thing of the past in the UK. There simply weren't the numbers to make them up.
This did not mean that businesses could not flourish, however. Small eateries opened up, slowly,
but steadily. Hair salons did a roaring trade. The postal service was up and running, but was
confined to central business districts, local high streets and used only by Muggles. Owl post was
back. The NHS merged with the newly formed Magical Medical Corps. Current operations were
back to post-WW2 levels of efficiency, which meant door-to-door visits to administer medications,
health services, including vaccinations and pre and postnatal care. Laws stipulating the acceptable
use of magic were still being drafted and debated, but wand ownership was already tightly
regulated. The Floo Network was operational, though patchy. If crowds were rare, children seemed
almost non-existent. They were there, though, visible if one cared to look at a window long enough
to see the small person peeking behind the drapes, soon to be pulled away by an adult.
A quick stop at the Magical check-in station in Netherton was compulsory in order for Harry to
register his flight into the district. The Muggle soldier looking after the booth gave Harry
directions to Bullcliffe Wood colliery, casting goggle-eyed looks at Harry's stolid, Comet 320.
Built like a shovel, the broom wasn't the most nimble specimen, but was reliable in bad weather.
"Name?"
"Neville Longbottom," said Harry, holding out Neville's Magical Citizen ID card with Harry's
photo in place. The soldier entered these details into a logbook.
"Reason for your visit today, sir?"
"I'm a Magibotanist. I'm collecting herbs in the area."
There was a distant rumble of thunder and it had begun to drizzle. The soldier wrinkled his nose at
Harry. "Funny sort of day for foraging."
"Not the best idea I've had," admitted Harry.
The soldier returned Neville's ID card. "Thank you, Mr Longbottom. Have a nice flight."
Back on the broom again, Harry quickly reached the local mines. The first thing that confirmed he
had arrived at the correct location was the smell.
Not even industrial magical remedies could mitigate it, because much of it existed as a permanent
memory in people's minds. You could walk into the cleanest, most sterile room imaginable and all
it took was closing your eyes and letting your mind wander, and wham, there was the damned
smell.
The Bullcliffe Wood mines had been used by the villagers as a dumping ground for the bodies of
hundreds of Undead. They were dead Undead, of course, dispatched by the surviving local
community. As the bodies piled, and unwilling to light pyres that might attract more unwanted
visitors, the residents disposed of their Undead in the best place possible - the disused mines.
There, the bodies remained for years, in various stages of decomposition.
With the passing of the Recovery Act at the start of the year, the mammoth task had begun to locate
and properly dispose of hundreds of thousands of decomposing remains. Now, no one needed to
fear the infection that had wiped out nearly 70% of the world's population. Rather, it was human
diseases that were a concern, especially the kinds that could contaminate sources of underground
drinking water.
A workforce was established. Every individual, whether Muggle or Magical, was entered into a
global census and then assigned tasks based on their skills. On this basis, Malfoy had been
assigned a team to retrieve and incinerate the Netherton corpses. It was painstaking work, made
less horrible with the assistance of magic.
A sign mounted at the front of the site proclaimed that there were 27 individuals working the mine
that day, three of whom were of the magical variety. Harry felt the familiar, sinking sensation as he
stared at the three, laminated ID photos stuck to the board. The obligatory registration of all
magical persons had been part of the Recovery Act. Two of the photographs were of older wizards.
Being magical photos, the men moved; tugging on the brims of their hats, looking away from the
viewer, and shifting uncomfortably within the confines of the photo's edges. The third photograph
was of 'Draco Malfoy: Site Manager'. He looked intensely bored.
Just then, one of the other wizards crossed Harry's path, pushing a wheelbarrow that was hovering
with magical ease several inches above the muddy ground. He wore a lanyard carrying his ID card.
"Harry Potter!" the man exclaimed. It was almost a scream. The wheelbarrow's previously pristine
wheels landed in the mud with a squelch. "As I live and breathe!" The man snatched off his flat cap
and grasped Harry's gloved hand to enthusiastically shake.
"Good morning, uh..?"
"Willard Quince." The man beamed, his face a sea of leathered wrinkles. "Like the fruit."
"Nice to meet you, Mr Quince."
"And what an honour it is!" The man's eyes turned extra rheumy. "My family and I, we owe you a
debt of gratitude, Mr Potter! Our very lives, no word o' lie! There's my wife, Alice, and eight
children, sir. Three grandchildren who were babes in arms when the Plagues reached us. All of
them alive thanks to you!"
Harry was not unused to hearing this. It never got any easier. "That's very kind of you to say, but-"
"It's all because of you and yours, o'course," interrupted the man. He wiped his streaming eyes with
his cap. "What you did in London, and on Taransay... I had a cousin, Alf, who was camped on
Taransay when they were evacuated, you know? He made it, thank the stars! And
that terrible business on the big ship…I says to my wife...I said, Alice, The Boy Who Lived will
see us through anything. I was right. You saved us once and then you saved us again. I hear a
memorial stone is being put up in London? There's not a rock big enough to take all the names…"
Quince blew his nose. Harry was relieved to see he was using a hanky and not his hat.
"Mr Quince."
"Please, sir. Bill."
"Bill," said Harry. He put a hand on the man's shoulder. "I appreciate the sentiment, but you owe
your survival to your own grit. And any gratitude you bear is due to the work and bravery of many,
many other people."
Bill sighed heavily. He looked markedly less sentimental now. "Aye. You're referring to meelord."
Harry blinked. "Who now?"
"M'lord. His Lordship. The high and mighty. The Boss."
It took Harry a moment to catch up. "Ah. That would be Mr Malfoy? I'm here to se him."
A snort from Bill. "The same. He's over here." The wizard pointed at a tall figure standing just
outside one of the mine shaft entrances.
Well, that explained why Harry hadn't been able to spot him. Malfoy was entirely covered in soot
and mud, such that the only part of him Harry recognised were his eyes, which were staring hard
and bright, right back at Harry.
"Not that I mind his sort, o'course" Bill hastily added, with an expression that proclaimed extreme
minding.
Harry wondered what category of 'sort' Malfoy fell under. There were a range of options.
"My Alice told me never to judge a book by its cover." Bill leaned in closer to speak more softly.
"But I don't mind saying this to you, Mr Potter. Not all books are meant to be read! He's a clever
devil, I'll give him that, but he gives me the willies."
It had started raining in earnest now. A loud bell sounded. Harry watched the gathered assembly of
volunteers put down their gear and retreat under the shelter of the administration tent to nurse hot
drinks and wait out the rain.
Eager to get out of the cold, Harry joined them. Upon closer inspection, Malfoy looked like he was
about to kill someone. Harry sympathised completely, quickly holding up his palms in a gesture of
reassurance. Harry's sudden appearance on the site would have been a logical cause for alarm.
"Stand down, mate. Everything's fine. Hermione's fine. The boys are fine."
The storm clouds dissipated, leaving just regular old Malfoy: arsehole.
"I'm fine too, thank you for asking," Harry muttered. Even after more than two decades of
acquaintance, he still bristled at Malfoy's ability to look down his nose at him, and at Harry's
subsequent compulsion to break said nose (again).
Mafoy was washing his hands and face in an enamel basin that was charmed to automatically refill
with clean, hot water. "Get to the point, Potter. I don't require the foreplay." He pointed to a towel
draped over a stand beside Harry, not bothering to even articulate the request.
Harry handed Malfoy the towel, resisting the urge to fling it at his face "Is there somewhere we can
speak in private?"
They went to the site office - a series of demountables that were thankfully heated. This particular
modified shipping container might as well have been a time capsule from the 1970s. It was a study
in orange, mustard and avocado, which meant that Malfoy clashed horribly with everything. Harry
watched him walk into a poky kitchenette and proceed to make them mugs of tea. Harry took his
mug and then frowned as Malfoy topped up his own beverage with a generous splash of whiskey
from a hip flash.
"It's eight in the morning, Malfoy."
Meelord said nothing. He leaned against the benchtop, ankles crossed, and drank his fortified tea.
The previously gaunt frame had filled out. Malfoy was whole and hale. Well, physically anyway.
The wizarding wars of their youth and the subsequent Plague had left an indelible hollowness to
Malfoy's face. There, he was still all shadows and angles. He also wore visible scars from his time
in Amarov's fleet: a gash at his temple, just visible under white blonde hair that was serviceably
short once more, and irreparable burns on his hand.
A familiar concern resurfaced. "Are you like this at home?" Harry asked, his voice low. "With
Hermione and the children, I mean?"
"Am I like what?"
"A brooding, uncommunicative bastard who drinks hard liquor for breakfast?"
"No," said Malfoy, tipping the rim of his mug at Harry in an insolent salute, "only with you,
Potter."
Some small, Slytherinish part of Harry might actually enjoy telling him, but then Harry thought of
Hermione and instantly felt ashamed of himself. "I'm here to let you know that the Recovery Task
Force has started the next phase. It's as we feared."
There wasn't a hint of surprise, concern or indeed, fear, on Malfoy's face.
"Are you listening? You need to make arrangements."
"Have you told Granger?"
"No, I came straight here after the Task Force made its decision. The arrest warrant is being written
up by the prosecution team as we speak, and it'll be sent to a magistrate for approval before the
DMLE gets involved. Thankfully, the wheels of justice are moving at a glacial pace. I reckon you
have about a month to get your affairs in order."
"Does anyone else know you're here?"
"Just Ginny, who's covering for me at the Ministry. And Neville, who I happen to be
impersonating, presently."
"My my, what an intrigue."

"Shut up, Malfoy. I really wish you would take this seriously."
"You need not concern yourself."
Harry stared at him. "What the hell are you talking about? Of course I'm concerned. You have a
family now!"
"I had a family before all this."
"Yes, but I happen to care about what happens to your current family," Harry snapped.
One dark blond eyebrow rose. "And you assume my absconding will help matters?"
"The DMLE is going to take you into custody, you git."
"I expect so. Do you consider the charges against me to be unjust?"
"What?" Harry heard the question just fine, but it was no less confusing.
Malfoy pulled a chair out from behind a chipped, walnut veneered dining table. "May we sit? I've
been on my feet for the last ten hours. Orion's teething and Henry's nightmares have returned.
Sleep is something of a luxury these days."
Mention of Malfoy's children constituted such an abrupt change in topic that it quite took the wind
out of Harry's angry sails. He sat, albeit unhappily.
"As I was saying, a charge sheet was prepared," Malfoy said. This was not a question.
Harry didn't move.
Malfoy sighed. "It's burning a hole through your pocket as we speak. May I please see it?"
Uncanny bastard, thought Harry. He handed it over. "I should warn you-"
A raised hand from Malfoy cut him off. "My sensibilities are not so delicate, I assure you. I
promise my feelings won't be hurt." He read the document. "Well, it's good so see the Ministry is
at least honoring the agreement to pardon me for all prior offences unrelated to the virus."
Harry nodded. "This means your estate is no longer in caretaker mode. It's all properly yours
again."
"The main charge relates to terrorism offences, namely the creation and dissemination of a
biological weapon intended to endanger the health or safety of the public. The use of the
aforementioned biological weapon for the purpose of advancing political and ideological cause."
"It's overreach, of course," Harry quickly reassured. "You were contracted by Voldemort to create a
magical cure to a virus, but not knowingly this virus, and you took no direct part in its release. We
suspect the magistrate will have that struck off the warrant. If anything, you took steps to try and
stop its escape from the lab. And then of course there's the fact you helped develop the cure and
rescue over a thousand people from Alexander Amarov..."
"You sound like Granger," Malfoy said. He was leaning back in his chair now and staring at Harry
with a pitying expression.
"How do I sound?"
"Mitigating."
Harry wanted to throw something at him. He hated the way the bastard said Hermione's name;
almost as if she was some kind of….of burden?
"If I sound like Hermione, that means I sound correct. If you won't listen to me, then listen to her."
Something in Malfoy's face shifted. His heavy scrutiny of Harry was unnerving. And then his
expression became more neutral, almost kind. "Tell me why you think I should run rather than 'face
the music', as the Muggles are wont to say?"
The question made Harry angrier, though the reason for this anger had nothing to do with Malfoy.
They both knew the answer, though Harry found it excruciating to accept, let alone spell out. He
suddenly regretted Malfoy's invitation to sit and talk. "You know why," he said, through gritted
teeth.
"I do, but it's important to me that you do, as well. If I go, I'm not leaving my family in the care of
someone who can't see the cracks in the road ahead of him. You need to understand what kinds of
dangers they'll be facing."
Harry scowled. "You have to leave because the Recovery Act will make a scapegoat out of you."
"Potter, my predetermined guilt will not be a result of this new law. It will be a function of a legal
and justice system that has always been flawed and corrupt."
"Come on, no system is perfect..." .
"No one is arguing for perfection. It doesn't need to be perfect, but it needs to be trusted. I came
from the most privileged of Magical backgrounds; from people who saw the system for what it is
and capitalised on its weakness rather than become victims of it. I've always known it's a rigged
game, Potter, which was why being lawful for its own sake was never a safe or wise option for me.
My father and men like him corrupted what was inherently a sick system, full of prejudice, bigotry
and nepotism. And when it came to our own fates, in the end, even the Malfoys were not immune
from the same, corrupt processes."
"You make it sound like I don't already know all this," Harry retorted. "People I care about have
lived through the same injustices you're referring to!"
"I know you know," Malfoy said, his eyebrows knitting together. "I just don't think you've ever
fully accepted how deep down the rot goes. After all that's happened, you're still determined to
believe in Magic's innate goodness. You need our system to be bigger than you, bigger than all of
us, and better, because it provided you with an escape from the abuses of your own childhood.
Otherwise you were never really rescued, were you? You simply left one flawed world and stepped
right into another."
Harry stood so quickly, his chair fell backwards. "I came here to help you because I care about
Hermione and the kids! I didn't come here here to be psychoanalysed. You don't want to be saved?
Fine. Cry me a river, Malfoy! You're too afraid to fail at life, so you're just letting life fail you first?
That's all you're good at, isn't it? Failing and running!"
"Now who's psychoanalysing?" Malfoy said, his voice icy.
A bystander watching the conversation might have been concerned that the men were about to
come to blows, but this did not eventuate.
"We're not any better than Muggles, Potter. In fact, I'd get a fairer trial in a Muggle courtroom. At
least the Muggles actually have some respect for evidence."
Harry looked at him, his face red and wet. "Is that what you find so appealing about science?" he
asked, with a half-hearted attempt at scorn. "Evidence?"
The question seemed to surprise Malfoy. "Yes, I suppose it does. It's a reliable methodology. Both
the process of truth seeking and the truth itself, is iterative. It builds on itself."
"I need something to rely on, too."
"Yes," said Malfoy, "it's what drives you."
"I need to believe we're doing the right thing."
"I know. This is why you sometimes find Granger unsettling isn't it? She's told me how you look at
her when she makes difficult decisions that you shy away from. It hurts her, you know? She resents
always having to be that person for you."
Harry snorted. "I take it you have no problems making 'difficult decisions'?"
The corner of Malfoy's mouth lifted slightly. Harry found himself the recipient of an extremely
unsettling stare. "Oh, Potter. I make decisions that still give her nightmares."
"And yet she chooses to be with you."
The coldness had now reached sub-zero temperatures. "We are veering dangerously off-topic."
Harry threw up his hands. "I'm still not sure why we're talking about any of this in the first place!
So yes, the system's fucked. What do you want me to do about it?"
"You have considerable power and influence, which you have never properly used. Now is that
time."
"But you just said the system is broken!"
"Fix it, you massive idiot!"
Harry abruptly stopped pacing and gawked at Malfoy. "What, you mean within the Ministry? Like,
run for Office?"
"Yes!" said Malfoy, in exasperation. "Merlin knows there's a serious power vacuum in the upper
ranks right now. And here you are, once again, a national hero. You'll never find a better chance to
get your foot in the door. I'm sorry I have to be the one to hold your sweaty hand through this
epiphany, Potter. The only reason we are having this conversation is because I need you to be in a
position to protect my family in the event I am put back in prison. Do you understand me?"
"I'm not sure what you're asking me to do!"
"You're an exceptional hero," Malfoy replied, without a hint of sarcasm. "That is undisputed. I'm
asking you to be a leader, and not just during emergencies. You won't be alone. You have loyal
supporters. Granger will help you."
Harry was amazed. "You've really put a lot of thought into this, haven't you? You really care."
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Merlin save me from this relentless idealism. You, Granger, and at one
point, even Agent Barnaby Richards, seem to harbour the notion that my humanity is trapped
inside some kind of Japanese puzzle box and will only be released under the right configuration."
"You saved so many lives" Harry pointed out.
"I saved her. The rest of them were simply fortunate beneficiaries of the rescue."
Harry contemplated this. "You accuse me of being in denial about the darker aspects of the
Magical community. You know what? I think you're in denial about your own lighter aspects."
"If it suits you to believe so."
"There've been times in the last few years when I actually thought we could be friends."
"That's because you're a needy git, Potter. I've never wanted to be your friend."
Liar, thought Harry.
A distant memory bubbled to the surface.
First year. A small, pale boy in immaculately pressed Hogwarts robes looking at Harry with
unsubtle snobbery...but more seasoned eyes would have been able to make out something else.
There'd been a vulnerability born of hopefulness, too.
"You'll soon find out that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don't want to
go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."
"The only thing we have in common," Malfoy continued, " is our concern for Granger's well-
being."
"Which is why it's mad for you to stay! If they find you guilty, you'll be put to death."
"Perhaps."
"You're willing to take that risk?"
"The alternative is that I go back to being a fugitive. Granger and my children will live a life of
constant suspicion, contempt and surveillance. My mother and I lived through that because of my
father. I don't want this toxic legacy for Henry and Orion. If I am imprisoned, the ignominious
book of my life will finally be closed. You would do the same thing in my position."
It was the second time that morning that Malfoy had been referred to as a 'book'. No wonder
Hermione was besotted with the man.
"It doesn't matter what I'd do," Harry said. "You're out of your tree if you think Hermione's going
to sit back and accept you turning yourself in. Need I remind you that this is a woman who put
herself in front of a firing squad to save you from being executed while she was nine months
pregnant?"
The long-suffering look on Malfoy's face said he didn't need reminding.
"She will never forgive you! Or me, for helping you!"
"You will not tell her we had this conversation."
"You can lie to your wife so easily?"

"Yes!" Malfoy looked momentarily taken aback at his own raised voice. He sucked in a breath, and
with painful civility said, "I do when it's for her own safety."
"This is how you explained obliviating her for most of her pregnancy, isn't it?"
"It is."
Harry gawked at him. "Mate, you're fucking diabolical."
"I know! I've been trying to tell Granger this for some time! She won't bloody listen!"
It was the sheer exasperation in Malfoy's voice that did it. Harry actually started to laugh.
Malfoy gave him a wary look and had been about to say something when he was interrupted by a
thundering noise. The entire office shook so violently that both their mugs skittered across the table
and fell to the floor.
Malfoy was already at the door, wrenching it open to find a panic-stricken Bill Quince standing
just outside.
"What's happened?"
Quince could barely get the words out. "Section Three!"
Harry and Malfoy sprinted to the mine entrance, pushing their way through the chaos, yelling and
billowing black dust.. A short, squat man in a yellow hard hat and orange, hi-vis vest rushed over.
His name tag said: 'D. Simmons: Site Foreman'.
"The shaft collapsed!"
Malfoy was pulling on protective gear. "We closed off the Section for precisely this risk! Given
the commotion, I gather some fool was inside at the time?"
Simmons turned a colour not usually seen in the living. "Three of the younger lads climbed down
to see if they could dismantle parts from the Section Three teleloader to use in our operation. It's
been so slow going, as you know. And many of the men are wanting to finish up before
Christmas..."
Malfoy paused in the middle of pulling on a pair of steel-toed boots. "And you let them go?"
"I...uh yes… Oh my God..." Simmons' mouth opened and closed, fishlike. "They're only boys…"
Harry stepped in before Malfoy throttled the poor man. "Simmons, is it?" Harry said, his voice
kind, but firm. "The workers who are trapped, do you know if they're alive?"
"I don't know. They managed to climb into the lift cage just before the shaft c-caved in."
"How far down?"
"Maybe eight or ten meters?"
Harry turned back to Malfoy, "That's nothing! Surely we can dig them out?"
Malfoy was already on his knees at the large pile of rubble where the entrance to Section Three.
With the assistance of a few others, he carefully moved larger rocks out of the way, and then stuck
his wand, followed by his arm, shoulder deep into the dirt. Harry saw his lips move and then the
top of the mound thrummed, as if responding to a vibration from beneath. He got to his feet again.
The look he gave Simmons ought to have killed the man on the spot.
"The good news is they're still alive. The bad news is they're definitely more than eight or ten
meters down…"
"How do you know?" Harry asked.
"Because that spell allows me to verbally communicate through solid objects up to a range of ten
meters, and it just hit that boundary. I can hear them calling out, but only just."
"OK, so how do we do this? How do we get them out?"
Simmons gulped. He cast a panicked look at Malfoy. "We're not equipped for this. I used to work
in construction. I'm no mine engineer..."
"Nor I," Malfoy said. Frowning, he turned to Harry. "If we send a Floo for assistance, how fast can
the Ministry deploy a rescue team?"
"The Medics can come straight away," Harry replied, "but you'd be looking at hours before we can
assemble enough people for an actual mine rescue. Maybe the Muggle military can get here
quicker?"
"We may have no choice," Malfoy admitted. He wiped a streak of mud from his forehead, only
succeeding in adding more, and then called out for Bill Quince. "Get the messages out. Contact the
Ministry and then get the Muggle local area command on the radio."
The older wizard nodded and ran back to the site office.
"What about Apparition?" Harry suggested. "If they're alive, then it's possible they're in a pocket of
space."
"You're proposing we blind Apparate into the ground?"
Harry nodded. "Not us, just me."
"I'm coming with you."
"Pfft! And make Hermione twice as angry if we both get splinched? No, thank you. You're good,
but I'm better at Apparition. Besides, I'd rather become one with a slab of coal than end up half a
Malfoy."
Despite the tempting array of insulting comebacks, Malfoy didn't appear to be listening. He was
deep in thought.
"Simmons, fetch the GPR."
"GPR?"
"Ground Penetrating Radar," Malfoy said to Harry.
The device in question looked to Harry like a fancy lawnmower with a laptop screen. While two
people from the Muggle crew hooked it up, Simmons, Harry and Malfoy discussed its application.
Simmons did his best to explain. "The problem is that we're dealing with coal, clay and shale. The
higher the conductivity of the material, the less accurate the GPR reading. Granite? Lovely.
Waterlogged shale? Big problem."
"How accurate would it be in these conditions?" Malfoy asked.
"Not very. My best guess would be a maximum 12, maybe 15 meters?"
Harry turned to Malfoy "Is there a way we can boost the signal, or whatever it is, to get a better
readout of where they are?"
"How do you mean?"
"What about vorto?"
"I don't think so. We need something to amplify the reading, not just clean up the display on this
end. A crystal clear view of nothing is not going to help anyone."
"A modified deliquo?" Harry suggested.
Malfoy considered this. "That might just work…"
With the GPR unit in place and switched on, the display flickered to life. It showed what looked
like a cross section of a dark grey wall, with a pattern of ripples similar to what one might see on
beach sand, in the wake of a retreating wave.
The entire crew gathered around the mound, heedless of the rain. First aid equipment had been
prepared in anticipation of a successful rescue.
"I think that's as good a spot as any!" Simmons exclaimed. "Hold it still!"
Malfoy placed his wand against the machine. "Ostendo deliquo magis."
The screen flickered; the image dissolved and refocused into the same, grey ripples. But then grey
turned to stucco, and there, almost directly in the middle of the display, was a clearly defined,
black oblong, complete with measurements and coordinates.
"There!" Harry pointed. "I can't believe it worked! That's the pocket! Clear as day."
"Good lord, it's less than two square meters across," Simmons said, wiping the rain from his brow.
"That means they're still in the basket. The roof must have saved them."
"They're going to run out of air before help arrives," Malfoy said to Harry.
"I still don't understand how this GPR thing is going to help?"
"When you Apparate, you don't have to go in blind. Use this display as a reference point. I'll keep
the spell going and the signal boosted on this end. It will be your homing beacon to come back
safely with the men."
Harry's eyes widened. "Will it work?"
"We'll know soon enough if it doesn't."
"Reassuring, as always," Harry said, dryly. He stepped up on the mound and took out his wand.
Nearly thirty pairs of anxious eyes were on him.
"Let me do it," Malfoy offered again.

"Shut up. I'm concentrating."
"Potter."
Harry looked up. Malfoy's expression was reassuring, which Harry appreciated (even if it was
creepy).
"You Apparated yourself and four others across the Atlantic. Remember that. This will be a stroll
in comparison."
"You neglect to mention the slight splinching…"
"If you're referring to your intimate joining with a chair, only think of how the poor chair felt."
"Fuck off, Malfoy," Harry said, without feeling. "If I don't make it, tell Ginny I love her."
"Don't be dramatic, Potter."
Harry's mind began to weave the spell together. "Stand back. Here goes..."
The Somnambulist
Chapter Notes
This is more or less the same version of the chapter originally posted to FFnet, but
without the embarrassing litany of typos (sorry).
Please, I beg you. Get yourself a copy of 'Where's My Cow?'. You won't regret it!
It was impossible for Hermione to avoid thinking about Padma's warning since the very first
nightmare Hermione had about her friend. She remembered it vividly.
" Your sons will die and then Draco will die and then you'll be alone."
The dream took place at Malfoy Manor just after Draco had taken her there to recover following
the liberation of the fleet. At the time, Padma's dream warning had been eerie, but irrelevant.
Children? With Draco Malfoy? In the middle of a zombie plague?
Now, some two years later, Hermione couldn't help but feel uneasy given that the dream had been
nothing short of prophetic. She was comforted by the fact she had no Divination talent to speak of.
Therefore, the most likely explanation was that Dream-Padma was a creature purely of Hermione's
subconscious.
Padma's dreamtime visits to Hermione had become an almost weekly occurrence. It took a toll. As
with most challenging things, Hermione learned to deal with it. There were always medications and
potions to induce dreamless sleep, but she could not bring herself to take them because on some
level, she felt morally obligated to receive Dream-Padma.
Unsurprisingly, the dreams were mainly about the fleet.
They were terrible from start to finish and often ended up with Hermione crawling into the safety
of Draco's arms until the shaking stopped. She was embarrassed about her inability to self-soothe.
This was despite the fact she read books with titles like 'How To Tame Your Toddler', all
containing a advice about attachment theory, settling, and how to stop your two-year old from
making a game out of biting his brother, giggling, and then running away (Draco was still working
on this one).
It didn't take a genius to work out that the nightmares were a byproduct of complex past trauma
over the course of many years, and Hermione's monumental survivor's guilt. To make matters
worse, the guilt had a habit of morphing into shame when Hermione thought about her children.
How dare she feel guilty about surviving when Padma had literally given her life for this? For
Hermione to be here today to watch Henry's face light up when he raised frogspawn in the Manor
pond. Padma would have wanted Hermione to live. To really live. Hermione's theory was that the
dreams would stop when she finally made peace with the fact that she had been the one to walk out
of the Pit alive, instead of Padma.
Exactly how she was to cultivate this sense of peace was unclear.
Draco was several hours late to return home, but he had sent an owl ahead of time to let her know.
Some unexpected complications at the mines, he said. So she made the boys dinner, gave Orion a
bath and put both children to bed by seven o'clock. Miraculously, they went to bed rather easily that
night, which was not usually the case when Draco was away.
Hermione counted her blessings and took a long bath, washing her hair and catching up on some
personal grooming. After her bath, she observed herself in her full-length bedroom mirror, towel
discarded at her feet.
Her body bore the scars of battle and of pregnancy. Although her stomach was flat once more,
there were raised, silver stretch marks across her belly, just under the navel. To the left of her navel
was the puckered pink scar of her bullet wound. The neatness of the scar was entirely owing to
Draco's skills as a surgeon. Lower down, on her thigh, was the scar from her injury sustained
during the Welwyn Hospital Mission. All this of course paled in comparison to the stories Draco's
body could tell.
Further up her torso, Hermione examined her breasts. They'd been small to begin with and were
small now, so there was not a huge change apart from the fact that her areolas had darkened from
largely skin-coloured to a dusky pink. She had breastfed Orion for sixteen months and would have
kept going but for the incessant biting.
The only other marked change was that she was generally curvier about the hips and backside. She
wished her breasts had followed suit, but oh well. Draco had no complaints, and nor would she
have tolerated it if he did. She pulled on cotton underpants and a matching camisole, followed by
blue and white checked flannel pajamas and a pair of Draco's thick Quidditch socks. They tended
to slide down and flop about her feet, but they kept her toes nice and warm.
She pulled off the towel that was wrapped around her hair, thinking that she might have a bit of a
lie down before going through the bother of a drying spell. Hermione crawled into their big bed,
onto Draco's side, and was asleep within minutes. The nightmare started as soon as her first REM
cycle kicked in.
The dream was set at one of the more favourable locations - Hogwarts. Or Hogsmeade , to be
precise. Just as it was in the real world, it was winter and mere days away from the Yule, school
break.
A quick downward glance at her attire told Hermione she was in fifth or sixth year. She recognised
the jumper, the scarf, the mittens. Without needing to check, she knew that the hat on her head was
a red wool, bobbled affair, courtesy of Molly Weasley. The village was dressed to the nines in
lights and tinsel. It was dusk and the weekend curfew would soon kick in. She did not have long to
make her purchases.
Hermione walked along the main village thoroughfare, through about three inches of fresh snow
and dozens of footprints made by Hogwarts students doing their last minute shopping. The air
smelled of wood smoke, confections and warm butterbeer. In the distance, loomed Hogwarts
Castle.
As was the norm in these dreams, faces were a disturbing blur; a vortex of swirling shadows and
light. They only ever came into focus if Hermione interacted with the owner of a face, and even
then, it took concentration to coax the person into clarity.
The longer Hermione spent in the dream, the less aware she became that she was dreaming.
Eventually, she settled into the narrative as if she was just another character, playing out the part
her brain had assigned.
Lucidity slipped away.
By the time Hermione's feet carried her to Honeydukes, the only thing on her mind was to acquire
honey quills before they all sold out. She ran through the alley that cut between the main street and
Honeydukes, but stopped short when she heard something unusual.
It was a crying child...and close by. As a precaution, she reached into her coat pocket for her wand,
but found that it wasn't there. How could she have left Hogwarts without it? That seemed
inconceivable. These were dangerous times.
Frowning, she turned around to survey the alley. There was nothing and no one around. The sound
was not coming from any particular direction. It seemed to be echoing off the brick walls on either
side of her.
"Hello?" Hermione called out, tentatively. "Is someone there?"
There was no answer. Unsettled, she turned to continue making her way to Honeydukes, but
unfortunately collided into a wall.
"Oof," she said, falling on her backside in the snow.
Her hat slipped off. She sat up to find it, noting the pair of expensive snow boots standing just
beside her red beanie. To Hermione's irritation, she realised she had run right into Draco Malfoy.
His right boot was on her hat now, grinding it into the snow. "You should watch where you're
going."
An angry Herrmione got to her feet, dusting the snow from her behind. She had no time for his
nonsense. "Give me back my hat before I hex you."
In no particular hurry, he picked up the hat, staring at it with disgust. "Let me guess, from the
infamous Weasley winter line for the discerning vagrant?"
"Give it here, Malfoy!"
He held it high above her head, a not-quite smile on his pale face. Last year, this particular move
would not have been so effective. He simply hadn't been tall enough. What a mystery it was that at
some point between the ages of 12 and 16, most boys towered over their female peers virtually
overnight. Ron was as tall as Malfoy, though Harry seemed to still have some catching up to do.
Hermione gave him a look of feigned understanding. "Thou shall not covet thy neighbour's goods,
Malfoy. I'll put in a kind word for you with Mrs Weasley, eh? If you're a good boy, maybe she'll
make you one in time for Yule?"
He responded with a sneer. "I'd rather eat my shoes." He made a show of glancing around them.
"Speaking of the unsavoury, why are you here alone, anyway? Where are your boyfriends?"
She was annoyed with her blush, but she was more annoyed with him. "Where are yours ?"
Dark blond brows snapped together. She smiled sweetly in return.
He responded by throwing her hat at her face. It was wet, and as was sometimes the way with
wool, smelled mildly of dog.
"Stupid Mudblood. I have better things to do than sully myself talking to Muggleborn filth." He
searched her expression for any skerrick of distress at his use of the slur. Annoyed to find none, he
turned on his heel to storm off.
"Liar!" Hermione called out, surprising the both of them. Why on earth did she attract his attention
again? Draco Malfgoy gone was the best kind of Draco Malfoy.
He paused. "What did you say?"
"I called you a liar," she repeated. "I am not stupid, as you well know. Moreover, you don't think
Muggles are filth at all. In fact, you're rather intrigued by us." She raised a defiant chin at him.
"Did you hit your head when you fell? I would have thought all that hair would have cushioned the
blow."
Funny how she never previously realised just how lame his insults were. Almost as if he churned
them out of a Childhood Bully Insults Generator. A thought belatedly occurred to her. She
wondered if his awful persona was entirely authentic? It was bordering on cliché. Maybe he was
just putting on a show? But why? And for whose benefit?
She answered his question with one of her own. "Did you enjoy the microscope your science tutor
gave you this year?"
Seekers were so fast. He was on her in a flash, dragging her by the arm further down into the dark
recesses of the alley. He pushed her against the wall, pinning her just above her collarbone using
his forearm. He smelled like pine needles. Hermione remembered that the Slytherins had been
decorating their common room that afternoon.
The expression on his face was gratifying. He was still angry, but he was also scared.
"How the hell do you know that! Who told you! Who else knows?"
She didn't know. Why had she said that? How did she know? The information was just...there.
Just as she knew that this close, and even in the failing light, that she could and would see the blue
in his eyes, that his left eyebrow was slightly longer than his right. He hated being tickled about
the ears. She knew how he felt in her arms, how she felt in his, how he tasted. She knew the feeling
of her hand in his, and the delicious sensation of his hands on other parts of her. She knew his
strength and resilience, in all its myriad forms. She knew that if she drew up the sleeve of his left
arm, there would be no Dark Mark. Not yet. There were already scars, but these ones weren't the
visible kind.
This Draco, all of sixteen years old, was from another life. And now, with the benefit of hindsight
and intimate knowledge, she could combine all the disparate pieces of an intriguing puzzle to see
what had been in front of her eyes the whole time - a boy doing his best to exist in a world that
would eat him up if he made one wrong move.
An enormous wave of affection washed over her. She placed one mittened hand against his flushed
cheek.
He flinched away as if she'd scalded him. " Don't touch me, Mudblood ." He'd been about to say
something else as well, when a noise distracted them both.
It was the child again - the same crying sound. This time, there was also a definite whimper.
"Do you hear that?" Hermione asked.
Malfoy was now scowling at the empty expanse of alley. He took out his wand. "Who's there?" he
called out, simultaneously answering her question.
They were both startled when a lithe figure appeared for a moment at the top of the alley.
It was Blaise Zabini . Not a teenaged Blaise to match the dream's time period, but an older Blaise.
She could tell just from his posture; from the way he held himself. He did not interact with them.
His appearance seemed to serve no other purpose than to allow Hermione to see him.
"Wait!" she called out.
"What in Merlin's name is going on here?" Malfoy demanded. His wand was now pointed at her,
his expression a blend of fear and suspicion. "Is this a trick? Some kind of spell? My father will
have you expelled!"
Ignoring him, Hermione rushed after Blaise. She was vaguely aware that Malfoy was calling out to
her. She ran to the end of the alley, reaching the lane that was perpendicular to the back exits of the
Hogsmeade shops. The light was all but gone now. She caught another glimpse of her quarry; saw
the swish of dark robes as he walked between the trees, further and further into the forest.
She was not able to run or see far ahead of her as she pushed aside low branches and frozen
bracken. The cold intensified as the light faded. She was determined to reach Blaise before
nightfall, given that she was wandless and would not have Lumos to guide her back to the village.
A few minutes later, Hermione found herself stumbling into a clearing. By now, there was no
discernable light source, and yet everything around her was bathed in a sickly, yellow-green glow,
reminiscent of the lighting on the Morning Star .
But what was the Morning Star ? How did she even know that name?
Dense, impenetrable darkness now marked the boundaries of the clearing, as if there was nothing
beyond the tree line. In the middle of the clearing, was Blaise. He stood alone, very still and
wearing a patient expression. He looked like he'd been waiting for her.
Hermione walked towards him, cautious now. But with every step she took, Blaise appeared to
grow smaller and smaller, shrinking and sinking into himself. By the time she reached him, it was
no longer Blaise who stood before her. There was no confusion now. She knew exactly who she
was looking at, and who he was to her.
" Henry ," she whispered.
Henry Zabini, with his corkscrew-curls, enormous brown eyes with eyelashes that, as Ginny had
once commented, were long enough to make a camel jealous.
He was crying. Hermione watched in horror as the front of his shirt began to darken with a wet
stain. The scent of blood was unmistakable. She caught him just before he hit the frozen ground.
"Nonononono…"she said, trying desperately to find the source of his injuries so she could stem the
blood loss. He was now bleeding profusely from his nose, mouth and ears. A small gurgle escaped
him.
"Mummy?"
She was not surprised to learn that Malfgoy had followed her. After all, the nightmares were never
complete until she lost all of her boys, as Padma had promised. Malfoy stared in shock first at
Hermione, and then at Henry. He exited the treeline, appearing to have cleaved his way out of the
darkness itself.
"This is the bit when you're meant to help me!" she screamed at him.
There was only the smallest hesitation on his face, before he ran forward and joined her on the
ground. He stripped off his gloves, his quick hands following the same, searching path that hers
had taken under the child's blood-drenched shirt.
"How was he injured?" he asked, urgently.
Hermione had no answer for him.
"I can't find the source of this bleeding!" Malfoy said.
Hermione wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, leaving a broad, dark smear of blood. "It's
OK. This...this isn't real."
He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "What are you talking about? Who is this child?"
She could only give him a tear-stained look of anguish. " He's ours ."
Malfoy had been so focused on Henry that he failed to notice the way the darkness around them
had encroached beyond the treeline, coming closer and tighter. The circle of light they inhabited
grew smaller. The world beyond it looked infinite.
A multitude of arms sprung forth from the void, all in various stages of dead. They ranged from
rotting and pulpy, to bleached bone. Hermione watched, listless, as the hands took hold of Draco,
covering his face, smothering his cries. Yet more hands reached for the unconscious Henry. They
retreated in unison, taking Draco and Henry with them.
All that was left was a bloody smear to mark the spot from where Henry's body had been dragged
away. It was all over in less than a minute.
The urge to launch herself into the darkness, to go after them, was powerful. But unlike every other
dream before this, Hermione checked it. Instead, she sat in the middle of the shrinking spotlight
and waited for the final scene to play out. One last thing had to happen before the dream could
end; one final loss.
She did not have to wait long. A young Padma, of around the same age as Draco, stepped out of the
darkness. There was a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.
Hermione got to her feet, resignation heavy even in her smallest movements. "Why do you keep
doing this to me?"
Padma tossed a pigtail over her shoulder. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you. I'm not
doing anything. This is all you . This is progress, by the way. You're learning. I think you're ready
to open locked doors."
A snort from Hermione. "Call it pattern recognition. You always take them from me, and no matter
how much I fight. I can never get them back." She realised they were now standing in darkness,
almost as if they were suspended within the void. "What do you mean by locked doors?"
Padma did not answer her. There was a tiny bit of light, but it was just a weak glow. It was coming
from the bundle in Padma's arms.
Padma began to unwrap it.
"Wait!" Hermione said. She grabbed Padma's wrist, stopping her. "I can't do this!"
"Yes, you can," Padma said. "If we don't finish this now, I'll only come back. You won't let me go
away."
"I don't want you to go away." Hermione admitted, tears running down her face. "I'm so, so sorry
for failing you."
Padma smiled. "You never failed me, Herrmione. You have nothing to be sorry for, but I daresay
it's time for you to forgive yourself."
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and took in a long breath. When she opened them again, Padma
was gone, but the bundle was now in Hermione's arms. Bracing herself, she gently unwrapped the
blanket. Over the course of the many, many terrible dreams, she had seen different versions of
Orion killed in a dozen different ways.
On this occasion, he looked utterly perfect in death. In some ways, this was even worse. This was a
perfect copy of life. The sound Hermione made came from some primordial place that had existed
before her, but was also inside of her.
With a sob, she held out her baby's body to the void and it claimed him.
The world was peaceful and silent.
Henry's scream was piercing.
The sound had a basic quality that was recognisable to most parents or those engaged in the
business of raising children. It could make one's heart seemingly stop in their chest.
Hermione sat upright in bed, the peace of her dream shattered. The sleep fog took a moment to
clear. She did not dally, nor did she rush. Tossing the covers aside, she pulled on a robe and made
her way to the children's shared bedroom, directly beside the one she shared with Draco.
The door to the children's room was ajar, as was Henry's preference. A star-shaped night-light
provided a comforting, golden glow. Henry was not comforted, however. He was sitting cross-
legged on his bed, curly head in his hands, shoulders heaving.
Standing in the crib on the other side of the room and not at all shy with his opinions, was two-year
old, Orion. "Hemmy crying!" He pointed a chubby digit at his brother, his small face scrunched up
with concern.
"I know, Ory," Hermione said. "Lay back down and Mummy will come and tuck you in again."
"No," Orion replied, predictably. He had recently discovered the power of the word and used it
with a haughty relish that was reminiscent of his father.
Henry was not doing well. The seven-year old was a tightly coiled ball of anxiety. Hermione gently
unfolded his limbs and pulled him into her arms. His pajama top was soaked through with
perspiration and he was shivering. She went to his armoire to fetch a fresh set.
"I had a bad dream," he said.
She helped him into the clothes. "Would you like to talk about it?"
"No.”
"No," echoed Orion.
Hermione turned to look at her younger son. "Lie down, Orion."
The baby laughed. Hermione sighed. It was worth a shot. To her older son, she said, "Do you
remember what I told you? I get horrible nightmares all the time. It helps when I talk about it."
Henry rubbed the hem of his sleeve under his nose. "I don't want to scare Ory."
The fact was that nothing scared Orion. The child regularly stared down shadows.
"I'm sorry I woke you up," Henry added.
"Never be sorry for that."
"Has Draco come home yet?"
Though it was a small pain to hear him use his father's given name, Hermione was reassured by
this because it meant that Henry had regained some of his usual composure. Henry only ever
referred to them as 'Mum' or 'Dad' when he was severely distressed.
"He's due home later tonight."
She could make out the disappointed look on his face. Henry looked more like Blaise with every
passing day. While Orion was growing into what promised to be a large and sturdy child, Henry
was coltish and as slender as a reed. Hermione had not known Daphne Greengrass very well and
regretted this fact because she could not say what aspects of Henry were attributable to his mother.
Draco would have to fill in those blanks.
"I tell you what, why don't you come and sleep in my bed tonight?"
A pout from Henry. "I'm not a baby. Orion is the baby."
"No!" said Orion.
"Orion will come too."
"Can we play Cosy Cuddle Town?"
"Of course. And you can help me read a bedtime story to Orion."
Henry scrunched up his face. "But he always wants the same book."
Hermione sympathised. There were only so many times one could read 'Where's My Cow?' and
still put gusto into the animal sounds.
"Why don't you do the chicken noises this time? You're awfully good at it."
Henry nodded. The adorable snooty look was back. "I am, rather."
Hermione had no idea how late it was when she woke up for the second time that night. She found
her husband standing beside the bed, carrying a sleeping Orion.
Draco was freshly showered, wearing a black t-shirt over a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms. His
feet were bare, despite the icy floor.
"He was lying across your face," he told her, in a whisper. "And Henry was about to fall out of the
bed altogether. I don't know how you people can sleep like this." His expression was equal parts
incredulity and envy.
Hermione smothered a laugh into her hand. There were 'pillow walls' erected all over the bed. "It's
Cosy Cuddle Town, remember? Population: Four. And what do you mean 'you people'. We're your
people."
"Just what the world needs. More Malfoys."
Still smiling, she leaned up on her elbow. Her hair slipped over her shoulder. It was a halo of chaos
because she had gone to bed while it was still wet. "I didn't hear you come in. Have you eaten?"
"I ate something before I left."
Draco shifted Orion's weight in his arms. Now, the baby's cheek was resting against his father's
shoulder. He took a seat on the edge of the mattress and reached out a hand to tuck one of
Hermione's curls behind her ear. He never failed to do this when his hair was unbound. Hermione
sometimes wondered if this was an unconscious reflex on his part.
She glanced down at the foot of the bed, the last known whereabouts of one Henry Zabini, Mayor
of Cosy Cuddle Town. "Did you put Henry back or did he go by himself?"
"I carried him. He didn't even stir. Night terrors again?"
She nodded. "He still won't tell me what they're about. And not for my lack of asking."
"Give him time. He'll tell us when he's ready."
She leaned forward to give the sleeping Orion a kiss on the head. The baby had left a dark patch of
drool on his father's t-shirt, just under the neck. For a moment, Hermione was reminded of the
expanding blood stain on the front of Henry's shirt, in her nightmare. She blinked to clear the
macabre image from her mind.
"How were the mines today? she asked, her voice slightly tight.
"Interesting," was all he said.
Hermione felt a niggle of annoyance. Sometimes, getting even the most banal information out of
Draco was like drawing blood from a stone. She wondered if it was yet another vestigial instinct
from his Death Eater days, when information was a hoarded commodity.
He got to his feet. "On that note, I think I'll return the young master to his cot. Back in a moment."
Hermione flopped back against her many pillows, her eyes already closed. Draco was halfway
across the room before she stopped him.
"Hang on. Nappy check."
Two breaths later, he responded with, "It seems I might be a bit longer."
Still with her eyes closed, she smiled. But she gave him a thumbs up of solidarity.
Draco joined her in bed some ten minutes later, just as Hermione was on the cusp of sleep. She felt
his warm arm snake around her waist, dragging her across the sheets until she was tucked firmly
into the warm curve of his body. His face nuzzled into her damp hair.
Their current way of living was a work in progress.
She reminded herself that theirs was a challenging relationship for all the usual sociocultural
reasons without factoring in a zombie plague, the breakdown of civil society, numerous close calls,
abduction by a genocidal madman, the death of loved ones, friends and colleagues, the adoption of
an orphaned four-year old, eight months of missing memories, and an unplanned pregnancy.
And somewhere in the middle of all of this, they had also managed to pull a zombie-cure out of
their proverbial magic hat.
It was, as Harry pointed out to Hermione, a lot .
Despite two years of relative peace, the world was far from back to normal. Hermione considered
herself one of the lucky ones, having not only survived the plague, but somehow also acquired a
husband and two children in the process.
She spoke to her parents often, but all they could realistically offer was love, reassurance and
complete faith in her 'excellent judgement'. Hermione was not as confident. All the milestones of
her relationship with Draco had occurred out of sequence. She had no manual or experience on how
to navigate these new, uncharted waters.
Draco approached family life like it was a research project. This generally meant he was reclusive,
studious, paid keen attention to details, and put a great deal of thought into his decisions.
Sometimes, Hermione felt like she and the children were subjects of an anthropological study,
because of the way he maintained a strange sort of separation from them, while also being part of
their little tribe. She couldn't think of a more diplomatic way to describe it. He was a very involved
and hands-on father, but there was an emotional formality to his parenting that spoke volumes
about the way he was raised. It took a lot to move him.
It had also taken a while for them to develop compatible co-sleeping arrangements. Ironically, for
all his privileged upbringing, life on the lam for so many years had accustomed Draco to sleeping
rough. He could sleep on little more than bare floorboards with a rolled up coat as a pillow.
In contrast, Hermione was a bedding bowerbird. The last time she had her own bedroom, she'd
been ten years old. And in the years since, she had shared many rooms. Though the locations
changed, her bed had been the safe constant that she fell into at the end of each day.
She preferred a soft mattress, with lots of pillows in different sizes and densities, a flat and a fitted
sheet, a thick woolen blanket under a duvet, and at least two throw blankets for good measure.
There was enough bedding for Henry to make several extensions to Cosy Cuddle Town.
Despite the size of their residence, the family occupied only three rooms in Malfoy Manor.
Hermione had initially balked at Draco's suggestion that they make the Manor their permanent
base, given all that had transpired there. It wasn't that Hermione disliked the place. Rather, she was
quite sure the feelings he harboured about his home would be a problem.
But Draco had insisted, offering an explanation she could not fault. "It's the safest place in the
world for Malfoys to be."
They were all considered Malfoys now, even though Henry was technically a Zabini and Hermione
had not changed her last name. The house knew . It didn't feel different going into it this time, but
Draco assured her that she, Henry and even little Orion could command the wards if they needed
to.
Commanding the Manor wards was a kind of Malfoy family inheritance. At some point, the master
of the house was taken aside at a young age and told how to do it. The magic was very old, with a
great deal of symbol and rune activated spells that you had to draw on the ground, walls and some
even on the caster's own body. As a precaution, it was forbidden to write down any of the spells,
and so the passing down of the commands became an oral tradition.
“You may need to know these one day," Draco told her. "Just in case I'm not around to do it."
Though he'd been fine with them moving into the Manor, Draco had not wanted them to live in the
main bedchambers previously occupied by his parents. Nor was he comfortable installing the
children in his old nursery, which frankly looked like something from a Victorian ghost story.
Hermione was only too happy to support this, as well as Draco's decision to cordon off the previous
residential sections of the house. He insisted these areas were simply too dangerous to leave open
to the children.
And so, modern wards were erected within the framework of the ancient ones, with the addition of
good, old-fashioned boards put up and nailed into place to prevent curious little Malfoys from
giving in to temptation. It took them three months to make the place habitable, stripping away even
the wallpaper. It felt wonderful to work with Draco on a project that didn't involve a nuclear bomb
deadline.
In terms of their family quarters, they lived in relatively modest accommodations on the first floor,
next to necessary amenities by way of a bathroom, kitchen, and of course, the library. The latter
had become the unofficial family room. They even ate there. It was a room of many firsts,
Hermione mused. Orion had been conceived in the library. Fittingly, the baby had also taken his
first steps there, too.
Their bedroom had previously been one of Narcissa's smaller sitting rooms. A bed had been
brought down from a guest bedroom. It was an enormous, four-poster, canopied monstrosity with
an ancient mattress that was too hard for Hermione's liking. She remedied this with piles of
bedding.
The children liked it well enough for Cosy Cuddle Town, but Draco complained that he felt he was
being swallowed up by the Blanket Monster (the villain of Cosy Cuddle Town). A happy medium
had been reached by way of Draco stripping his side of the bed every night, and shoving most of
the bedding to Hermione's side.
On the day before they moved in, just before Orion's first birthday, they took one last tour of the
soon-to-be-restricted wing. It was difficult to tell how Draco felt about the family portraits,
photographs and occasional statuary. There was one painting that fascinated Henry, however. It
was of Draco at no more than three or four years of age, dressed in a tiny set of wizarding robes
with a large frilly collar. Young Draco kept tugging at his neckline, his cherubic face scowling. Hir
hair was parted in the middle and pressed down flat.
"He looks so much like Orion," Henry had marveled. And Hermione saw the little frown of
concern, and the back and forth glances that Henry cast at Draco and Orion. She had been
expecting this; the concerns of a traumatised, adopted child that a biological sibling would steal
their parents' love. All they could do was reassure him and hope time would rebuild trust and heal
old wounds.
"Is that Draco's father?" Henry asked next, staring up in awe at an intricate marble bust of Lucius
Malfoy.
Hermione put her hand on Henry's shoulder. "Yes, that's Lucius."
As much as Hermione loathed the man, she had to admit he cut quite the dashing figure in some of
the most beautiful formal robes Hermone had ever seen. Draco, dressed in basic grey robes that
had holes in them, was already several meters ahead along the corridor, keeping a close eye on
Orion as he crawled along the floor.
"Lucius looks a lot like Draco."
"Yes, he does."
Henry's large, almond-shaped eyes peered up at her. "Did you know him?"
Hermione considered the question for a moment. "I did, but I can't say I knew him very well."
From the corner of her eye, she caught Draco watching them. She gave him a small smile. He
seemed unperturbed by their literal stroll down memory lane, but then again, you never knew with
Draco. He didn't just keep his cards close to his chest, he kept them in a vault at Gringotts.
He looked so at home, Hermione thought, a little wistfully. Like he was born to walk these halls,
which of course, he was. Most of the time, magical folk seemed like normal everyday people
(despite the odd wizard who might take to wearing a tea cozy for a hat).
But if you watched closely enough and for long enough, you could pick up the small tells, the little
signals that made your reptilian brain alert you to the fact that the person before you was
something.. .else . Alexander Amarov had been particularly sensitive to this feeling, but his interest
had turned toxic with fear, paranoia and envy.
There was nowhere else that Draco could demonstrate his otherness as eloquently as when he
walked the halls of Malfoy Manor. The dwelling had been there for many generations, even before
Cynric of Wessex had taken Wiltshire from the ancient Britons. And so too had Malfoy wizards
and witches lived there. Like many other insular Purebloods, the Malfoy history was lengthy,
bloody and interwoven with other Pureblood families of note. There was significant historical
baggage to unpack.
This wasn't what scared her. Quite frankly, it was Draco that scared her.
She wasn't afraid of him, but there was something about him, something in his fundamental nature
that made it impossible to feel completely at ease, completely secure, around him. It wasn't that she
felt unsafe. No, it was just that Hermione never felt that he was all of himself with her.
There were aspects to his personality that felt incompatible with his current circumstances. These
aspects were not mild or sweet. To be blunt, they were dark. Sometimes, Hermione felt these
darker aspects dominated his personality and that he was only ever exercising a small portion of
his behavioural repertoire when he was with her and the children.
Parts of him felt shuttered and sanitised. It was more than just a matter of nature and upbringing,
She only had a basic understanding of epigenetics, but she wondered if the Malfoy history had
imprinted upon Lucius, Draco and perhaps even Orion, a family legacy that steered its descendants
to the more morally ambiguous side of the behavioural spectrum.
The fact was that even after two years, Hermione still hadn't properly figured him out yet.
It was like she had access to the entire library except the restricted section. Their relationship felt
like a daily adventure, but it also felt unbalanced because Hermione's openness made her feel
vulnerable.
While they tended to agree on most things, there was one highly contentious issue they simply did
not speak of anymore - Hermione's eight missing months worth of memories.
Draco insisted she be informed, in fine detail, of what had transpired during the time they were
detained by Admiral Grey. Hermione insisted, just as vehemently, that she didn't want to know;
that it would not serve them any good and would not change anything about their current
circumstances.
To his credit, Draco respected her decision, even though he felt it was a mistake.
Hermione's restless mind turned over these thoughts, again and again, until she arrived at
something which had been bothering her for the past few weeks. She rolled onto her back and
stared up at the bed's red velvet canopy, dripping with more gold tassels than an Austrian
Archduke.
She sighed.
A few minutes later, she sighed again.
"What's wrong?" Draco's voice was muffled because he was speaking into his pillow.
This was probably not a good time to have the conversation about what had been bothering her, but
she'd been holding her tongue for long enough. Draco was excellent at issue avoidance. She would
have to grab his attention.
"Are you dying?"
That worked. He lifted his head to stare at her with the most endearing, befuddled expression. It
took willpower not to learn forward and kiss him.
"Did you just ask me if I'm dying?"
"Yes. Or maybe you're sick and you're not telling me?"
He blinked sleepily. "I am not sick or dying."
"Then what is it you're not telling me? Something's been on your mind for the past month. Even
Henry's picked up on it. It's taken us a long time to rebuild his trust in us. Keeping secrets from
each other doesn't help."
"Nothing's the matter."
"Liar," she said to him, in much the same way she had said it to young-Draco in her earlier dream.
This caused him to raise his head again. "Granger, I'm not telling you anything because there's
nothing to tell."
"You know I know when you're lying to me, right?"
"I know nothing of the sort," he said, with irritation.
She noticed he didn't insist he wasn't lying. "I wish you would trust me."
He frowned at her. "I do trust you. I trust you with our children. There is no greater trust. I trust you
enough to fall asleep in the same room as you, with numerous pointy objects, after we've had an
argument."
"I want you to trust me with your burdens as well. Whatever it is that's weighing on you, please tell
me."
"You've been burdened enough as it is."
"A-hah! So there is something!"
It was too dark to tell if he rolled his eyes, but she suspected he did. "Granger, I have just finished a
sixteen-hour shift in conditions that would make your hair curl…" he paused to correct himself,
"curl even more ." As if to emphasise this, he fondled a particularly springy lock of her hair. "Can
this wait until morning?"
"I suppose," Hermione allowed, but then immediately contradicted herself by saying, "I just don't
like that you keep secrets from me."
He groaned into his pillow. "There are, at any given time, a great many concerns on my mind. I
surely do not need to bother you with each and every one? I have enough to worry about without
worrying about you worrying about what I worry about."
This time, she was the one to roll her eyes. "Steady on, old chap. I'm not asking for your deepest
darkest fears... although I'm here for that, too, should you need me. I just want you to share with
me any burdens relevant to the family. I'm responsible for us too. We're meant to be a team."
"There are burdens that need not be yours. That is all I am saying on the matter."
She sat up. "This is just like the fleet all over again, when you wouldn't trust me to know what you
were planning!"
They were now shout-whispering at each other, in an effort to keep their voices down.
He groaned. "That's because you were literally being kept by Amarov as his pet! Telling you what
I was planning would have put said plan in jeopardy."
"Because I can't be trusted to keep quiet?"
"No, because you were vulnerable! He could have done any number of things to you if he
suspected you had any information worth extracting!"
"I'm made of sterner stuff."
"Oh?" he hissed, now glaring at her. He was wide awake now. "Amarov all but broke you. You
couldn't even write your name when I found you after what happened to you and Patil. I will not
have you endure anything remotely close to that ever again. And I'll be damned if my children
have to watch their mother go through it. In the event I do keep secrets I feel are worth keeping
from you, rest assured I would have fucking good reasons for doing so!"
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. He was using a different voice with her now, less
tolerant, sharper, cold. Plus, he was swearing.
"Check your tone when you speak to me, Malfoy. Also, that's not fair. Don't use what happened to
me as an excuse to keep me in the dark now. We're not at war any more."
Draco opened his mouth with what she assumed would have been a retort, but wisely did not
follow through. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "You're right. That was
inappropriate. I apologise."
"I don't appreciate your paternalistic attitude towards my well being. That is not how this
partnership works. I made a choice to enter into this. I-"
"No, you didn't," he interrupted, "you had no choice."
They had inevitably arrived at the stickiest, trickiest subject of them all - the eight missing months.
"I keep telling you I don't care about what happened when we were with the Americans! It's over
and Orion is fine! That's all I need to know! I wish you would just let the damn thing go!"
" No ," he snapped, forcefully enough that Hermione was startled. "You need to know what
happened. You may not want to, but you need to. You cannot make sound decisions moving
forward, without all the facts."
"Facts about what? About what you did to me?"
He was silent, but she heard his exhalation.
"Your actions are the reason Orion didn't end up a science experiment. You actually think I'd
change my mind about us if you told me what happened? No good will come of us dredging up bad
memories."
"You would make different choices now, if you knew. You can't keep that door locked
indefinitely."
Hermione was momentarily distracted. Again with the locked door reference? First Padma, and
now Draco. It was the unofficial theme of the night. She shoved the covers aside and got out of the
bed. "I am quite sure you didn't just tell me I don't know my own mind!"
"But you didn't at the time, did you?" he pointed out, emphatic. "You know how it goes, Granger.
You're a researcher. You can't make the best decisions or plan with insufficient information. You
need to know what- where the hell are you going ?" he demanded.
She didn't care for his tone again. "I'm going to close the door so our children don't hear us
fighting, or do I need a signed permission slip to do that, too?"
He scoffed in such an amusing, dramatic fashion that a little of Hermione's bluster dissipated.
With the shut door now at her back, she jabbed an accusatory finger in the air at him. "I may have
married you in a haze of Obliviation-induced dementia [she waggled her fingers in the air as she
said this], as you like to keep reminding me, but I will have you note that I stayed married to you!"
"By then, Zabini had already made us jointly responsible for Henry, and then Orion arrived not
long after. You were already committed. As I told you from the beginning, there were, are, and will
always be far better matches for you, than I.”
“ I love you , you massive idiot!"
He was impressively unmoved. "You do so without knowing all the facts."
Hermione looked at him. Suddenly, everything became clearer. She felt like she'd been slapped in
the face, but the feeling was fleeting. And then, she started laughing.
Now glaring at her, he got out of bed. "This is funny to you?"
"You are simultaneously the smartest and stupidest person I know."
He grabbed a pillow, a blanket and his holstered wand, which was draped across a bedside. table.
"I think I shall sleep in the library tonight," he informed, with amusing primness.
Hermione glanced around the floor, looking for a suitable object. She found it in the form of a
foam ball that Henry had been throwing to Orion earlier in the day.
She threw it at him.
The ball hit him squarely in the back of the head. He spun around, stared at it and then at her. "Did
you just-"
A stuffed monkey sailed across the room, its tail grazing his temple. Orion's dogeared, waterlogged
copy of 'Where's My Cow' came next. Draco wisely swatted away this particular missile.
"Stop throwing things at me!"
"Stop treating me like a child!" Hermione immediately regretted saying this because there was
only one possible response.
"Then stop behaving like one!"
He continued marching towards the door. Hermione was not having it. She grabbed her own wand
from the dresser drawer.
" Locomotor Mortis !"
The Leglocker Curse found its mark, but due to his forward momentum, Draco did not freeze in
place. Instead, he fell forward. Hermione winced, hoping he would not be hurt from the fall, but her
concern was premature. As the floor rushed up to meet him, Draco braced himself with his palms,
elbows bent, effectively falling into a pushup position.
She was hurt and she was angry, yes, but Hermione was now acutely aware that the sting and burn
was turning into something else.
The hem of his t-shirt had ridden up, exposing his trim waist and the corded muscles along his
lower back that helped to keep him in what was now a plank position. The elegant, inward curve of
his back only served to accentuate the taut lines of his backside and thighs. His biceps strained
against the sleeves of his t-shirt.
Hermione felt her face grow quite hot.
Her attraction to Draco and the arousal he induced in her should have been familiar by now, but it
never felt any less intense. What was familiar was the fluttering sensation in her belly and the heat
that pooled lower still. It felt even more acute now that his body was not a mystery to her. She
knew every inch of him, had mapped out every detail at her leisure. She had taken the full tour and
knew all the best stops.
She watched as he flipped over, so that he was now lying back on his elbows, staring at her like
she'd lost her mind. A strangled sob of laughter escaped her. "Oh God, I'm so sorry." She should
have stopped there, but couldn't help adding, "You look like an angry seal."
His wand lay next to him on the floor. He had the spell undone and was on his feet in one fluid
motion.
He growled.
With a small squeak, she ran around the bed, hoping to keep it between them as a barrier, but he
simply vaulted over it and grabbed her. He plucked her wand from her hand and tossed it clear
across the room.
Hermione found both her wrists trapped in one of his hands, and pinned above her head on the bed.
His other hand slipped under her backside to lift her torso and pull her down into him, such that he
was now lying in between her legs.
"You. Incorrigible. Little. Baggage," he said, his face hovering above hers. He smelled of
toothpaste. Each syllable was so precisely enunciated that she felt the punctuation in her nerve
endings.
There was just enough daylight peeking through the drapes to show that his eyes were all but
black. Only a small rim of silver remained around his blown-out pupils. He dipped his head and
rubbed his face against the sensitive skin under her upturned chin, grazing her with a day's worth of
beard stubble.
Oh shit.
She hadn't just tickled the sleeping dragon. She'd zapped him with a cattle prod.
Hermione was not dressed in a manner that could be considered seductive, and had not expected a
night of amorous activities with her exhausted husband after he'd spent a harrowing day trudging
through dead bodies.
Nevertheless, the way he was staring at her effectively conveyed his intimate knowledge of what
lay beneath the many layers of cotton flannel and chenille. She may as well have been wearing
nothing but silken veils, banging a tambourine. In contrast, the only thing separating him from the
evening air was a single layer of linen.
Slowly, deliberately, he rolled his hips into her. The seams of both their pyjama bottoms pushed at
just the right spot between her legs and Hermione had to bite her lower lip to keep from making an
encouraging sound. He watched her do this with predatory intensity.
Her stomach was turning in somersaults. There was a small, annoying twinge at the back of her
mind; connected to a door she had kept tightly shut for almost three years.
Something about Draco's attentions was now making the door knob jiggle .
Even through the layers of her clothing, she could feel the thick, hard, blunt length of him. Her
mouth was dry. She moistened her lips and was rewarded with a distinguishable twitch from his
cock and a small, almost inaudible groan reverberating through his chest. He may have still been
very angry, but he was just as aroused.
Her heart raced. She tried to slow her breathing, but this was difficult because Draco was now
laving at her neck, his hot tongue leaving a cool trail where her moist skin met the air. He breathed
hotly over her goose-fleshed skin.
"Oh.." The sound escaped her before she could stop herself.
"If you wanted this, Kiska," he said, rolling his hip again, "you have only to ask."
"Don't..don't flatter yourself," she said. She tried for contempt, but her voice came out in a near
mewl.
He placed a soft, chaste kiss across her lips, and on instinct, Hermione tilted her head upwards to
take his mouth, but he pulled away. She made a protesting noise.
"Then allow me to flatter you," he said. "You are soft and sweet and hot and tight, and you taste so
good I get hard thinking about you while standing knee deep in dead zombies."
He still had her arms pinned above her head, but the hand that held them there was massaging
delicious circles into the sensitive skin of her inner wrists. Experimentally, she tried to free her
hands, but the vise immediately tightened. The slow, steady grind was making her head spin, while
his words made her want to bury her face in a pillow.
"I get to come inside you, my good Gryffindor girl. As I please, where I please, as often as I please.
I get to feel you quite literally suck the life out of me when you come around me. I get to watch
you make your cup of tea in the morning, knowing that those same hands were wrapped tightly
around my cock only hours before. You keep shaking your head, Kiska. Would you like me to
stop?"
She hadn't realised she'd been trashing her head from side to side. He was watching her with gentle
concern. She was embarrassed at her blushing and his very close scrutiny of her responses. He
encouraged her by teasing her lips with butterfly soft, fleeting kisses until they were once again
noise to nose. And then he gave her what she sought - a wet, open mouthed, carnal kiss that made
her moan and buck her hips upwards to meet him.
He broke the kiss and exhaled raggedly into the crook of her neck. "Merlin…"
Her hands were free. Hermione took the advantage of the pause in the proceedings to pull his t-
shirt over his head. She ran her hands over his back, threaded her fingers through his hair and
pulled his head back so she could kiss him.
He slid his right hand under her neck, so that his thumb could stroke her jawline. His left hand
fastened on her hip and squeezed a warning.
"Do not move. Do not even breathe." The grinding had stopped. "Give me a moment, Kiska…."
It took a bit longer than a moment for his breathing to slow and his body to relax somewhat, and
the locked door in her head started to shrink from view.
"Are you OK?" she asked against his lips.
His laugh was short and sharp. "It depends. Are you going to hit me with anything else tonight?"
"Nothing that will do lasting damage," she whispered.
She took his hand and slipped it under her pajama top and camisole to cupped over her breast. He
groaned and obligingly resumed the movement of his hips, his hand closing around hers. This time,
he increased both the speed and pressure of his movements. Hermione could feel and hear the bed
joints creaking under them.
There was a familiar build up in her core, the growing tension and heat of an orgasm within reach.
If he kept this up, she was going to come and they still had their pants on.
"I should have fucked you at school," he said, in a breathless rush, "in your common room, in
mine, in your dormitory bed, in the Prefects' Bath. I should have had you on your knees, under the
Quidditch stands, with my cock in your clever little mouth. On the floor in the Astronomy Tower.
On the potting bench in the greenhouse. I would have had my face deep between your legs, under a
desk in the library, while you attempted to conduct a conversation with Potter or Weasley, trying
not to scream as you come around my tongue. I would have had you standing meters away from me
in potions class, knowing my cum was running down your beautiful legs under your robes because
I'd only just finished fucking you in the broom closet minutes before. A thousand points to
Gryffindor, Miss Granger…"
Hermione was floating on a sea of aroused delirium, where her only priority in the entire world at
that moment in time was the climax that now lay only several movements and words away. She
was so close. She thought she should provide some definitive verbal feedback, in case her
whimpering, thrashing and bucking was not clear enough.
She risked a peek at his face and immediately regretted it. She felt like Red Riding Hood about to
be consumed by the Wolf.
The locked door flickered behind her closed eyes.
Nononono, go away.
She heard herself make small, huffy little noises as he nipped and kissed her neck and her jaw and
sucked at the points of her clavicles. Her short nails raked across his back. He picked up the pace
of his hips. and she responded by lifting her own hips upwards to catch an even more delicious
angle
And then, quite unexpectedly, his words took on a softer, more tender tone. Though this in no way
lessened the intensity of her arousal.
"Do you know what it took for me to behave myself at Grimmauld Place? To have you so close
and not be able to touch you? To work beside you every day? To have to leave you? I thought I
could live without you after that. I thought it was a timely escape. That I could excise the tumour
that was spreading inside me, making me weak. But then you ended up right back in my arms, on
my operating table, shot and bleeding."
He touched the bullet scar on her abdomen. "I knew then I had to take the fleet from Amarov."
Mention of Amarov was a dark shadow on the edge of her climax, but it did nothing to dull it. Her
hips snapped up one last time to meet his next downward thrust and then Hermione shuddered.
"Oh my God. Draco…"
Shattering. Stars. Convulsions. He stroked her back, kissed her temples, the tip of her nose, her
shoulder. He told her how beautiful she was.
Hermione was a rag doll. Boneless. Incapable of even basic speech. When her breathing calmed
and her eyelids began to flutter close, the warmth of his body suddenly disappeared. She moaned in
protest. She opened her eyes to see Draco standing beside the bed, untying the drawstring of his
bottoms with shaking hands. She watched him, unabashed, reveling in the fact she was still able to
bring him to such a state. He was as hard as she had ever seen him, his cock tight, swollen to a
sheen, and leaking. Her mouth parted in a small 'o' of carnal appreciation.
He was less gentle now, his movements hurried and jerky. He pulled off her clothing. She heard a
rip and lost at least one button to the process. She heard it clatter to the floor. The mattress dipped
as he crawled over her and parted her legs . She was wet and more than ready for him. Her pale
skin was marred with red friction burns from their earlier grinding. He sucked at a red patch of skin
along her inner thigh and she nearly flew off the bed.
"Now. Please," she said, not trusting herself with anything more challenging than single syllables.
He grabbed her ankles and dragged her to him. Hermione felt the entire heated length of him slide
along her wet, inner thigh. His right hand was under her neck, supporting her. His thumb hovered
around her jaw. Hermione turned her head and took his thumb into her mouth to suck.
" Oh fuck , Hermione."
There was a mad scramble of hands and messy kissing. At one point, Draco tried to move them
closer to the middle of the bed. In doing so, his hand slid down over her jaw and briefly grabbed
her about the neck to shift her into position.
Hermione was as unprepared as he was at the effect this had on her.
The fleeting pressure of his hand on her throat was all it took for the locked door to creak open. It
was a veritable Pandora's Box.
Sights, smells, sounds and sensations flickered past, like an old fashioned slide deck, only the
slides were out of sequence.
The smell of the open ocean. Her sneaker-clad feet as she dangled them over a safety railing,
watching the roiling ocean far, far below. The searing agony of a bullet in her side. The cool
leather of the furniture in her stateroom. Amarov's cologne. His dark blue eyes. The stink of the
Morning Star . Padma's profile silhouetted against the bloody walls of the Pit. Amarov's hands on
her body. Her hand closing around a broken blade. Offices and labs she did not recognise, unknown
soldiers with guns, sterile hospital equipment. Latex gloved hands on her, inside her, probing. Her
flat belly, growing in fast forward until she was sure she would burst open. The sharp sting of
needles. Lots of needles. Cold IV fluids going into her hand. The weight of metal handcuffs. The
sound of doors locking and curtains being drawn shut. Crying. So much fear. Draco's voice, his
hands, his arms holding her. Draco in front of a firing squad. Flash, flash flash. A repeating strobe
light inside her mind, wiping the slate clean. Rinse and repeat.
The slide-show ended. Hermione flung herself to the corner of the bed to throw up on the floor.
Draco reached for her, but she clawed and kicked at him, crawling to the top of the bed where she
grabbed the sheets to cover herself. She turned her head away and held out a hand, palm facing
outwards, as if that could ward off further attack.
There was something wrong with her lungs, her heart. It felt like someone was sitting on her chest.
She felt as if she was in anaphylactic shock. No. She couldn't die. She had children . No matter
how hard she tried, her throat remained constricted. Her wand, where was her wand? Why was her
wand never there when she needed it? How could she let another man take it away from her? Her
vision began to spin.
Gentle hands take hold of her. Large, warm, male hands.
Don't touch me . No. Not again. Never again .

I know what you did
Her eyes rolled back in her head.

Reckoning
Chapter Notes
There are some significant content warnings for this chapter.

***PLEASE READ & HEED***
This chapter is essentially a long conversation between Ginny and Draco. They will be
discussing topics that may be upsetting for some readers, including:
- abortion/forced abortion
- miscarriage
- medical procedures during pregnancy (including on foetuses)
If these are triggering topics for you, please do not proceed.
All future updates to this story will now be posted exclusively to AO3. I'll be deleting
all my work from FFnet and transferring everything here.
Also, please see my Tumblr post for the most beautiful Hermione fan art for this story
<3
https://andgladly.tumblr.com/post/656449478797164544/best-laid-plans-post-
apocalytic-hermiones
***Please see the author's notes above for this chapter's content warning***
Ginny was contemplating the wisdom of adding milk to her black tea when the ornamental garden
gnome at the front of the cottage announced the arrival of unexpected visitors.
The gnome was a menace, which automatically meant that Harry loved it. It was rude and
belligerent, though these tendencies were mediated slightly by a Cork accent so thick it was almost
incomprehensible.
Ginny had made several attempts to dispose of the thing, only to find it back in its usual spot the
next morning, wearing a smirk on its tiny bearded face. In any other situation, this would be
classified as a haunting, but since they were magical, the gnome was considered an amusing
annoyance. According to Harry, anyway.
She heard the garden gate creak open and shut, and then the gnome screamed, “MILL-FIYE!
MILL-FIYE! MILL-FIYE IS HERE!” Ginny hurried to open the front door before the blasted thing
woke Harry up.
Something was amiss. It was far too early in the morning for a social call and Malfoy did not make
social calls, let alone unannounced ones. Worse yet, Hermione was not with him. He was standing
in the cold, morning mist with a sleeping Orion in his arms and a very sleepy Henry beside him. He
was also sporting a recent, bloody nose.
“Good morning, Aunty Ginny,” said Henry, because Hermione was a stickler for manners in her
children. If such things had been left to Malfoy’s parenting, Henry would have greeted her with a
bored, “Weasley, do we need an engraved invitation to come in out of the cold or shall I just
consign us to standing on your front stoop for the duration of this visit?”
“Apologies for the intrusion. May we please come in?” Malfoy asked. His politeness proved that
Hermione had the rare ability to teach old dogs new tricks.
Ginny all but dragged the trio inside and sat them down in the warmth of the sitting room, where a
fire was going. Flopped down beside the fire was what at first glance appeared to be a threadbare
carpet bag. The carpet bag sat up, snuffled and instantly began growling at Malfoy, which was
another reason why Harry adored the creature.
“Beelzebub, shush it!” No one knew for certain what Beelzebub was, but he resembled a
transfiguration accident involving luggage and a pug.
Henry was already curled up on the sofa, looking like he was about to fall asleep. Poor little
sausage. Mindful that he was listening, Ginny spoke in a deceptively calm, overly bright voice.
“Where’s Hermione?”
Malfoy replied in much the same manner. “She’s not well and is resting at home. I’ve come to ask
if you and Potter could mind the boys for a day or so?” He set down a bag packed with what Ginny
assumed were child-minding supplies.
“Of course.” Ginny turned to Henry. “Would you like some breakfast, Henry?”
The boy shook his head.
“How about a kip in the spare room? There’s a bed already made up.”
“Oh! Can Beezles sleep in the bed with me?”
“Henry-” Malfoy began, but Ginny cut him off.
“Of course he can. In fact, he’d love it. He used to sleep with us before he got too farty.”
Henry giggled, though Ginny noted he looked at his father for permission. Malfoy gave it. Henry
ran up the stairs, calling Beelzebub to him. Both adults waited until they could hear the bedroom
door shut, before continuing their conversation.
Ginny glanced at Orion, whose ample right cheek was pillowed against Malfoy’s shoulder. “I'll put
him in my bed.”
“No. Don’t wake Potter.”
Ginny snorted. “Not even an earthquake could wake Harry right now, not after the night you
two’ve had. I’ve received two very emotional Floo calls from two very grateful mothers. You
saved those men’s lives at the mines.”
“Potter did most of the work.”
“Not the way he tells it,” Ginny said. She gave him a critical once-over. “From the looks of things,
you haven’t even got to bed yet.”
He was silent.
She put a hand on her hip, or rather, the area formerly known as her ‘hips’. At six months pregnant,
there was currently no longer any delineation between waist and hips. “You know you can actually
die from lack of sleep?”
“I submit myself as evidence that that is not the case.”

His words were lighthearted, but Ginny could see the terrible strain behind them. If she wasn’t
mistaken, Malfoy was being held together by some very loose threads. “Let me take Orion up,” she
offered again, more gently.
For a moment it looked like Malfoy would not budge, but he eventually relented. He frowned down
at his son’s sleeping face, almost looking like he was trying to memorise details, and then
reluctantly handed Orion to Ginny.
“There we go.” Ginny smiled. It was slightly forced. The baby was a delight, but he was also an
absolute unit and Ginny’s back was already protesting from the weight of her pregnancy.
“I’ll be back in a minute. Make yourself at home.” When he remained standing, she tried a different
approach. “You know what? I could really do with a cup of tea...would you mind?” She gestured
towards the kitchen and was rewarded with Malfoy obediently setting off to do as she suggested.
Ginny took the sleeping baby upstairs to the master bedroom. Just as she had left him, Harry was in
a deep sleep, right forearm flung over his eyes. She made a spot for Orion on her side of the bed
and cast a barrier charm around the child to prevent Harry from rolling onto him and Orion from
rolling off the bed. Ginny then rearranged the blankets over the sleeping pair and then paused to
simply look at them for a moment.
Hormones, she lamented. Harry was far more sentimental, but lately, she’d developed the ability to
cry at just about anything. The week before, she’d burst into tears during a rather vigorous bout of
sex. What was it about expectant fathers and their adorable concern that they might harm their
baby during intercourse? Harry could have been hung like a Centaur and it would still have been a
needless worry. After she stopped laughing (this took some time) she burst into tears all over again
because they’d missed out on important post-coital cuddles due to the unnecessary drama. Harry
had quickly learned that there was nothing to be done about her rollercoasting emotions other than
to offer a soggy shoulder to cry on and make cups of tea.
Before she went back downstairs, Ginny popped her head into the spare bedroom to check on
Henry. He was already asleep. Beelzebub lay beside him on the bed, back legs splayed, tongue
lolling out, looking demented and very happy.
“Watch over him,” Ginny ordered. Beelzebub gave a soft, “Yip!” His stumpy tail wagged so fast
that it was a blur. Not much could get past the cottage’s protections, but if it did, nothing was
going to get past Beelzebub.
It was surreal having Draco Malfoy serve her tea in her own kitchen, but then again, they’d all just
lived through a zombie plague. Surreal was the low bar.
He placed the mug down on the kitchen table. “You shouldn’t be having any caffeine,” he said.
The man was either fearless or very foolish. “I made some herbal tea instead.”
“Thank you.” Ginny took a sip and was pleasantly surprised. He’d combined chamomile and
vanilla, with a dash of honey for sweetness. “Will you please sit down?”
He sat. The dining table chairs were small, cheap and creaky. Malfoy looked ridiculous in her
kitchen, with its hand-me-down furniture and floral drapes. She and Harry hadn’t got around to
redecorating the place yet.
“What’s wrong with Hermione? And be warned, Malfoy. If you don’t answer my questions to my
satisfaction, I will wake Harry, and then we’ll all Apparate to Malfoy Manor to see for ourselves.”
“You can’t get in without an invitation.”
He really was so annoying. “You can’t kill the Dark Lord either, oh wait, only someone did. I’ll
just go and fetch him, shall I?”
“There’s no need to involve Potter at this stage. I have Vadim Belikov looking after Hermione for
the moment. You’re welcome to see her, but right now she needs rest.”
“Oh,” said Ginny. “I didn’t know Belikov was in London.”
Malfoy leaned back in the creaky chair, arms folded. “Now you know.” He was doing his Are-We-
Done-Here routine.
“Why is Hermione unwell?”
“You are aware of the gaps in her memory?” he said.
“During the time you two were held captive by Admiral Grey? Yes, of course.”
“She has regained them.”
Ginny knew this was a sensitive topic for the couple, although she was not privy to the specifics.
All she knew was that Hermione did not wish to remember and Malfoy had thus far agreed to
respect that decision. “How did she regain her memories, exactly?”
“I’m not sure. It was probably due to a triggering event. Something powerful enough to override
the Obliviate that was placed on her.”
“You didn’t perform Obliviate on her directly, correct? They weren’t stupid enough to allow you to
have a wand. The official report states that Grey had military wizards do it at your behest.”
“That’s right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Which probably explains the lack of long-term
efficacy. Had it been my spell, those memories would have stayed locked away.”
It was disturbing how casually he spoke about casting Unforgiveables. “So the memories returned
last night? All at once? That would have been excruciating.”
“It was. She had a seizure.”
Ginny paled. “Is that why you have a bloody nose and what’s going to be a corker of a black eye? I
thought that was from the incident at the mines.”
“She kicked me when she was seizing.”
“Did you hurt her?”
Malfoy’s answering look was very cold. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”
“During the seizure, did you hurt her?”
“No, Weasley,” he snapped. “I did not hurt my wife either accidentally or on purpose.”
“Good,” she said. “Just checking.”

“If I’ve answered your questions to your satisfaction, I’d like to get back to her now.”
Ginny chose her next words carefully. “Malfoy.”
“Weasley,” he countered.
“Why did you Obliviate Hermione in the first place? I mean, we all know what’s on record. She
kept leaving her room to find you, despite repeated warnings by Grey.”
He said nothing, merely waited for Ginny to continue.
“You were worried she was going to get into trouble, so you made the decision to remove that
particular motivation by wiping her memory?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“That whole debacle aside, what am I missing here? Are the effects of repeated Obliviate enough
to cause this kind of belated side-effect? From what I know, Hermione was quite happy to let
sleeping dogs lie.”
“I’m afraid this particular dog has come back to bite her. There are…more missing memories.”
“Go on.”
“Admiral Grey didn’t just want D.R.A.C.O."
“What else did he want?”
It took him a moment to respond. “Orion .”
“Merlin…” Ginny was beginning to understand. “What did you do?”
“I did what I felt was the lesser of two evils.”
She frowned. “I’m going to assume you were one of those evils?”
“Grey had his own experts at the base,” he said, now looking down at his fingers as he idly traced
the floral design on the plastic tablecloth. “They had every intention of honouring the agreement to
return Hermione to the Ministry, unharmed. But Orion was another matter. You see, Hermione was
only in her first trimester when she went to them…”
Ginny put a fist to her mouth, trying to force her nausea into submission.
Malfoy walked to the kitchen bench. There was a bowl of fruit there that Molly Weasley had only
just replenished the day before. He picked up a lemon and held it out to her.
“Here."
“Thank you. Malfoy, why am I holding a lemon?”
“Roll it between your palms until the skin of the lemon feels warm to the touch. Then cup your
hands over your mouth and nose and breathe in and out slowly through your nose.”
She did as he said, surprised to find some relief from the calming, fresh fragrance of warm lemon
oil in her cupped hands. Her nausea abated. It was still there, but no longer distracting. “I could
have used this tip when I was in the throes of morning sickness. I’m guessing this is something that
helped Hermione?”
He wasn’t in the mood to reminisce about more benign past events and so Ginny said, “Please keep
going.”
“Grey’s team planned to extract foetal cells from Orion. What they really wanted to get their hands
on were stem cells.”
“Malfoy, you’re going to have to explain some of this to me like I’m not trained in Muggle medical
science.”
“The only reason I know anything about this is because virology was the precise line of research I
was studying in Russia when Voldemort recruited me to work for him.”
“This was after the Ministry froze all the assets of alleged Death Eaters and sympathisers,” Ginny
said.
“Yes. It was a very lucrative venture.” He paused to take in a slow breath. “In the study of
infectious diseases, there is one resource that Muggle scientists find invaluable...”
“Bloody hell. I think I know where this is going. Babies ?”
“Foetuses,” Malfoy clarified. “They generally use aborted foetuses at between 14 and 19 weeks of
age. I realise this is not an ideal topic to be discussing with an expectant mother.”
She snorted. “Don’t confuse me with Harry. Pray continue.”
“Foetal cells can be turned into facsimiles of functioning human immune cells. They’re flexible,
adaptable, ideal for experimentation and the development of innumerable drugs.”
“Like vaccines?”
He nodded. “Like vaccines.”
“What was Grey planning to do?” Ginny asked. “Force an abortion and tell Hermione it happened
naturally?”
“It would have been impossible to take what they needed from Hermione otherwise.”
“Seriously? At the cost of Orion’s life?”
“Murder has been justified for much less. And it would have been all too easy to explain Orion’s
death as a spontaneous miscarriage in the first trimester due to any number of reasons.”
“Did Grey reveal his intentions to Hermione?”
Malfoy hesitated.
“Well?” Ginny prodded.
“She and I were rarely allowed to talk and when we did meet, it was always under
supervision...which is why she kept trying to sneak away to find me…”
“But on the occasions you did see her, did you warn her what you suspected they were planning to
do?” Ginny asked.
More hesitation. Ginny could scarcely believe it. Draco Malfoy was at a loss for words. Nor could
he meet her eyes. His intense, frowning stare was fixed on the table.
“Malfoy, I asked you a question!”
“No, I didn’t tell her.”
“Why the hell not!”
“I didn’t tell her because if it came down to a choice of her or the baby, I was not going to lose her.
If she knew what was going to happen to her...to the baby, she’d fight them.”
Ginny didn’t realise she was crying until she felt one of her tears land on the top of her hand. To
her astonishment, she saw that Malfoy wasn’t in much better shape either.
“Merlin,” she said. And then she said it several more times. She brought her lemon-scented hands
to her face and breathed in.
When she looked across the table again, Malfoy was looking right back at her. Tear streaks ran
down his pale, weary face, from red-rimmed eyes.
“There’s more.” He told her this as if it was a content warning.
There’s more if you wish to know it.
Now she understood why Malfoy had been so adamant not to wake Harry. Harry would kill him.
He’d have done it right there in their little cottage kitchen.
“Continue.”
“She found out.”
A bark of dark laughter from Ginny. “Of course she did. She’s Hermione.”
“She injured a guard, escaped her room again and came to find me...to tell me what they were
planning. She couldn’t find a way to get me out of my cell. Unlike her, I was not a ‘guest’ of the
Admiral. I was a terrorist. They kept me locked up when I was not needed.”
“Malfoy, what did you do?”
He blinked rapidly. Several more tears fell. “When they took her away, she fought them.”
“Of course she bloody well fought them! She was fighting for the life of her child, if not yours as
well! She was betrayed by the people she risked her life to help!”
“I could hear her screaming from two floors up...” He looked away, his voice catching.
“What did you do?” When he still did not answer her, Ginny slammed her fist on the table, causing
her mug of tea to jump. “Malfoy, what did you do ?”
He met her eyes again, this time his expression was almost challenging. “I did what I do best. I
made a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“I offered to do the work for Grey so he wouldn’t need to use his people or their methods. I would
take the cells they needed. I would perform the procedures myself and keep both my wife and child
alive in the process.”
“But you said there was no way to do that without killing Orion?”
“No way for Muggles to do it. With magic, I could offer more options.”
Ginny stared at him in horror.
“Weasley, listen to me. They would have let her die on the operating table if she proved to be an
obstacle to them.”
“Whereas you would have done the opposite, I suppose? Saved Hermione at the expense of
Orion?”
“Yes!”
Ginny abruptly stood up. Malfoy did the same thing and she gave him a scathing look. Such refined
manners were out of place given what they were discussing. The nausea was now coming in
waves. She felt a momentary dizziness.
“Are you alright?” He came towards her, but Ginny held up a hand. “Please stay where you are so I
don’t have to explain to your children why I tried to kill their father while they were sleeping.”
He stopped, hands lowering to his sides.
Ginny walked over to the sink, gripping the cool metal rim for support. She couldn’t look at him
yet, so she stared out the window instead. “When did you perform these procedures?”
“Just before she entered the second trimester. I was successful. Hermione and Orion made it
through without any lasting damage.”
“Oh, there’s been lasting damage, Malfoy. Clearly! How many procedures are we talking about?”
“Seven.”
Ginny shut her eyes. “Merlin. How did you hide her scars?”
“There were none, I didn’t need to cut into her.”
“Ah, how convenient.” Ginny turned to face him now, leaning against the edge of the sink. She
was trying to process what he had told her. “If you hadn’t acted, Grey would have returned you
both to the Ministry, unharmed as promised, but Hermione would have lost the baby.”
“Yes. They’d been holding her for almost the entire duration of her pregnancy. Grey was running
out of time and reasons to keep her and he knew Potter was searching for her.”
“For both of you. Harry was searching for you, too.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Lucky me.”
“Knowing all this now, other things are starting to make sense,” Ginny said. “That farce of a trial
they put you through? It served multiple purposes, it would have provided an explanation for why
they held on to you both for so long, seeing as Hermione insisted on being your advocate during
the proceedings.”
“It also kept Hermione busy, allowed her to see me more regularly, and when they eventually
found me guilty, they had a handy reason to execute me.”
“And dispose of the only person who could have exposed what they did to Hermione,” Ginny
concluded. “What you did to Hermione...”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to ask you another question, Malfoy, and I want you to be honest with me, because I
suspect you might not even be honest with yourself about this.”
His expression indicated he did not anticipate the question to come.
“Did you expect to make it out of Grey’s base alive?”
He frowned. “I don’t see how this is relevant to what happened to Hermione.”
“It is,” Ginny insisted, “because it explains why and how you did what you did. How you justify
your decision and actions.”
“Look, I don’t enter into things expecting to fucking die, Weasley! Of course I wanted to get us
both off that base in one piece! But once the trial began, it seemed like a forgone conclusion that
they would execute me to keep their secrets a secret.”
“Just like the Ministry did when they put you in Azkaban.”
He sighed. “As Agent Richards might put it, this isn't my first rodeo. I’m used to being a catalyst, a
scapegoat, an excuse, a necessity, an explanation people can lock away and not have to think about
after the job’s done. I said as much to Granger once. I told her I’m not Potter. That’s not my role.
I’m no hero.”
“Tell that to the mothers whose sons you saved yesterday.”
To this, he said nothing. Ginny looked at him with something akin to compassion. “She must have
fought so hard for you in that trial...”
His answering smile was genuine. It brought a lump to her throat. “She was magnificent. Almost
had me believing she might actually succeed.”
“Not if the game was fixed from the start. When did you two get married? Before or after the
procedures?”
“Before,” he replied. “It was one of the first things she asked Grey to do when I got there, because
she thought it would afford me some protection, better treatment.”
“Because that’s just like Hermione, isn’t it? Always thinking of others.” Ginny’s tone was scathing
now. “And never of herself.”
“That’s my job,” he said.
“Really? Sometimes I think you think that’s your job. It sounds like you use her safety as the
excuse for all your decisions.”
“I’m not offering excuses! It is the only reason I do what I do!”
“And then after it was all over, you two played happy family with Henry and Orion. Only now
Hermione knows what you did.”
“Weasley, I’d feel better if you sat down. You look like you’re going to keel over.”
Ginny wasn’t quite sure how she ended up in the living room, but when her thoughts came back
into focus, she was seated on an armchair in front of the fire with a blanket over her legs. Malfoy
was on the sofa across from her, one ankle balanced across a knee. He was watching her intently.
If she had a turn, at least there was a doctor on hand. The idea of it was so ludicrous, she almost
laughed. On the table beside the armchair was another cup of tea that Malfoy must have made for
her. It was cold now, but Ginny drained the cup. She felt ready to address him again.
“I understand why you did it,” she said. “There are a few things I am certain of. One of them is that
Hermione would have done anything to protect Orion and that may have very well got her killed.
Another certainty is that you saved Orion’s life. You may have saved Hermione’s life as well. The
unfortunate truth is that in order to do that, you perpetrated a terrible harm against both your wife
and child because you did it without Hermione’s knowledge or ability to consent, and then
forcefully erased her memories.”
“I told her she needed to know what happened! She kept refusing!”
“It doesn’t matter. What is done is done, for better or worse. The crazy thing is I think she could
probably forgive you for all of this, if it wasn’t for the fact you never intended to leave that base
alive. I'm right, aren't I? And because you assumed you were going to die, it made it easier for you
to do the unthinkable to her. After all, you’d never have to face her again. Hermione told me how
you walked out on that execution field with Amarov as if you were strolling to the shops. She
assumed you were just that brave, but now she knows the truth. Death was always your endgame,
your exit plan. It’s what you’re good at, isn't’ it? Leaving her?”
Malfoy was utterly expressionless. “I should go.”
Ginny stood. “Yes, I don’t think there’s really anything more to say.”
He got to his feet. “I’ll get the boys.”
“Oh no, your kids are staying here until I say they can leave.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Your children stay here with me until their mother is well enough to come and get
them herself. Or if she wants, I’ll bring them to her. Either way, Hermione decides.”
Malfoy gave her a look she could not fathom. Probably because Ginny had never seen it directed at
her before. He was still standing on the other side of the living room, but it was a small living
room.
“Notwithstanding your decision to breed with Potter, I hold you in the highest regard. However,
while Hermione is incapacitated, I will decide what is best for our children. I came here for your
help, not your threats.”
Ginny reminded herself that her wand was in her pocket and that Harry was upstairs and that
Malfoy would never hurt her. On this occasion, acting on her most immediate instincts to blast him
into next week would end in disaster. She was not going to be responsible for adding yet more
trauma to everyone’s lives.
“Given all you’ve told me this morning, I’d like Hermione’s opinion on whether you’re qualified to
make that decision.”
Malfoy stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. Merlin help her, he took a step forward.
“Ginevra, if I want to take my children, you will give them to me.”
Ginny put her hand into the pocket of her slacks and laid it over her wand. “And to hell with what
happens in the process? I suppose you have form on this? We already know you have no qualms
doing whatever you want to pregnant women.”
He flinched. He actually flinched as if she’d struck him.
“I’d like you to leave now,” she said, her voice shaking. “Henry and Orion will be safe with us. I
give you my word. You can see them just as soon as Hermione let’s me know. To that end, I
suggest you stick to your original plan and go home. Talk to your wife, Malfoy. I’ll wait for her to
contact me.”
There was a small, tense, insane moment during which she thought he might actually make a
move, but was not surprised when he didn’t. Malfoy was a lot of things you didn’t repeat in polite
company, but he was not unreasonable or rash. Nor was he under the thrall of fatherly pride or ego,
which could sometimes cause decent men to behave poorly when it came to their children.
“I shall take my leave,” he said, with a stinging formality.
The aura of danger, and indeed it was exactly this - a kind of tangible menace in the air -
dissipated. Ginny released a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding in.
Another thought occurred to her. Hermione probably hated Malfoy to the marrow of his bones right
now, but Ginny knew with equal certainty that she also loved him beyond logic or reason. Ginny
didn’t know what was in store for their marriage and future, but right now, Malfoy probably felt
like he was about to lose everything in his life that had come to have any meaning.
There was another terrible, sad reality of what men in his position sometimes did, under such
circumstances. Ginny hurried across the room and grabbed his wrist. “Draco, wait! Don’t do any -
where are you going?” she blurted, her face red.
He looked confused, which was reassuring. “Home. Isn’t that what you wanted me to do?”
“Straight home?”
“Yes.”
“To talk to Hermione?”
“If she’ll let me.”
Ginny nodded. “Can you do one more thing for me? Please?”
A dark blond eyebrow rose. “What is it?”
“When you get home, send me a Floo update. And then I’d like one every day until the boys are
back home. If I don’t hear from either of you, I’ll go there myself.”
It wasn’t a big ask, unless of course he didn’t intend on being around to be able to send any kind of
message.
“As you wish,” he said.
“So I can, you know, tell the boys everything is well?”
“Fine.”
Ginny gave him a watery smile. “OK. Good.”
“May I have my arm back now?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry.”
He gave her one final, puzzled look and then was out the front door. She heard the soft creak and
swing of the garden gate a moment later.
“MILL-FIYE IS GONE!” bellowed the garden gnome.
Later that morning, a rumpled-looking Harry came down the stairs, carrying a gurgling, giggling
Orion.
“Look what I found!” he beamed. He cast a curious glance around the living room, expecting to
find Orion’s mother visiting. “Where’s Hermione?”
Ginny had been sitting in the armchair, rolling her lemon for the last hour. “You’d better sit down.”
The Calm
Chapter Notes
It had been a morning of surprises for Professor Vadim Belikov.
How Draco Malfoy even knew he was in London was a mystery. Belikov only arrived in the last
two days and hadn’t once been permitted to leave his Ministry-appointed apartment. But then he
supposed Draco’s previous line of work required him to keep up to date with relevant events. Old
habits, probably.
This begged the question of what else Draco knew about the case the UK’s Recovery Task Force
was currently building against him? Belikov had been wracking his brain for ways to give his
Ministry minders the slip so he could make his way to Witlshire to speak to Draco and Hermione.
Or failing that, to Salcombe to see Harry and Ginny. And even if he could give his minders the
slip, it would mean hours of risky travel through isolated countryside before making it to
Wiltshire.
He even contemplated contacting some of the other fleet scientists and Project Christmas members
in an attempt to get a coded message to Draco, but the Ministry said any contact would
compromise the integrity of their case.
The fact they even used the word ‘integrity’ was laughable. Belikov knew all about ambitious
bureaucrats trying to make the best of power vacuums. Belikov was not familiar with the
intricacies of Magical politics, but human nature tended to be the same. With the retirement of
Rufus Scrimgeour and the new stability brought by the cure, the surviving Ministry officials
spotted an ideal opportunity to rebuild their organisation. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem that they
had learned anything from the secrecy and corruption of their predecessors. The UK Ministry for
Magic was stuck in a time loop.
He wished he could speak to Harry Potter. He knew Harry maintained an office at the Ministry
office, but had no idea how to find him.As it happened, Draco solved this particular problem by
going to Belikov. The Professor didn’t ask how the younger man managed to slide past Ministry
security. More old tricks, he supposed. Also, the guards weren’t exactly the Spetsnaz
Belikov was feeling rather morose as he stirred horrible instant coffee granules into an enamel mug
of hot water. British people, Magical or otherwise, were bad at all things coffee. And liquor. At
least the Irish had their fine, dry stout, and the Scottish their Scotch whisky. His last two dinners
had been served with flat, lukewarm beer. There was no window and no electricity in his rooms.
There were be-spelled lanterns that flared to life at sunset and stank of kerosene. There was also a
hearth, a wood-fire and a hanging kettle. The magical world was a bizarre combination of Godlike
powers amidst an almost Dickensian backdrop. It was in dire need of more mixed unions like that
of Hermione and Draco, and Harry and Ginny. They and their children who would bring Magic
into the twenty-first century.
Draco literally materialised beside Belikov as the older man was contemplating adding another
sachet of freeze-dried coffee to the mug.
“Blin!” Belokov shrieked.
The cup went flying. Maybe Draco was used to startling people in such a manner because the
wizard’s first order of business was to pull Belikov towards him as soon as he achieved corporality.
The scalding contents of the cup sloshed over the empty space that Belikov had previously
occupied.
They were gone before the cup hit the floor.
There was the brief sensation of being tossed about in a tumble-dryer and then Belikov found
himself standing in what he assumed was Draco’s home. He first checked to see that he had the
correct number of appendages and digits before enveloping Draco in an enormous bear hug that
lifted the younger man off his feet. Draco was very tall and densely muscled, but Belikov’s
happiness gave him added strength.
“My boy!” he boomed. “How good it is to see you again!” He set Draco on his feet and looked
behind him. “And what do we have here? My goodness, it’s Henry!”
Sitting at the foot of the twin-branching staircase was Henry, holding his tightly bundled, sleeping
baby brother. A packed bag lay at his feet. It was disheartening to see the sudden shock and fear on
Henry’s little face, but Belikov understood. To a trauma-affected young child, Belikov was not the
kindly old doctor that treated his cuts and scrapes. He was a reminder of the fleet.
Draco’s hand rested on Henry’s curls. His voice was incredibly gentle when he spoke to his son.
“It’s OK, Henry. You remember Professor Belikov?”
Belikov tried not to gawk. Oh, how far Draco had come. Unfortunately, there was no time to even
pinch any cheeks.
“This is an emergency,” Draco informed. “Hermione is unwell. She’s recovering now, but I need
someone I trust to stay here with her while I take the children to Potter.”
There was an efficient verbal shorthand that people sometimes developed following a previous
history of shared emergencies. This was that situation.
“Go,” said Belikov. No further explanation was needed.
Draco and his sons vanished, leaving Belikov standing alone in the dark, moody foyer. At least he
had the good fortune of already being fully dressed for the day thanks to jet lag-induced insomnia.
If Malfoy had arrived only five minutes earlier, he’d have found the Professor in his pyjamas and
slippers, attempting to light the damn hearth.
Malfoy Manor was decidedly more sinister without the current Lord of the Manor not around. With
some trepidation, Belikov quickly set off to locate Hermione. He knew Draco would not leave him
to navigate a booby-trapped magical home, but still, one heard stories . Thankfully, Belokov
realised that only a small section of the house was accessible.
He found Hermione in the couple’s bedroom, looking small and pale in an enormous bed. She was
dressed in one of Draco’s shirts and her hair had been swept to the side of her head and loosely
braided. Her pulse was strong and her breathing suggested nothing untoward other than sleep.
Belikov could not make out anything outwardly wrong with her. There was a long note on the
bedside table addressed to Belikov. It explained everything.
When he was done reading the note, he took off his spectacles and thumbed away the indulgence
of a few tears. He was nowhere near as stoic as he’d been during his time on Amarov’s fleet, but
then these days, he didn’t need to be.
Beside the note was a folded paper packet of pale yellow powder that smelled vaguely familiar. It
came with precise instructions on how to administer it. The next dose was to be provided to
Hermione if she awakened before Draco returned. There was nothing else to be done except sit
beside the bed and maintain a vigil.
Beikov’s eyes catalogued the details of the bedroom. Nothing about Draco and Hermione's living
arrangements suggested acrimony. The toys, Henry’s drawings stuck to the wall, the placement of
their furniture and the arrangement of personal belongings - all of it told a story. It spoke of a
family that was functioning well, if not happily. If there was strife, it was either hidden or recent.
Of course, there was always Draco’s perennial aloofness, but Belikov knew this was inherent to
Draco, and not a result of an unhappy marriage.
“ Moy dorogoy ,” Belikov said, stroking the young witch’s curly hair. “All is well. Your husband
will be home soon.”
It was two hours later before Belikov heard the bedroom door open. He immediately stood and
held a finger to his lips, though this was unnecessary. Draco could be very quiet when he needed to
be.
Belikov watched as the wizard went to the bed to check on his sleeping wife. It was difficult not to
stare. Even insensate as she currently was, she still had such a tangible effect on him. One had to
know Draco to spot his tells. Or perhaps not? Alexander Amarov has recognised the same signs,
but maybe this was because Hermione had a similar effect on him, too?
“Let’s talk in the library,” Draco said.
He added fresh fuel to the library fireplace and then removed his heavy, black winter cloak, which
was slightly damp from his trip. It now lay draped over one of two Chesterfield sofas in the room.
The cloak was opulent, formal and clearly expensive. Beneath it, Draco wore a long-sleeved, navy
blue buttoned-down shirt, a pair of black jeans and black sneakers. Belikov imagined the cloak
was a vestige of a past life, something grabbed in a rush from the back of a closet. Draco’s hair was
short now, with a propensity to curl at the collar. Belikov made a mental note to remind the young
man to put some ice on his black eye. Or ‘wish’ it away. Or whatever it is Magical people did to
treat minor injuries.
“How is she?”
Belikov sat on one of the Chesterfields. “She woke up for a little while. I helped her to the
bathroom and then gave her more of that sleeping draught you left,” Belikov said. “She was
exhausted. She went straight back to sleep again and I recommend she remain that way until she
wakes up again on her own.” The message was diplomatic, but clear. Hermione was not to be
distressed any further.
“Did she say anything?” There was tension behind that question.
Hermione had said quite a bit, actually, but Belikov could see that Draco was in no state to discuss
details. “Not much,” he lied, and Draco was polite enough to accept this.
“Thank you for doing this. Your being in London is very fortunate.”
“My being in London is via subpoena, actually. I’ve been trying to find ways to contact you.”
Draco did not look in the least bit surprised.
Belikov opened his mouth to speak, but Draco held up a hand. “Stop right there. The less you say
to me, the less trouble you’ll be in.”
“I don’t care about the trouble!”
“I do,” Draco insisted.
“With Scrimgeour’s retirement, your Ministry is in shambles! They’re going to make you a
scapegoat! Something needs to be done to make them see sense!”
“ Kogda rak na gore svistnyet ,” Draco said, with a shrug.
“If you don’t take action to help yourself, I will find someone who will!”
“Vadim, let this go. For your sake. You have a life and a family to return to.”
Belikov sighed. He gave Draco a look of fondness and concern. “I wanted to come and see your
family in any case, you know? Not under these circumstances, of course.” The Professor took a
piece of paper out of his blazer pocket. “As you requested in your note, here are the names of
reputable neurologists. And by reputable I mean they’re still alive.”
Draco took the list. “Thank you.”
“Although I don’t think she needs a specialist. She’s fine, physically. She just needs time...”
“I’ll see that she gets it,” Draco’s tone was a fraction less neutral now.
“She needs her husband, too. I’d write that down as a prescription if I thought it was going to do
you two any good. I don’t know how you can be so lucky and unlucky at the same time.”
“It’s a gift,” was Draco’s dry response. “Would you like something to eat or drink before I take
you back?”
“No, but you’re going to have a meal in front of me before you get rid of me. Then I’ll give you a
quick check up before you go to bed. Just like your wife, you need rest!”
It was clear that Draco would normally balk at taking such direct orders in his own home, but the
poor man had passed into a state of physical and emotional exhaustion that had rendered him
glassy-eyed and listless. There was only so much punishment a mind could take. Belikov was
curious as to what had transpired at Potter’s residence when Draco had gone there to drop off the
children. He looked even worse than before.
But now was not the time. “ Pazhalusta , Draco. Take me to your kitchen.”
There was a microwave and a fridge in the kitchen running on a magically-powered electricity
generator. Belikov suspected it was a recent addition to accommodate the needs of a Muggleborn
wife and two young children. He made Draco a simple ham, cheese and tomato sandwich, not
skimping on the butter, or on the sugar he added to Draco’s tea.
Draco pulled a face at the syrupy tea, but Belikov merely scoffed. “You need the calories.”
Only half the sandwich was consumed before Draco declared himself fit enough to take Belikov
back to London.
When Draco returned to Withsire, he didn’t Apparate directly into the house. Instead, he stopped
just inside the gates and took a quick detour through one of the Manor greenhouses.
There, a tank of crickets was maintained all year around. Draco scooped up a handful of the insects
and dropped them into another tank where Henry’s frogs lived. It seemed impossible that the boy
could tell them all apart, but he swore he could. Henry had named them the year before, when he’d
developed an interest in professional Quidditch.
Consequently, they were all named after famous teams. There was ‘Tengu’, ‘Stormray’, ‘Charmer’,
‘Harrier’, ‘Hammer’, ‘Proudstick’, ‘Gargoyle’ and ‘Goblin’ (who was unfortunately floating belly
up in the water). Draco scooped up the dead frog and placed its remains in a flower pot, covering it
with a light layer of dirt. This would be the third frog to depart for greener ponds and while Henry
was very practical about it, the child would insist on burying the frog himself when he got home.
The second thing Draco did, as promised, was to send Ginny Weasley a Floo note using the library
fireplace. He asked for an update on the boys, in return. With that task presently completed, Draco
sat on the Chesterfield in front of the fire, drumming his fingers on his knee. The pause was for
fortification. He got up and walked to a part of the Manor he had not visited since the boards and
wards had gone up.
Lucius Malfoy’s private study was just as Draco had left it, only now there was a fine layer of dust
covering the floor and furniture. Here and there on the paneled walls were darker sections of wood
marking the locations of pictures that had been removed for storage. This had been Hermione’s
doing and Draco was grateful for her proactive wisdom. On this day, in particular, he had no
interest in being confronted by images of his parents.
The item Draco sought was in a safe behind a painting of his grandfather.
“Ah, the prodigal son returns!” came Abraxus’ unoriginal greeting.
Abraxus Malfoy had been about Draco’s age when the painting was commissioned. Their
resemblance was apparent, but there was a bluntness to Abraxus’ features that had been tempered
in Draco through the Black and Lestrange aspects of his lineage.
The combination to the safe was impossible to forget. It was Orion’s birthdate. Draco swung open
the heavy door and retrieved the Pensieve he had prepared and placed there two years prior.
Manufactured Pensieves were impossible to find, so Draco had been forced to fashion one on his
own using items from around the Manor.
It was a large, crystal bowl filled with a silver, plasmatic substance that looked like it was
constantly sublimating. Whispery tendrils of smoke danced above the silver fluid. A piece of cloth
had been laid over the top of the bowl. Drawn in permanent marker under the bowl were the
symbols that activated and maintained Pensieve magic. The magic itself wasn’t dissimilar to
simpler, information storage spells. Librarians sometimes used basic versions to create virtual
catalogues. In this instance, the catalogue Draco created was of his own memories. They comprised
key events from the eight months he and Hermione had spent at Admiral Grey’s base.
After retrieving the Pensive and checking to see that it was still functioning properly, Draco closed
the safe and carried the device to the bedroom.
It was much easier to wake up the second time around, even if the looming, kind, bespectacled face
of Vadim Belikov was not there to greet her.
Hermione had been hysterical the first time, but Vadim had seen her at her very worst and there
was no embarrassment on his part when he let her cry all over the front of his blazer, nor any
hesitation on her part to accept this care. They had both saved each other’s lives before. Of all the
people in the world Draco had arranged to be there for her when she awakened, Hermione couldn’t
think of a better person who would simply...understand. His presence in the UK, however, was a
cause for concern. Hermione had asked about it and Belikov had been hesitant to explain.
She sat up in bed. The bedroom was dark. The bedside clock told her it was 11.45pm. She had been
sleeping for an entire day. Her wand lay beside the clock and she used it to turn a lamp on at the
other side of the room. She felt the hazy aftereffects of a long, deep sleep, but there was also a
clarity and lightness that she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Not since before the outbreak, in
any case.
Draco had literally given her some of her own medicine. The packet on the table contained a
powdered version of ReGen. Hermione felt refreshed, more balanced, less anxious. This may have
also had something to do with her unlocked memories finally bringing an end to two years of
nightmares. That was enough to make anyone feel a bit lighter.
ReGen had never been intended for such non-critical use, but maybe this was one of the other
potential applications Draco had once suggested? She’d have a chat with the Ministry’s NHS
liaison about the potentials. There was no doubt a wealth of data available on whether those who
had used the drug in the past three years had experienced any other benefits besides simply
surviving. The trouble was that there were too many confounding factors to run those numbers. She
would ask Draco. He would have some ideas.
Such was her natural curiosity and eagerness to find yet another way to help, that she momentarily
forgot why Draco had given her the drug in the first place.
The missing eight months…
Well, they weren’t missing any more. Hermione knew what had happened to her; what had been
done to her and to Orion, what her dreams had been trying to tell her for so long.
She had been violated.
The man she loved, her husband and the father of her children, had violated her. This was a fact.
And if that was all there was to it, then Draco was indeed a monster.
But there was more to it. The truth was not so simple. It existed within a larger context that
rendered Draco as much of a victim of their situation as Hermione. Maybe even more so.
Nevertheless, she wanted to hurt him; hit him, claw at him until he bled. She wanted to take him
into her arms and tell him how sorry she was that he had been so badly hurt because of her; that he
had chosen to hurt himself to save her. She wanted to scream at him and say a hundred terrible,
awful things to him and make him cower from her emotional blows. She wanted to break him, to
see him cry. She wanted to kiss his pain away and tell him how brave, strong and wrong he was to
have borne the agonising truth, alone, for so long. And how very sorry she was to have continually
denied him that truth and make him worry that his life with her and the children might come to an
end at any moment.
What a cruelty that was, even if she had not intended it to be so.
Hermione knew she had the power to hurt Draco because he had ceded it to her. What she was less
sure about was whether she had the power to help him. He had to be willing to help himself, to
accept that he could be something other than what he knew.
What she was more sure about was that their shared priority was the well-being of their children.
She needed time to examine her feelings more closely. Her memories were still new and raw. They
were still settling into the empty slots in her mind from where they had been erased in the first
place. The process was uncomfortable. It was like introducing a bitter, new ingredient into a dish
that was already complete and served. The aftertaste was foul.
Hermione looked down at herself and ran her hand over the shirt Draco had put on her. It was
white with a light silver pin-stipe pattern that only showed in certain light. She’d never seen him
wear it before and did not care for it. It’d been a fresh shirt, and so hadn’t carried his smell. Now, it
just smelled of her. Hermione raised her knees, grabbed Draco’s pillow and placed it on her knees,
running her palm over the linen pillowcase. She closed her eyes and pressed her face forward into
the pillow, inhaling his scent.
She wanted him back in their bed. She wanted her children back home. She wanted her family back
together. Where was he, anyway? In the library, probably. He had to be hurting, just as she was
hurting.
She’d go to him and they'd talk it out and....
It was then that she noticed the other items on the bedside table. There was a note and a tray with a
covered bowl, a pot of tea and half a sandwich. Hermione didn’t realise how hungry she was until
she saw the food. The sandwich was gone in a few quick bites and the tea was cold but refreshing.
She uncovered the bowl and was surprised to see that it was not food.
It was a Pensieve.
Hermione opened the accompanying note and felt a pang in her chest when she saw Draco’s
familiar handwriting. She had always been partial to his penmanship. His slanted, almost feminine
way of writing felt like a caress.
Granger,
I hope you are feeling better
Always so formal. What was she expecting though: ‘Hi Honey, sorry you had a seizure’?
Belikov will have told you that the children are in the care of Potter and Weasley. I have indicated
to Weasley that it may be a few days before we, or perhaps just you, retrieve them. The items on
the tray are self-explanatory. The sandwich is courtesy of Belikov. The tea will no doubt be cold
when you drink it, and the Pensieve is from me.
She looked down at the Pensieve, a little apprehensive now.
I will leave it up to you to decide if you want to use it. I only ask that you do not destroy it.
Come to me when you are able,
D.
Imperious to the bitter end, Hermione thought. The purpose of the Pensive was clear. Draco meant
to provide his account of events. The question was if she was ready to receive them? Now was
probably as good a time as any. Perhaps Draco’s memories might even help her to form a more
complete and cohesive picture of what happened to them.
Now that she knew almost everything, how much worse could those eight months possibly have
been?
Harry was in the living room sorting through paperwork when he answered Hermione’s Floo call.
He’d been in the process of moving a teetering tower of manila folders from the floor to the sofa,
but dropped the entire stack as soon as he saw who it was on the Floo.
“Hermione!” he said, as the folders cascaded sideways and avalanched their contents across the
carpet. His surprise turned to anger when he saw Hermione’s face. “What the fuck has he done
now?”
“Good morning to you, too.” Her voice was hoarse and her eyes were red and swollen. “I’ll thank
you not to swear in front of my sons.”
“Your sons are not here. They’re with Ginny at the seaside so I can swear all I want. I’ve been
wanting to call you all morning but Ginny said you were probably still recuperating. How are you
feeling? Merlin, Hermione. You look terrible.”
“Thanks, Harry. Despite appearances, I’m actually doing much better than yesterday. Did you say
Ginny and the boys are at the coast? On their own? Is that safe?”
“Beezles is with them.”
Hermione visibly relaxed. “Oh, I forgot all about Beelzebub. I appreciate you two looking after the
boys. I know it was all rather last minute.”
“It’s no bother at all. It’s practice. What’s wrong, though? Why are you crying? He’s a dead man
already, but I like to know all the reasons why I need to commit a murder before I go and do it.”
“Stop being so dramatic. Rest assured I didn’t come to you because I’ve been crying, I’ve-”
“A-hah! So you have been crying!”
“God’s sake Harry, can you just focus for a minute?”
“I am entirely focused on what that son of a bitch did to you! Ginny told me everything! Well, not
all the details,” he added, when Hermione raised an eyebrow. “She said some of it was quite
sensitive and that I should ask you, but I know enough. I swear Hermione, it was all I could do not
to Apparate there and demand answers from him myself!”
Hermione was unfazed by Harry’s anger. She shrugged. “You wouldn’t have been able to enter the
grounds.”
“ You sound just like him! ”
“Calm down. If I can be rational about what happened, so can you. It was my body, my husband,
my marriage. Leave it to me to handle.”
“Now you sound like Ginny! She said I needed to cool off, which is why she took the boys to the
beach for the morning.”
“Ginny is probably right. So why are you working, then? What is all this anyway?” Hermione
asked, staring at the piles around Harry.
“This damned paperwork is because of what happened at the mines! The Ministry wants a full
account and that includes copies of all the Floos and Owls and whatnot we’ve been receiving over
the last two days. Now that the newspapers are starting to pop up again, actual reporters have tried
to get in touch with me for the story.”
Hermione frowned. “I don’t understand. What happened at the mines? What story?”
Harry gaped at her. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Didn’t tell me what? ”
“I can’t believe he didn’t say anything, but then again, yes I can believe it...”
“Harry James Potter, if you don’t tell me what happened, I’m going to reach through the Floo and
choke it out of you!”
“I went to West Yorkshire on Tuesday to see Draco at the Netherton mines.”
“Why?”
Too late, Harry realised he’d hesitated a fraction too long in answering her question. “Just to get his
opinion on a Ministry matter.”
Hermione looked almost insulted at the side-step. “Hmm. We’ll come back to that in a minute.
Please continue about what happened at the mines.”
“There was a collapse. Two lads were trapped. It wasn’t looking good.”
“Oh my God. Was anyone else hurt?”
“No, and thanks to some quick thinking on Malfoy’s part, truth be told. Everyone pitched in -
Muggle and Magical alike - and we got the boys out with just a few scrapes. Thing is, one of the
lads we saved is the youngest son of some Muggle bigwig on the Recovery Taskforce who’s been
a very vocal critic of the Muggle-Magical alliance...”
“Go on.”
“Well the good news is that she’s less critical of the alliance now. In fact, she wants to make an
example of the Netherton story; wants the Ministry to go on record about all the projects the
alliance has been working on, all the good it’s doing since the end of the outbreak. Trouble is that
the Ministry doesn’t want its business all over the front page of the Muggle papers...not that it can
do a bloody thing to prevent Muggle free press.”
“A free press is antithetical to the Ministry’s modus operandi,” Hermione said.
“Well these reporters are asking me all sorts of questions about Hogwarts and the second
wizarding war. And about Malfoy’s background, too. One of the wizards at the site must have
leaked something.”
“What about Draco did they want to know?”
“Turns out a lot of people don’t know who he is. They want to know his story,” Harry rolled his
eyes. My story. Our story,” he said, with a grimace that was almost amusing. “I tried to explain that
Malfoy and I don’t have an ‘our’ anything.”
“It’s a great story,” Hermione admitted. “Wouldn’t you want to know about it?”
“It feels weird, is all I’m saying. After all the secrecy we’re used to. The Ministry has forbidden me
from saying a damn thing, of course. They’re sending out these memos to warn everyone that the
work we did with Malfoy is classified. They want Project Christmas buried, especially Malfoy’s
part in all of it.”
“They want closure on the Infection in order to legitimise the new Ministry rule. And to do that
they need to control the narrative of how the Infection started.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “And how it was stopped . So this is what I went to see Draco about. To
warn him. It’s why Vadim Belikov was summoned to London. The Ministry is planning to charge
him for war crimes. It’s only a matter of time before he’s arrested. I told him he needed to do
something about it. He basically told me to bugger off and that if I really wanted to help, the best
thing I could do is to run for Office.”
“Well, he’s not wrong.”
“That’s what Ginny bloody said, too! You’re taking this rather well, you know? Granted, I want to
beat Malfoy to a bloody pulp, but even I don’t want to see your kids’ dad hauled away to rot in
Azkaban.”
“I’m not worried. They’re not having him this time, Harry.” There was a cool certainty to how
Hermione said this that made Harry smile.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, fondly.
“We see each other at least once a month.”
“No, I mean I miss seeing you like this . The old Hermione who’s moved by causes and who’s the
one printing pamphlets and standing out the front of the joint blasting Sonorous . You’ve
been...different since...well since Malfoy. Since the kids. No, don’t look at me like that! You know
I don’t mean it that way. It’s got nothing to do with having kids or anything. I just mean it’s felt
like you’ve been kind of, I don’t know....hidden away in another world these past two years? It’s
like you’ve drawn the curtains against what’s happening outside your Malfoy Manor bubble.”
At first it seemed she would take offence to this, but then her expression softened. She looked
down at her hands for a moment. “I suppose I have been. Is it so bad that I wanted to just be with
him,” she asked, quietly, “after all we’ve been through?”
“Of course not. Not at all.” Now Harry looked sheepish. “And if I’m honest, I’ve been doing a bit
of the same with Ginny.”
“We’re allowed some peace, Harry.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Only I reckon I need to get back into the
game again. We can shape this new Ministry into something different so our kids don’t have to
eventually do our job.”
“I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to hear this. I can’t see you in politics,” Hermione said, “which is
probably why you’d make a great Minister.”
“You’ll help me, right?” Harry asked, and he looked about eleven years old again. “I mean, I have
Gin’, but she’s got enough to deal with, what with the baby coming. I haven’t the first clue where
to start.”
“Of course I’ll help. I’ll always help you, Harry.”
He rubbed under his nose, nodding. “Speaking of help, you said you needed mine this morning?”
Hermione sat up a little straighter. “Indeed I do. And this business about the mine rescue has
solidified my thinking on a strategy to help Draco.”
“What can I do?”
“These reporters who’ve been contacting you - do you have their details?”
Harry was now looking through the piles of documents. “Yes. I wrote it all down for the Ministry.”
He unearthed a sheet. “Here it is.” He passed it to Hermione through the fire.
She scanned the list. “These are all Muggle?”
“The ones in the UK are. The Ministry has warned off all our local magical rags. The wizarding
papers who expressed an interest are all overseas.”
“That’s fine. I’ll contact them as well. Another thing, Harry. Can you get me a list of every Project
Christmas team member, all the fleet scientists and every surviving member of the fleet and the
Taransay refugee camp?”
Harry was thinking this over. “Sure, but it’ll take some time. That’s well over a thousand people.”
Hermione nodded. “Send me what you have and I can make a start.”
“I think I know where you’re going with this,” Harry said, with narrowed eyes.
“Oh?”
“Molly Weasley has a saying - sunlight is the best disinfectant.”
“Molly is correct. And what a wonderful slogan for your campaign.”
“What campaign?”
“The one I’m going to help you run and win. One more thing I wanted to ask, Harry. Do you know
of any good barristers who handle international war crimes?”
Harry blinked. “Merlin. Not off the top of my head, no. But I think I know who might...”
“Yes, I think we’re thinking of the same person.”
“I’ll get you the Cowboy’s Floo contact right away. It’s in my desk at the Ministry.”
“Thanks, Harry. But for the moment, why don’t you put this paperwork aside and go and join
Ginny at the beach? It’s a beautiful day.”
“But we need to get going on this. They could be coming for Malfoy at any moment!”
“It can wait a day.” Hermione turned away, staring at what Harry surmised was her bedroom door.
She was probably thinking of Malfoy and looked like she was about to cry again. “He’s been in the
library. I haven’t even seen him since...well, since the day before yesterday.” She turned back to
Harry. “I need to sort some things out at home. Go and spend some time with your wife. Besides,
when Draco asks for an update on the boys, you can tell him they haven’t been out of your sight.”
“If he worries, tell him not to. Beezles is the best protection in the world. Speaking of which,
Henry made a splendid drawing of him. Here, let me find it…”
The drawing was held up to the fire by a beaming Harry.
“Harry, I’m pretty sure Draco has no idea what Beelzebub is, or he wouldn’t have taken our
children to you.”
“That’s prejudiced! Beezles would never hurt anyone. Well, anyone I actually like.”
“Oh, I know that. I like Beelzebub very much, but you know how some people can be about, you
know…”
Harry looked offended on Beelzebub’s behalf. “What? Pugs?”
“No, Harry. Hellhounds.”
“ Former demonic entity , I’ll thank you to remember. Now a loving family pet and familiar. I
never had a dog growing up and I could never bear to replace Hedwig. I want my kids to know
what it’s like to have that kind of unconditional love,” he said, his voice gruff.
“Harry, they’ll have that anyway. Just maybe don’t mention Beezles to any Muggles, OK?"
Chapter End Notes
Russian Translations:
Blin!
Direct translation: Pancake!
Meaning: A general expression of surprise
Kogda rak na gore svistnyet.

Direct translation: When the lobster whistles on the mountain.
Meaning: Something you say to convey that it’s never going to happen.
Moy dorogoy
Direct translation: dear/darling
Pazhalusta
Direct translation: Please
**
Beelzebub Art
In my mind, Beezles is a Cŵn Annwn, a spectral hound of the Otherworld in Welsh
mythology. He is half pug, half handbag.
**
Next chapter will be posted pretty soon as it's mostly written. It will be 'Epilogue Part
5: The Storm'.
The Storm
Chapter Summary
Please see chapter notes for trigger warnings.
Chapter Notes
Here you go. TAKE IT FROM ME. With my blessings.
I have needed to get this out of my head and heart for 10 YEARS. I will rest now. 1 or
2 more chapters to come.
And then we're done.
I cannot thank our wonderful Dramione community enough. You continue to make it a
thrill and joy to write for you.
Content Warning:
This chapter contains explicit, rough, sex scenes. Please do not proceed if these are
triggers for you.
After speaking with Harry, Hermione spent the rest of the day making calls and creating lists.
There were several key contacts she was dying to get in touch with, but not before she drafted a list
of questions. No point wasting a single minute of Floo allowance.
She took a break for lunch, which required walking past the library to get to the kitchen. She was a
little ashamed of how she rushed past the closed, library door, trying to make as little noise as
possible.
It wasn’t like she was trying to avoid Draco. OK, maybe there was a little bit of that, but she was
also making good progress with her task and a mid-day conversation with Draco about their future
together was going to completely derail her.
It was two days before Yule and there was so much to be done that it made her head spin.
However, her current priority was ensuring that there was a plan in place to deal with Draco’s case
before everything shut down for the holidays. That way, she could make a running start in the new
year.
After lunch, Hermione kept on working in their bedroom until dinnertime. She wasn’t feeling very
hungry. She missed the boys and she wanted to see Draco and speak to him before the children
came home.
Just as she was thinking this, Hermione realised that someone would have to feed Henry’s frogs in
his absence. He’d be devastated if he learned that neither of his parents had remembered such an
important task.
So, before seeing Draco, Hermione set off for the greenhouse where the frogs lived. The weather
was quite pleasant for the time of year. It was cold, but not inhospitably so. She didn’t need an
extra coat or scarf to walk outdoors and after a moment’s hesitation, she decided she didn’t need
her wand either. They lived in a fortress, thanks to Draco. Hermione had never felt safer in her life.
The air was thick and sticky in the greenhouse, always a good sign that the humidity charms were
working. She walked up to the bench that held the cricket and frog tanks. Her preference was not to
touch the crickets if she could avoid it, so she lowered a stick into the tank and was pleased when
about nine or ten cricketers immediately jumped on.
Hermione then opened the frog tank and tapped the stick over it. The crickets dropped into the
tank and those that didn’t have the misfortune of landing in the shallow water, promptly scattered.
It didn’t take long for the frogs to pop out of their hiding spots, due to all the commotion.
She bent down to have a look and frowned.
One frog was missing. Maybe it was hiding? Hermione picked up the rocks and hollow pieces of
wood that made up the tank environment, looking around and inside of things, but still could not
find the missing frog. It was when she was counting the frogs for the third time, did she notice how
round and full they all looked, and this was before they had dined on the fresh serving of crickets.
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me you ate your friend?”
No, that couldn’t be. Not due to any possible moral objection on the part of the frogs. A hungry
frog might eat a smaller frog, but not one that was its match in size. Henry was going to be upset.
Hermione spent some time looking around the floor of the greenhouse, lifting up pots and crates.
She spotted a crack in the glass wall just behind the tank shelf. The frog might have escaped, and if
so, it would seek the nearest body of water.
That would be the lake, then.
The closest of the two lakes wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
Granted, Hermione had more to learn about Malfoy Manor’s various eccentricities, but she was
pretty bloody sure she knew where its large bodies of water were located. Thinking she must have
taken a wrong turn somewhere, she attempted to backtrack. Unfortunately, the lake chose this
precise opportunity to announce that it was, in fact, not gone. It was merely hiding.
What Hermione assumed to be stable if somewhat muddy ground was actually a sinkhole. The lake
had dried up. The top layer of loose, waterlogged soil gave the impression of stability. She entered
the muddy bank with a small shriek, her right leg sinking up to her knee, while her left leg
remained on solid ground. The resulting stretch in her right hamstring made her wince.
“Bollocks.” Of all the times to decide not to bring her wand with her. Not having the kids around
had turned her into a virtual daredevil overnight.
She wriggled her leg and attempted to hoist it up a few inches. She grimaced at the loud suction
noises. Mud squelched and spurted around her. The burn in her thigh was getting painful now, so
she lowered her raised leg, and this time, attempted to lie on top of the mud to distribute her weight
more evenly. With patience, she’d be able to drag herself (rather inelegantly) back to the bank.
After about ten agonising minutes, Hermione was only halfway there. Perhaps rolling would work
better than dragging? It certainly couldn’t be much worse. She turned onto her back, on top of the
mud, and then paused to catch her breath.
Hermione smiled. And then she grinned. A moment later, she was laughing. She was going to be a
hideous mess when she got back to the Manor. Nevertheless, there was a lovely stillness and
tranquillity in being outdoors on the Manor grounds without having to worry about anyone else.
There was a full moon that evening in a pristinely clear sky. She was used to the increased visibility
of stars given the lack of light pollution, but there hadn’t been many opportunities to admire them.
This peaceful interlude came to an abrupt end when an intense Lumos illuminated everything
within a three meter radius around Hermione. She held a hand over her face, squinting against the
glare. It was like being spot lit by a UFO.
“What in the blazes are you doing out here on your own! I have been looking everywhere for
you!”
Of course, he came .
She knew correlation was not causation, but why was it that calamity and Draco Malfoy always
seemed to go hand in hand?
Hermione raised her head to scowl at him, more from embarrassment than anything else. “Does it
look like I planned this?”
“I don’t think you plan half the things you do, actually. It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long.”
A sharp retort was poised at her lips, but Hermione checked herself. Draco was so angry that he’d
forgotten he was meant to be careful and gentle and contrite. His anger was good. His anger was
authentic.
So much of their pain came from insecurity. They were two highly intelligent, stubborn people
with firm ideas about how the world worked and how they needed to work in the world.
Sometimes, these ideas felt incompatible until they stopped and remembered that they wanted the
same damn thing. They were like two attracting magnets that just needed to stop thinking, to shut
up, and simply get closer.
Despite the sheer unlikeliness of their relationship, somehow, they still managed to find solace in
each other. And sometimes, in those infrequent moments, came even rarer instances of
vulnerability and insight. She desperately needed one of those moments tonight.
Draco was a scientist. Perhaps he might appreciate the experiment she was about to run.
“Are you going to just stand there and scold me or are you going to give me a hand?”
He actually sneered at her. A proper Hogwarts-era sneer. “Having a bit of trouble, are we? Did you
forget something?”
He reached into his back pocket and handed her wand to her. Hermione was considering the best
spell to use to extricate herself from the mud when Draco hooked his hands under her arms and
lifted her out. She found herself back on solid ground, holding on to his shoulders as she regained
her bearings and balance.
“You were unconscious in bed less than twelve hours ago and yet here you are traipsing around the
grounds in the middle of the night! Are you trying to send me to an early grave?”
“I was looking for Henry’s missing frog!”
He looked at her as if she had sustained a recent brain injury, which in some ways, she had.
“What are you talking about?”
“I went to feed Henry’s frogs and saw that one was missing. I tried looking around for it in case it
was still alive. The nearest body of water is the lake.” At this, she flung her arm out, gesturing at
the lake, or rather, its absence. “Only, as you can see, it’s gone!”
A generously sized blob of mud had dislodged from her sleeve, hitting Draco in the face. He
blinked and then raised a hand to wipe it away. Unfortunately, this only made things worse.
Hermione’s lips twitched. “Ah, whoops.”
“Whoops, indeed,” he said, wiping his hand on the front of his jeans. “The frogs have been fed.
The missing frog is a dead frog. I removed it from the tank so that Henry can bury it himself when
he returns.”
“Oh no. Which frog died?”
“Goblin.”
“Are you sure? How can you tell them apart?”
“I couldn’t initially, but Henry took me aside one day and showed me how they all have subtly
different irises. Some have slits, some have starburst patterns.”
“Clever,” Hermione said. She proceeded to gather her hair in a forward facing pony-tail, so that she
could wring out the mud.
He stepped forward. “Here, let me help.” Draco’s work at the mines provided some handy new
expertise in all manner of spells involving moving unwanted dirt from one spot to another.
In this instance, he cast a charm that sloughed the mud from her arms, neck, back and shoulders.
He even turned her around at one point to slap mud from her backside. This still left a thin layer of
mud on her skin and clothing, but at least she wasn’t dripping.
“Don’t you ever, ever go anywhere without your wand again.”
His tone was mild, which made it all the more startling when she looked up at him to see just how
affected he was. Hermione took a hasty step back, momentarily worried he was going to grab her
and shake her. She instantly felt guilty at even considering he might do such a thing.
And yet…
She could see where the evening was heading with such certainty that Professor Trelawney would
have been proud. When they fought like this, when she inadvertently riled Draco enough to crack
his veneer of domestication, it usually ended the same way - with Hermione on her back, biting her
first through multiple orgasms. And if she was lucky, along with his own climax, she might coax
from him a few moments of vulnerability and firsthand evidence that he could, in fact, survive it.
Even as she thought this, Hermione also knew that there was always just enough room for surprises
when they went through familiar motions. Things could go wrong. She needed to play this right.
And perhaps ‘play’ was the right word?
Draco didn’t know how to play; didn’t see the value or point in whimsy and tomfoolery. She
supposed his parents never made room for it. The thought of Lucius engaging in a round of hide
and seek with a young Draco in the Manor was more disturbing than amusing. Draco was attentive
and very responsible with their boys, but it was invariably Hermione who made up the silly, cheesy
games, who wrung the best giggles out of them. He treated responsibility like it was a continual
battle for survival. It was a classic trauma response.
So much was starting to make sense now, more so with every passing moment that Hermione
processed what she had seen in Draco’s Pensieve. He wasn’t just the most resilient person she’d
ever met in her life, he was also one of the most traumatised.
What made it even more tragic was that the more resilient he proved himself to be, the more others
expected of him. It was the curse of competence. Prove yourself capable only to be given yet more
to do, rather than be provided with any reward or respite.
“One of your shoes is missing,” he observed.
His comment snapped her out of her contemplations. Hermione stared down at her bare right foot
and sighed. She was rather fond of those shoes.
“It may yet be retrievable. Let me have a look.”
Draco leaned over the edge of the bank and peered into the depression her leg had left in the mud.
His wand was in his hand, but it was currently being used to maintain the overhead Lumos .
“I think I can just make it out at the bottom of the hole…”
The opportunity was too good to pass up. She shoved him. Hard .
Her poor, unsuspecting husband fell forward, landing on his hands, knees and face, in the mud. The
Lumos flickered briefly. When he finally flipped over on his backside, amidst a great deal of
slipping, sliding and squelching, the expression of sheer incredulity on his face was priceless.
“You’re it,” Hermione said, and then she vanished.
Run.
Hermione had never played such a high stakes, nerve wracking game of tag in her life. Draco might
be hurt and offended to learn she was actually a little afraid.
It was difficult to repress years of instinct about the likely reason a Death Eater was running you
down like a wild hare loose in Malfoy Manor. The end result was going to be torture, yes, but
Hermione kept reminding herself that it would be a very pleasant torture indeed and that she was
the one who had started the game in the first place.
Draco’s words to her on the first night she visited him in his cell at Grimmauld Place came back to
haunt her.
“The game’s only fun if you play it with me.”
She hid under the staircase, amidst an eerie array of statuary that had been wrapped in white cloth
and stored in the space. It was like being in a horror movie. She was the Muggle teen who had
dared her boyfriend to come and find her in the spooky mansion. As per the trope, the mansion
would of course be haunted, and the monster would come upon them while she and Draco were
snogging. Possibly, her top would be off by that point.
Although there was another trope that was applicable to the genre - the one where Draco was the
monster.
He seemed to be taking his time. Maybe he was still stuck in the mud? She rather liked that
thought.
Hermione’s ears strained to pick up any noise which might indicate where he was, but there was
nothing. She started moving carefully through the statues, wincing slightly when her jumper
snagged one of them and she had to quickly steady the thing before it toppled like the first domino
in a series.
After standing absolutely still and holding her breath for a moment, Hermione was convinced that
Draco was definitely not in the foyer. He was probably searching for her in their rooms. She stood
up and emerged from her hiding spot.
It was at this point that Draco appeared not in front of her, but behind her. From within the crowd
of statues.
Son of a bitch.
He grabbed her casting arm, his hand settling over her wrist like a warm shackle.
“Did you hit your head when you fell?”
Under normal circumstances, Draco would have been able to maintain his hold on her, but he had
not anticipated two things. The first was that he was absolutely dripping with mud, which provided
for a slippery grip. The second was Hermione wrenching her wrist free with such force that she
was quite sure she sprained it.
Too late for regrets now. She dropped to the ground and disappeared back into the darkness of the
statues. He could not risk going after her without toppling the statues or casting Lumos , and Lumos
in this instance would have been the equivalent of cheating.
The only trouble was that Hermione couldn’t see him either. She had to rely on her hearing and for
the most part, he wasn’t making any noise, squelchy or otherwise.
Ten minutes passed, and then fifteen. Her legs started to cramp in her crouched position. She could
smell the dried mud in her hair and her wrist was aching. At around the twenty minute mark, she
reasoned that Draco had well and truly left. After all, what kind of fool would remain in the same
hiding spot after they’d been spotted in said spot? Hermione slowly crawled free of the statues and
didn’t stop until she was at the foot of the stairs.
Draco was leaning against the banister, ankles crossed. “Are you quite done?”
Hermione’s scream of surprise echoed through the foyer. She ducked to avoid his lunging grab but
was nowhere near quick enough. This time, he didn’t hold on to her arm or wrist. He wrapped an
arm across her chest, his forearm just under her chin, holding her back to him.
“Now that I have your attention, can we please speak like normal-”
She bit his forearm.
His mouth hung open in shock. “You little bitch.”
“Immobulus!” she cast, but not before he tackled her around her midsection and brought her to the
floor with him. Hermione was momentarily winded. The spell missed, glancing off the back of the
front door.
Their tussle was brief. He didn’t need magic to subdue her. He just used his size. All he had to do
was sit on her and pin both her wrists above her head using just one hand. Hermione noted that he
made no attempt to take her wand, though. It was still within her grasp. This did nothing to lessen
the feeling of precarity.
“You’re not giving me another bloody nose, thanks.”
“I wasn’t aware that I had. I’m really sorry.”
“How sorry?” He had the audacity to fondle her. He cupped her breast.
It was like she had a switch in her brain connected to a bright, flashing pink neon light that said
HORNY. The switch’s settings had been programmed by Draco. He was her first lover and she had
become exquisitely conditioned to respond to his touch. Unfortunately, he also knew this.
“Trust you to use this as an excuse to molest me!”
“Why not? You’re using this as an excuse to fuck me.”
“I don’t need an excuse to fuck you. I just need to show up.”
He laughed, looking utterly delighted with her. “Is that right?”
Even though he was supporting most of his weight on his bent knees, he was still heavy enough to
cut off the circulation to her legs. Hermione could have done any number of things to throw him
off but did not.
“Granger, do you have any idea how much sex we could be having if you just talked to me like a
normal human being instead of throwing things at me or pushing me into mud pits?”
“Bit hard to have sex with you when you’ve been hiding in the library all day!”
“I was not hiding. If anyone was avoiding me, it was you. I told you to come and see me when you
were ready. I expected a conversation about the Pensieve I left for you. What I did not expect was
to be rescuing my wife from misadventures in her own bloody home.”
“I did not have a misadventure!”
He looked pointedly at her mud-stained clothing. “Clearly.”
“Even without my wand, I was perfectly safe and well equipped to look after myself. And I’ll have
you know that I had every intention of going to see you in your sodding mancave after I fed the
frogs!”
It was difficult keeping up her side of the bickering when he was giving her such a warm,
appreciative look. Hermione couldn’t imagine what he found so appealing. She was a mud
monster.
“You are so beautiful."
“That’s not going to stop me blasting you into the next room.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“I don’t want to.”
“What do you want?”
Her gaze lowered to his mouth, and then back to his eyes again.
Now, he looked skeptical. “Hmm. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. That dose of ReGen you gave me did wonders.”
“Hmm. Did you use the Pensieve?”
“I’ll not discuss that now,” she said. “I promise we’ll talk about it later, though.”
“Hmm.”
‘Malfoy, if you say ‘hmm’ one more time, I’ll bite you again.”
“I know this tactic. You’ll want to talk about the missing eight months only when you have me all
spent and pliable. You like taking advantage of me in that state, don’t you?”
“I don’t take advantage of you in any state!”
“You do it more often than you know. You did it on the Home Ship just before you injected
yourself with the virus.”
Oh, yes. So she did. She’d forgotten about that. Maybe she, too, had more than a few things to
learn about actions that damaged rather than instilled trust. Uncomfortable now, Hermione tried to
wriggle her arms free from his grasp, but the pain in her sore wrist made her wince. As it
happened, that was more effective than any amount of wriggling.
Draco immediately released her, a look of concern on his face. “What’s wrong?”
She sat up. “I hurt my wrist earlier.”
“When you pulled away from me? I thought you might have. Give it here.” He gently palpated the
bones of her wrist.
She pulled her hand back. “It’s fine. It just needs some balm and an ice-pack.”
“Shall I get that for you now?”
She stared at him, letting all her longing seep into her eyes. “Not now.”
Draco matched her stare. He reached for her, slipping his hand under her muddy hair, to grasp the
back of her neck, his thumb resting along her jaw. He liked holding her this way. Hermione learned
into his hand like an affectionate cat. He made an appreciative sound in response.
God, they really were so predictable.

She thought she’d like him to kiss her now, but also that if he did, they’d both be tasting mud.
“Do you want me, Hermione?”
Always. Forever and ever, amen.
She nodded. “Do you want me?”
“No.”
Hermione was sure she misheard him. “I’m sorry. Did you just say... no ?”
Draco got to his feet and extended a hand to her. She slapped it away.
He smirked. “I like you dirty, Granger, but not like this. We’ll get cleaned up first and then I’ll
think about it.”
The smug bastard Apparated them to the main bathroom, the only one in the Manor with a shower.
They normally used the tub in the bathroom closest to their bedroom, as it was more convenient to
bathe the boys there. But given the amount of mud on their persons, a bath would not quite do the
trick. Running water was needed.
The large bathroom had been Narcissa’s contribution to the Manor when she became its Mistress.
Magical homes were often a hodgepodge of archaic and modern, but Narcissa had taken care to
ensure the shower would not stick out like a sore thumb. The room was designed in the aesthetic of
an ancient Roman bath, with tesserae mosaics of stone and ceramic depicting mythical sea
monsters.
The monsters were not contained within discrete scenes. Rather, they were so large that they
enveloped the confines of the bathroom, wrapping around it, looking like they were moments away
from crushing the room and anyone within it. The viewer would have had to take a step back to
truly appreciate the whole menagerie. Up close, when one was inside the bathroom as Hermione
was now, one could only see parts of a tentacle, the tail of a sea serpent, the hoof of a hippocamp.
Hermione walked over to the switch that controlled the chandelier lights.
“No, leave it on,” Draco said.
But…but they were going to make love in the shower, weren’t they?
“Only because I’m planning to have a thorough wash and I need to see what I’m doing,” he added.
Hermione was still fully dressed when his pants came off. She caught a glimpse of his pale,
muscular backside before he stepped under the water. Steam poured out from around the circular
shower chamber. A short, tiled wall delineated the shower stall from the rest of the room.
She kicked off her remaining shoe and pulled off her sock. After placing her wand next to the sink
alongside Draco’s, Hermione unbuttoned, unzipped and then peeled off her wet jeans. Her sore
wrist throbbed from the effort.
Next, was her mud-splattered jumper. The sensation of wet, muddy wool dragging over her face
and arms was extremely unpleasant. She dropped the soiled garment to the floor. A black t-shirt,
bra and underpants were then removed. She was surprised just how much mud had leaked under
her clothing. It was under and in between her breasts, streaked across her belly, and caught in the
gentle slopes of her clavicles.
By the time she stepped into the cubicle, Draco had already lathered up and was rinsing off under
the water. It was not as nice sharing a shower with him if all he intended to do was clean. She’d
much rather do that in private. However, judging from the state of his cock, he had other things on
his mind, too.
Hermione felt her insides give a little flutter.
“My eyes are up here, Granger.”
She was already bright red from the steam, so any further blushing was easily camouflaged.
He moved out of the shower spray so she could get under it. Her first order of business was a
preliminary rinse to get the dried mud out of her hair. She did this until the water ran clear. Draco
grabbed a bottle of shampoo. Instead of handing it to her, he squeezed a quantity into his palm and
surprised her by washing her hair.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” he replied. He was wearing an adorable, tiny frown as he worked. “You have so much
hair. It’s a wonder your neck can support all the weight when it’s wet.”
“Years of practice,” she replied, closing her eyes.
The scalp massage was glorious, but over too soon. He washed his own hair as she rinsed out the
shampoo and began applying conditioner. With her arms raised and back slightly arched, her
breasts were shown to full advantage. They were slick and shiny from the conditioner run-off.
“My eyes are up here, Malfoy.”
His gaze did not lift but moved lower still. He squeezed her hip, seeming to delight in the red
imprint his fingers made on her heat-flushed skin. She stepped under the water to rinse off the
conditioner, making sure she brushed past him as she did this. Her elbow slid across the very tip of
his hard, wet cock.
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“You know what.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she told him, primly. “And you look clean now. Why
don’t you allow me some privacy to finish this, and I’ll see you in the bedroom?”
She dismissed him, turning around and closing her eyes under the streaming water. When she
opened her eyes again, he was still there, a familiar, aching expression on his face. He had one
hand up in the air between them, as if he’d been in the middle of reaching for her but changed his
mind.
“Please excuse me. I need the soap,” Hermione said. He was standing directly in front of the
recessed, tiled shelf that held the large white bar of unscented soap he’d been using earlier.
Since he didn’t move out of the way, Hermione slid past him, making sure she came into contact
with his cock again. Even through the sound of the water, she heard him suck air through his teeth.
The soap now in hand, she set to work lathering her breasts. About a minute went by. She absently
hummed a tune. So much for being done with his wash. He was still standing there, staring.
“It’s amazing how the mud gets into every nook and cranny, isn’t it?”
Hermione ran one soapy hand down her body, from her neck, over her breasts, down the gentle
curve of her belly, her fingertips skimming the raised, silver ridges of her stretchmarks, and then
continued lower still. She slid two fingers past her slit, and then came back up again. She continued
working a gentle, stroking rhythm. Her small shiver of delight was not feigned.
He looked like one of the marble or alabaster statues under the foyer stairs, preternaturally still,
gaze focused and unmoving. Only he was about ten times more well-endowed and there wasn’t a
fig leaf in sight.
Hermione honestly didn’t mean to drop the soap. It fell next to her foot, spun once before coming
to a stop behind her heel.
“Bother,” she said.
Only maybe not a bother at all.
As she bent over to pick up the bar, she was surprised to feel one of Draco’s big warm hands cup a
buttock and squeeze.
Her fist tightened instinctively around the soap, and it popped out of her grasp again. Hermione
bent to pick it up a second time and heard her husband’s plaintive groan.
“You didn't tell me about the mine rescue,” she said, when she was upright again. It was too hot to
stand under the water, so they let it fall in between them.
He blinked from the mental whiplash. Not that he wasn’t used to it in Hermione’s presence.
“What?” he said, wonderfully inarticulate.
“The two young men you and Harry rescued in Netherton Village. You didn’t mention it to me
when you came home.”
“I wasn't in the mood to talk about it when I got home. I would have mentioned it later but if you
recall, we had other concerns.”
“You didn’t tell me about the Ministry case against you, either.”
“Ah, you must have been speaking to Potter.”
“Yes, and I shouldn't have to hear these things from Harry! I’d like to hear them from my own
husband!”
He ignored her implied criticism. “The Ministry case is a more complex matter.”
“Excellent. I’m great at complex matters.”
“I didn’t want to worry you prematurely.”
“As opposed to letting me find out when they’re actually hauling you away?” Hermione said. “I
knew you were keeping things from me. Why didn’t you trust me enough to share this?”
“You really can’t think of any reason why?” he retorted. “Given that you refused to let me tell you
about the missing eight months with Admiral Grey, I wasn’t exactly eager to share any other
potentially upsetting information with you. Speaking of which, did you use the Pensieve or not? I
at least deserve to know the answer to that.”
“I did.”
A few seconds ticked by. “ And ?”
“And, as I said, I’ll talk about that with you later.”
“Why can’t we talk about it now? I - Hermione, I swear if you fucking drop that soap one more
time. I won’t be held responsible for what happens to you !”
“It’s slippery!”
“I don't care!”
“It’s going to disappear if I don’t pick it up!”
“I will buy you a hundred bars of soap!”
She turned off the water. The silence was heavy. The only other noise came from the dripping
shower and the sound of water running down the pipes below them.
Hermione’s voice echoed through the silent bathroom when she next spoke. “Draco, there’s a lot
more to relationships and family than just keeping your loved ones safe and worry-free. Safety is a
good place to start. I made a mistake in refusing to let you tell me what happened in Boston, so that
we could move on from it. I freely admit it was my fault, and I’m so sorry. But we need to work on
trust, honesty and communication. Let’s start with the Ministry’s case against you...”
“Just leave it.”
“What do you mean, just leave it ? You impossible, frustrating, daft man! I’m not leaving your fate
to those bellends!”
“I have the Pensieve. I can use it as evidence.”
“It won’t be enough! I was your advocate at your trial, remember? I have a fair idea of how these
things run!”
He was unmoved.
“What happens to me, to us, if you serve any jail time? I’ll be alone.”
“You’ll have the boys.”
Hermione wanted to scream at him. It was taking too long to walk him to his own catharsis, and he
wasn’t even touching her yet, let alone making love to her. She needed to use the big guns.
“OK. Yes, I’ll have the boys, but what about my needs?”
He looked adorably baffled. “What do you mean?”

“My needs, Draco! Who fills your role in my life?”
He caught up quickly, her clever husband. He frowned. “Are you deliberately trying to provoke
me?”
“I’m actually interested to know what you think I’m expected to do if you’re locked up for ten
years, twenty, thirty years? What then? Do you want me to wait for you?”
“No! Of course, if it comes to it, you should move on...”
And there it was. The same defeatist attitude that enabled him to walk out onto Admiral Grey’s
execution field without a falter in his step. He thought his demise, in one way or another, was a
foregone conclusion. He’d been living a stunted life since they became a family. He was so
accustomed to the idea of his eventual losses, that he had already written himself out of her and
their boys' future.
Well, Hermione would take the concept out for a spin and see how well he handled its likely
realities.
She gave him a challenging look. “It’ll have to be someone tall. I won’t have anyone shorter than
you. I’m partial to tall now.”
“Granger, this is in poor taste.”
“Jealous?”
“No, I’m not jealous! I’m sad! You’re not my property. So long as you’re safe and free, that’s all I
care about.”
“But what about my happiness , Draco? Don’t you want me to be cared for, to have someone to
love who will love me back? To have companionship?”
He looked so stricken that she almost caved in and gave him a hug.
“Well?”
Still nothing, but she could see a muscle twitch in his jaw.
“Could you live with it? Think of me with another man, keeping me warm on cold nights, holding
my hand. Think of him lying on top of me, tasting me, filling me, making me come.”
Now he was beginning to look dangerous. “Don’t be cruel, Hermione. It doesn’t become you.”
Once more unto the breach...
“I’ve never been with anyone else. So of course, it’ll be a learning curve. Maybe you can leave
notes for the next person? Some tips on how to touch me, how to do that thing where you tap the
tip of your tongue on my-”
He exploded. And it was about time too because Hermione thought she was about to burst into
tears if she kept going.
He pulled her to him, his hand sealing over mouth. “ Stop ,” he growled.
And then he was lifting her, carrying her out of the shower stall. He didn’t even bother to let them
dry off or grab towels. The only thing he stopped for was their wands beside the sink. He
Apparated them directly to their bedroom.
Naked and sopping wet, Draco threw her onto the bed. He then crawled over her, placing her wand
beside her. When he spoke, Hermione barely recognised his voice. “Whatever happens now, know
that you have unfettered access to this, do you understand?”
She nodded jerkily.
He put her hands behind her back and used his wand to magically bind her wrists together.
Hermione had never had this done to her before and could not mask her frisson of concern.
“In addition to your wand, you only need to tell me to stop, and I will. Do you understand?”
Oh God . She nodded again.
“Good,” he said, only he didn’t look pleased with her at all. He looked like he wanted to devour
her.
With her hands now bound, Draco picked her up and sat her on the edge of the bed. He made sure
her wand was beside her again. And then he simply took a moment to contemplate her. This would
have been easier to deal with if he wasn’t also languidly stroking his cock the whole time.
Hermione’s heart was hammering wildly now.
“This is what’s going to happen,” Draco said. “I’m going to start by using that cunning little mouth
of yours. At all times, know that your wand is right beside you should you wish to, as you say,
‘blast me into the next room’. But if you touch it, if you so much as look at it, I’ll stop what I’m
doing, and we’ll be done for tonight. OK?”
“OK,” she whispered.
“Now be a good girl and open your mouth.”
With his cock in his left hand, Draco rubbed the head around her lips, moistening it with her saliva
and controlling the entire exercise via a firm grip on her wet hair. Every time Hermione tried to
take him past her lips, to close her mouth around him, he pulled her back. She made a feeble sound
of protest. With her hands bound, she could do very little.
“So greedy,” he said, his voice a low, approving purr. “Is this what you want?” He slipped the
head of his cock past her lips and Hermione immediately groaned, hollowing her mouth so she
could take more of him inside. Her tongue lapped the underside of his cock.
His eyes were nearly black, outlined in silver. “So, is this what you want to do to another man? Is
this what you want me to imagine you doing?”
She wanted to say ‘no’, but he wasn’t providing any slack for her to even shake her head.
“Do you have any idea how it makes me feel when you say things like that to me?”
She started to say something, but he interrupted her by pushing in deeper. Her eyes began to water.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, love.” He pulled out and thrust into her mouth again. “It’s rude.”
Hermione closed her eyes and focused on what Draco seemed to need in that moment, taking as
much of him as she could without sacrificing technique. He was not being considerate or gentle,
but she did not want these things from him tonight.
“You look so beautiful...” he said. She glanced up at his face and saw that he was watching her
under half-lidded eyes, his expression one of awe, reverence and no small amount of lust. It was
ironic how powerful Hermione felt, practically on her knees before him and with her hands bound
behind her back.
He began pushing in harder and faster, past Hermione’s usual limits of tolerance. Her gag reflex
kicked in. When she choked for the third time, he took pity on her. He pulled out of her mouth and
shoved her back down on the bed, so that her knees hung over the edge of the mattress. Her bound
hands lay trapped under her hips, providing a handy incline.
“Is your wrist OK?”
Rather than this tender interruption breaking the mood, his small moment of care made it even
better
“Yes.”
“Good,” he smiled, “because you’re going to be lying on it for a while.”
And then to her surprise and embarrassment, Draco slapped her hard between her legs. The sound
was loud and lewdly wet. Also, it stung . Hermione could well imagine how red and swollen her
already sensitive flesh looked like now.
Any potential feedback she might have provided was forgotten because his mouth was on her. In
keeping with the theme of the evening, there was nothing gentle about it.
He ravaged her; he ate from her like he was a starving man. No part of her most sensitive, intimate
areas was spared. He nuzzled, licked, sucked and executed a gentle, tapping on her clit using just
the stiffened tip of his tongue. She could hear the noises she was making, that her body was
making, and even that Draco was making. He was not shy in showing his appreciation.
She started to spiral, the feeling building up with each moment and then, the fall. Hermione came
so hard that her hips bucked off the bed, nearly throwing him off. It was a sharp, burning sort of
orgasm that felt like waves of heat were rolling from her core down her legs, to her feet, and then
back up again. Her climax was not allowed to run its natural course and taper off. There was no
afterglow because Draco did not let up even as she mewled and thrashed.
Her hypersensitive, overstimulated nerve endings took her to a second orgasm. This one was more
muted. It remained deep and low in her belly, as wave after wave of contractions rocked her.
And still he kept going. She broke. There was no way she could handle any more.
“Stopstopstopstopstop,” she whispered.
Draco immediately stopped. Hermione didn’t have the strength to lift her head to look at him. She
was completely boneless. Her core throbbed and she could feel stinging whisker burns in the most
unlikely of areas.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that he was looming over her once more. His nose, mouth and
chin shiny with her slick.
“How are we doing?”
How? How? She was still coming. Hermione turned her head to the side, pressing her face against
the inside of his forearm, which happened to be where his Dark Mark was tattooed. Succumbing to
a long-standing urge, she kissed the Mark, her small pink tongue darting out to lick the serpent’s
tail. She’d always been too mortified to do it, but nothing was off limits that evening.
“ Holy fucking hell… ” Draco gasped. He was staring at her in amazement. “On your knees. Now .”
Hermione turned bleary, brown eyes to him and scrunched up her nose. She wanted him to hold her
for a little bit while she recovered. “I can’t.”
“And yet you will.”
He didn’t ask again. He simply flipped her over, her arms still behind her back, her face pushed
into the mattress and her arse up in the air.
There was no teasing. He had given her her pleasure. Now, it was all about Draco, what he wanted
and how he wanted it. He gave her no time to prepare.
Using her bound hands as leverage, he hauled her backwards, impaling her on his cock. Hermione
whimpered at the sudden fullness, the sensitivity, the sting and stretch. And before she could even
suck in a breath, he was slamming into with such force that she felt her her teeth press down into
the mattress.
She turned her face to the side, for air as much as her need to see what she could of him, to talk to
him.
“Please…”
“Please what?” he hissed, mid-thrust. “Is this what you imagined another man doing to you, my
beautiful, brave girl? Is this the sight you want him to see? I can’t even put into words how
stunning you are right now...”
And then Hermione felt something else slide between and up her legs - stiff, long and slender.
The tip of his wand. And he had set it to vibrate.
She turned her face back into the mattress and moaned, her hips moving back and forth to try to
catch more of the delicious sensation. He allowed this, reveled in watching her wriggle and writhe,
seeking the tip of his wand while he continued to fill her with his cock.
At the first signs of the tell-tale quivering of her thighs and curling of her toes, Draco dropped his
wand, ceased his thrusting and simply held her on his cock as she orgasmed. He lowered his head
and groaned, savouring the rippling contractions and the stillness which allowed him to fully
appreciate them.
It was a small moment of respite. He resumed slamming into her again, but this time, he was
chasing the precise angle they both knew would sweetly break her.
He found it. On his next thrust, he connected with her cervix. The sound Hermione made did not
sound human to her own ears.
“Stop?” he said, through gritted teeth.
She hadn’t yet worked up to being able to speak through her whimpers, so she shook her head.
“Hurts?”
She nodded.
“ Good . The next time you taunt me or hurt me by telling me you’re going to let any other man
touch you, you remember this. No one, Granger. No other man is going to fuck you like this. No
one but me? Do you hear me, Hermione?”
“Yes.” He was close. She could feel it. Had felt it before.
“Tell me.”
“No other man…Draco, please…”
He assumed she was in pain, and well, yes, she was, but she was also trying to say something.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not ceasing his thrusts. “I need to…” She could hear how breathless he was.
“I’m so close, Kiska. So damn close . Just bear with me a little bit more…”
A little bit more? She would endure this pleasurable torture for a year if it meant she achieved her
goal that evening.
“I..I’m so sorry,” she said, jerkily. Coherent sentences were difficult and not just because she was
being pushed face down into the mattress. She thought he might not have heard her muffled voice,
so she said it again. “I forgive you, Draco. For...everything. It was my fault, too. Please. P-please
say...you’ll forgive me?”
No response, just unrelenting thrusting, his fingers dug so forcefully into the soft flesh of her
bottom that if his nails hadn’t been short and blunt, he would have broken skin.
“I love you so much,” she said in a rush. “I won’t let anyone take you. Are you hearing me, Draco?
I’ll always protect you. I’ll keep you safe. I’m yours and you’re mine.”
That tipped him over and he began to come. And despite the violence of their lovemaking, the
volatility and emotions, he climaxed silently. It was an implosion rather than an explosion. He
dropped to his side, taking her with him in a spooning position, her bound hands between them, his
cock still finishing inside her.
But Hermione was not done with him yet. She squeezed and relaxed her internal muscles, milking
him inside of her, and easing him through his climax. Draco spoke nonsensical words, some of it in
English, some of it sounded Russian, some of it was gibberish.
“Oh my God,” he said, shaking all over. “My God.”
They lay in silence for a time, until their panting turned into more normal breathing.
Draco’s head suddenly came up. He remembered that her hands were still bound and sat up to undo
the spell. Hermione turned around in his arms and wrapped her legs around him. His glazed, red-
rimmed eyes searched her face.
“Are you alright? I’m so sorry...I...I just lost it.” He examined her wrist. “Is it sore?”
“It’s OK. I’m OK.” She sighed. “Everything is OK.”
He took a quick inventory of the marks he had put on her, looking increasingly devastated.
“Fucking hell. It’s not OK. I hurt you. I’m a brute.”
“Listen to me. I will always let you know when something is not to my liking. And on that note,
you released my hands without me asking. Does that mean I win?” She waggled her eyebrows at
him.
Draco stared at her as if she terrified him. “Hermione Granger. I can assure you that in any game
you think you’re playing with me, you will always win.” He put his face into the crook of her neck,
and she felt him shudder. “You undo me. I don’t recognise myself when I’m with you
sometimes...”
“In a good way or bad way?”
“Good...bad. Both.”
“I think those might be the times when you’re most you ,” Hermione told him. She stroked his
back, his shoulders, his hair. “I need you to feel safe enough with me to be yourself. I don’t think
either of us can truly be happy in this marriage without that. I know I can’t. Something will always
feel...not quite right. We can’t trust each other if we’re not ourselves with each other.”
“You don’t know me. You don’t really know,” he said into her neck. Goodness, he was shaking all
over. He couldn’t seem to stop and there wasn’t enough of her to wrap around him.
“I do know you.”
“ Then why are you still here ?”
The question broke her heart. Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, and then sat up to drag
the covers over them. His arms were like steel bands across her middle.
“No. Don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Draco. I’m just getting us a blanket. You’re cold.”
He didn’t seem to be hearing her and he wasn’t cold. No amount of bedding she piled on top of
him seemed to lessen his trembling. His cheek was pillowed against her chest, her chin rested on
top of his blond head.
“I don’t want to leave you,” he said
“You’re not going anywhere, either,” she said against his hair. “For once in your life, please believe
me. Believe in me.”
“I do.”
“Trust me”
“I want to.”
“I’ve got you. I’m not letting go. Rest now.”
The trembling stopped.

Growing Pains
Chapter Notes
Draco was an extremely light sleeper, but he made up for this by being able to sleep anywhere and
at any time. He could sleep in the most uncomfortable chair in the world. He could sleep standing
up in the middle of a storm. He could fall asleep on his way to war and after taking a life.
And yet now he barely roused when Hermione slipped out from under his arm, which was always
so much heavier when he was unconscious. In hindsight, she should have proceeded straight past
‘GO’ and not stopped to collect her $200, but some habits were hard to break. Draco Dormiens
Nunquam Titillandus , the Hogwarts school motto warned. But no one said anything about simply
looking at the dragon.
He looked painfully young, sleeping on his stomach with one arm up, palm facing down, fingers
curled beside his tousled head. His hair was a delightful mess and his breathing was deep and slow.
Look, but don’t touch , said her brain, but her hand had a mind of its own. She gently pushed his
hair off his forehead and brushed a kiss on his temple.
When she pulled away, however, his grey eyes were open. “Whereyougoin?” he asked, his voice
sleep-gruffed and partially muffled by his pillow.
“To the bathroom.”
His eyelids lowered. She thought he’d gone back to sleep, but then there was a distinct, surly,
“No.”
Amused, she said, “Draco, I’m just–”
He grabbed her and swung her towards the middle of the bed, pinning her under his leg. Hermione
found herself right back where she’d started. She tried to wriggle free.
“Stay,” he said, from somewhere under her hair.
She sighed. “The spirit is willing, but the bladder protests.”
For a moment she thought he really had gone back to sleep, but then she was released.
“OK, but come back.”
Bloody dramatic Slytherins , Hermione mused, as she got out of bed for a second time and walked
to the bathroom. Although perhaps hobbled was a better word. Using the facilities was not without
its challenges. She winced from the sting. After attending to nature’s call, Hermione stood in front
of the mirror and undertook a close examination of her body.
Now that the emotional intensity and adrenaline of the previous night was spent, she was left with
tangible souvenirs. It was ironic that despite her sorry state, she felt cleansed, refreshed and
newly…optimistic? Something important had happened last night and as was the way of difficult
journeys, sometimes you ended up a little worse for wear at the conclusion.
Hermione contemplated going to fetch her wand and treat some of the more prominent marks, but
then decided that this was nothing a warm bath couldn’t fix. She ran her fingertips across bruises
on her hips, arms, neck and in random, odd places like below her elbows and across her shins. Her
bottom lip was raw and swollen, as were other more sensitive parts of her person. In fact, she could
see red welts and whisker burns on her breasts and inner thighs. Her cheeks grew warm as she
remembered, in vivid detail, precisely how she had acquired these latter marks.
Unfortunately, recollection brought with it arousal, and she grimaced at the throbbing.
There was nothing else to be done other than some targeted self-care. She took a hair elastic from a
drawer and piled her hair up into a loose bun as the tub filled with water. From glass jars in the
cabinet, Hermione added Epsom and Dead Sea salts and a handful of dried Witch Hazel. No decent
magical household was without the ingredients to make a sitz bath.
The hot water stung her various abrasions, but it was heaven on her aching muscles. She let her
head fall back against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes.
Just for a minute…
When Hermione awakened, the water was cooler, her fingertips were pruning and her husband was
looming over her. She was far too relaxed to startle.
“Good morning,” she said, giving him a dreamy smile. “How long have you been up?”
He was naked. Distractingly so. But his expression was like a splash of cold water to the face.
“Look at you,” he said. “Look at what I’ve done.”
She knew what he was referring to, of course. The heat from the water had unfortunately
highlighted her scrapes and bruises. But Hermione was in too much of a good mood to allow him to
wallow in his enormous guilt bog.
“Not this again. I told you last night I’m fine and nothing has changed today. Can’t we just enjoy
the morning without self recrimination?”
“You might need to see a doctor.”
“You’re a doctor.”
“Not really.”
“Practically.”
His frown was now focused between her legs. Hermione belatedly realised that the water was
magnifying the appearance of her tender flesh. Suddenly, she was self-conscious about her stretch
marks and belly. Unlike some other people, she was not inclined to strut around without a stitch of
clothing on.
Hermione sat up in the water and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Could you hand me a
towel, please?”
Draco was quick to do her bidding. She got the sense that he was feeling so guilty, she could
probably demand the crown jewels and he’d be off to the Tower of London in a flash to fetch them
for her.
He helped her out of the bath and she did her best not to wince or grimace or make any noises to
signal her discomfort. It didn’t help. He just stared and scowled. Did he have to be so disagreeable?
She was annoyed at how the morning was turning out. It wasn’t exactly Draco’s fault she was self-
conscious, but him glaring at her body like it personally offended him wasn’t helping.
Intimacy outside of moments of passion were difficult for him, she knew, but would it kill him to
give her a good morning kiss and maybe a bit of praise about the night before?
She snatched the towel from him and wrapped herself up to her chin. “I’d like to get dressed now,”
she said, in a cold voice.
“Hermione.”
It was diabolical that her own name on her husband’s lips sounded like an endearment.
“Yes?”
He was having trouble with his words, but he got there in the end, bless him.
“You are without a doubt the most beautiful thing I have ever and will ever set eyes on. Never
forget that. I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide your body from me.”
Automatic protestations along the lines of, “Don’t be silly,” and “Of course I’m not,” sprung to
mind, but Hermione held them back. She tried to obscure her burning cheeks by looking down.
Unfortunately, this only made things worse. They were standing practically toe to toe and the
irritating man was still naked.
He touched her cheek, observing everything, missing nothing. “You have this astounding capacity
to traverse all points on a spectrum ranging from demure to brazen. I never know how you’ll
unman me, moment to moment.” This rather lovely compliment was delivered to the top of her
bent head.
And then he had to go and ruin it by adding, “It baffles me to think how Weasley thought he could
possibly hold on to you.”
“He never really ‘held on to me’. Not officially, anyway.”
“What a fool.”
“That’s not nice.”
“I’m not nice.”
“You can be.”
He regarded her with resigned agreement. “You’re right, of course. You've utterly ruined my
reputation.” Almost as if to reinforce this, he walked over to the cabinet and took out a stoppered,
amber-tinted, glass bottle. “I’d like to apply some healing ointment on your bruises while you’re
still warm from your bath.”
Hermione took the bottle from his hands. “Thank you, but I’ll do it myself.” When he looked
concerned, she was forced to explain. “If you touch me, we’ll never leave the bedroom”. She then
cast an accusing glance at his now visible erection. “For Merlin’s sake, have mercy and put some
trousers on.”
“Alright.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll do it for Merlin. Though I don’t think the Druids had a problem with nudity in general.”
“You’re incorrigible. Get out.”
“I’m going.” He bent down to kiss her on her damp forehead before heading for the door.
“Malfoy.”
“Yes?”
“Can we please go and get our boys now?”
He nodded. “Absolutely.”
Harry and Ginny lived in the most beautiful little seaside cottage at, as Harry described it once,
“The arse-end of nowhere.”
Hermione wondered if the remote location was chosen on purpose? Perhaps to put some distance
between the newlyweds and the loving attentions of the Weasley clan?
Not that it worked. Molly Weasley still came over for a visit once a week. But nobody could fault
this given her only daughter was about to have a baby. Plus, since attending Hogwarts, Harry had
practically become a Weasley himself. The relationship had only grown stronger following Ron’s
death. Harry loved them and would do anything for them, but Hermione knew that Harry also liked
his privacy. Not surprising, of course, given he’d gone from a life of isolation with the Dursleys, to
notoriety practically overnight.
Ginny was renovating the cottage when she fell pregnant. Major upgrades were put on hold. For
the moment, the couple made modest improvements to accommodate the baby’s arrival. There was
no difficulty in sourcing items for this purpose. Hermione wondered if it bothered Ginny at all, to
not be asked if she wanted her son or daughter to receive Weasley hand-me-downs. They were
handed down, regardless. It wasn’t a matter of quality, because no one made better baby clothing
than Molly, it was just a matter of choice. Hermione knew she would have experienced the same
thing, had she married into the Weasley family.
The sand-dusted path to the cottage from the beach got progressively less sandy as she and Draco
walked further past the treeline. A few minutes later, they reached the garden fence of Harry and
Ginny’s home. Draco reached over to unlatch the gate.
She tried not to smile at the way the wind flattened the hair on the left side of his head. It was easy
to forget how shockingly pale he was, but it was very evident under the sun. Unlike Hermione,
who turned pleasantly gold and freckled during the summer months. Draco could transform from
white to lobster in minutes.
Alas, the beach life was not for him. Poorly lit, wood-panelled libraries in gothic manors, on the
other hand…
“MIL-FIYE AND GRANGER! MIL-FIYE AND GRANGER IS HERE!” screamed Harry’s

grammatically challenged garden gnome. Ginny detested the thing and was forever trying to bribe
visiting Weasley children to accidentally smash it. No one dared.
The cheerful, buttercup-yellow front door flew open, and to Hermione’s delight, Henry stood at the
doorway. It was criminally easy to forget what a beautiful child Blaise and Daphne had brought
into the world. Henry was not alone. Beelzebub stood at the boy’s feet, bag handles and curly tail
wagging.
After shutting the door, Henry gave Hermione a gentle hug. “Are you OK now?”
“Right as rain.” She planted a noisy kiss on the cheek and smiled when he grimaced. “I’m sorry if I
gave you a scare.”
“I wasn’t scared, "Henry said, though his eyes said something else.
She audibly sniffed him. “Goodness, you smell nice. Maybe I should have Harry and Ginny look
after you more often?”
“Aunty Ginny made me take a bath with lady soap .”
“Soap is soap, Henry.”
“This one’s from France, from Fleur and Bill.”
“I think it smells heavenly.”
“Only ‘cause you’re a lady.”
Henry escaped her grasp and went to Draco next. He was more reserved in his greeting, but
allowed his father to pull him into a hug.
“Have you been behaving yourself?” Draco asked.
“He’s been perfect!” It was Ginny. She walked in from the kitchen, looking red-cheeked and
frazzled. Her belly was hidden under an apron dusted with flour. “It’s so good to see you both.
Harry’s just changing Orion's nappy. Good job he only put together our change table last week.
They should be down any second now.”
Hermione gave Ginny a hug, or rather, as much of one as was possible with Ginny’s belly between
them. She also wiped a smudge of flour from Ginny’s cheek. “Thank you so much for looking after
the boys. The timing can’t have been great, what with Yule tomorrow?”
“Please, it was our pleasure. They’re good practice.” Ginny lowered her voice when she next
spoke. “You look suspiciously well given recent events. How are you feeling?”
“Better than ever, actually.”
Ginny was skeptical “Hmm. So everything is fine between you two?”
Hermione lowered her voice even further. “He hasn’t killed anyone in a while and we’re still
married. So we’re not doing too badly, all things considered?”
“The crazy thing is you’re not even joking,” Ginny said.
A look was exchanged between the two women, containing an entire morning tea’s worth of
information. The unspoken consensus was that they would have to wait for a more private moment
to speak.
Henry, meanwhile, was tugging on Draco’s hand. “Psst! Are you still fighting with Aunt Ginny?”
“We weren’t fighting,” Ginny answered, before Draco could. “Your father and I were merely
having a discussion.”
“A loud discussion…”
“I thought you were asleep at the time.”
“I was .”
“Don’t be cheeky,” Hermione told her son.
Ginny sighed. “It’s fine. Growing up in a house with only brothers, I had to learn to use whatever
was in my arsenal. It usually came down to kneecaps, my voice and my wits.” She gave Henry a
conspiratorial look. “Until I got my wand, of course.”
“I can’t wait to get mine! I want one just like Draco’s. Hawthorn and unicorn hair!”
“You know your father is very lucky to have his original wand back. It’d been sitting in a Ministry
vault. Mine was destroyed,” Hermione said.
Henry glanced at her current wand, which she had tucked under the belt she wore with her jeans.
“You don’t like the one you have now?”
“I like it just fine, but you never forget your first.”
“Is that right?” Draco mused.
Hermione gave him a puzzled look, but only for a second.
He was impervious to her glare. “Especially when it’s 10 inches.”
“Harry’s is 11,” Ginny informed, with a microscopic smirk.
Hermione coughed into her fist.
“You’re here! I thought I heard your voices!” Harry announced. He was coming down the stairs
with Orion. “Hermione, you look amazing! Like you’ve just come back from holiday or
something.”
“Thanks, Harry. I had a couple of good doctors who took excellent care of me.”
Upon seeing his mother, Orion immediately fretted and reached for her. “It’s OK, bubby,”
Hermione soothed, taking the child from Harry. “Mummy’s here.” Orion whimpered once, but was
quickly distracted by Beelzebub’s’ whining.
“Potter, what’s wrong with your damn dog? Besides the way he looks.”
“He’s very attuned to people’s feelings, which may explain why he doesn’t like you.”
“Harry .” Ginny frowned.
“How’s the Yule prep coming along?” Hermione asked, quickly steering them into calmer waters.
Ginny blew loose wisps of red hair from her face. “Let’s just say I’m starting to have a new
appreciation for what my mother goes through every year. She makes it look easy.”
“You don’t have to do what Molly does, you know? You can start your own Yule traditions in your
own home.”
“I know, but domesticity isn’t my thing,” Ginny admitted. “I’m just trying to do the bare minimum,
really. Mum’s handling the big spread and each of us are meant to bring something small.”
“Aren’t you helping, Harry?” Hermione asked, frowning.
“Of course I am. The boys and I finished decorating the tree together.” He pointed to the Yule tree
beside the fireplace. “See?”
Hermione looked, noting that all the ornaments only started about halfway up the tree, leaving the
bottom half bare. She gave Harry a puzzled look.
“Compromises were made,” Harry said. “If I have to clean up dog spew one more time… Beezles
keeps eating the tinsel, you see.” He frowned at the dog, who was busy gazing lovingly into
Henry’s eyes. “You know, Beezles took excellent care of your kids. Barely left Henry’s side the
entire time.”
“Not that your kids are any trouble, of course,” Ginny added. “In fact, are you two aware that
Orion doesn’t cry?”
Hermione sighed. “Yes. He’s a bit of an odd duck.”
“Harry wants to know your secret.”
“Harry is just trying to plan ahead,” said Harry.
“I’d gladly share it, if I knew,” Hermione said. She looked to Draco. “Any ideas?”
“I don’t think it’s anything we’re doing. It’s all Orion,” he said.
Upon hearing his father say his name, Orion twisted around in Hermione’s arms to locate Draco
and then reached for him. Hermione handed him over.
“It probably takes quite a lot to set him off,” Harry said.
Unbidden, Hermione was reminded of what Draco revealed to her after the takeover of Amarov’s
fleet, when she lamented the fact that she was broken, and yet he was not.
"That doesn't mean I haven't got a breaking point. If I do, I'm not keen to know what it would
take…"
Did Orion take after his father, then? And if so, was that kind of resilience even necessary in peace
time? Orion was not trauma damaged. Henry, on the other hand… He, too, displayed the same
trait. Hermione suddenly felt rather weary. Was she doomed to try and manage repressed emotions
in men she cared about for the rest of her life?
Ginny’s voice cut through her morose thoughts. “–and all their things, including their Yule
presents, are packed and ready to go. But I was hoping you’d stay for a little while?”
“We’d love to, ordinarily. But to be honest, we’re behind on our own Yule prep,” Hermione said.
“That reminds me! Before I forget, I got something for you when I was last in London.” Hermione
retrieved a tiny box from inside one of her coat pockets. She enlarged it and gave it to Ginny. “I’m
sorry it’s not wrapped, but I thought you two might like to add it to the nursery?”
There were two items in the box. The first gift was for Harry. It was inside a black velvet,
drawstring pouch. Ginny tipped the tiny golden-winged ball into his palm.
“It’s the golden snitch you caught at your first Quidditch match.”
Harry went quite pale. “Bloody hell. Where on earth did you find this, Hermione?”
“In a pawn shop in Diagon Alley, of all places. It’d been removed from Hogwarts during the
evacuation and somehow ended up there. Do you like it?”
“Like it?” Harry said, looking quite misty-eyed now. “It’s perfect! Thank you.”
“The other gift is sort of a combined present for you and the baby,” Hermione said to Ginny. “You
remember what it is?”
Ginny unfolded a wad of brown paper, revealing what looked like a flat, transparent, river stone.
She gasped.
“It’s lovely,” Harry said, peering over Ginny’s shoulder. “What is it?”
“I can’t believe you found one of these!”
“Found what? What does it do?”
“Potter, let your wife receive her gift in peace,” Draco snapped, but Hermione could see that he was
just as intrigued.
“I know what it is,” Henry said, with a smirk. “I was there when we bought it.” He looked at
Ginny. “Can I tell them, Aunt Ginny?”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s a Singing Stone!”
Ginny furnished the rest of the explanation. “Iron age witches used them to record their voices for
their babies. You know, to soothe them when they had to be left on their own? No one has been
able to work out how they’re made, so the only known singing stones in existence are the original
ones, used by countless witches across the years. You can’t record over what’s already on the
stone; you merely add to it.” She smiled at Henry. “Why don’t you show everyone how it works?”
Henry took the stone from her, but then, uncertainty settled across his elfin-like face. He shifted
back and forth on his feet. “So…I just sing to it?”
“Yes. Hold it up close to you, like you're whispering to it. That’s right. Close enough that your
breath fogs up the surface.”
He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, and then after taking in a deep breath, he squeezed his
eyes shut and sang:
Thine little hand so soft in mine
In my arms you sleep this night
Breath of my life you do take
Every morning you a-wake
The heavy silence in the room prompted Henry to peek through his lashes. Everyone was staring.
No one said anything for a little while. Even Orion seemed awestruck. The only noticeable sound
came from the crackling of the living room fire and Beelzebub’s panting.
“Where did you learn that?” Draco eventually asked.
“From my mum. I don’t remember much, but I remember that song. She sang it to me a lot.” He
glanced at Hermione, and then down at the stone in his hands. “I’m sorry, I meant my first mum.”
Hermione’s eyes were wet. “Henry, we’ve talked about this. You don’t need to apologise to me for
mentioning her.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologised again, and then started to cry. “Why is everyone staring? Did I do it
wrong?”
Beelzebub threw his head back and howled.
“Shush, Beezles!” Ginny was closest to Henry, so she dragged the boy to her and squashed him
against her belly. “You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. That was so beautiful. I’m used to my
brother’s kids singing about cow pats and stink bugs.”
Henry sniffed and held up the Singing Stone to show the adults. “See how it got all cloudy from
my song? That’s how you know it worked. And if I shake it…” He demonstrated, “it goes clear
again.” He returned the stone to Ginny.
“How did you know Ginny might like one of those?” Harry asked Hermione.
“I pay attention. We saw one ages ago at a Muggle antique shop in London when we were kids.
The owner didn’t know what he had, of course, but it was still beyond our price range at the time.
Ginny said she was determined to have one when she had her own children.”
“Only my Mum told me it was a ‘gaudy heathen object’ that shouldn’t be seen in any respectable
Wizarding nursery,” Ginny told them.
“Weasley,” Draco began, in an impatient tone, “it seems to me that a nursery is the precise place
for a piece of living history containing echoes of magical motherhood through the ages.”
Ginny stared at him for a moment, lower lip quivering, and to Draco’s visible alarm, she burst into
tears.
“You’ve gone and done it now, Malfoy!” Harry shouted.

Beelzebub’s howling increased in volume.
“He hasn’t done anything!” Ginny snapped, in between sobs. “It’s the pregnancy hormones. I cry
all the time for no bloody reason!”
Henry patted Ginny’s arm. “It’s OK, Aunt Ginny. Don’t cry.”
Draco shot Harry an accusatory look. “Potter, pull your weight, for Merlin's sake. Even my seven-
year old knows what to do. How you managed to get anyone to marry, let alone breed with you, is
a mystery.”
“Shut up, Malfoy!”
Beelzebub started growling at Draco.
“Beezles, stop it!” Ginny scolded.
Orion pouted and covered his ears with his hands. Draco gave the baby a sympathetic look. “On
that note, I think it’s time for us to head back. Granger?”
Hermione nodded. “Gin, you should go and have a lie down.”
“WAIT!” Henry shouted, so urgently that from the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Draco adopt a
defensive, combat-ready stance, undeterred by the fact that Orion was blowing wet raspberries on
his neck.
“Uncle Harry, aren’t you forgetting something?”
Harry sighed. “Your parents are going to kill me, you know that?”
“Sorry,” Henry said, looking anything but.
“I would like to give Henry and Orion a gift.”
“Another gift?” Hermione said. “You’ve given them loads already.”
Harry frowned down at Beelzebub, who was now vibrating so vigorously that his entire body was a
blur of carpet bag florals. All of a sudden, he went quite still.
“Oh dear,” said Ginny. She took a step back, taking Henry with her.
“No bloody way ,” Draco protested. “I’ll not have this–”
Beelzebub stalled all further conversation by erupting into flames.
Malfoy Manor
Back home at the Manor, the boys took no time at all to eat, wind down and tuck into bed. They
were exhausted after their time with the Potters and were eager to go to sleep so they could wake
up to Yule breakfast and presents.
Orion was clingier than usual, but about five minutes of Draco walking up and down the library
corridor while patting the baby’s back was all it took.
Henry was out cold even before Hermione could offer him a round of ‘Where’s My Cow?’. She
covered his solemn, sleeping face in kisses, feeling a lump well up in her throat when she thought
about his rendition of Daphne Greengrass’ lullaby.
Clearly, there would have to be some changes to the way she and Draco were handling the
sensitive topic of Henry’s origins. It was time to stop treating his experience on the fleet as a no-go
zone. It had nothing to do with Henry’s young age and everything to do with avoidance on her and
Draco’s parts. They could and would do better. She didn’t think she could do it alone, though. Not
without Draco.
After a light dinner, Hermione sat up in bed reading a copy of Draco’s old DMLE prosecution
records and made notes. All offers to assist her were sternly rebuffed. After about two hours of
this, Draco plucked the documents from her hands, put them on her bedside table and turned off the
lights.
“Go to sleep.”
She was too tired to argue. Hermione curled up against him, but not before she used her wand to set
an internal alarm – the sort that was only audible to the person that needed the wake-up call.
As intended, the alarm went off at four am, on Yule morning.
It had no effect on Draco, but he was awakened by a very sleepy Hermione trying to make her way
across their bedroom without turning on any lights. She walked into a dresser, cursed softly and
then apologised, ostensibly to the dresser.
He knew his brilliant wife was up early to work on his case, on what was going to be a long and
busy day. It took considerable willpower not to interfere. Equally challenging to resist was the urge
to bring her back to bed so he could bury himself inside her warm body and fuck them both back to
sleep.
However, a quick mental image of the marks he’d put on her just recently was more than enough to
quell his baser instincts.
Hermione sat cross-legged in front of the library fireplace and was reading over her notes when the
scheduled Floo call commenced. She accepted the connection request and then quickly went to
make sure that the library door was not just shut, but also locked. A muffling charm completed her
preparations to receive the caller.
The green flames plumed upwards in the massive fireplace and then settled down again. A
moment later, Barnaby Richards appeared, or at least the top half of him did.
Hermione smiled. “Did you put it on just for me?”
He tipped his trademark cowboy hat in greeting. “‘Course. Can’t mess with the brand.”
“It’s so good to see you, Richards. Retirement looks like it’s agreeing with you.”
He scoffed. “I look like I’ve got one damn foot in the grave, you mean? You’re lucky you got
boys. My younger daughter up and left her nice, cushy job and decided to enlist in the US Magical
Corps just like her idiot old man. She’s as stubborn as her mother was. Retirement is makin’ me
soft, Granger. But yeah, it’s great to see you, too, kid. I like what you’ve done with your hair.”
“It’s the same,” Hermione said, with an amused shrug. “Curly and a lot of it. Thank you so much
for taking this call, by the way. I know it’s late over there.”
“Nah,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s only 11 in Louisville. And I don’t do
nearly enough during the day to make me tired at night any more. Also, I figure this can’t really
wait seein’ as I found just the person you need to help you open your tricky pickle jar.”
“Already! How did you manage it so quickly?”
“Well, your letter was very detailed, darlin’. All fifty-seven pages. And I gotta tell you. No one
ever accused me of bein’ the sentimental sort, but even I got a bit misty-eyed reading it.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s on the strength of that letter and its detail that I managed to secure my guy so
quickly.”
“That’s amazing. Who is he?”
“Happy to fill you in, Granger, as soon as you tell me why that piece of luggage is trying to get
your attention?”
Oh. She’d completely forgotten that Beelzebub was sleeping on a makeshift bed of pillows and
blankets, just behind the Yule tree. Hermione scratched the dog behind its ears. Or possibly, its
handles.
“This was Harry’s dog.”
Beelzebub made a brief regurgitating noise and then spat out a tightly compressed ball of tinsel
into her lap. He followed this up with a look that suggested the tinsel was a gift.
“Thank you, Beezles.” Hermione picked up the wet, sparkly ball with the tips of her fingers, and
set it aside. “Beelzebub is our new dog.”
“Ah, that’s Potter’s spectral hound!” Richards exclaimed. “I didn’t know you guys had him now.
There’ll be forms to fill out, if you’re the new official owners.” He tilted his head to the side, as if
convinced that the problem of Beelzebub’s appearance was with how Richards was seeing the
creature, rather than what he was seeing.
“Wait, how do you know about Beezles?”
“I’m the one that got Potter permission to get the damn thing registered in the UK. He’d been on
the lookout for a new familiar and contacted me when he came across one he said he liked. It’s not
everyday that someone wants to keep a demonic entity as a pet. I had to call in a few favours from
the guy who runs the licensing registry for infernal escapees.”
“He’s awfully cute,” Hermione admitted, as she looked down at the panting, cross-eyed creature.
“Harry said he’s attached to the boys and apparently there is no better protector?”
Richards grunted in agreement. “Apart from their father, sure. That thing will take down a tank if it
thought it was gonna hurt your kids.”
“Should I be worried about safety?”
“Nah. The suppression charm on it is permanent. It won’t revert to its infernal form on this plane.
It’s free to return to wherever it came from at any time it wants, but the deal is that if it wants to
stay here, it has to be in…” Richards gestured to Beelzebub, “ whatever form it’s in now. What is
it, anyway? It doesn’t look all dog.”
“He appears to be part handbag,” Hermione said. And it was testament to all she had seen, and
done during her time as a witch, that this sentence sounded perfectly normal to her. “Any
suggestions on controlling the spontaneous combustion?”
Richards blinked. “Come again?”
“Apparently he bursts into flames when he’s emotional.”
“Hmm. Just tell the boys to have a glass of water on standby if no adults are around. Sounds like a
nervous habit to me, which would be about right seeing as he’s living with your husband now.
Beats pissin’ on your floors, though.”
“Speaking of my husband, I supposed we should discuss Draco now?”
“Why, is he prone to exploding as well?” It sounded like a joke, but Richards seemed very serious
all of a sudden. “Before we get into it, there’s something I gotta ask you.”
“Yes?”
Richards’s hesitancy was worrying. “There isn’t an easy way to ask this, so I’m just gonna come
out and say it. Is he treating you OK?”
Hermione wasn’t sure what she was being asked, exactly. “What do you mean by ‘OK’?
Candlelight dinners and moonlit walks? Does he put the toilet seat down?”
“All good answers, but no.” If possible, Richards looked even more uncomfortable than Hermione
currently felt. “I mean are you happy, safe and well? You and the boys?”
“You’re asking me if he’s abusive? If he hurts us?”
“Is Malfoy asking you to put his case together? Is he putting you up to all this?”
Responding with anger would have been the easy route; the natural route, even. But there was far
too much at stake for Hermione to let her feelings bog her down. Also, Richards was just doing his
due diligence, even if it felt offensive.
“No,” she said, allowing her reply to be clipped, but not rude. “In fact, I’ve kept him in the dark
about what I’m doing. It’s better if he has no idea.”
“Good. And he’s fine with that?”

“Of course he’s not. He’s…tolerating it, so far. To be honest, it’s been wonderful having him home
so often, caring for the boys while I get this done. He was working on the recovery project for
most of this year until the mine accident. We barely saw him.”
Richards rubbed his jaw. He looked quite distinguished with the short beard he was currently
sporting. “His sort don’t always do well domesticated.”
“He started off domesticated in this very house.”
“Even pedigree dogs can forget where they come from after they’ve been out on the street long
enough. I’ve seen what happens when men like him think the love of a good woman is a panacea.”
She sighed. “I don’t know how else to reassure you other than to tell you we’re fine. You can ask
Harry.”
“I did. What he told me wasn’t reassuring.”
“What did he say?” Harry’s propensity to occasionally be able to keep a secret was annoying in its
inconsistency.
“You’ll have to take that up with Potter.”
“Listen, Richards, one of the first things Draco said to me after Harry and I brought him to
Grimmauld Place, was that his good behaviour doesn’t hinge on anything as nebulous as a code of
ethics, or on sentiment. What we can rely on is his common sense. He’s not unreasonable, nor is he
irrationally violent. He’s not his father or Amarov. Also, do I strike you as the kind of woman who
would put up with that?”
“Hermione, In my experience, I can tell you there is no particular ‘kind of woman’ who puts up
with it. Love makes people do some of the best and worst things.” Richards gave her a pondering
look. “Though, knowing what I know about your Hogwarts Houses, I reckon it would take a
Gryffindor woman to hold him in check.”
“Thank you,” Hermione said. “I think?”
“How are your folks talking all this?”
“They haven’t met him in person. We’re meant to go to Australia when the travel restrictions let
up. They’ve read about him in the occasional news article. We’ve sent loads of pictures and letters.
We try to Floo when there’s a slot available, but my mother gets upset because it looks like the
kids are on fire when she’s talking to them.”
“What do they think of him?”
“I’ll let you know when I know,” she said, with a tight smile.
Richards took the hint and brought the topic to a close. “Well, you look happy, kiddo. Real happy.”
“I am. Against all odds.”
“They were some stiff odds.”
“So everyone keeps telling us.”
He clapped his hands together. “Alright, I ain’t getting any younger so let’s get this ball rolling.”
He leaned away, reaching for something that was outside the frame of the fireplace. He reappeared
shortly with a red folder and handed it to Hermione through the flames.
“After I read your letter, I knew there was only one person who could sort this mess out. You
wanted a recommendation for a law firm that could represent Draco, someone that deals with war
crimes, extradition, that sort of thing?”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“Yeah, that’s not what I got you.” Richards gestured to the folder. “At least not all I got you. His
name’s Asher Roth.”
Hermione leafed through the contents of the folder, which was essentially a resume for one Captain
Asher Anthony Roth, formerly of the US Magical Corps.
“So…he’s a consultant?” .
“Yup. Ash was a senior partner at the top Magical law firm in DC - McMillan and Evanston.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Hermione said. “They’re on my shortlist to approach for potential
representation.”
Richards nodded. “And they’d be a good choice, but Ash’s been running his own show for a while
now and doing it really well. He’s a fixer. A broker of difficult agreements. He untangles messes.
Big messes.”
“But we still need legal representation for Draco.”
“Just hear me out, darlin’. Let me run Roth’s plan by you, and then you let me know if you think
it’s a no-go, OK?”
“Of course.”
“Roth can take on the defence case too, if it comes to that. But after he read what you sent me, we
both agreed that you’re on to a good thing with this hearts and minds campaign you’re planning to
run using the newspapers.”
“The media blitz was meant to be something I could do on my own, on the side. Are you saying
that it should be Plan A?”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m saying. Think about the political climate right now. You don’t
even have a Minister for Magic since Scrimgeour retired. It’s a popularity contest, which is why
Potter’s gonna wipe the floor with any other candidates who have the stones to run against him. No
one’s in a mood to read about dirt or scandals. The infection is controlled and the bad guys are
dead. We’re two years post-recovery, Granger. That matters. Remember what happened after the
Second World War? People don’t have the stomach for brutality and hardliners, not even at the
polls. They want to smile. They want human interest stories that make them feel good. And you
know what they love more than anything else?”
Hermione’s eyes widened. “I honestly have no idea. What do they love?”
Richards grinned. “A reformed villain.”
“Oh. Oh my. ”
“Yup. And even better, a reformed villain who is now a devoted family man.”
“I think I see where you’re going with this.”
“You have a hell of a story to tell, kiddo. A real heart-wrencher. It was all there in your letter.”
Richards took his hat off and ran a hand through his silver hair. “By the time Roth’s done his
thing, there won’t be a news outlet in the civilised world who hasn’t heard the name Draco Lucius
Malfoy. And it sure as hell doesn’t hurt that he looks the way he does. Heck, the magazines will
love all four of you. I mean, even Ted Bundy had a fan club.”
“Did you just compare my husband to a serial killer?”
“My point is that no political climber is going to base their entire platform on taking your family
down, not when you, Malfoy and Orion are the reason we have a cure. Your story will add interest
to Potter’s campaign and Potter being a big part of your story, legitimises the story . You're all
interconnected. In fact–” Richards paused when Hermione put her face in her hands. “You OK,
kiddo?”
Hermione doubled over onto her lap, shoulders heaving.
“Darlin’?”
When she sat up again, her face was mottled red and there were tears running down her cheeks.
She was laughing so hard that she hiccoughed.
Beelzebub started barking and Hermione immediately raised a warning finger. “Don’t you dare
explode.” To Richards, she said, “I was just picturing Draco’s face, scowling at me from every
magazine stand. The poor man. He’s going to hate this so much. I mean, he hates me even taking
his picture.”
Richards’ expression was serious and earnest. “He’ll hate leaving you and your babies even more.”
“You’re right,” Hermione said. She dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown. “I like
this plan. When do I get to speak to Roth about it?”
After a quick check of his wristwatch, Richards provided a surprisingly precise answer. “In five
hours and fifteen minutes. You really need to get some sleep.”
“Oh? Did you book a Floo connection for us? I’ve used up my allotment for the year already.”
“You’re not speaking to him on the F-line, Granger. When I was making the booking for today, I
saw there was a single, in-person, trans-Atlantic Floo connection still available on the system. It’s a
two way-ticket, arrival and departure dates exactly one week apart.” Richards gave her an
apologetic look. “I already locked it in. I hope that’s alright?”
“Roth is coming here ? To the Manor?”
“Safest place to conduct business, aint it? And even if I could fix the extra Floo time for you both,
chatting on the line is not a great idea. Not for this. Too risky.”
“You’re probably right. We could get everything done efficiently and discreetly in person. And
Draco can mind the kids.” Hermione frowned. “But seeing as I’m inviting this man into my home,
I’d feel better if you could vouch for him. Personally, I mean? Draco will want that reassurance,
too.”
Richards looked slightly smug, “Everything you need to know is in the folder I gave you, but I
figured you’d ask me for a personal reference, so I dug this out of my backyard shed. Nearly killed
myself trippin’ over a skateboard in the process…”
Hermione smiled. “Your daughters still ride them?
“Not since they were teenagers, but you know how it is with basements, attics, sheds and barns.
They become everyone’s storage space after a while…long after the kids move out.” He gave her a
fond look. “You’ll know what that’s like some day.”
“Only our storage area is boarded up and may contain at least a hundred different undiscovered
things that could kill you.”
“Christ. Well, be sure to tell Ash not to wander around the halls after dark.” Richards held up a
faded, colour photograph for Hermione to see. There were three people in the photo, all dressed in
variations of 1970s fashion. Only one of them was wearing a cowboy hat.
“Oh my goodness.” Hermione gasped. “Look at you.”
“Yeah, I know. I age like a fine wine. The girl in the middle is my Maudie, my late wife. I would
have mentioned her to you?”
“Not to me, no.”
“Right. It was Malfoy.”
“You spoke to Draco about your wife?” Hermione couldn’t hide her surprise.
“It was one of those ‘Break Glass in Case of Emergency’ type moments. I needed to talk him off a
ledge. The ledge being him wanting to leave you after you infected yourself.”
Hermione winced. “I knew you had something to do with him staying, but I never asked. Thank
you. I think he saved my life.”
“Granger, you saved everyone’s lives.” He turned his attention back to the photo. “Now, see that
skinny kid on the right? That’s Ash. We joined the Corps straight out of school. You asked how I
know him? Well, Asher Roth was the best man at my wedding. He was officer material from the
get go. They fast tracked him through law school while he was serving, and then as soon as he’d
done his duty, he did the smart thing and went corporate.”
Hermione was satisfied. “I think that qualifies as vouching for the man. Thank you for humouring
me. You’ll let me know where to send his retainer?”
“There’s no charge, kiddo. He’s happy to take this on pro bono.”
“What? Why?”
“Ash comes from old Charleston money. He doesn’t work for a living. He does what he does
because he likes it.”
“I don’t know if I’m comfortable not paying anyone for their labour. He’s coming here over his
Christmas break to work.”
“Let me put it this way,” Richards said. “His last gig just before the outbreak was for a Middle
Eastern oil baron or some such. Ash spent a month in the desert and left with a flesh wound and a
promise never to return.”
“Oh my goodness, what happened?”

“The sheikh’s second wife is what happened.”
“Ah.”
“Which brings me to the um, disclaimer. Look, Ash’s a good friend. He’s a hoot at weddings,
reunions, birthdays and barbeques. He’s got stories to tell and he’s good at tellin’ em’...” Richards
looked pained now.
Hermione was incredibly intrigued. “Go on.”
“But his one weakness is women.”
She was puzzled first, and then amused. “Wait. You’re worried about me ?” She laughed. “He
won’t find any women here, Richards. I’m his client, end of story. Besides, he doesn’t know me.”
“He’s had your file for a week now, kiddo. Read it a bunch of times, too.”
“I have a file?”
“Anyone in Potter’s orbit has a file. In your husband’s case, it’s more like a few boxes. Ash is a
charming son of a bitch and after reading your letter, he’s looking for an interesting diversion to
take his mind off his bah-humbugs. He hates Yule, Christmas, the whole deal. I just want you to
know what to expect.”
“I’m sure I’ll find the strength to resist his devastating Southern charms,” she deadpanned. “I
handled you, didn’t I?”
“Sweetheart, I didn’t use my bag of tricks on you.” It was slightly disconcerting when Richards
gave her a brief, appreciative look. “But I’m not the man that’s in danger of getting shoved out a
window by your husband.” He sighed. “Malfoy’s gonna love him…”
“Don’t you worry. Roth will be fine. I’ll handle Draco.”
Richards spent a moment just looking at her. Hermione couldn’t fathom his expression, so she
asked him.
“You’re all grown up now, is all. I remember a time when you wanted to slap me across the face
for even suggesting you bat your eyes at Malfoy in order to secure us an advantage.”
“Nothing ages you quite like war, Richards. And it feels like I’ve been through two already. The
last thing I want to do is fight another long, drawn-out battle trying to keep my husband with his
family.”
“Granger, if you and Roth pull this off, you won’t ever have to worry about that ever again.”
Chapter End Notes
BEEZLES
There's a drawing of Beelzebub in Chp 72
DAPHNE'S LULLABY
Is sung by the incomparable Triciabean of ETL Echo Audiobooks. Trish literally
recorded this for me within minutes of my contacting her today to ask if she could do
it. Thank you so much, Trish. Your voice breathes life to our stories, and it's no
different for Daphne's lullaby. You can find Trish here: https://linktr.ee/Triciabean
LIATOTZA AUDIOBOOK
By ETL Echo Audiobooks is now live!
https://anchor.fm/liatotza/episodes/Love-in-a-Time-of-the-Zombie-Apocalypse--
Chapter-1-e1at6lf
AUDIOBOOK LIVE RECORDINGS

We do a live recording for the audiobook on Discord at least once a week during non-
holiday times. I post notices for those sessions on my Twitter and Tumblr. They're so
wonderfully chaotic (the accents!!). I highly recommend coming along if your time
zone permits. We're up to Chp 50.
https://discord.com/channels/859753874305581076/867900793834045450
LA VIE EN ROSE
For those who may not yet know, there is a (dark) alternate ending to LIATOTZA.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/34244137
THE SOJOURNERS
I'm writing a book (yikes) and would be thrilled if you subscribed to my mailing list so
I can let you know of my book news as it comes (spoiler alert: there's not much news
yet). You'll find my book info and a mailing list form on my author website:
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NEXT
There are 2 chapters left and a whole bunch of art coming. The following chapters will
all be posted before Christmas. The final chapter will have have an advanced released
to 2 lovely Booktokers (on Tiktok) prior to posting on AO3, for early review.
Thanks so much for following the story. Like the zombie plague, I'm everywhere, but
you can generally find me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/rizzle_writes
Yule
Chapter Notes
You'll note the echoes of the La Vie En Rose alternate ending in this chapter.
Sliding doors and all that...
Meanwhile, the maple syrup shortage is actually happening.
After her meeting with Richards, Hermione was too awake to return to bed and didn’t want to keep
Draco up with her tossing and turning. Her mind was in overdrive. It was a familiar sensation. She
got like this before major events, be it missions, or major exams, or waiting to see if a batch of Re-
Gen was going to work. It was restless anticipation; an eagerness for a task to commence and to
switch gears from the theoretical, to the practical.
There was a wonderful, surreal peace to being the only one up and about in the Manor. It was easy
to miss details when you were running around after children. Or see only the details that were
pertinent, like sharp corners or slippery floors. Without the kids around, she could appreciate the
way the corridors had been designed to allow natural light to bounce from cleverly positioned
mirrors, so that with the right window open, an entire floor could be illuminated without a single lit
candle. When it was this quiet, she could hear the light tinkle of the crystal chandeliers as a draft of
wind wound its way through the house.
So instead of returning to bed, Hermione finished what was left of the gift wrapping and when she
still wasn’t sleepy after that, she began making Yule breakfast.
It was pancakes. She didn’t much care for them, but Draco, Henry and Orion loved pancakes.
Although, to be fair, Orion would eat anything that didn’t try to run away from him.
There was a global maple syrup shortage and the local hives did not have a good year. What bad
timing to be low on sweet condiments. Moreover, the few shops that were operating would surely
be closed on Yule morning, which ruled out a quick trip for supplies.
In the end, Hermione decided to serve the pancakes with fresh fruit. Tinned fruit was used as well,
and the sweet nectar collected and set aside as syrup. The children would have no complaints, she
was sure. It was rare these days to find a persnickety child. Even for wizarding folk, food shortages
still occurred from time to time, and children knew to eat what was available or go hungry.
She cooked using a combination of manual labour and magic. There was no food mixer in the
Manor, so whisking the pancake batter was done via a spell, as was the flipping portion of the
cooking. Doing it sans magic would have resulted in torn and misshapen pancakes, from her
experience. She wanted these to taste good and look good.
By the time Hermione flipped the last pancake and laid it carefully on top of the teetering pile, it
was almost seven and she marvelled at how none of her boys had woken up already. It would do
them well to have a lie in, she thought. Especially Draco.
When the cooking was done, she placed the pancakes under a heating charm, set the dining table in
the smaller of the two formal dining rooms, before headed back in the direction of their sleeping
quarters. Outside the library, she paused and ducked her head past the doors to admire the
aesthetically pleasing pile of presents she’d arranged under the tree. Who didn’t like a nicely
wrapped present? The children would of course make quick work of her hard work, but that was
the life cycle of gift wrap, wasn’t it? Like a beautiful butterfly, it had its brief day in the sun.
It was then that Hermione saw the flash of colour at the foot of the table she’d used to do the
wrapping. When she walked into the library and bent down to have a look, it turned out to be a roll
of red velvet ribbon. All their wrapping supplies were kept in a wicker basket which she had
already put away now. The ribbon had been missed.
The velvet felt good in her hands - soft, yet dense. Luxurious.
She smiled as an idea came to mind. But before it was attempted, she’d have to check to see what
the kids were up to first. Nothing disrupted a morning shag with one’s husband quite like repeated
cries of, “Mummy!”
“Draco?”
He was sprawled on his back, sheets twisted low around his hips, left knee bent to the side and one
forearm across his stomach. And he was naked. At some point between Hermione leaving the
bedroom in the very early morning, and returning now, he had stripped off his clothes.
How thoughtful of him.
He was dead to the world. Hermione was pleasantly surprised and also a little hesitant to wake
him. She would try once more and if he didn’t respond, she’d leave him be.
“Draco, darling?”
A deep inhalation and a furrowed brow. He squinted at her, looking positively edible in his
endearing, befuddled state. “Granger? Did you only just come back to bed? What time is it?”
“Seven-twenty.”
Now his eyes were wide with surprise. “ What? That can’t be.”
His incredulity was amusing. “There are a great many mysteries in the world I cannot solve, but the
current time is not one of them.”
“I slept… in ?”
She laughed. “Yes, you most definitely did.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t sleep in.”
“No, you don’t, but I hope this becomes a trend. Your sleep debt would have bankrupted you by
now if Gringotts was the lender.”
“What about the wrapping? I need to get started on Yule breakfast.” He started to sit up, but she
shoved him back down.
“Breakfast is under a warming charm and ready to serve as soon as we get the boys dressed. Henry
is constructing his train set in their room. Orion is still out cold. And as for gift wrapping…” she
climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. “I’ve already taken care of it.”
It was then that her wonderfully sleep-addled husband looked at her. Properly looked. He was as
predictable as a sunrise. His pupils dilated and under the single layer of material that separated
them, she felt his cock stiffen.
Now, he was fully awake and looking at her like she was the last Yule pancake he would ever eat.
He gingerly touched the oversized red velvet ribbons that she’d used to put her hair into two
ponytails on either side of her head. His eyes raked over the rest of her. The ribbons were the only
thing she was wearing.
“Suddenly I’m not sorry I missed helping you with the wrapping. Clearly, you were inspired in my
absence.”
His large, warm hands slid up her thighs, and hips, stopping to span her waist. There, he pulled her
down more firmly on his cock, which was pinned flat against his belly, under her. He moved up
her rib cage, cupped her breasts, lifting and squeezing them, his eyes passing over her flushed face
and finally stopping to stare at her ponytailed hair.
“You’ve come to end me. Clearly.”
“Well they do call it the little death, don’t they?” she said.
Draco lifted her, bringing her upper torso forward so he could put his mouth on her breasts. Her
head dropped forward, the ends of her ribbons tickling his shoulders. He took his time, laving and
suckling at her, drawing on both nipples until they were flushed and peaked.
He paused to look up at her with glazed eyes. “Lock the door,” he said, in between mouthfuls of her
breasts.
“Already done,” Hermione said, gasping when he nipped at her.
“You’re fucking delicious.”
“We, uh, we need to be quick. Not much time before…Orion wakes.”
He canted his hips upwards. The sheet was soaked now, causing more friction than was
comfortable for her. Hermione lifted her hips and allowed Draco to drag the sheet away. When she
sat down again, her wet, swollen core settled over his cock.
They both groaned in unison.
“Are you healed?” he asked, his voice a harsh whisper
Hermione’s eyes were closed. She couldn’t formulate a response as she slid back and forth along
his tight skin. The heat, strength and hardness of him under her was magical. If she kept going, if
she kept up this precise angle, this exact pressure, this particular pace, she was going to finish…
Draco was so silent and so still that she opened her eyes to check on him and was rewarded with a
look of almost stunned adoration as he watched her ground herself against him.
“Are you real?” he whispered. “What are you?”

“I’m yours,” she said, with an outward gasp, and she saw the answering emotion in his eyes. “And
I’m about to come.” Under any other circumstances, she would have returned his unspoken
sentiment, but right now, a wave was about to crest.
He threaded his fingers through hers and lifted their intertwined hands in front of her, helping her
stay upright as she spasmed, bucked, clenched, and groaned as the currents rippled through her.
When it was over, she braced herself on his chest with her palms to catch her breath. After a
minute, she reached down between them to grasp his cock, wanting him inside her now, but he
stopped her.
“I won’t be fucking you today, I’m afraid.”
“What? No!” she complained, in such a whining voice that he chuckled.
“You’re not quite healed yet. Perhaps in a day or two.”
“I’m fine!”
“Hmm. Are you, though? Lift, please.”
He was a scientist at heart, and scientists ran experiments. This current one involved him sliding
two fingers gently through her swollen folds. Hermione dropped her head forward against his
shoulder, instinctively pushing down against his hand, in a bid to encourage his fingers to slip
inside her. He allowed this, but then her sudden wincing and tensing confirmed his suspicions. His
fingers lingered for a quick internal caress, and then withdrew. Her discomfort was apparent.
“Like I said, not today. But I’d like to give you a quick examination to see how the healing is
progressing.”
“An examination?” she said, giving him an amused, suspicious look.
“Trust me, I’m a doctor.”
“I thought you weren't 'really'?" she teased.
“I thought you said I was, 'practically'?” he replied, with a sexy grin that made her insides flutter.
Before she could protest, he picked her up and deposited her high on his chest, just below his
mouth.
“Hold on to the headboard and lean forward,” he instructed.
“Draco…”
“Let me see you. Let me see up close what damage my thoughtless rutting caused.” His hands
cupped her bottom and he gave her an encouraging push forward. She shuffled her knees higher up
the bed until she was straddling his face. Her own face was probably the same colour as the
ribbons in her hair, she thought.
“Gods, this view is breathtaking.”
She bit her lip and looked down just as he looked up, his eyes scouring over every detail before
him, from the gentle curve of her belly, to her breasts and her flushed face, and her ponytailed hair
replete with enormous, red velvet bows.
He shut his eyes and groaned. “Fuck’s sake,” he hissed. “ Those fucking ribbons are killing me.”
His hands remained on her bottom, as he undertook his examination, prescribing an immediate
remedy. He frowned at each faded mark. “I’m sorry,” he said, kissing a bruise inside her left thigh.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, kissing a scrape on her right thigh. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he continued
offering kisses and apologies as he went. When he could find no more marks, he leaned forward
and placed a gentle kiss directly on her clit.
She was a keening, sobbing mess by the time he was finished.
“I don’t like hurting you," he said. "You applied the ointment, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"But you didn't charm the marks away?"
She couldn't believe they were having this conversation with his stupid, handsome face between
her legs. "I don't mind the marks fading naturally. And when it hurts, it's a sweet pain, Draco."
He put his face into the thigh and released a long, agonised groan. “You were made for me, do you
know that? I feel like the only man in the world who’s been given the manual on all the things your
body loves. But you deserve so much better than me.”
She felt too far away from him. There was too much distance between them to kiss him and hold
him and return his words. But now he was done with his examination and treatment of her, and
turned his attention to applying his mouth and tongue for purely recreational purposes.
If Hermione could barely string a sentence together before, now she was incapable of coherent
thought.
“Mmm. You’re so wet. Is this all for me, Kiska?”
The sight of him, when she dared to look, seared on her mind like a brand. She saw the top of his
face, his nose seated just above her pubis. His mouth hidden between her legs.
“You taste so good.”
As if making up for the absence of his cock that morning, he fucked her with his tongue instead,
stabbing up into her over and over, and then his mouth closed around her clit to suck. The sounds
he made were crude, carnal, wet and loud. At one point he moved his mouth from side to side to
allow even more of her flesh to open for him and then honed in on her aching clit once more to
suckle.
Hermione felt the mother of all orgasms collecting up under her skin, gathering in her nerves,
building potential. As this second crest approached, she was initially worried she’d end up riding
his face, but her body seemed to know what to do. Holding on tightly to the headboard, she held
herself above him, perfectly still, her thighs rigid on either side of his head.
It was Draco who moved. He devoured her, humming his delight as he did so. But it was never
hard or rough. It was soft, always soft, with lips and tongue and no fingers. His stubble was the
exception, providing an interesting counterpoint and a reminder that this was only one small part of
all that she could expect from him once she was fully healed.
She came with a violent shudder, suppressing a scream that would otherwise have scared the
children. She rolled off him, burrowing into his side as she rode out the rest of her orgasm. After a
while, the absence of his usually lovely aftercare made her sit up, a slight pout on her face, but she
soon saw what the delay was about.
Draco was pumping his cock in a white-fisted grip. His head thrown back, muscles tensed, his face
wet and his lips gorgeously ruddy.
“I’m not going to last,” he hissed.
“Get up,” she ordered, surprising herself with her commanding tone and the fact her jellied muscles
were cooperating.
Hermione slid off the bed and sat on the floor. Draco swung his legs off the bed and perched on
the edge of the mattress, facing her, not once breaking the vicious rhythm on his cock.
She looked up at him, and in that moment, she thought he might truly have been at his most
vulnerable. Helpless, even. Trapped in pure sensation. She was on the ground before him and
somehow, she felt like royalty.
“Hermione,” he said, through gritted teeth. Her name on his lips was a plea. There was such power
in taking power from someone like him.
I’m here,” she soothed, demurely resting her hands on her knees, arching her back to make her
breasts lift and jut, just the way he liked it. She parted her lips slightly and put her heart in her
eyes.
Draco grabbed one of her ponytails, his hand large enough such that when he splayed his fingers,
his thumb pressed on the hinge at her left jawline, opening her mouth.
She was ready for him. His breathing hitched and he gave her the sweetest, breathless low whimper
as he came over her face, mouth and breasts. He continued to pump his cock through his orgasm,
sending hot streams of spend onto her.
One final spurt and he groaned, hand grasping the edge of the mattress for support. His eyes shut as
he caught his breath and when he opened them again he swore heatedly in what sounded like
Russian. A stream of his spend dripped from her chin, falling into the growing pool in her lap.
Hermione wanted him to kiss her and hold her. She wanted to say something meaningful to him,
something sentimental and profound.
Unfortunately the next words out of her mouth were, “Ow, it’s getting in my eye. Could you please
Summon me a towel?”
She saw him scramble for his wand and a moment later, he pulled her up to sit up on the bed and
began cleaning her. The sheepish, apologetic expression on his face as he awkwardly dabbed at her
with the towel was too much. Hermione started laughing.
“Hold still,” he scolded, “I can’t clean you if you keep jiggling about. Oh dear, it’s in the ribbon,
too....”
Peals of laughter now.
He gave her a withering look. “The irony of my being unravelled by gift wrap.”
“Will you get Orion dressed while I’m showering? You should probably have a quick wash too.”
He nodded and then leaned down to kiss her.
“Draco?” she said, suddenly uncertain.

“Relax. I know how I taste.”
“It’s not that. There’s something you should know."
Hermione didn’t think the children noticed their father was slightly subdued during Yule breakfast.
This was probably because he was typically subdued. But she knew him well enough to see the
effect that Roth’s impending visit had on him.
The man was not pleased with the news she had delivered to him, or the way she had delivered it.
She realised in hindsight that she had done it yet again - distracted him with sex. Only she hadn’t
meant to, this time. Not that he believed her.
Having tallied an impressive fourteen hours of uninterrupted sleep, Orion was in fine spirits. Draco
had dressed him in a festive onesie meant to resemble a Muggle depiction of a Christmas elf,
which they both agreed was very cute while also being in poor taste. The baby kept up a steady
chatter while feeding his father pancakes.
It was Draco’s fault. He’d negotiated a one-for-one deal with the child, in a bid to get Orion to pay
attention to his meal and not pretend to accidentally drop bits of pancake so that Beelzebub would
eat it. For every bite the baby took, he was permitted to feed his father a bite as well. Draco added
an element of danger by pretending to bite Orion’s fingers every so often, resulting in manic
giggles.
There was a soft click followed by a whirring noise. Draco looked up and saw that Hermione had
used a Muggle Polaroid camera to snap a photo.
“Humour me,” she said, “we have so few photos of us.”
Henry, meanwhile, was outlining his plans for the train set he knew he was getting for yule. There
were three shortlisted types of train set, and so the surprise would be which one he would
ultimately receive.
“And I thought I could set it up in that little room in the attic, seeing as no one ever goes there and
Orion won’t be able to get his hands all over it.”
Draco put his fork down with a sharp clang.
Hermione looked at her son with a startled expression. “Henry, you went up to the attic?”
“Um…” he said.
“Your mother asked you a question.”
Orion’s chattering abruptly stopped. Beelzebub started whining.
“I…uh, yes I’ve been up there.”
“We explicitly told you that the attic is out of bounds,” Draco said.
“You said the restricted wing is out of bounds and the attic hasn’t got boards up to stop anyone
from going in like the restricted wing does, so I thought…”
“You did not think,” Draco said. “Just because it hasn’t been boarded up doesn’t mean it’s the
exception.”
“Draco,” Hermione cautioned. She could see Henry’s lower lip quivering.
“There’s nothing there at all! It’s empty! It doesn’t make any sense why I can’t play there.”
“I don’t care if it’s got a carnival and a circus. You are forbidden from going there, do you
understand me?”
“Why?” Henry demanded.
Hermione was astonished. She had never seen Draco angry with the children. Not once. Nor had
she ever known Henry to shout at either of them before.
“Because I’m your father and I said so,” Draco said, with cold finality.
“You’re not my father !” Henry shouted and then he pushed his chair back and ran from the table.
Beelzebub immediately looked at Hermione.
“Go,” she said, nodding. The dog yipped once and ran after Henry.
Hermione glanced at Draco and felt her chest clench when she saw his face.
“Daddy?” Orion said.
After blinking several times, Draco turned his attention to his youngest. “Yes, Orion?”
“Hemmy crying.”
Draco threw his napkin down on the table, sighed and stood.
Hermione stopped him. “No, I’ll go. You get Orion cleaned up and meet us in the library for
presents. This is not something we’re going to fix in one sitting.”
“I told him not to go up there,” Draco said, frowning. “He usually listens.”
“I know.”
“That should be all I need to say on the matter. He’s too young to understand why.”
“It’s not the demand that bothers him. It’s the perceived arbitrariness; the things unsaid .”
Hermione squeezed his hand as she walked past him at the table. “We need to start talking with
him as well as to him, but we’ll find a way to do it together, alright?”
He was staring into the distance, seemingly not hearing her.
“Draco?”
When he looked at her, it took effort to ignore the lump in her throat. Henry’s words had apparently
cut deep.
“Remember what you told me when I was pregnant with Orion and worried that we knew nothing
about babies?”
“Yes. I said not to worry because there were books on keeping babies and you said I made it sound
like we were going to raise chickens.”
She smiled. “We did it, didn’t we? We raised two kids. Even read a book or two about it along the
way.”
“There are no books on raising Henrys,” he said, in a hollow voice.
He was wrong. There were books, but they were probably about how to help children process and
deal with trauma. However, in order to do that, the adults facilitating the process had to recognise
that trauma had in fact happened.
“It’s going to be alright. We’ll figure this out with Henry.”
Hermione knew where Henry would go and she wanted to kick herself for the terrible timing.
Beelzebub was standing outside the greenhouse when she got there, directly in front of the door.
“Such a good boy,” Hermione praised, bending down to scratch him. An ecstatic Beezles flopped
onto his side, legs stiff, tongue lolling, eyes rolled back into his head. He looked dead when he did
this, if it wasn’t for his heavy breathing.
She stepped into the greenhouse, feeling the humidity immediately excite her hair.
“Henry, can we talk?”
The boy was sliding the top of the frog tank back in place. “You fed them. Thank you. But
Goblin’s missing,” he said, in a dispassionate tone. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes, darling, I’m afraid so. Your father found him while you were at the Potters’ and we were
going to wait until you came home to find a quiet moment to tell you.”
“It's OK.” Henry shrugged. “He’s just a frog. Frogs die.”
“And it’s OK to be sad when your frog dies.”
Henry had nothing to say to that, except another question. “Have you buried him?”
“No, your father said he put him somewhere safe.” Hermione looked around and spotted the empty
pot with a small mound of dirt at the bottom. She gently displaced some of the soil and paused
when she uncovered a tiny, webbed foot. “He’s in here,” she said, holding out the pot.
Henry took the pot and looked inside. She saw his chin wobble.
“Shall I fetch your father and Orion so we can bury him together?”
“No, thanks.” Henry put the pot back on the bench. “He’s just a frog,” he repeated.
“Henry, come here, sweetheart.” Hermione walked up and enveloped the child in a hug.
“I didn’t mean to say that to him, you know?” he said, muffled against her stomach.
She kissed the top of his head. “I know. He knows that, too.”
“Is he sad?”
“A little, but there’s a lot on his mind at the moment, too. We’re to have a visitor later today who’ll
be staying for a week.”
“What for?” Henry asked, looking up.
A month ago, Hermione might have said, “No reason, just to visit us.”
But today, she said, “When your father was younger, he got into trouble with the Ministry. There
are some within the Ministry who would like to see him punished for his past crimes.”
“I know he was a Death Eater, one of Voldemort’s supporters,” Henry said, “Is that what you
mean?”
She nodded. “Yes. And then he got involved with bad people who did terrible things for
Voldemort, including creating the infection. He wasn’t the one who made it, but he was part of the
team that did.”
Henry frowned. “But he helped make the cure!”
“Yes, that was his role with Voldemort’s team, and then with my team in London, and then finally
with Professor Belikov’s team.”
“So they want to punish him for working with the wrong team at the very beginning?”
She was surprised at how quickly he caught on. “That’s right.”
“Will they take him away to prison?”
“That’s what I’m working to prevent. The guest that’s coming to stay with us today, he’s someone
who will help me.”
“Can I help?”
“I need you to look after your brother and be good for your father while I get this done. Can you do
that?”
“Yes. And I should probably say sorry to him…”
“I think that’s always a good idea when you hurt someone’s feelings,” Hermione said. “And he has
something he needs to say to you, too. But not right this minute. Let’s get the presents sorted before
our guest arrives.”
Henry's face brightened. “I think I know which train set you got me.”
“Henry! Did you peek?”
“No, just a guess.” He walked to the greenhouse door and opened it, stepping over Beelzebub.
“Let’s go, Beezles! It’s time for presents.”
Before Hermione exited the greenhouse, she cast a preservation charm over the dead frog. She had
a sneaking suspicion that Henry might want to revisit the idea of a funeral later on.
“Remind me how we did this last year?” Hermione said to Draco. She was standing in front of
their pile of Yule presents, tapping her chin in consideration.
“We did Orion’s gifts first.”
Draco was seated on the lounge, playing a largely passive role in the gifting process. He wasn’t
fond of Yule. Or of any kind of celebration, for that matter. While Draco could be relied on to
assist and participate without being nagged, she would have preferred enthusiasm. However, to
demand it of him was to ask him to be disingenuous. He hadn’t dressed for the occasion either,
electing to wear a faded set of old, dark robes. Hermione had on a pair of jeans and a colourful
Christmas-themed jumper.
As usual, the boys were utterly spoiled with toys and books from friends and family. Orion seemed
happy enough with his haul for the year, but was far more interested in sitting inside the large box
that Henry’s Hogwarts Express model train set had come in.
Henry was occupied reading the instructions. He had put on a pair of overalls in honour of the train
set, complete with a train engineer’s cap and an adorable frown of concentration.
Draco moved down to the floor, parting his robes with an elegant swish as he sat. “Can I help you
put this together?” he asked, gently.
“OK,” mumbled Henry, without making eye contact.
“It’s a very nice train set,” Draco observed. “It’s even bigger than the one I had when I was around
your age”
“Really?” Henry looked up at him. “Was it a Hogwarts Express set, too?”
“Yes, but there were fewer carriages back then.”
Father and son continued to chat about the train set. At one point, Draco snatched the cap from
Henry’s head and put it on the boy, backwards. Henry giggled.
Hermione watched this with relief. Some progress was better than none. She turned her attention to
the gift in her lap, which was from Draco. It was obviously a book. She removed the delicate gold
ribbon he’d used and then unfolded the brown wrapping paper.
When she had it open, there was a short moment of silence followed by a shriek.
Orion sat up in his box. “Mummy?”
“Mummy’s just had a little surprise, is all,” Draco reassured the baby. “Why don’t you come here
and help Henry put his train set together?”
The child stepped out of the box and toddled over to his father and brother, taking a seat next to
Henry.
“Ory, not the tree!” Henry complained.
Draco removed the miniature plastic tree from Orion’s hand before it went back into his mouth
again.
“ How ?” Hermione exclaimed, still looking stunned at her gift.
Draco waited for the rest of the sentence, but when it never came, he said. “How did I find it?”
She nodded.
“I have my ways.”
He certainly did. Hermione wondered if the ‘ways’ which resulted in her currently holding a 1835
Cotes edition of Pericles in her lap were legal? On second thought, she didn’t want to know.
Draco knew she was fond of Shakespeare. He’d read copious quantities while in Azkaban.
“You can open it, you know?”
Hermione dragged her eyes from the book and looked up at him. “Sorry?”
“I said you can open the book and actually look inside.”
Orion perked up like a meerkat. “Book? Where’s my Cow? Moo! Moo!” He started running
towards his mother, eager for her to read him his favourite story.
“Oh no, sticky toddler fingers!” Hermione cried. “Draco, help!”
Draco scooped up his younger son before he reached her, and deposited him back inside the train
box. “That’s not Where’s My Cow, son. Mummy’s got a different book. Here.” He picked up one
of the many books Orion had received, opened it and handed it to the child. “Why don’t you have a
look at this one? It’s about…” Draco looked at the cover. “Elf rights?” This was a question
directed at Hermione.
“It’s never too early to start, or too late, for that matter,” she said.
With Orion suitably distracted. Draco walked over to his wife and sat down beside her on the
Chesterfield lounge. “So can I see the book?”
She looked appalled at the very suggestion. “I don’t want to damage the pages.”
He rolled his eyes and then Summoned a pair of gloves from their bedroom. They were his, and too
big, but Hermione was satisfied that they were suitable. She slipped them on and gently turned the
pages for him.
“It’s not my favourite of his works,” Draco commented.
“Nor mine,” Hermione agreed, “but Pericles is significant. It’s one of seven plays not included in
the First or Second Folios.”
He listened as she read aloud.
Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rocks,
Wash'd me from shore to shore, and left me breath
Nothing to think on but ensuing death:

Hermione paused in her recitation when she noticed the way Draco was looking at her. He
looked…happy? And what was even more unusual, he was showing it. This was the wonderful
thing about gift giving, she mused. It wasn’t just the thrill of receiving something you liked, but
also the pleasure you felt as the gift giver. She wondered how long it’d been since Draco had given
anyone a gift.
He slipped an arm around her shoulder, his hand idly playing with her curls. “I’m sorry about
breakfast,” he said.
“I’m not the one you need to apologise to.”
Draco nodded. “I know. I’ll speak to Henry when it’s a bit calmer.”
“Thank you so much for my present.” She gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I love it.”
“That kiss feels more like thanking me only a little,” he complained.
Hermione looked at him, expecting to find a teasing expression, but was taken aback to see
something more like fear there now.
“Pericles was a fool. I would never let the ocean have you or my children.” The look in his eyes
was unsettling.
“Pericles thought Thaisa was dead,” Hermione whispered.
“Even if she was, we are magic. Death shouldn’t have to be the end that we accept it to be.”
Hermione felt his hold over her tighten slightly. A chill coursed through her, a stark reminder that
they approached love from very different angles sometimes. “How very Dark Lord of you, Draco
Malfoy,” she said, filing away her concern for later examination. “In any case, luckily Thaisa was
saved by a very talented doctor.”
“Luckily,” Draco agreed. “I’ve had my fill of maritime adventures, but I’d swim through hell itself
to get to you.”
“Draco,” she said with a frown, touching his face.
“Ughhh,” Henry interrupted. He’d been making gagging noises for the last minute. “You’re
making kissy faces at each other.”
“One day you’ll understand,” said Draco.
“That’s what Uncle Harry said.”
This revelation made Draco cringe. “For the love of Merlin, please speak to Potter about giving our
sons any romantic advice. It’s like a blind man trying to describe rainbows.”
Hermione laughed. She got to her feet, and was still laughing as she went to fetch Draco’s present.
When she returned to the library, she was levitating a large crate topped with a comically oversized
black bow.
“I already have ideas on how we might recycle that bow,” Draco said to her, as he walked up to the
crate. She swatted him in the arm for his cheek.
Henry jumped to his feet. “Wow! That’s huge! Open it, Daddy!”
His rare use of the prized ‘D’ word had its usual softening effect on both parents, though at the
moment, more so in Draco’s case.
“It’s not alive is it?” Henry asked, looking hopeful.
Draco turned to look at Hermione, one eyebrow raised.
“No, it’s not,” she said, “But be gentle opening it anyway.”
The reveal was slightly anticlimactic for Henry. He stared at the item, looking perplexed.
“It's a…an um?”
“It’s an antique gramophone,” Draco said. “A Muggle device that plays music.” He looked at
Hermione. “Thank you. It’s lovely.”
“You’re welcome. I always thought this room was missing something,” Hermione said, looking
around the library. “I included a selection of records. Why don’t you pick one to play?”
She showed them how to load the music. Draco picked up Henry so he could get up close and see
how it all worked.
Henry scrunched up his face. “It’s all old people's music. I don’t know any of it.”
“Look at the covers and pick something that catches your eye.”
“This one?”
Draco helped Henry load the record and gently bring the stylus down. Edith Piaf’s La Vie En Rose
filled the room, in all its crackly, mellow and wistful glory. The library provided surprisingly good
acoustics. Orion stood up in his box and clapped his hands.
Hermione was impressed. “Nice choice, you two.”
“What language is that?” Henry asked.
“French,” Draco answered. “The title means ‘life in pink’. He translated for Henry. “She’s singing
about seeing life through rose-coloured glasses.”
“What’s that mean?”
“If you wore glasses that were tinted pink, what would you see?”
“Everything would be pink,” Henry replied.
Draco nodded. “Seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses is a way of describing someone who
sees all that is beautiful in the world. It’s a choice they make, to focus on the beauty in the
everyday, on the good things rather than the bad.” He listened a little more and Hermione saw his
gaze briefly flicker to her. “The song is about what happens when you fall in love.”
“Yuck,” was Henry’s opinion.
“Maybe,” Draco said. “Some people actually do the opposite when they fall in love. They wear
grey-tinted glasses.”
“And see everything as dark and bad?”

“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they're afraid.”
“Of love?” Henry nodded, solemn. “I don’t blame them.”
“And then there are those like your Uncle Harry, who wears clear glasses and still manages to see
nothing at all.”
Henry’s resulting cackles suggested that this might be the funniest joke he had ever heard.
Just as the song was coming to an end, the library fireplace flared bright green, indicating that
someone was attempting to communicate with the Manor via Floo. Beelzebub, who had been
sleeping beside the fireplace, awoke with start and started barking at the flames.
Draco caught Hermione’s eye. She stood just in time to catch the note that spat out of the flames.
“Asher Roth is arriving in the next ten minutes,” she announced.
“Is this our visitor?” Henry asked.
“That’s right, Henry.”
Draco stood now and approached Hermione at the fireplace. “You have ten minutes to change your
mind and tell him not to come.”
“I’m not doing that!”
“Granger, I have no idea who this man is. Notwithstanding the fact you only chose to reveal his
impending arrival in your usual, distracting manner.” He scowled. “I’ll not allow it.”
Hermione kept her eyes on him as she addressed her son. “Henry, could you please take your
brother back to your room and stay there until either your father or I come to get you?”
“Why? What’s happening? I haven’t finished putting together my train set and I thought we could
play more songs on the Grandma Phone.”
“It’s a gramophone, sweetheart. And please do as I say. You can continue with your train set later.”
It absolutely galled her when Henry looked to Draco, who gave his son the subtlest of nods and the
boy jumped to do as Hermione directed.
“Can I put Orion in the box and drag him like he’s a train carriage?”
“No, darling. He’ll walk. And please take Beelzebub with you.”
Hermione waited until the library door shut behind her children and their canine protector. And
then she spun around to face her husband.
“You don’t need to allow me to do anything, got that, Malfoy? If you ever speak to me like that
again, and in front of our children, no less, we’re going to have a problem.”
“I thought we were going to be open, honest and make joint decisions? You gave me no time to
even consider Roth’s visit. You didn’t ask me, you told me.”
“I only learned he was coming a few hours ago! And it’s not a bloody request, Draco. You’re right.
I’m telling you this is happening. Please understand. We don’t have time. The Ministry could send
someone here to take you at any moment. It could happen today, tomorrow, next month for all we
know. We need to be prepared.”
“And in the meantime, I’m to know nothing about what you’re planning? Including why you’ve
welcomed a stranger into my home, where my children sleep?”
“It’s my house too,” she snapped. “And the boys’. You’re rather quick to claim this place when
you want to enforce your authority over me. Otherwise you can’t get far enough away from it. I’m
doing this for you, you great big dolt!”
Hermione didn’t realise she’d been steadily walking backwards away from him until she felt the
lounge behind her.
“I didn’t ask you to do anything!” he said.
“No, but what’s the alternative, then?"
He made a sound to convey his frustration and turned on his heel. It looked like he was going to
leave the room, which would have been bloody typical of him. Hermione’s hands were shaking. In
fact she was shaking all over. If he left now, it might be for the best. She would have a moment to
collect herself, to calm down and be in a better state to receive Roth.
But then Draco seemed to change his mind.
He walked towards her and the expression on his face managed to flick on a switch inside her that
she thought she had permanently disabled. She flinched away from him, falling back onto the
lounge. It took everything she had not to cower.
“Stop. Step away from me n-now. Nownownow, Draco, please.. .”
He froze, stunned. “Hermione?” All trace of anger left his face. He reached for her “My God, I
would never–”
Hermione made a small sound and brought her arms up to shield her head. Her knees came up to
her chest. She wanted to make herself small. Small and unnoticeable.
“Don’t,” she said, from behind her arms, “Just stay where you are for a second, OK? I need to…”
The explanation for her odd behaviour was there, in her mind, but articulating it for either of them
was beyond her ability at the moment. She was confused and mortified.
What she wanted to tell him was that a lot had already happened that day and she was in more of a
vulnerable state than usual. And he was angry, which was fine. She’d seen him angry before.
But he was also so big, and fast, and when he came at her just now…
Everything was sharp and bright. Hermione put a hand over her eyes, bringing blessed darkness
and within that darkness, she focused on nothing else except her breathing.
Unfortunately, in a case of world’s worst timing, Asher Roth chose this exact moment to walk
through the fireplace, stepping into the library just in time to see Hermione Granger shielding
herself from her husband who was looming over her.
“What the hell is going on here?” Roth demanded, setting down a leather duffle bag.
Hermione forced herself to unfurl. She needed to de-escalate the situation before it got out of hand.
Roth took one look at Hermione’s panicked, tear-stained face and immediately had his wand out,
pointing it at Draco. “You son of a bitch.”
Draco, for his part, seemed oddly calm. He remained unarmed. “Did you come here to die today,
Mr Roth? Because that's what’s going to happen if you keep pointing that at me.”
Hermione shot up to her feet, every instinct screamed at her, albeit incorrectly, to be afraid of the
two, large, intimidating men in the room. She sucked in a deep breath and pressed on. “Mr Roth, I
apologise, but this is not what it seems. It’s lamentable timing, but I have just experienced a slight,
um, traumatic lapse before you arrived.”
“Traumatic lapse?” he repeated.
“Yes. I get them from time to time. We were having an argument and it set me off.”
Roth didn’t look convinced. He swung his speculative gaze to Draco. “You make it a habit to
menace your wife so badly in an argument that she has a panic attack?”
“Only when she particularly deserves it,” Draco said.
Hermione groaned. Of all the times for Draco to lean into his reputation.
Roth scowled. “I want to believe Barney was right about you, son. But we’re not off to a good
start.”
“Then let’s start again,” Hermione interjected, stepping in between the men. She belatedly realised
this was the wrong thing to do, because now, Roth was inadvertently pointing his wand at her .
Draco growled, moving in front of Hermione until he was nose to nose with Roth.
There was a tense moment where Hermione was worried Roth was going to take a shot, but
common sense won out. He stashed his wand, without once looking away from Draco. “Hell of a
welcome, I’ll give you that.”
Immensely relieved, Hermione wrapped her hand around Draco’s wrist, unsurprised to feel the
tension there. In contrast, her touch was whisper-soft. “Draco, may I borrow you for a moment,
please?”
He allowed her to pull him away, still staring daggers at Roth. His expression softened
immediately though when he turned to look at her. He cupped her face, tenderness evident in both
his touch and expression. Hermione was aware that Roth was watching them keenly.
“What happened back there? Are you better now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I do anything? Get you anything?”
Just please be patient and trust me like you said you would , she thought.
“Please stay with the boys while I get Mr Roth settled in. He’s here. This is happening. Deal with
it. ”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You need to rest.”

“I’ll rest when this is done. It’s only a week, Draco. We’ve managed far worse for far longer when
we were working in the lab, under far worse conditions.”
He wanted to say a lot more, she could read it in his eyes. She could sense how hurt and disturbed
he was by her reaction to him earlier. That conversation would have to wait, however.
To her surprise, he walked over to Roth and held out his hand.
“I’m Draco Malfoy. Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Mr Roth.” His tone was glacial, but the words, at
least, were cordial.
Stupid posturing men. Hermione internally seethed when Roth didn’t immediately accept Draco’s
indirect offer of a truce. But then, to her relief, his hand came up and the men shook.
“Interesting to meet you, young man.”
Roth was around the same age as Richards, who Hermione had always estimated to be in his early
fifties. He had a full head of dark brown hair that reached his shoulders, grey showing prominently
at the temples.
There was a lot about him that was unexpected. From Richards’ description, Hermione pictured a
slick, suit-wearing, shark. But Roth seemed laid back. He was dressed in jeans, and the kind of
lace-up boots one wore for trekking outdoors. His shirt was a simple, cream, button-down affair,
topped by a calf-length, tan wool coat. Stylish, but informal. He was very tall and, she supposed,
good looking, but he didn’t strike her as the sort who would be interested in wooing sheikh’s
wives, second or otherwise.
Draco gestured to Hermione. “You’ve met my wife. This is Hermione Granger.”
Hermione nodded in greeting. Roth gave her the full force of an intense hazel stare. “We’ve never
met before, but I feel like I know you quite well already. I read the letter you sent Barney. You
write very well, Ms Granger. You may have missed your callin’.”
“Please, call me Hermione. Missed my calling as a writer, do you mean?” She shook her head. “I
don’t have the patience for it.”
“Are you alright now?” he asked.
She could feel Draco bristle at the question.
“Better, thank you. May we take your bag up to your room, Mr Roth?
“It’s just Ash. I'm only Mr Roth when I'm in court.”
Draco already had the man's bag in his hand. Hermione wished he would at least pretend to look
like he wasn’t going to rifle through it the first chance he got.
“Which room are you putting him in?” he asked Hermione.
“Your mother’s.”
“Wonderful, I’ll take this there.” Draco made a theatrical sweep with his arm, a move that would
have looked ridiculous executed by any other person who wasn’t him. “I’ll take my leave Mr Roth.
You are now in my wife’s very capable hands. As she’s not liable to let me know if she’s feeling
unwell, can I count on you to alert me in the event?”
“Sure,” Roth drawled, but then added, “if she wants me to.”
Hermione had to reassess her earlier assumption about him. He might not dress like a shark, but his
smile was one hundred percent predator.
Draco answered with a smile from the same species.
Only no one was really smiling.
Hermione suddenly wanted to throw something. It was going to be a long week.

Time and Experience
Chapter Notes
AUTHOR NOTES
Here we are at the end, my friends? And you said there was no way I could wrap
everything up in a chapter!
Hah!
OK YEAH. SO TURNS OUT YOU WERE RIGHT.
I know I said it would end before Christmas, but my brain is fried. It's toast. Just like
Hermione in this chapter, I need to recharge. And I am way behind on Christmas prep!
The remaining content is sufficient for 2 more chapters, unless the wordcount
significantly increases during the editing process.
Good news is that the fan art has been ON POINT.

By artofcrumbs
Orion feeding Draco pancakes.
https://twitter.com/rizzle_writes/status/1541307443203805189
By Mab
Who draws the Draco in my mind every time.
https://twitter.com/catmintandthyme/status/147392504701840589
By Ene
Another of Orion feeding Draco pancakes drawn for for Mari (@dejavunott on Twt)
https://twitter.com/chestercompanyy
https://twitter.com/dejavunott/status/1473685368469868569
My Kid
Made this for Henry.
https://twitter.com/rizzle_writes/status/1473263188107952130/photo/1
13 commissioned art pieces by the amazing PoIIux are just about done, too. They're
spectacular and I cannot wait to share them. You can see more of Pau's mastery here:
https://twitter.com/PoIIux_
By the third day of Roth’s stay, Hermione and Roth had already fallen into an easy, collegial
rhythm. He was supremely competent, organised, precise and knew the relevant legislation and
precedents back to front. His combination of expertise was exactly what she needed to help Draco.
It occurred to Hermione that she and Roth were engaged in a similar pursuit to what she and Draco
had done during their time in the lab. Only this wasn’t science and magic. This was strategy and
magic.
At the moment, Roth was standing in the middle of a gradually spinning column of paper sheets
arranged around him in a grid. Each sheet bore the name and profile of potential allies for their
planned media blitz. The names were colour coded. Red for ‘no’. Green for ‘yes’. Blue for
‘maybe’. Orange for ‘wildcard’. A check box indicated if Hermione had already approached the
person. Roth occasionally gestured with his wand, moving the column up or down, faster or
slower, so he could find the sheet he wanted to read, annotate and reposition.
Hermione was seated cross-legged on the rug in front of the fireplace. She stretched out her legs
with a soft groan. Her right foot was starting to cramp and her lower back ached from hours spent
in various permutations of bad posture. There were two spare quills stuck in her messy, loose bun,
and ink stains on her fingers. All around her were small piles of newspapers and magazines.
Her current task was to add category tags to each publication based on region, medium of
publication, language, reach, and political leanings. Roth had also supplied dossiers on each of the
publications’ editors and sources of finance, just so there were no surprises in terms of their
potential allegiance.
“This would be so much faster with a computer,” Hermione said, not for the first time. “Cross
referencing the categories could be done in minutes using NVivo, or even just basic
spreadsheeting.”
Roth paused the spinning column, temporarily splitting it down the middle so he could walk
through the gap. The tower sealed shut behind him. Hermione had to hand it to the man; he had a
flair for the dramatic.
“It’s good to get a solid, mental map of how things interrelate. Feel the connections with your
hands as you make them. We’re dealin’ with lots of moving parts here…”
Lots of moving parts was an understatement. What they were doing was akin to trying to manually
navigate through a constantly shifting asteroid field. The smallest misstep could create a cascade
effect.
One of the first things Roth did was to explain to Hermione the basic realities of war crimes
prosecution. It was a murky process with no internationally accepted definition of an international
crime. Nor was there a uniform list of all possible international crimes. There was, however, a set
of crimes that were recognised by the international community as particularly heinous. These
included genocide, crimes against humanity, and crimes against peace.
“What about the ICC?” Hermione asked. “Do they still have jurisdiction to investigate and
prosecute?”
“The ICC has only just got back up and running. However, even if it was in a position to take on a
case of this magnitude–and that’s a big if–the ICC operates under the principle of
complementarity. This means that primacy over prosecutions is given to national courts.” He gave
her a humourless smile. “Local suffering, local evildoers, local comeuppance.”
“The Wizengamot,” Hermione concluded, with a dark look.
“Yup.”
“Does it have jurisdiction to prosecute Draco’s case?”
“Most likely. And that’s precisely what we don’t want. If Plan A fails and he’s actually charged
and arrested, he’d get a fairer shake under the ICC. The Ministry wants to close the page on its
shady dealings, pre-pandemic. To do that, they need a very public scalp. Your husband’s talent for
survival means he’s the last bad guy left standing and therefore, the one left holding the bag. The
only benefit of having the matter resolved locally is that Draco won’t need to be extradited. He can
remain in the UK for the duration of the trial.”
“How long would a trial take? "she asks.
“Years.”
“And if he’s arrested, could he be released on bail?” Hermione did not trust that a nasty accident
wouldn’t befall Draco in Azkaban. There were only so many times you could rely on a plastic
dinner tray to save your life in the event you were jumped by prison guards.
“No judge in his right mind would grant Draco bail. He’s the patron saint of Flight Risk. We need
to prioritise Plan A.”
Hermione felt cold all of a sudden. The plan could not fail. She would not allow it to fail.
Turning back her attention to her current task, she picked up a copy of a magazine called DIY
Bountyhunter , an American-based magical publication that was popular during Voldemort’s
second rising. It was a soapbox for vigilantes to share their opinions and in some cases, exploits, on
tracking magical fugitives and tipping off the authorities.
Although it represented a small sub-culture of the wizarding public, the magazine was deemed
relevant because this particular copy featured Draco on the cover. The stupid cover had taken
Hermione by surprise, knocking the air right out of her for a solid minute. It made her stomach turn
just to look at it. The editors hadn't even bothered to use an adult photo of Draco from his Death
Eater years. Merlin knew there were enough DMLE posters around at the time.
No. Much more scintillating to use a photo from Hogwarts.
He was about fourteen or fifteen. The picture looked like it was snapped during a Quidditch match.
Draco was on the Hogwarts pitch, broom hovering beside him as he bent to tighten the straps on
his shin-guards. He was facing the camera, but looking up at someone just outside the frame,
perhaps even at the photographer.
And he was smiling . Hermione traced her fingers across his face, which wasn’t as angular and
shadowed as it was now. The Draco in the photo still carried the apple-cheeked roundness of youth.
He had not yet taken the Mark. Hermione realised she was looking at what might have been the
last days of Draco’s childhood.
But of course, the editors hadn’t left the photo untouched. A smiling boy was not newsworthy.
The magazine’s logo was a noose, and so one was always added around the neck of each target the
publication featured on its cover. Hermione shuddered when she recalled the sight of a blindfolded
Draco standing in front of Admiral Titus Grey’s execution squad, preparing to be shot.
“You OK?” Roth asked. He was on his haunches in front of her. She wondered how long he’d been
there.
Hermione blinked. “Yes. Just…some of this is truly awful.”
He glanced down at the magazine. “Yep. DIY-B is a piece of work.”
“Do the members actually find any of the fugitives they’re looking for?”
“Quite a few, actually. Mostly small-time stuff. Malfoy was way out of their league. He’s big
game. They had about as much chance of finding him as they did Voldemort. But having him on
the cover moves copies.”
“So much of this material is negative,” Hermione said, frustration evident in her voice. “And while
I’m not trying to whitewash his past, a lot of this is speculation or simply made-up nonsense.
There’s one Scottish newspaper that claims he ran illegal dragon-hunting safaris in Romania, for
goodness sake!”
“One of the benefits of reporting on a fugitive is that the paper doesn’t have to worry about the
subject coming out of hiding to set the record straight,” Roth said, looking at her more closely. “I
think it’s time for a break.” He stood up and offered her his hand
Hermione allowed Roth to pull her up, noting he held on just a little too long even after she was on
her feet. It wasn’t unpleasant and nor was Roth, if she was to be honest. This made her feel guilty,
though she had no reason to be. She wasn’t obligated to find every other man repellent just because
they were not her husband.
Draco’s over-protective nature made her hypersensitive. When he wasn’t forbidding her to do this
or that, which was bad enough already, his displeasure created disincentives around her behaviour.
Hermione was quite sure he wasn’t doing this on purpose, but it would have to stop, regardless.
“I am not to be blamed for your flawed perception of me,” he said to her once.
This was the exact same thing. The problem was with him in this instance. His flawed perception.
His fears and insecurities. Hermione supposed she could muster up resentment at the amount of
emotional labour she was putting into the process of working on their relationship, but she didn’t
want to or need to.
The fact was that she’d known all along what she was getting into. If anything, Draco had warned
her enough times and he’d put up a brave resistance to her physical and emotional advances.
Things might have been even worse if they’d gotten together when they were younger, but she was
fortunate that adult-Hermione had already established a strong sense of self prior to falling in love
with the most inconvenient wizard in Britain.
Draco was always going to be hard work, and the day she felt like every tear she shed, every
heartbreak she endured, every hurt he dealt her was no longer worth it, well then that would be the
day she called it quits.
The sound of fluttering paper caught her attention, Roth had just collapsed the tower of documents
into neat, colour-coded stacks on the library table. “How about some lunch before we began our
descent into the bowels of spreadsheet hell?”
Hermione nodded. “I’ll make something.” She walked to the library door but he stopped her,
putting his hands on her shoulders. Hermione wasn’t entirely sure if his tendency to touch her was
a cultural trait or whether it was just Roth. Richards was from a similar background and yet she
couldn’t recall the Cowboy placing his hands on her for any reason that didn’t qualify as an
emergency.
“Let me make it this time. You’ve fed us the last two days.”
“It makes sense when I make our food. I know where everything is.”
“I know my way around a kitchen.”

Hermione had no doubt, but did he know his way around a Draco ?
He read her mind. “The only thing you need to worry about right now is all this .” He gestured
around the room, at their documents. “Everything else is a distraction and everyone else is
responsible for their own behaviour.”
She coloured slightly, feeling irritation rise up. “Everyone’s quick to give their unsolicited opinion
on my and Draco’s relationship. I appreciate the concern, but belabouring the point doesn’t help.”
He held his hands up in a gesture of placation. “No more unsolicited advice of a personal nature. I
promise.”
This only succeeded in increasing her annoyance, because Roth made it seem like she was being
stubborn. Hermione pressed her fingers to her forehead. She was tired of playing mental chess in
games that she didn’t have the time to indulge in right now.
Also, Roth was still blocking the doorway and was now looking at her in a way that was not very
professional.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Really? Really? She was wearing yesterday’s clothes, which consisted of
one an old T-shirt, an enormous cardigan, sweatpants and thick socks. She had bags under her eyes
and her hair was a rat’s nest. Even as she mentally catalogued how objectively unappealing she was
in that moment, Roth’s hand rose and gently pinched the end of her nose.
“You have ink on your face,” he explained, showing her the black smudge on the pad of his thumb.
It was time to deal with Asher Roth’s incessant flirtation before the man got himself killed or
worse.
“We need to get this out of the way so we can focus on the work.”
“Get what out of the way?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, though his effort at gormlessness was, in truth, more amusing than
galling. “What did you think was going to happen here? And I’m not referring to our task.”
“Do you mean what I hoped would happen with your charming self?”
“Yes. And I’m not a ‘charming self’. I’m your client.”
“It might surprise you to know, darlin’, that I don’t do this very often, and by very often, I mean at
all.”
“What, flirt? Sir, please .” Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’ve been doing this since the womb.”
He laughed. “My mother, bless her soul, might agree. She said when I learned to smile, I could
summon women to my crib at thirty paces. Barney thinks I’m a skirt chaser.”
“Somewhere out there is a middle eastern oil magnate who might agree with him.”
He had the decency to look a bit more serious now. “Let’s set the record straight. That man’s wife
wanted to leave him and I assisted her departure. There were…challenges for her.”
“How did you assist her, exactly?”
He gave no reply other than a very pointed look and a slight, lopsided smile, the corners of his eyes
crinkling. There was a disarming quality to his attempt at evasiveness.
“So, what, having sex with you is a precursor to women realising they need to leave their
husbands?”
He laughed. “Christ, Barney wasn’t joking about you.”
“Good, because Richards tells horrible jokes.”
“Hermione, I assure you, happily married women want nothing whatsoever to do with me.”
“ I am a happily married woman who wants nothing whatsoever to do with you other than what
you were hired to do.”
“Well you’re definitely married, darlin’, I’ll give you that much.”
“How do I know you’re not some spoiled, rich playboy trying to find a way to entertain himself
over the holidays because he’s just realised he’s very much alone?”
“Ouch,” he said, clutching at his chest. “Look, I’m honestly here to help. And you don’t have to
trust me, but you can absolutely trust Barney. Your letter was an unexpected window into you -
Hermione Granger: the person. I’ve listened to and given my fair share of brilliant closing
arguments. And I can tell you that I've never read anything quite like what you wrote.”
Hermione felt her face colour slightly. “I only wrote an account of my experience of the
pandemic.”
“Yeah, but you have a way of seeing through to the truth of things, even in circumstances where
your own role is ambiguous or even a contributing factor. And you manage to do it all with
extraordinary compassion. You’re brave. Braver than a lot of men I’ve served with. You talk about
kidnapping, torture and almost dying several times like they’re footnotes . Like they’re obstacles in
the way of helping others. You even managed to humanise monsters like Amarov and Honoria
Cloot. You’re the unicorn that a particular kind of person looks for; the complete package. The
thing that makes them want to get up each morning and do better, even when they have an entire
empire under their command. This is what Richards saw in you, and why he used you to control
Malfoy. It’s what Amarov saw in you.” He was looking at her unprofessionally again. “It’s what I
see in you.”
Hermione had no idea how to respond to this. When she had gathered her thoughts, she said, “You
make me sound like a weapon.”
“That’s because in the right hands, you are.” He braced his hand on the doorframe above her head,
effectively corralling her between the corner of the library and his body. “Knowing how Amarov
changed at the end of his life, and how you manage to temper your own personal dragon, I’d say
you’re more like an infection. A virus. Or a pebble thrown into a pond. Your influence spreads
outwards and we can see its effects ripple across a larger group of people than just those around
you. Even people you never directly worked with came around to your side. You were as much of
a catalyst for the coup on Amarov’s fleet as your husband was its orchestrator.”
“If you say you read and understood my letter, then you know what my family means to me,”
Hermione said. “What I’ll do to keep them safe.”
“I know. You’re a lioness.”
His hand moved again and Hermione wondered if he knew he was three seconds away from
receiving a wand jab to the nethers. For a moment, it looked like he was going to touch a curl, but
then wisely decided against it. To her relief, Roth cleared his throat and put some distance between
them. He stepped away from the door. She was almost through it when his next words stopped her
in her tracks.
“You know, not everything that’s challenging is worth the challenge. Lionesses don’t belong with
wolves.”
She whirled around to face him. “Predictably, we’ve come full circle back to unsolicited,
condescending and even sexist advice from someone I barely know, about something that isn't your
bloody business.”
Roth’s green-gold eyes flickered away for a moment. When he met her stare again, he looked
genuinely regretful. “Look, you’re right. I'm sorry. That would have landed me in trouble with
Human Resources,” he added, attempting to lighten the mood.
“Only, In this instance, Human Resources will cut your throat in your sleep and make it look like a
shaving accident. Please, Asher. If you really want to help me, choose to live. The ground is frozen
solid right now and it’s going to be a pain in the arse to help Draco bury your body.”
He was stunned into silence for a moment and then burst out laughing. “Hermione Granger, what I
would give to be twenty years younger right now.
It was close to two in the morning when Hermione walked into the boys’ bedroom to look in on
them. She leaned over Orion’s cot and smiled when she saw that the baby had managed to escape
the sleeping sack Draco had put him in. Honestly, he was a tiny Houdini in the making.
She smoothed down his white blond hair and spent a moment staring at his chubby little face, at
his dimples, his cupid’s bow mouth and his double chin. When her heart had soaked up its fill,
Hemione gently tucked Orion back into his sleep sack and took care to snap close the button at the
top of the zipper, which she was sure Draco left undone because he sympathised with the baby’s
constant preference to be unencumbered during sleep. He got that from his father.
Next, Hermione went to Henry’s bed. Her older boy slept with the covers right up to his chin.
Unlike his baby brother, he tended to feel the chill. She took another blanket from the boys’
armoire and spread it over him. And then she sat on the edge of his bed, leaned down and kissed
him all over his face. He smelled wonderful and Hermione felt a little pang of sadness to know that
it could not last. Orion only escaped this same treatment because Hermione wasn’t tall enough for
her to reach his face at the bottom of his crib.
“Mmph,” Henry said, grimacing in his sleep. Hermione smiled, kissed him one last time and then
left the poor boy in peace.
Finally, she crawled into her own bed, so exhausted that she couldn't be bothered mustering magic
to change her clothes. Draco stirred as soon as her knee pressed down on the mattress. He held up
the covers and she obediently scooted under them, greedily soaking up his warmth. He was bare
chested, but wearing pyjama bottoms.
“You smell like old newspapers,” he told her. He leaned away for a moment, causing a string of
muttered complaints from Hermione. As it happened, he was just reaching for his wand on the
bedside table, whereupon he instantly removed her clothing.
Now nude, Hermione sighed, aligning her body against his so that they faced each other. The well-
meaning fool had magicked her socks away and was probably regretting it now because her feet
were icicles. She longed to drift off to sleep, but there was just enough anxiety weighing her down;
flashes of non-specific worries and unpleasant feelings that kept her anchored to consciousness.
The strong circle of Draco’s arms was the safest place in the world, but there was something even
more powerful she could rely on to temporarily wash away her concerns. She pressed her mouth
against the base of his throat and breathed in slowly, expanding her lungs until her chest hurt.
On her exhale, she breathed out a word. “ Please .”
She felt his lips press against her forehead and his hand gently part her legs to stroke between them.
It used to be a source of mild embarrassment how quickly she grew wet whenever he touched her
there; like some kind of instinctive default setting.
He was good with his hands. So very good. Hermione spread her legs wider, allowing him room to
quickly work her into a breathless, frothy, daze. Even with her eyes closed and head thrown back,
she could sense the change in him - the increase in tension, alertness, the pace of his breathing. Her
less efficient hand clumsily grabbed at the front of his trousers. She groaned when she found him
semi-erect and growing thicker by the second.
He removed her enthusiastically squeezing hand. “Rest.”
“Please.”
“No. Go to sleep.”
If she had the energy, Hermione thought her feelings might be hurt.
“Draco,” she whined, finding it more difficult to use full sentences as she edged closer to her
orgasm. “Y’so hard.”
“My problem. Go to sleep.
“ Draco .”
He offered a compromise. Two fingers slipped inside her while his thumb continued to flick back
and forth across her clit. A shower of sparks began to cascade behind her eyes. Her impending
climax was going to make quick work of her headache. She must have forgotten how to breathe for
a moment, because suddenly she was sucking in an audible lungful of air.
Her astute husband correctly anticipated that an unintended, loud vocalisation was probably on the
horizon. He put her left leg over his hip, released his cock from inside his trousers and gently
pushed up into her body. “Is this what you want?”
The imperfect angle and slow thrust meant he wasn’t wholly lodged within her, but it was still
enough to finish her off. And of course, her brilliant husband knew what to do next as well.
He put his hand over her mouth as she came and remained still, allowing her to take what she
needed from him via sweet, alluringly feminine undulations of her hips. She clenched at him,
internal muscles rippling up and down the portion of him that was inside her. When she finally lay
still, he released his hand from her mouth.
Hermione felt limp and languid. He would have to use industrial strength SkeleGro on her in the
morning to regrow her bones. It was fine. Draco would know what to do. He was an almost-doctor,
after all.
“S’ry,” Hermione apologised, with her eyes closed, realising she was about to leave him hard and
hanging.
He stroked her hair, reaching up to remove the quills in her bun and then undoing the bun itself,
carefully using his fingers to spread her curls where they had clumped together from being tied up
all day.
She was asleep now, but on some level, still aware that he’d arranged her hands so they lay
between their faces, that he kissed her ink-stained fingertips, that he stayed inside her, unmoving so
as not to disturb her, until he too, fell asleep.
But not before he said, “I love you.”
“Roth finally got his chance to make lunch on the fifth day of his visit, though had Hermione
realised this would bring him face to face with Draco, she might have reconsidered the
arrangement.
"Good afternoon,” Roth said, as he entered the kitchen.
“Roth,” Draco acknowledged. He barely glanced up and even then, it was only to ascertain if
Hermione was with him. When Draco saw that she wasn’t, he returned his attention to the task of
sorting through a bag of fruit.
Roth walked to the fridge, spent a moment looking for ingredients, and then pulled out several
items, placing them on the counter beside Draco. “Where do you keep your butter?”
Without a word, Draco walked to the pantry, took out a glass butter dish from a shelf and set it
down. “Is there anything else you need?”
The older man stood back and surveyed the items before him. “Nope, I think I’ve got everything.”
He hummed a tune softly to himself as he prepared the meal.
Draco carried the fruit to the sink and began to wash it, watching Roth from the corner of his eye.
“Is that sandwich for Hermione?”
“Yes, why?”
“She doesn’t like cranberries.”
“Has she ever had it in a sandwich with turkey?”
“No idea. You’ll have to ask her.”
“She might realise she likes it.” Roth looked at Draco, nothing but geniality on his face. “You
don’t know what you don’t know, you know?”
Draco was back at the counter now, drying the fruit with a kitchen towel. The fruit was a deep
aubergine purple, with a fine layer of peach-like fuzz. It was round and roughly the size of a
grapefruit. There were three in total.
“Say, is that Oyster Berry? I haven’t seen Oyster Berry since I was stationed in the West Indies.”
“There’s grocer in the village who occasionally imports less common varieties of fruit,” Draco
said.
“It’s an acquired taste. Not everyone enjoys it.”
Draco placed an Oyster Berry on a thick wooden cutting board and began to use a paring knife to
dig out the tough stem. “My children have broad palates.”
“Does Hermione have a broad palate?”
The knife speared straight through the delicate fruit, crushing it. The insides spilled open over the
cutting board, causing thick streams of neon pink sap to run out. Scattered across the benchtop were
fleshy seeds that resembled large pearls.
The scowl on Draco’s face was volcanic as he cleaned up the mess. “Yes.”
“Then I think she might enjoy cranberries in her sandwich. I make a mean sandwich.”
Draco slammed the knife, pointy-side down, into the chopping block. About an inch of the blade
lay buried in the wood.
“Your sandwich could be Genghis fucking Khan. She’ll still eat the damn thing because she’s
polite, but at the end of the day, you’ll have been told she doesn’t like something and nevertheless,
you thought you knew better.”
Roth was completely unfazed and didn’t once glance at the still-wobbling knife. “Well, far be it
from me to offer her something you’re so sure she won’t like. I’m not above taking advice” He
looked amused. “What do you suggest?”
Draco sighed, cataloguing the ingredients Roth had assembled. “Stick with the turkey. Lettuce,
tomato, mayonnaise and two slices of cheese. And both slices of bread need to be buttered. The
cheese is to prevent the bread from getting soggy.”
“Gotcha,” Roth said, and set to work.
By now, Draco had cleaned up the disembowelled Oyster Berry and was lining up the second
victim. Using a cleaver, he carefully positioned it across the middle of the fruit and was about to
bring it down when Roth winced softly.
“ What ?” Draco snapped.
“Look, kid, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. But if you cut into an Oyster Berry, the fruit
spills its sap and the flesh turns bitter. Here, can I show you?”
Without waiting for a response, Roth grabbed the third fruit and demonstrated his technique.
“Now, what you wanna do is avoid using a knife altogether. Oyster Berries have what you might
almost classify as erogenous zones. His hands cupped the fruit, long fingers splayed around it,
massaging it.
“First thing you do is warm the skin, release some of that tension across the surface. See how it’s
almost starting to loosen up under the heat of my hand?”
Draco’s expression was difficult to read at this point. An outsider observer might have described it
as eerily serene.
“Now, I don’t blame you for wanting to take the stem out first.” Roth gave him an understanding
look. “Common rookie mistake. You don’t need to remove the stem at all. In fact, keeping it intact
is going to help you.” He flipped the fruit over, so that the stem side was facing down. “See this
little depression? You fit both thumbs over it, gently, and then apply pressure.”
The furry purple skin appeared to shiver, before several seam lines spontaneously formed across
the surface of fruit, starting from the stem and ending in the depression at the opposite side.
“Ah, I think we’re just about there. Et voila!” Roth released the fruit and both men watched as it
split itself into five equal segments, each bearing an intact, translucent sack of fleshy white seeds.
Not a drop of pink sap was spilled. “Brute force is quicker, sure, but it doesn’t always garner the
best results. You learn these things with time and experience.”
Without looking away from Roth, Draco brought his cleaver down on the remaining Oyster Berry
with considerable force, splitting the fruit neatly into two halves, No pearls were lost. The fruit
spasmed for a moment, as if in shock, but only a thin line of bitter sap leaked out.
Roth sighed. “Shame. You’ve bruised the pearls. They won’t be as sweet.”
“My sons are hungry ,” Draco hissed. “I don’t have time to seduce their food. Stop talking to me.
Stop trying to fuck my fruit. Or my wife , for that matter, or so help me, Roth, I will stab you.
Repeatedly. Vigorously . I know just how to do it so you’ll die fast and bleed even less than this
fruit. And you’ll have died knowing the last thing you did was fingerfuck an Oyster Berry. ”
“You’ve only got two settings, did you know that?” Roth asked him. “‘Functional’ and ‘caged
animal’. A word of advice, son, you need to develop some range.” Roth’s gaze moved to the
cleaver that was in Draco’s hand. “You could try and use that on me. Might even succeed. You’re
wicked fast, kid. And strong. But we both know you’re not gonna do a damn thing because it’ll
hurt her.”
“Don’t pretend you care about her,” Draco seethed. “You barely know her.”
Beep.
“Oh, but I do. It’s a hell of a thing, how quickly she makes a person care,” Roth said, with what
sounded like irritation.
Beeeep .
“She’s dealt with enough monsters in one lifetime. Barney and I just wanna make sure you’re not
gonna be another one. He feels responsible for putting her in your line of sight–”
Beeeeeeep.
“–and after what she’s pulled off, the world owes her a bit more than just a thank you card. In fact–
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep
“God damn it, what is that sound? ”
“Front gate wards,” Draco replied.
Hermione Apparated into the kitchen at that moment, appearing directly beside Draco and visibly
startling Roth.
“There are men outside,” she said.
Both men could not help but note that she delivered this news to Roth, rather than to her husband.
It was a surprise to wake up each morning alive and well since he’d arrived at Malfoy Manor.
Asher went to bed (alone) each night with the knowledge that he might not make it to the next day.
Granted, Malfoy didn’t seem like the kind of guy to snuff a man out in his sleep, but Asher
wouldn’t put anything past the kid. Especially when his wife was concerned.
If Asher made it to Barney Richards’ annual New Years Day cookout, it would be out of pure,
dumb luck.
Even Hermione looked like she wanted to throttle him when he ordered the young couple to stay
put inside the house and out of sight, while he spoke to whoever was at the gates. She did not enjoy
being told what to do in her own house. As rare a specimen as she was, Hermione Granger wasn't
too difficult to figure out.
Draco Malfoy, on the other hand. required a bit more time to learn. An advanced degree in
Psychology might have been helpful, too.
Barney had helped lay down the groundwork of course, providing Asher with a preliminary sketch
about the young man's background, to which Asher gradually added colour, layers and texture. The
end result was a little alarming.
Malfoy was a bomb strapped to his own family. He hadn’t known a single day of peace since
Hermione freed him from Azkaban and gave him something to care about. The problem was that
his past was the ultimate zombie. It never stopped coming from him. It was impervious to doors,
magic, guns and science. It was relentless. Running had worked well for Draco before, but it was
no longer an option, not with a wife and two children.
So, of course Malfoy was terrified. Asher felt genuine sympathy for him. It was almost a valid
excuse for his behaviour.
What was Asher’s excuse, then? He should and did know better. That was why Barney had sent
him, wasn’t it? To help the family? Hermione was not a valid excuse for anyone’s poor behaviour,
but she sure as hell was the reason why Asher felt a perverse amount of pleasure in giving Malfoy
a hard time.
He wanted to punch Malfoy’s lights out. If nothing else, it would keep him out of trouble for a little
while. But one look at Hermione’s face made Asher check himself.
The woman was fucking spectacular, was the problem. She was the kind of woman who turned
agents into double agents, who could restart the vestigial hearts of despots. It was technically
possible to train someone to pretend to be a version of what Hermione naturally was. But even
then, it required such mastery in artifice and manipulation on the part of the trainee, that you
needed a sociopath to begin with. Throw into the mix the Siren’s call of Hermione’s subtle
sensuality and she really was the dangerous man’s catnip. The more time he spent with her the
harder it was for Asher to keep his shit together and focus on their task.
Barney was probably laughing his ass off.
When the ward alarms sounded, He told the kids to stay with their kids in the damn house, and to
let him do what he was trained to do, what he was there to do – insulate them from the Ministry's
wrath.
He added an additional wand to an ankle holster, and a knife to his back pocket. By the time he
walked out of the house and reached the enormous black iron gates at the front of the property, he
saw a group of Aurors look like they were fixin’ to bust open the gate. The beeping finally
stopped.
There were six of them, all in matching uniforms. Asher quickly sized them up. One of them
looked like they could be trouble. Four were bleaters. One was wearing a fedora. He looked about
a hundred years old and in urgent need of a blanket and a hot drink.
He slapped on a big, welcoming smile. “Afternoon, fellas. What can I do for you?”
The dangerous looking Auror spoke up, predictably. He had a nasty scar across his mouth which
rendered it slightly lopsided. “Who’re you?”
“I’m a friend of the family.”
“Well, friend of the family , open the gate,” Lopside said. We’re here on Ministry business.”
“Sorry, I’m not from around here, as you boys can probably tell. I’m not familiar with how things
work. Did you say you’re from the Ministry and you want to come in?
“Aye! So open up.”
“No can do, sir. I’m looking after the place and I can’t be lettin’ people in just because they ask me
nicely.” His smile thinned. "And that wasn't a very nice ask."
“Where is Mr Malfoy?” Lopside demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“His wife, Hermione Granger, where is she?”
“I don’t know. I’d be happy to take a message, though. Or a note? You have their email?”
“I don’t think you heard me, old chap. Open the gate by Order of the Ministry for Magic!”
Asher gasped. “Did you say by Order of the Ministry? Well then. That’s different. I’d be happy to
comply if you let me see it?”
“See what?”
“The warrant. An Order implies you have a warrant.”
Lopside scowled and then walked away to confer with his colleagues. When he approached the
gate again, he looked smug. “We don’t need a warrant to conduct a search.”
“Yeah. No, I’m pretty sure you do need one.”
“We can arrest you for hindering an ongoing investigation!”

“An ongoing investigation that has something to do with the Malfor residence would still require a
warrant to enter said residence. Right now, the only thing I’m obstructing is your attempt to gain
unlawful entry.”
Lopside tried a different, though equally ineffective approach, “Mate, look, you’re a visitor to the
country. You don’t want trouble. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
Asher slapped on a contemplative look. “OK, but just so I know, which way are we doing it right
now ? This seems pretty easy to me, but I should probably check so that I have a correct baseline
for comparison.”
The man lost it. He grabbed the gate with both hands. “You fuc–” The remainder of his sentence
came out as a scream as he was flung backwards by the wards, landing in a dusty heap on the
gravel. There was the distinct smell of burnt hair. His colleagues hurriedly assisted in picking him
up.
“For your safety, please keep all appendages away from the warded gates at all times,” Asher
announced.
“This muppet’s not getting the message, boss,” Lopside groaned.
The ancient one walked over to the gate to speak to Asher. This took a while. When he finally got
there, Asher instantly reassessed his earlier assumption. Lopside was just a lackey. The old man
was the one in charge.
“My name is Darius Hinkley and I am the Director of the Department of Magical Law
Enforcement. We are Aurors, but of course you know that already,” he said, smiling. “Am I to
believe that you are refusing us entry onto the Malfoy property?”
“That’s correct , sir.”
“May I please see your identification and visitor’s permit, young man?”
It’d been a few decades since anyone called him ‘young man’. Asher was positively giddy as he
passed his papers through the gate.
“ Captain Asher Roth?”
“Retired,” Asher said, with a jaunty salute.
“You’re a long way from home, Captain Roth. It says here you’re also a barrister. Are you the
Malfoys’ legal counsel?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“He misrepresented who he was, boss!” Lopside yelled. “He said he was a friend of the family!”
“Friend and lawyer are not mutually exclusive, McInnes. Even though they probably should be.”
Hinkley handed back Asher’s identification. “Your papers look to be in order, Captain Roth. Has
your stay here been a pleasant one so far?”
“So far,” said Asher.
“Good. Here is my card.” Hinkley handed Asher a black business card with silver print, the
Ministry logo was clearly visible on one side. “See that you give it to Mr Malfoy. I’d be willing to
speak to him at the Ministry and avoid unnecessarily alarming his family with a return visit to his
home. Wives find it terribly distressing when we come calling unannounced.”
Asher raised an eyebrow. “Have you met his wife, Mr Hinkley?”
“I have not had the pleasure, no. But her reputation precedes her, it’s fair to say.”
“It’s also fair to say that your Aurors might find it ‘terribly distressing’ if they come calling a
second time without a warrant signed by a Wizengamot magistrate.”
Hinkley’s smile was almost genuine. “Duly noted. Good day, Captain Roth. Please give my
regards to the family.” He tugged at the brim of his black fedora.
Asher smiled and waved at Hinkley’s scowling men until the last one had Disapparated back to the
Ministry. As soon as they were gone, his expression turned serious. He walked back to the house.
He and Hermione had a lot of work to get complete.
Balance
Chapter Notes
This stupid story is demanding to be finished in a particular way and I feel like its
helpless monkey conduit, banging it out at the keyboard.
A bit more to go after this, but not too much.
Tangential:
I wish 'mental health' was treated the same as 'health', with the same kind of support,
funding, and access to services.
Art
If you haven't seen the art I commissioned from Pollux_ , what are you waiting for!
https://rizzlewrites.tumblr.com/post/671450765805633536/liatotza-character-portraits-
by-pollux?
fbclid=IwAR2K3iDNBiGc02T1A4YpwE5snbBiXCAnfAoY5QJOFkUvUwG9B2jKJQbExZw
by-pollux?
fbclid=IwAR0JgaryMjC0Fi0LpqnMwrYQRceKZryCgiDwc6xmXBGQIWpADkGf41SNQp0
by-pollux?
fbclid=IwAR2g6C4hWMUaQGDsHNywr_G4G6GGgmAbDvthDGCIBivU6GQ7_f49olKc1lM
by-pollux?
fbclid=IwAR2IsozB1vX2IunN86JchOKGlpb8GiGXR8AUud6NnDhSAt2eikwuBTeolXw
It was just Hermione’s luck that in the small amount of sleep she managed to squeeze in over the
next three days, anytime she dreamed, the dreams were nightmares. This was what came from
discussing the more horrific details of Amrov’s fleet with Roth.
Hermione’s silent alarm rang at four-thirty on new years eve. It was Roth’s last day at the Manor
and though they had finished sending out all the letters to their potential allies, there were still a
few bits and pieces to wrap up. His scheduled Floo departure was just before lunch, so an early
start was prudent.
As it happened, Hermione was not the first one up that morning. When she opened her eyes and
reached for her wand to turn off her alarm, she was surprised and delighted to find her youngest
son staring at her.
The fact that Draco had brought the baby into their bed indicated that Orion must have had a rough
night. Additional evidence was Orion’s pacifier, which was currently in his mouth. The baby had
not used it for some time. Orion was fully dressed in a long-sleeved onesie with attached booties.
He lay on his stomach, on his father’s bare chest, facing Hermione. It was very cold, but Hermione
supposed Draco was plenty warm enough thanks to the tiny furnace sleeping on him.
“Good morning, bubby,” she whispered, smiling at her son.
Orion pulled the pacifier from his mouth and held it out to her. “Dis.”
“Oh, thank you, darling.” Hermione took the pacifier and pretended to munch on it. “Num, num,
num.” She was rewarded with Orion’s soft giggles. His cheeks were so enormous that his eyes
disappeared when he laughed.
Draco stirred, turning his head to Hermione’s side, but did not awake.
“Shh,” Hermione said, bringing her finger to her lips.
“Pssshshstsst,” Orion agreed, blowing drool quite some distance.
Really, she ought to be encouraging Orion to go back to sleep and save Draco a potential headache
if the baby decided to remain awake. But she’d barely spent time with him over the past week and
he was currently impossible to resist,
She reached out to tweak his small nose. “What’s this?”
“Noss,” said Orion. Draco had been teaching him to name the parts of the body.
“And this?”
“Cheen.”
“This?”
“Mowf.”
She tugged on his earlobe and Orion scrunched up his neck. He was very ticklish there.
“What about this?”
Curious how she never noticed before that he had unattached earlobes. Hermione’s were attached
and Draco’s were not. Idly, she wondered which trait was dominant and then marvelled at the fact
she could ask her wizarding husband and he might actually know the answer. That particular party
trick was never going to get old.
“These are your ears.”
“Urrs,” he repeated.
“That’s right. You’re such a clever boy. Just like your daddy.”
When his father was mentioned, Orion turned his attention to tracing his finger along the Dark
Mark on the inside of Draco’s forearm. “Daddy snek! Sssssst!”
It was surreal; the utter innocence of a baby juxtaposed with a symbol of evil. Hermione wondered
how many other Death Eaters, many of whom had been parents, navigated the existence of such
antithetical concepts in their lives. How did you look into the trusting eyes of your child and then
go out into the world to commit atrocities to other people’s children? What kind of superhuman
cognitive dissonance did someone like Lucius Malfoy rely on to do the things he did?
Hermione felt the fingers of her casting hand twitch with magical buildup; a direct response to her
sudden, intense loathing and disgust. It was a naive question, she decided. Over the ages, there was
no shortage of evidence that people were capable of the most unimaginable acts of cruelty, while
also managing to love and raise their own children.
The key to doing this was actually quite simple, and probably a legacy of human social evolution.
Some people were ‘us’ and other people were ‘them’. The difference lay in what you did with this
delineation. Did you evolve to understand that there was strength in diversity? Or did you close
ranks and decide that your geographical and genetic boundaries were sacrosanct?
The science was clear on which approach benefited humanity, and Hermione knew that his
realisation had been Draco’s Pandora’s Box. On some level, Hermione wondered if Lucius
realised he risked losing Draco to logic and reason when he allowed his son to learn about Muggle
science? Maybe it was his way of preparing Draco for a world where Death Eaters were not just
irrelevant, but also plain wrong ?
In the end, it didn’t matter why Lucius did it. Hermione was still grateful. As she watched their son
wind his father’s hair around his fingers, she tried to imagine a reality where Draco continued to
terrorise and subjugate others because he believed he was inherently better than them. She
shuddered to imagine it. Maybe possessing magical ability made it even easier to believe in one’s
innate superiority? And this notion of superiority was probably even more keenly felt by
Purebloods.
“Mummy?” Orion recaptured her attention by crawling off his father’s chest and lying down
between his parents. Draco was also awake now, cheek pillowed on both hands.
“He was unsettled last night,” he said, confirming what Hermione suspected. “He misses seeing
you during the day.”
“I know. That ends after today.”
“And he’s still biting Henry.”
Orion was demonstrating this particular proclivity by putting his pacifier back into his mouth and
chewing on it. With any luck, this meant Henry would get a reprieve.
Hermione gave Draco a commiserating kiss on the forehead as she got up to start work.
That particular issue was going to take a wee bit more time to resolve.
Roth added the finishing touches to a flowchart he created to assist Hermione in responding to
DMLE inquiries in his absence. The size of the thing meant they had to project it on a wall in the
corridor outside the library.
Ideally, a pocket-size, interactive version would be more useful for Hermione to keep with her, but
there was no time to work on it. Roth used his wand to write in a dark blue, subtly illuminated text
that hovered just above the wall’s surface.
They were running on very little sleep. Hermione hadn’t pushed herself this hard since her days
with Project Christmas and even then, she could always count on Padma to pry her away from her
work station and march her off to bed.
Roth, on the other hand, was a bloody machine . He had the endurance and mental stamina of a
much younger man and was relentless in ensuring that Hermione was as well prepared as possible.
She had already filled two whole notebooks over the course of the week.
To his credit, Draco left them alone to complete their task, though it probably took effort for him
not to walk over to the library and demand she come to bed at a decent hour. Hermione wondered
if the Aurors' unexpected visit had unsettled him enough to grudgingly allow Hermione and Roth’s
to continue their work, undisturbed? He didn’t seem unsettled, but then again, she barely saw him
when he was awake.
Roth was speaking to her. “Barney wrangled us an additional eight hours of Floo time in January,
so just jump on the F-line if you need me. Don’t worry about the time difference. And if they come
callin’ with charges and a warrant, at that point I’ll become Draco’s official legal representation
for the case. I’ll be able to get a Floo permit and an emergency visa to return. He checked his
wristwatch. “My bag’s already packed and in the library. We have an hour before I have to leave.
Damn it! I wish we had more time!” He wasn’t normally this agitated. Hermione guessed this was
what passed for fatigue when it came to him.
“I can remember all this, don’t worry,” she reassured. "I think we’ve done everything we can.”
“Trust me, we have.” But even as he said this, Hermione saw the flicker of contemplation on his
face.
“What is it?
“Just an idea,” he said. “I noticed Draco doesn’t wear the Malfoy signet right. Do you know if he
has one?”
“There is definitely a Malfoy signet ring, but he doesn’t have it. At least, I’ve never seen him wear
one. It was probably with his father.”
“Who is missing and presumed dead, correct?” This was posed as a question and though they never
discussed what really happened to Lucius, Roth was astute enough not to go opening boxes he
couldn’t re-seal.
“It’s what we suspect,” Hermione replied, with what she hoped was indifference. “His father would
have been the last one to have the ring. If he had it on when he was arrested, I’m assuming it was
taken from him when he was imprisoned. Conceivably, it could still be Azkaban, or in a Ministry
evidence locker. Why do you ask?”
“Do you know anyone who can verify if it’s there?”
“Yes. Harry can probably find out.” She gave him a quizzical look. “Are you going to tell me why
you’re suddenly interested in this ring?”
“In Draco’s situation, the ideal exit strategy is to strike a permanent bargain with the Ministry so
that they don’t decide to come after him again some time in the future. Are you familiar with how
these kinds of agreements are made between the Ministry and old wizarding families? Pureblood
families?”
“No, but you’re about to tell me,” Hermione predicted. “I imagine it’s via magically binding
contracts?”
Roth nodded. “In the past, they signed contracts in blood. Break the agreement and your oldest son
develops a case of irreversible syphilis or whatever. No one has to lift a wand to do it; the contract
takes care of any breaches. But then, enter the signet ring–a more civilised way to conduct
business, right? Some rings are symbolic, but some are magically imbued. They work like an
electronic signature. The family patriarch can present the ring to add his binding signature to a
contract.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Draco tends to downplay his last name.”
“Good news is that he doesn’t need to be a card carrying Malfoy. He just shows up to any Ministry
negotiations with the signet ring and declares he’s ready to put it down as collateral on a good
behaviour bond. It’s as binding as blood. It’ll resonate with these old school types.
“The Wizengamot is as old school as it gets,” Hermione said.
“Precisely.”
“I’m all for using any advantage available to us, but not if it means my sons contracting irreversible
syphilis,” she said, pulling a face.
“Definitely not,” Roth said, smiling. “You can work out the finer details, which I’m sure won’t
include venereal disease.”
“We’ll do our best to locate the ring. Thank you, this is quite handy to know.”
He looked at his watch again. “Just doin’ my job, darlin’. Forty-five minutes to go.”
“One final read through, then?” suggested Hermione. She returned her attention to the flowchart.
“This is a crash course in legal tactics that I wouldn’t even attempt with a junior colleague. Are you
sure you’re ready for this?”
Hermione didn’t look away from her perusal of the chart. “If it can be learned, then yes, I’ll be
ready.”
He seemed to enjoy her confidence. “Some of it is instinct, too, and I can’t teach you that. Not in a
week. A lot of it is to do with standing your ground. You can’t flinch, Hermione.”
“I know.”
“And remember the difference between power and authority. The DMLE has the authority, but you
can hold on to the power if you know the rules of the game. That’s what you’ve been learning.”
“How many of the allies we contacted do you think will agree to help?” Hermione couldn’t keep
the worry out of her voice.
“I’m hoping for at least half,” Roth said.
“What if we don’t get nearly that many? These people have been through hell. They may not want
to relive it by having to tell their stories. I certainly didn’t.”
Roth put his wand away and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Oh, they’ll help.” He gave her a
wry smile. “It’ll take a heart of stone to turn you down.”
It may have been because she was so tired and so very worried, because Hermione's eyes were
suddenly itchy from unshed tears. In shortlisting allies, it had been necessary to recall what role
each person played in the scheme of things, to remember in fine detail every cruelty, every
injustice and indignity, every act of sacrifice, every personal loss they experienced.
“Hearts of stone were what caused so much suffering in the first place. And here I am asking
survivors to dredge it all up again.”
“Ah, Hermione,” Roth said. He hesitated for a moment but then put his arms around her in a hug.
“Just hang on a little bit longer. Trust in the process and in the knowledge that I’ve been doing this
for longer than you’ve been around. It’s going to work.”
Odd how that simple reassurance really did make her feel better. Hermione realised she’d been
longing to hear it from Draco. For the last few weeks, she’d been the one to provide it to him,
rather than the other way around. She was weary of being the only member of their pep squad. His
resignation and pessimism was beginning to feel personal.
“Hey, look at me,” Roth said. “They’re not going to be able to take him from you.”
It didn’t matter how annoyed she might be at Draco. Her determination to protect him was
unwavering. “No,” she agreed. “Not while I’m still breathing.”
His expression changed from reassuring to something else. She’d been too tired and preoccupied to
keep track of the growing warning signs, but in hindsight, they’d been there the whole time.
Oh, no.
Hermione tried to step away from him, but he didn’t let go.
“You,” he said, shaking his head.
“Roth,” she warned, her hand snaking down towards her wand. “ Asher .”
“Fuck it,” he said. “Can’t live forever.” And then he was kissing her.
Accompanied by Beelzebub, Henry was on his way to the greenhouse to feed his frogs and give
their tank a thorough cleaning. He stood at the top of the library corridor and was about to call out
a greeting to his mother when she saw her talking to their mysterious house guest, a tall, older man
who smiled too much. He knew he shouldn't be sneaking, but it would be fine so long as no one
saw him doing it.
He listened until he felt he had heard enough, but then his mouth fell open when he saw the man
accost his mum.
Draco had just put Orion down for his afternoon nap and was tucking a blanket around the baby. A
hopeless endeavour, given that Orion would kick it off, but it was particularly cold that morning.
He finished setting the baby monitor charm when the bedroom door flew open. Henry stood at the
doorway, holding Beelzebub by his ridiculous handles.
“Henry, what on earth–”
“I need your wand,” Henry blurted. He set the dog down. “Please don’t ask why! I just need it
now!”
Draco dropped down to one knee and beckoned his son to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Please! Just give me your wand!”
“I’m not giving you my wand and besides, you have no idea how to control it. Now, are you going
to tell me what’s going on or not?” Draco paused to glare down at Beelzebub, who was vibrating.
“I’ll have no fiery theatrics from you, thank you. I’m handling this.”
The dog whimpered, but stopped shaking and instead began to lick Draco’s hand.
“Spill it, Henry.”
Henry opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He burst into tears.
Draco frowned, urgency now overtaking his previous gentleness. His voice was firmer when he
spoke. “Where’s your mother?”
At the mention of Hermione, Henry immediately grabbed Draco’s hand. “Dad…please, please
don’t kill him.”
“Kill who, Roth?”
“They’ll come and take you away and put you in prison! You’re already in enough trouble! You’re
always in trouble!” he lamented, almost as an afterthought.
Draco stood up. “Henry, calm down. I’m not going to kill anyone.”
“I don’t believe you! You’re going there right now to hurt him right because he’s kissing mum! If
you just give me your wand, I can look after her!”
A slight widening of Draco’s eyes was the only indication of surprise at Henry’s raised voice, or
Henry’s news about Roth, or Henry’s protective attitude towards his mother. Or it might have been
all of the above.
“I want you to stay here with your brother and Beelzebub. Do not leave this room.”
Draco left, but he didn’t do this by walking out of the room. He Apparated directly from it.
Henry looked down at Beelzebub. “Oh, Beezles. I think I made a mess of things. This is really
bad.”
Hermione wasn’t sure if it was worse that Draco turned up in the aftermath of the blasted kiss,
rather than during. His imagination was not helpful in situations like this.
He apparated into the corridor just as she had her wand pressed under Roth’s chin. One moment
Roth was there and she was speaking to him, and the next moment, her wand was pointing at
nothing at all.
Draco had shoved him away from her.
Roth was entirely passive. Merlin, he wasn’t even holding his own wand. Hermione appreciated
the amount of fortitude this took, when faced with Draco’s focused wrath. She remembered how
Amarov had literally shrunk before her eyes.
If Roth thought that his play at contrition would cut through Draco’s rage, he was wrong. The
older man was clearly expecting a punch to the face and seemed fully prepared to receive it without
complaint.
Only the punch never came. Draco put the full force of his body’s momentum into his arm and
then to the palm of his hand as it connected with Roth’s throat. He flipped Roth backwards onto the
floor, straddled him and then wrapped both hands around the man’s throat.
It was so reminiscent of Amaov’s attack on her that for a moment, Hermione was paralysed. She
felt like she’d been slowed down. Or like the world around her had sped up. Each blink felt like a
collection of moments rather than a fraction of a second. She wasn’t sure how much time passed,
but when the haze cleared from her mind, Roth was turning blue in the face.
“Draco stop!” She grabbed his wrists. They were so rigid it felt like there was steel under his pale
skin. It was like he didn’t hear her. He didn’t even seem to register that she was there.
“Stop it!” She pulled at his arm, pushed at his shoulders. She grabbed him around his middle and
tried to haul him off Roth. In the end, this only succeeded in ripping open the neck of his jumper.
Hermione was astounded not just at Draco’s strength, but at how utterly focused he was in what he
was doing.
“You’re killing him!” she shouted.
Roth’s eyes rolled back into his head. He was still trying to buck Draco off but his movements
were slowing down. Frantic, Hermione pointed her wand at her husband, her voice and her arm
shaking. “If you make me stop you this way, I won’t forgive you.”
He didn’t stop. Hermione felt something snap inside of her. The feeling was so acute she was
surprised it didn’t make a sound. “I don’t need you to be a killer!”
It worked. Draco released Roth and stood up. Hermione rushed forward to assess Roth’s condition.
He opened his streaming, swollen eyes, coughing and sputtering. She could see burst blood
vessels.
“Asher, for God’s sake, just sit still!” she snapped. “Let me see.”
He pushed her hands away and mouthed the words, I’m fine .
“You’re not fine!” There were hideous marks on his neck already and from experience, Hermione
knew they were going to look even worse in a day or two. “Please try not to die. You’ve done
enough damage today.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, but it was no more than a wheeze. His trachea was severely bruised. He tried
to swallow and winced.
“You should be. I have half a mind to finish what Draco started.” She grabbed his wrist to check
the time. “Ten minutes to your Floo window. Can you stand?”
He nodded.
She tried to loop his arm around her shoulders and the resulting look of indignation from him was
almost amusing. Men and their stupid pride. She regretted not slapping him across the face earlier.
Draco was suddenly beside her. It probably made his brain explode a little when Hermione flung
herself protectively across Roth.
“Don’t kill our lawyer. We may still need him.”
For all his years of experience, Roth had the survival instincts of a duckling. He tried to push her
away, causing Draco to look increasingly murderous.
“Move away from him,” Draco said.
“Not until you promise–”
“MOVE AWAY!” he roared. Hermione was so startled that she scrambled away backwards.
By now, Roth was sitting up. Hermione was alarmed to see his wand in his hands now, but he
wasn’t intending to attack Draco. He was writing in the air.
I’M the son of a bitch here. YOU don’t have to be.
Don’t be angry with her. She did nothing wrong.
MY FAULT
Hermione held her breath when Draco approached him, but murder was no longer on his mind. At
least for the moment. He pulled Roth to his feet and partially dragged him down the corridor and
into the library.
The Floo portal in the fireplace was already blazing bright green, awaiting Roth’s entry. Draco all
but shoved him into the fireplace, and then threw his bag at him. Roth was looking at Hermione
now. He wrote another message.
This changes nothing. If you still want me, I’m your lawyer (if I survive Barney).
“Yes, well. Richards is welcome to do whatever he likes to you after Draco’s case concludes,” she
said.
“Are you finished with the work you needed to do here?” Draco demanded. He was standing
directly behind Hermione and his voice did things to her nerve endings. Good and bad things.
Roth didn’t respond. He was currently occupied staring at Draco with malice.
Draco’s eyes snapped to Hermione next, and she felt like she’d stepped into a walk-in freezer.
“Well?”
“We’re done, yes.”
“Excellent,” Draco said, turning back to Roth. “Now get the fuck out of my house.”
They stood before the fire in silence, long after the flames changed from green to orange.
Hermione thought it odd that she never experienced a truly uncomfortable silence with Draco
before now, for all the stumbling they had done early on in their relationship. They had always
managed to sit in silence without a need to fill it.
Not on this occasion, however. There was so much to say and she didn’t know where to begin.
Actually, no, that wasn’t correct. She began with the one priority they had no trouble agreeing on.
“Where are the children?”
“Orion’s asleep and I told Henry to stay in their room.” Draco seemed distant now, lost to his
thoughts even as he spoke to her. “What happened between you and Roth?”
“You choked the man and now you’re not even sure what he did?”
“Did he touch you?” The question was asked with such sinister intensity that Hermione was
convinced that Roth wasn’t entirely out of danger. Regardless, Draco deserved the truth and that
was what he was going to get from her.
“He kissed me. It was brief and I was in the middle of making him regret it when you showed up
and scared the life out of me.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “The man forced himself on you, and yet I’m the one that frightens
you?”
“He didn’t force himself on me!”
“Don’t make excuses for him.”
“I’m not,” she frowned. “This isn’t the good old days when I have the kind of honour that can be
compromised. You don’t get to decide if or how I’ve been wronged. I do.”
He said something, but it was muttered under his breath and she missed it. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, you were protecting him!”
“I was protecting you , you daft man!” she said. “We need Roth! And even if we didn’t, I would
have still done the same bloody thing because you killing someone for the crime of kissing your
wife is not the story I want to tell your children when they ask me why their daddy is rotting in a
prison cell!"
“ He put his hands on you! ” Draco seethed, each syllable so sharply enunciated that it felt like a
slap.
“And for that he has to die? Are there no other options between disapproval and strangling a
person to death?”
Draco scoffed. “Roth was in no danger of dying.”

“What are you talking about?”
“I was entirely aware of how hard I was squeezing,” he said, dismissively.
Hermione thought the world must have gone mad in the last five minutes and no one informed her.
She couldn’t believe they were discussing degrees of strangulation .
He saw the expression on her face and answered her unspoken question. “If I wanted him dead,
believe me, he’d be dead.”
The ridiculous thing was that he was right. “So, what I just witnessed was you…what? Teaching
him a lesson? Could you possibly have done that without violence? Without me being there to
witness it? Also, what shocking hypocrisy, Draco. You did far worse to me when you were fresh
out of Azkaban, or have you conveniently forgotten that fact?”
“I have not forgotten,” he hissed, with such ferocity that she took a step back. “In fact, knowing
that I was orders of magnitude worse than Roth could ever be, I told you to stay away from me! I
warned you! Repeatedly! I even allowed myself to be taken from Grimmauld Place by Honoria
Cloot in order to put some distance between us!” He actually sneered at her. “Look at you! You
can’t even be in the same room as me when I’m angry!”
“That’s not true,” Hermione said, only this was completely ruined by the break in her voice. She
forced herself to take in a slow, deep breath, to practice what she knew worked best for her when
she felt close to giving in to irrational panic. “How did you know what was happening with Roth?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Were you spying?”
“Henry came to tell me.” He didn’t seem insulted by her insinuation. He sounded defeated, empty.
“ What? He saw?”
“He saw enough.”
“What kind of message does this convey when you immediately go and choke Roth directly after
Henry trusts you enough to tell you what he saw?” she demanded. “Knowing Henry, and knowing
he knows what you’re capable of, I’m betting he was worried you were going to do exactly what
you ended up doing.”
The look on his face suggested Hermione was correct in this assumption. "None of it should have
happened in the first place. I should have been there.”
“Actually no, that’s an impossible standard for either of us to maintain. I can look after myself.
You can’t watch over me every second of the day and I don’t want you to. You can’t safeguard
against all risk, Draco. You have to allow for the possibility that I’ll get lost, sad, angry, hungry,
tired, hurt, all of it. And the eventuality that one day, yes, I might even get sick. It’s going to
happen, Draco. I’m not immortal. One day, hopefully a very long time from now, I’m not going to
be here.”
“No.”
Hermione stared at him with incredulity. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
He was shaking. “No. I won’t allow it.”
She could fathom his response. “That is not within your power to control. Even Henry understands
that death is an inescapable reality. You cannot prevent every unpleasant thing that befalls those
you care about.”
“I know. I haven’t succeeded so far.”
“That’s because it’s impossible! You can’t go on like this! You need to find some balance!”
“Damn it, Hermione! I’m trying to be different! You may not see it, but I’m fucking trying!” He
stalked across to the other side of the room and for a moment, Hermione was worried he might
actually put his fist through the glass display cabinet beside a window. She could sense the rage
and frustration seething just under his skin. He reached the window and stopped to stare at the
winter landscape outside.
It looked like he was trying to regain his composure, and so she kept silent and took his cue on
when to speak next.
“I don’t know how to do this…”
“Do what?” she asked, suddenly terrified of the answer.
He appeared to be carefully considering his answer, and this was even more terrifying. “How to
love without feeling like I’m being flayed.”
Her immediate instinct was to go to him, but the very notion that this might cause more harm than
good, stopped her. She needed to understand. “That’s how this feels for you? It…hurts? All the
time? Even when you seem happy? Even when…we’re together?” Hermione was aghast.
He looked at her, his grey eyes enormous, imploring and shiny with unshed tears. Pain was etched
into every line on his face. He was far too young to look at her like this. When he nodded, a tear
spilled down his cheek.
She wrapped her arms around herself. “I had no idea. I never thought that what we have is
something that could possibly hurt you” She shook her head, confounded by the very notion.
“....that you might not experience love the same way I do.”
He was experiencing the cost of that love right now, it seemed. She saw the look of misery on his
face and the way his lips trembled as he tried to keep his emotions in check.
“But then you’ve only been telling me that from the start, haven’t you?” Hermione said, with a
small sob at the realisation. “Dear God, you told me this hurts you and I didn’t listen.” She paced
in front of the fire. “All this time, I’ve been trying to fix something that I was breaking more and
more with every passing day–”
“And you call me the dramatic one,” he interjected, with a sad smile. “I made my choice. No one
forced me.” He was looking at her and speaking to her, but his eyes were dead. There was nothing
there except tears.
How could it be that love couldn’t fix this? No matter how hard they earned it, no matter how
strong they were, no matter how much they worked at it. How unbelievably naïve and selfish
she’d been, to assume he could force him into a mould that didn’t fit.
Hermione felt like she was going to throw up. Her lower lip shook so much she could barely get
the words out. “Do you…” She swallowed, trying to get her tremors under control. “Draco, do you
need to leave?” And with her next question, she broke her own heart. “Do you need me to let you
go?” she asked, in a voice that was so small, it seemed a miracle he heard her at all.
The man standing across the room currently had the power to destroy her with a word. She felt like
she was being pulled down into the ground by the immense gravity of her dread.
Was this how he felt all the time? The very idea of him existing in such pain made her want to claw
at her own skin. She looked at her beautiful husband; whom she loved more than her own life, and
waited for the axe to fall, trying to remember to breathe, forcing herself to relax her hands so that
her fingernails didn’t cut into her palms. No matter what happened, she needed to walk out of there
with the ability to still care for their children. She had to keep it together.
Hermione was so preoccupied with the fear of impending loss that she didn't see him come to her,
but she most definitely felt him pull her into his arms and press her cheek against his chest.
“Please don’t cry, Kiska.”
The endearment broke her. She erupted into heaving sobs, her words almost babbling and
incoherent now. “I don’t want to hurt you any more.”
He rested his chin on her head. “I will endure a lifetime of agony if this is what it means for me to
love you, Hermione.”
“That’s unacceptable. Love should not be unbearable.”
“Life without you and our children would be unbearable.”
“I don’t want to be the lesser of two evils, Draco.”
“Nor do I want that for you. I don’t want you to constantly be the one responsible for balancing us,
for tempering me. It’s all been on you , don’t you see? That’s not going to work. I keep hurting
you, frightening you. You’re going to break from the pressure and I’m going to crack from the
guilt.” He sighed, and then added, “And quite possibly, a few people might die along the way.”
He tipped her chin up so he could look at her. Hermione was a mess, she knew. Red, wet, blotchy
and in dire need of a tissue to blow her nose. He was crying, too, but he was so quiet and dignified
about it. This was how he processed his pain and fear; either discreetly or explosively.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked, feeling utterly helpless.
“I’ve said it before, Granger. I must learn how to be other than what I am. Not for you. At least, not
just for you, but also for me .”
“All the progress we’ve made, you only did it for me?”
He nodded. “I would do anything for you that’s within my power to give you.” He cupped her chin
in his hands as rubbed a thumb back and forth across her bottom lip. He frowned. “Do you
understand that?”
She nodded, wanting desperately to give in to the growing euphoria and hope in her chest, but still
cautious, still so worried.
“What if I can never change?” he said. “What then? What if I never manage to find that balance?”
Merlin, she didn’t know. Any reassurance and promises she gave him now would be trite,
meaningless, placating. They had made enormous strides, but only time would tell if he could
adapt to allow himself to love without feeling the accompanying pain. And the stakes were much
higher. Hermione had signed up for potential heartbreak. The children had not. They deserved
peace, not the turmoil of a volatile marriage.
What was it Richards said about men like Draco? They don’t do well domesticated .
Just when she was beginning to feel dread sink its claws into her again, Draco said something quite
extraordinary.
“I need help.”
Hermione was stunned. Magical folk were notoriously dismissive of mental health support. They
were a good two decades behind Muggles, in this regard. For all Draco’s more practical attributes
and scientific training, his method of dealing with trauma had thus far involved a ‘go it alone’
approach. Stupidly and pridefully, Hermione thought she could smother him with enough love to
help the process along. It was her same tactic for helping Henry.
“And by saying that, I don’t mean you haven’t helped,” he added.
Draco probably thought her silence meant Hermione assumed she’d been a hindrance. It was
difficult to speak, but she forced herself to choke out the words. “By help, do you mean
professional help?”
“Yes.”
She beamed at him. “I think therapy is a wonderful idea.”
“I don’t know where to look, or if there’s even anyone left alive who might be suitable, but I’m
usually good at finding things I need.”
Panic bloomed again. Her arms tightened around him. Finding implied searching and searching
could mean leaving. “Oh,” she said, trying and failing to sound unconcerned. “Does that mean you
might have to go away for a bit?”
He allowed himself a moment to read her expression. Hermione spent this same time simply
soaking up the sight of his face, wondering how she could survive him voluntarily leaving her, if
she was quite sure anyone forcibly taking him would destroy her.
“You thought I was going to leave earlier, didn’t you?” he surmised. “I’m sorry I gave you that
impression. I didn’t mean to.”
Hermione grabbed his palm, the one with the burn scars, and rubbed her face into it, breathing in
his scent, not caring if he thought she was strange. She acknowledged she was probably a little odd,
but then, so was he.
“Merlin, I was so scared,” she admitted. “More scared than I’ve ever been in my whole life.”
“Forgive me.”
Was it safe to untie the anchor from her heart now? To let it fall away and let her rise to the
surface? They still had to make it through his Ministry case. Survive one more thing, make it over
one more hurdle and then they would have all the time in the world to muddle through their
complexities in a clinical setting, individually, and perhaps even together.
Her relief came with a physiological side-effect. Like Beelzebub, Hermione felt like she could burn
up from the intensity of her emotions. The heat in her chest cascaded to every corner of her body.
But she felt it most keenly in her stomach and lower, in the ache and throb between her legs.
She stood on her toes, which wasn’t usually enough to reach Draco’s mouth, so she pulled on his
hair and tugged his face down to her. It was madness that they hadn’t kissed each other all week.
There’d been sex, yes. Excellent sex, but not this .
Of all the things that made her feel like she was addicted to him, Hermione thought Draco’s kisses
had probably been a very effective gateway drug. They were a shorthand for his feelings for her,
even when he didn’t realise he had any. Draco could distil his emotions into a kiss. And at that
moment, everything she tasted in his kiss told her that her need to be close to him, to have him sink
under her skin, was entirely reciprocated.
She flicked her wand at the library door, locking it, before walking Draco backwards until the
window ledge was behind him. There were too many layers of clothing between her mouth and his
skin. Hermione was going out of her mind to taste as much of him as she could, but this was not the
time and place. The children were close by and their parents would be needed shortly. At any
moment, Orion’s baby monitor could go off.
Hermione pulled her mouth free, gasping for air. “Quickly,” she said, her hands already undoing
his belt buckle and unbuttoning the first button on the faded, black cargo trousers he wore so well.
Her fingers searched and failed to find a zipper. She whined in frustration and he soothed her by
sucking on her tongue.
“Buttons,” he said, into her mouth.
“I don’t care if it’s a tutu, get your cock out now.”
“OK,” he said, a tiny furrow of concentration appearing between his eyebrows.
His endearing little ‘OK’ made Hermione’s heart clench. It was perhaps an indication of Draco’s
fragile emotional state that he was without his usual, teasing quips and sexy banter. He was so
earnest now. He was vulnerable .
She needed to be very careful with him when he had his heart exposed like this.
“Are you…are you alright to do this?” Hermione forced herself to check. And then belatedly
realised the number of times she’d initiated or demanded sex and not once bothered to ask if he
was fully on board. He may have been physically ready, but emotionally ready was something
else.
The terrible double standard needed to stop. Draco took such care with her when she was
physically worn out from their lovemaking, but she never repaid this courtesy when it came to his
emotional well-being, and those marks did not heal so easily with ointments and charms.
“Hermione?” he asked, sensing the change in her. Uncertainty clouded his eyes. His previous tears
were still drying on his cheeks. “What is it? Do you not want to?”
“Yes, I want to, but do you feel up to it?”
His responding smirk was extremely reassuring. He took her hands and wrapped them around his
cock. “How does that feel to you?”
She looked down at him and groaned. He was hard, hot, and flushed a lovely, deep pink. He’d
refastened the top button of his trousers so they stayed on while leaving his cock free. Clever.
Draco lifted her so she was sitting on the window ledge, and perhaps for the first time that
tumultuous morning, he noticed what she was wearing. It was a cream cardigan over a long, denim
skirt. On her feet were soft, calf-high boots.
“Handy,” he muttered, and she smiled against his bare shoulder, which she could access thanks to
his ripped jumper.
He hiked up her skirt, bunching the material around her waist. Here, they encountered a second
obstacle. This time, Hermione’s groan was one of frustration.
She was wearing black, wool tights. Not so handy. Hermione started to shimmy her bottom off the
window ledge, thinking she would need to hop off and remove her boots in order to peel off her
tights. But, as per usual, she ought to have expected the unexpected from her problem-solving
husband.
He dug his fingers into the seam of her tights and ripped them open. It didn’t hurt her, but
Hermione could feel the force behind the act; the way his biceps tensed under her hands. As
always, this sent a frisson of arousal spiking through her. Her underwear was no match either.
Draco’s fingers slipped into them, along the inside of her thigh. The back of his knuckles slid
against her damp core briefly, tantalisingly, before he used both hands to grasp the cotton and rip
her underwear from her.
This obstacle now removed, her booted legs wrapped around his hips. There was a lull as he made
a little bit of space between them and positioned the tip of his cock against the aching, wet entrance
to her body.
“Look,” he said, his voice incredibly low and gruff. “See how good we are together.”
With their foreheads touching, they watched as he pushed into her body. This had never been their
problem, Hermione thought, as Draco filled her. Their coupling had always been a crucial factor in
bridging the gap between feelings and the processing of those feelings.
She put her arms around his neck and allowed him to set the pace, but after a minute or so, made a
request. “ Harder , Draco,” she demanded, and then belatedly added, “Please?”
His smile was radiant. He fucked her, somehow having the presence of mind to spread his hands
on the window pane behind her so that her head didn’t connect with the glass on each thrust.
While she longed to spend all afternoon like this with him, they needed to be quick. Hermione
looked down between them again. The sight of his shiny, slick cock splitting her open was
mesmerising. She reached down to rub her fingers against her clit, sighing at the perfect
combination of sensations.
Hermione leaned back against the window with her eyes closed and continued touching herself in
the way she had perfected since she was a teenager.
Eyesight was not required to work out that her ministrations were extremely well received by her
husband. She could feel him thickening inside her, his pace simultaneously increasing while also
becoming erratic.
“Where do you want it?” he said, through gritted teeth.
She opened her eyes and looked at him, her expression loving and languid. “Inside me. Always.”
He came with a hoarse shout, hips jerking. One hand around her wrist, the other hand grasping the
back of her neck. She was almost there. Her fingers moved faster and she was thankful Draco did
not pull out yet. Still catching his breath, he dipped his head down to catch her mouth in a sweet
kiss. It was almost chaste in its fleeting, light foray of lips and tongue.
The kiss was all she needed to tip the balance. Hermione’s head slammed back against the window,
unfortunately missing his cushioning hands, not that she could tell if her momentary blurred vision
was from her striking her head, or from her climax. She clenched at him, enjoying the sensation of
doing this around his softening cock. He was more malleable at these moments, and she could feel
the strength and grip of her internal muscles. It was heavenly. Draco’s breathing hitched slightly as
he let her ride out her climax around him.
When they had recovered sufficiently to stand, he helped her off the ledge and then, with an
expression of adorable diligence, smoothed her skirt down and used his wand to iron out the
wrinkles in the denim.
She caught his hand and squeezed. “There’s not going to be an inspection.”
Draco adjusted his own clothing, smoothed down the mess she had made of his hair and then
looked at her. “Are we…are we alright?” He sucked in his lower lip as he awaited her answer.
Hermione didn’t think she could get used to this new vulnerability. She was already a piece of milk
toast because of the children. Now their father was going to demolish her.
“I hope so,” she replied. It was as honest as she could possibly be, even though it stung like hell not
to say, clearly and loudly, ‘yes’.
He took this well, all things considered. A glance at the mantle clock on top of the fireplace
indicated that it was noon. “I’ll get their lunch started and then wake the baby,” Draco said. “He’s
been taking longer naps this week. Why don’t you eat with us and then go to sleep? I can wake you
up later if you want?”
Hermione’s typical response would be to protest and insist that she was fine. But then she decided
that maybe she, too, could learn to relax her guard a little. She needed the rest and was emotionally
exhausted. Additionally, it was new years eve. If she took a nap now, she’d be fresh and alert later
in the night.
“Capital idea,” Hermione declared.
However, all thought of rest went out the window when Orion’s baby monitor went off, which
would have been a perfectly normal occurrence, if it wasn’t accompanied by his piercing crying
and the sound of a very specific, Manor ward alarm.
Legacy
Chapter Notes
I figured out why the chapters were showing +1.

There was a double. There should only be 78 chapter currently. And 1 more to go!
Henry was beginning to suspect that his memory of the restricted wing in Malfoy Manor was
perhaps not quite as precise as he’d hoped.
The place seemed so much larger and darker since he walked through it with his family when
they’d first moved into the Manor. The small, battery operated flashlight he used was woefully
inept at lighting the way. It cast a puny beam extending only a short distance ahead of him. The
darkness made him feel like he was under water.
Henry had a vivid imagination, but right now, he was doing his best to avoid thinking about what
sort of things might be swimming around in the thick black soup. He wasn’t scared, though. As
was the way with magical children, ghosts, goblins and an assortment of beasties were less
frightening because they were known. Remove the mystery and much of the fear went with it, too.
Besides, he had Beezles with him, which was the next best thing to having his father there.
“You’re a good boy,” Henry said to the dog.
When it came to training, it was important to provide lots of encouragement and something called
‘positive reinforcement’. He read about this in one of his mother’s books on parenting. Granted,
Henry didn’t understand or necessarily agree with a lot of what was in the book because it was
written by Muggles who didn’t know any better, but he understood the value of praise.
Being Slytherin to the bone, Henry saw no point in false modesty. The fact was that he, Henry, was
awesome .
He’d defended himself against zombies when he was just four years old. He maintained his cool in
situations where most other children would have been zombie meat. And then there was the time
he captured Honoria Cloot when she tried to escape after Draco had freed the fleet. He was also
very good-looking, according to his mother.
Fortunately, Henry didn’t have to worry about zombies any more. His mission was entirely
achievable so long as he remained calm and focused on finding his way through the maze of
corridors. He was on a quest to find a marble statue that he remembered seeing during his first visit
through this part of the house.
From memory, he knew the statue was not in any of the rooms. It was located in the central
corridor that served as the spine that connected the rooms. Henry counted a hundred and eight
steps from his point of entry, from the foyer of the house, before the rooms began. This was
important to know, so he could find his way back without getting lost. A quick feel of the wall
confirmed that he was in the gallery portion of the corridor now. There were portraits and paintings
covered with cloth, just like much of the unused furniture in the house.
He counted two, five, eight…ten paintings in total, before he found what he was looking for.
Henry grabbed hold of the cloth that was draped over the statue, and pulled. He couldn’t see the
cloud of dust that billowed in the air, but his nose certainly felt its presence. He sneezed three
times in quick succession.
Through his watery eyes, Henry looked up to see what he had uncovered. Yes! Here it was, just
like he remembered! Beezles stopped beside him and licked his fingers.
“We found it, Beezles!”
Lucius Malfoy was a tall man. At present, he looked even taller than Draco because the statue was
standing on a marble platform. Feeling a knot of nerves form in his tummy, Henry avoided shining
his light up at the statue’s face, instead focusing the beam on Lucius’ left hand.
Excitement and triumph bubbled up inside him. There it was, the Malfoy signet ring! Just as Henry
remembered.
Of course, back then, Henry hadn’t realised its significance. A gold ring on a marble statue was
just another fancy object; one of many fancy objects his father kept out of sight and beyond the
reach of the children. They were dangerous, Draco explained. Even the Ministry experts had
trouble cataloguing and disposing of them.
Henry wondered why his father had not noticed the ring the first time, if it was that important? He
remembered how Draco had walked ahead with Orion, his eyes downcast, seemingly disinterested
in what was around them. Draco didn’t like the house or what was in it.
Well, all the things except Hermione, Henry and Orion.
Unlike Draco, Henry had been fascinated. He stopped to look at every portrait, at every piece of
Malfoy history, and at the statue of Lucius. He’d been struck by just how much of the Malfoy
stamp shone through its men. Lucius, Draco and Orion all bore the same characteristic Malfoy
features.
Henry, on the other hand, was about as different from them as it was possible to be. Not even
adoption could change this fact.
His first mother, Daphne Greengrass, was a blur of perfume, kisses, and a single, haunting lullaby.
His memories of his first father, Blaise Zabini were more detailed. He remembered a lot about him,
but the one thing that stuck in Henry’s mind was that Blaise had made Henry promises he could
not keep. The first had been that Daphne would not die when she fell ill, and the second was that
Blaise would not leave him.
Their deaths had been a shock to the system. But the system quickly adapted.
Following Blaise’s death, Henry’s care was temporarily assumed by his current parents, Draco and
Hermione. While they didn’t make promises to him, Henry could read between the lines. He was a
burden, a responsibility they didn’t want. They were not ready to be with each other, let alone
become parents together.
So, it was no surprise then, that they ended up leaving him, too.
Henry went on to live with Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter for almost a year. At this point, they
were his third set of ‘parents’. They were very decent to him, and it was nice that other kids in the
fleet were in awe to learn he lived with Harry Potter, but Henry was too clever to allow himself to
grow attached. Harry and Ginny probably didn’t realise it, but their continual reassurance that
Draco and Hermione would return, helped Henry to steel himself against the affections of anyone
who attempted to gain his trust.
Things were more complicated now, of course, with the addition of Orion. Having a baby brother
was something he hadn’t prepared for.
Sometimes, when no one was watching, he tried to be mean to Orion on purpose. But the dumb
baby didn’t get it. He didn’t cry. He just stared at Henry with his big eyes, looking so sad that it
was impossible not to cuddle him and apologise profusely. He might not be a clever baby, but
Orion was a very good baby, even if he did bite.
Mothers and fathers were temporary. But baby brothers were a permanent responsibility. Orion
didn’t deserve to lose his father the way Henry had lost his.
The well of affection for his current parents was there, deep inside his heart and Henry needed to
continuously suppress it. It was hard, though, because he loved them. He knew their smell, could
recognise their touch and their voices, even when he was asleep. Henry could not recall a time
when he felt so safe. He cared for them and didn’t want the family to be torn apart. Often, he had
bad dreams about what would happen to them if Draco was taken away.
He didn’t think that there was much he could do to help with his father’s problem with the
Ministry. That all changed, however, when he heard what the awful, old, grabby man had said to
Hermione.
The Malfoy signet ring was important and could help ease negotiations with the Ministry.
Well, just his luck then that he knew where the ring was located! His parents had no idea it was
right there in the house, worn by the statue of Lucius Malfoy.
Finding the statue had been the easy bit, so far. Getting the ring was a little trickier.
“OK, Beezles, here I go.”
Henry placed the flashlight on the ground and began to climb up onto the platform. There was no
way to reach the hand otherwise. He was standing on the platform, his arms wrapped around the
legs of the statue, when he heard the voice.
“Child, whatever are you doing?”
Henry shrieked and fell. Luckily, he wasn’t so far off the ground that the fall hurt. Beezles got out
of the way just in time.
“Who’s there?” Henry demanded. He picked up the flashlight and swung it around, trying to find
the location of the speaker.
“I should be asking you that question.”
Henry was startled to realise that the voice was coming from the statue . It was speaking to him.
He shone the beam over the statue’s face and released another shriek when he saw the head move.
It was looking down at him, its marble features arranged into an expression of familiar impatience.
“Blind me, why don’t you…” the statue muttered.
“You’re Lucius Malfoy.”

“Yes, thank you, child. I know who I am. Who the devil are you?”
Henry wasn’t frightened, but he was cautious. Portraits and magical statues didn’t tend to be
malicious, but it was highly dependent on who made them and what their reasons were for
existing.
“I’m Henry Miles Greengrass Zabini,” and then, just in case it would lend some unforeseen
benefit, he threw in, “Granger Malfoy.”
“If you must illuminate this situation, could you at least not point that light directly into my eyes?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Henry lowered the light. This allowed him to notice more details about the
statue. For starters, Lucius looked to be around the same age as Draco was at the moment, though
he was stockier, with deeper set eyes, and thinner lips. Henry thought he looked like a meaner
version of Draco.
“From that tangle of names, I discern that you are related to Cyrus and Laurel Greengrass?”
Henry shrugged. “I don’t know who they are, but my first mum is Daphne Greengrass.”
“I see,” said Lucius. “Well two things occur to me immediately. You, young Henry, are from one
of the oldest and most noble wizarding families in Britain, and somehow you do not know your
ancestry…”
“What’s the second thing?
“I am a man out of time, I think. There was no Greengrass by that name when I came into being.”
“You’re not a man at all,” Henry reminded.
“Also correct. That sharp tongue, I’m assuming, we owe to your Zabini heritage?”
“My first dad was Blaise Zabini.”
“Any relation to Nisfa Zabini?”
Henry nodded. “Yeah. That’s my Nan. I mean, that was my Nan. She died. I only met her once or
twice with my first dad.”
“Extraordinary witch, Nisfa. I learned quite a bit from her during a rather fortuitous interlude
between her third and fourth husbands.” Lucius sighed, and then looked down his nose at Henry.
“Let me see your face, child. You remain in the shadows.”
Henry obliged by turning the light on himself.
“Ah. You look like your grandmother. Though I see no Malfoy in you.”
“That’s because I’m not a real Malfoy,” Henry said, his hands wringing at the hem of his jumper.
It was a sensitive topic and he wished statue Lucius would drop it.
“Pray, which Malfoy is your father?”
“Draco.”
“Well, then, Henry,” Lucius said, with a wide smile, “That would make me your grandfather.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
There was a short silence.
“You need something from me,” Lucius eventually said.
Henry decided that this was a question, even if it didn't sound like one. “How did you know?”
“I’m bespelled to awaken when a member of the household requires something of me. In this
instance, that person is you. So tell me, grandson, what is it that you want?”
“I need that, please.” Henry pointed to the signet ring on the index finger of Lucius’ left hand.
“Very well. Take it.”
“Just like that?” Henry asked, suspicious, “No riddles to answer or anything? Aren’t you even
going to ask me why I want it?”
“My function is to hold on to something a Malfoy gives me to safeguard, until such time a Malfoy
seeks its return.”
“So you’re telling me you’ve had this ring this whole time we’ve been here and you never spoke
up before because no one wanted it?”
“Correct.”
Henry thought about this for a moment and then nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. Draco hates
you. He wouldn’t want anything from you.”
“Why does he hate me?”
“I don’t know. He won’t say.”
“I can be rather difficult, I am told.”
“So can my dad,” Henry muttered. His voice was a little quieter when he added, “He makes my
mum cry.”
“And who is your mother?”
“Hermione Granger.”
“Granger? I am not familiar with that family.”
“That’s probably because she’s Muggleborn.”
This news had quite a startling effect on the statue. Previously, only its head and mouth appeared to
move, but now the whole statue shuddered, sending a veil of dust falling around it.
“Of all the repugnant notions…”
Henry wasn’t sure what that word meant, but he knew it wasn’t good.
“Tell me, Henry. Am I dead?”
“Yes.”
“Did I die before my son married this woman?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“A small mercy, I suppose,” Lucius said, “to not have survived such an indignity, to not have
witnessed the disgrace.”
“Oy, there’s nothing wrong with my mother,” Henry snapped, his voice rising. “She is the bravest,
kindest, prettiest, smartest witch–”
“Then there is clearly something wrong with my son.”
Henry scowled. “You know, I can see why my father doesn’t like you.”
“Well, I can understand the reason for the falling out now, believe me. This Granger woman is not
your mother, however. You say you are a Greengrass and Zabini child?”
“Yes, but–”
“Then it is another mercy then; that my son has not bred with this Mudblood.”
“He has…um, bred!” Henry wasn’t sure if he was using the word correctly, but gave it a stab
anyway. “I have a baby brother called Orion. He’s very clever, just like my mum!” Henry was
pretty sure the statue wouldn’t be able to spot the lie.
“A half-breed child of a Mudblood! This is too much to bear!”
Henry was furious on behalf of Hermione and Orion, but he’d seen his father handle bigots enough
times to understand that there were three options. You could ignore them. You could get angry and
hit them. Or you could use your words and really hurt them. It also helped that Henry was not as
quick to anger as Draco. It was probably something he inherited from Blaise Zabini.
“Good thing you’re dead, then,” Henry said. “So you don’t have to bear anything.”
Lucius narrowed his colourless eyes at him. “You are an interesting boy.”
“I know. Are you going to give me the ring or not?”
“I repeat, only a Malfoy can take it from me.”
Pursing his lips and frowning, Henry climbed up the platform for a second time and reached for
the ring. He paused. “Hang on. What happens if someone tries to take it and they’re not a Malfoy?”
The smile Lucius gave him was familiar. Henry had seen it on his father’s face before.
“That, my dear boy, is likely the reason I have been consigned to storage. Dangerous artefacts and
all that?”
This sounded like a theat. Or maybe a warning? “Are you saying you’ll hurt me if I fail the Malfoy
test?”
“I repeat–”
“Yes, yes. Only a Malfoy can take the ring from you.” Henry glanced down at Beezles. “What do
you reckon, boy? Should I go for it?”
“Did you just ask that pouffe for advice?”
Henry was about to say no, but instead said, “What’s a pouffe?”
“It’s a sort of fabric-covered footstool.”
“Oh, then no. I wasn’t speaking to a footstool.” Henry shone his flashlight at Beezles. “This is my
dog.”
Lucius took another look. “Ah, so it is.” He shook his head. “This is truly a strange and terrifying
time to be not-alive…”
“Well, Beezles. Is it safe, do you think?”
Beelzebub dropped to his side, legs out, tongue lolling out – his classic ‘deceased’ stance. This was
good enough for Henry.
“OK, here goes. For mum, dad and Ory.” Henry took a deep breath and grasped the ring. The gold
felt cold under his fingers. His assumption that he would have to twist the thing off was incorrect.
To his surprise, it slid off Lucius' finger as it was greased.
“Oh wow! Did you see that, Beezles? It came right off!” Henry jumped back to the floor and then
grinned up at Lucius. “So does this mean I’m really a Mal–”
But the statue was no longer talking or moving. It was still now, it’s purpose fulfilled.
Henry pocketed the ring. “Come on, boy. We’d better get back. With any luck, they won’t have
noticed I’m gone.”
He retraced his steps at a jog, remembering to count along the way. However, at about the halfway
point, the beam on the flashlight began to flicker. Henry tapped the flashlight against his hand.
“Come on, you silly thing.”
Suddenly, there was a scraping sound and a loud crash, followed by someone cursing in the kind of
language neither of his parents would use.
Beezles started growling. Prior to this, Henry had assumed he was familiar with all the sounds
Beezles made, many of which were frankly embarrassing, but this was unlike any noise Henry had
heard before. It was too deep, too loud, too...scary to come from something that looked like, well,
Beezles. Maybe he was unwell?
“Boy, are you alright?” Henry bent down to pet the dog, puzzled to feel Beezles moving to stand in
front of him, his stumpy legs almost on top of Henry’s sneakers. “What’s wrong?”
Henry’s flashlight finally gave up the ghost. But he was not in the dark for very long. A moment
later, emerging from one of the rooms was an intense Lumos. Or rather, two separate Lumos, cast
by two individuals.
“What the hell?” one of them said, coming face to face with Henry. “Trev, there’s a kid in there! Is
this one of them?”
“Blimey, it’s the older one! The Zabini boy.”
Henry had not survived a zombie plague by being slow to act. He knew danger when he saw it. He
picked up Beezles by his handles and ran back into the corridor.
They chased him. Henry could tell from the fact he could see in front of him because their Lumos
lit the way. Spells flew over and around him. Bad ones, that blew up bits of furniture, sending dust
and splinters into the air. He was very fast and his size made it easier to dart around obstacles with
ease.
The problem was that the more distance Henry covered, the less light there was to see where he
was going. Eventually, he found himself in complete darkness and was forced to edge forward
slowly, hoping to find a wall to follow without walking into something and making a noise.
Suddenly, the wind was knocked out of him as he was tackled to the ground. Henry lost his hold on
Beezles and could hear the dog skid across the floor.
“Let me go!” Henry shouted. He kicked out at his assailant, managing to connect with the man’s
groin. The man doubled over, making a high-pitched wheezing noise.
Henry scrambled to his feet and ran.
“Fucking hell, Trev! Can’t you handle the little shit?”
“Carter, get him!”
The other man fired his wand, grazing Henry with Pretificus. It only hit his ankle but this was
enough to send Henry careening into a stack of bookcases. The man was on him before Henry
could recover his bearings, hauling him to his feet by the back of his jumper.
Henry thrashed and kicked. “Let me go! You’re so dead! My father’s going to murder you!”
The reply was a strike to the face, catching Henry on the side of his jaw. He went limp, his vision
was blurry now and he could taste blood in his mouth.
Henry began to cry. This was not a fun adventure any more and he was scared. He wanted his
mum; he wanted Hermione.
If the intruders’ Lumos was painfully bright in the darkness, it was nothing compared to the
blinding light that obliterated all shadows, bathing everything in a piercing whiteness. Henry could
see it even through his closed eyes.
And then the light changed. The white turned to a warm, golden yellow. It flickered now, like the
light from a fireplace, and this was accompanied by the intense smell of burning. It was a sickening
combination of flesh, ash, charcoal and rotten eggs.
Henry heard Beezles growl again and tried to call out a warning to the dog, to tell him to hide, or to
go and find his parents.
But his shouts were drowned out by the men’s screams.
As much as Draco’s overprotective nature frustrated her, Hermione was witnessing, firsthand, how
their combined efforts to secure the Manor were paying off.
The only spell that worked around the clock, over the entire estate, was anti-apparition. This
affected all magical entities with the exception of family members and anyone else designated
‘safe’. A similar, all-encompassing warding spell would have been ideal also, but it could not
currently be achieved over the Manor. It required power that not even Harry possessed. Not yet,
anyway.
The alternative approach was to erect a patchwork of smaller spells that connected together, that
could direct energy to activate wards where, when and how they were needed. Thus, the Manor
was divided into warding zones. This was in addition to more basic wards protecting each potential
method of egress and exit.
When an alarm activated, either Draco or Hermione could raise ward fields in any zone, effectively
trapping intruders who happened to be inside it.
Hermione had a natural talent for warding that defeated even Draco. It wasn’t that he lacked the
magic, it was more to do with her ability to apply a holistic approach to how the wards needed to
work.
She saw the wards not as a set of disparate spells, but as an ecology. Draco’s comparatively ‘blunt
force’ approach would have left gaps between where one of his wards ended and another began.
Without going into Euclidean specifics, Draco’s approach was akin to erecting a rectangular wall
in a three-dimensional space that was ever so slightly a parallelogram.
Gaps were the problem.
Gaps did not imply ineffectiveness, but it did mean a lower efficacy rate. A wily intruder could slip
through or shoot through a gap. And when it came to her children’s safety, Hermione was willing
to do the hard work. She ensured that each of her wards had what could best be described as frayed,
sticky edges, with plenty of flexibility and stretch. They interlocked almost seamlessly when
activated.
At the moment, the wards were doing exactly what they were meant to do. The silent alarm told
them that the children’s room had been breached. Someone was in the house and needed to be
contained so they could be dealt with.
And this was where Hermione’s strategic deficiencies came into play. She would Apparated into
the childrens’ room, had Draco not stopped her.
“ Wait ,” he ordered. There was nothing soft or vulnerable about Draco now, and he certainly
wasn’t wasting any time showing her deference.
“The children!” Hermione said, thinking that no other explanation was required for why they
needed to go, and go now .
He didn’t bother with a reply, but simply held on to her as he cast one of her own spells – the
gridded location spell she used to find him in Azkaban. It had come in handy on several occasions
now.
There were four blue dots in the house, each with an attached name. Two were in the library and
correctly displayed their names. One blue dot was on the move, heading towards the foyer on the
ground floor. The name above this dot was: Trevor Phillip McInnes .
They recognised the name, seeing as Roth had provided a file on him already. “He’s one of the
aurors who came here this week!” Hermione said.
McInnes was not alone, however. A smaller blue dot was attached to him and the name above it
made Hermione cry out.
Orion Granger Malfoy .
“Oh my God.” She reached her hand out towards the gently blinking, blue dot. “Please, no…” Her
eyes scanned the remainder of the grid. “Where’s Henry!”
Draco was watching the grid closely, waiting for McInnes to walk far enough into the middle of
the ward zone before he activated its barriers.
McInnes was trapped.
But Henry still wasn’t showing up. Draco re-cast the spell, just in case. Still no Henry.
Hermione felt the world go a little unfocussed. She felt like all the air had been sucked out of her
body, leaving an empty, clawing vacuum. She didn’t recall sinking to the floor, but when she
opened her eyes, Draco was crouched beside her and speaking. Hermione only realised she was
rocking back and forth because he stopped her.
“–I need you right now! Granger! Stay with me!”
“My children. Oh my God….they took them Draco, they took my babies .”
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, hoping to dislodge her from her panic. It didn’t work.
“Henry’s not in the house. They have Orion. Where is Henry? Where is he ?”
Draco tried a different approach. He was on his haunches already, but now sat on the ground and
pulled Hermione into him, wrapping his arms and legs around her in a tight cocoon.
His voice was feather soft when he spoke. “I need you to listen to me. Please . We don’t have time.
I’m going to have to go without you if you don’t do exactly as I say.”
The rocking stopped. Hermione shuddered and rested her forehead on his arm. “What if you can’t
get them back?”
“Granger, I fail you and our children in all sorts of ways, but I can be counted on right now to be
the one thing you don’t want me to be.”
She looked up at him, swallowing. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
Draco Apparated into the warding zone adjacent to where McInnes was trapped. He spotted the
man immediately.
McInnes was predictably blasting out spells in an attempt to bring the wards down. He did this
while holding a screaming Orion rather precariously across the baby’s middle, using only one arm.
Orion’s crying stopped as soon as he saw his father. McInnes backed away from the ward
boundary. His wand, glowing red from the ferocity of his recent spells, was now pointed at Orion’s
head.
“Stay back!”
Draco continued walking forwards, holding up his empty hands. “I am unarmed.”
“Bring down the wards!”
“Give me my son.”
McInnes’ eyes darted around him. He was sweating so profusely that wet patches were showing up
through his robes. They were plain robes. The man had not come to the Manor in an official
DMLE capacity, it seemed.
“Where’s your wife?”
“At the Potters’.”
The auror sneered. “That’d be bloody right, wouldn’t it? Harry Potter, chummy with a Death Eater
and his whore! The world’s gone to hell, mark my words!”
“Would you like me to summon Potter so you can say that to his face? After all, that is his
godchild you’re holding.”
“This thing?” McInnes barked. His wand was shaking so wildly that it grazed Orion’s cheek,
singing a line into the baby’s soft skin. Orion was hysterical now. McInnes shook the baby in an
effort to silence him. This only served to exacerbate his distress. “This is no child! I know what you
did to make him! I know why you made him!”
“Orion’s role in creating the cure is not a secret. It’s common knowledge. What is he to you?”
“Whatever this thing has inside of it, it’s the evidence we need to prove you and the Dark Lord
were responsible for the very sickness that you so conveniently cured. Hero, my arse! I’m going to
make sure the world knows what you did. Merlin, all the people you killed, Malfoy. Millions! How
you haven’t offed yourself by now, I’ll never understand…I hope they take your boy apart piece
by piece!”
Draco frowned. “Hang on a minute, how is my son evidence, exactly? And even if he was, why do
you need the whole child?” This question was asked with such casual curiosity that McInnes
blinked.
“You don’t know, do you? Because you have no grasp of the science behind it. And the Ministry
has no idea you’re here, illegally, abducting a magical citizen.”
“The proof is inside him! The proof that you made the illness and then tried to escape your
comeuppance by curing it.”
“If you want proof I was involved in the operation that created the infection, I can give you that.
I’ll give you my notes. I’ll readily admit it, if you want. You don’t need my son. He can’t tell you
anything other than he’s the reason we have a world to go back to now.”
“Don’t come any closer! Bring down the wards, you fucker! Like you said, I don’t need the whole
kid, do I? I can keep taking strips off him until you do as I say!” He was still looking around him
with increasing desperation, his eyes occasionally checking to see if there was anyone behind
Draco.
Draco was now inches away from the barrier. “You’re not here alone, are you? Who else did you
come with?”
“Bring the wards down!”
“I can’t. I don’t have a wand, remember?”
He jabbed his wand into Orion’s belly. “Then tell me how to do it and I’ll do it myself!”
“No.”
“You’re mad! Are you really going to risk the child!”
“Mr McInnes, I’m not the one who put himself at risk today.”
The wards came down, causing a mild disturbance in the air. A panicked McInnes began walking
backwards away from Draco. McInnes attempted to Disapparate, unsuccessfully. He raised his
wand to point at Draco.
As soon as the tip of the wand was no longer on Orion, Hermione appeared behind McInnes,
instantly casting Petrificus. Just before Orion was released, the baby twisted in McInnes arm and
bit the man on the face, managing to take off a fair sized chunk of skin. McInnes fell on his side,
his cheek bleeding, his face frozen in shock.
Hermione arrested Orion’s fall mere centimetres before he hit the ground, and then ran forward to
scoop him up.
Orion was crying quietly now, tugging at Hermione’s hair and jumper, bringing whatever he could
of her into his mouth. She choked back a sob to realise that the baby was so distressed that he was
looking for something to suck on.
Hermione forced herself to relax her hold, so that Draco could perform a quick examination on his
son. She returned his want to him, to facilitate this.
Draco palpated the baby’s limbs, joints and head, and then gently applied an antiseptic charm to
the burn on the baby’s cheek. Hermione could see the tremor in his hands.
Orion whimpered. “Owts.”
Draco’s jaw worked. “He’s fine,” he told Hermione, in a gravelly voice.
“He’s not fine.” She put the baby into his father’s arms and advanced on the Petrified McInnes.
Draco astutely turned the baby’s face away and covered his ears when Hermione began to kick the
auror, screaming and swearing at him. Panting from the exertion, she eventually pulled her wand
out and pointed it at the man, her entire body shaking with rage. “Where’s my son?” she
demanded, kicking him again. “Where is Henry?”
A hand closed gently around her wrist. It was Draco. “He’s Petrified. He can’t answer you. Here,
take Orion and stand back.”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but was waylaid by Draco’s expression. “Remember what I
said about listening to me?”
She took the baby and walked some distance away so that she was now in the adjacent ward zone.
Draco reactivated the boundaries as soon as Hermione and Orion were clear. A muffling charm
was added next.
Hermione held Orion’s face against the crook of her neck. He seemed to settle down now, having
wrapped her hair around his fist. She couldn't hear what was transpiring between Draco and
McInnes, but given what she was seeing , it was probably for the best.
Draco removed Hermione’s Petrificus.
McInnes groaned, holding ribs that were likely bruised from Hermione’s assault. He rolled onto his
back just as Draco placed a foot on his chest to pin him down.
“Where is my son?”
McInnes spat. “I don’t have to tell you a damn thing! Both you and that bitch are going to rot in
prison for this!”
“You’re right. You don’t have to tell me anything, but you’re going to want to before this is over.”
Draco pressed down with his foot until a cracking sound could be heard.
McInnes’ eyes bulged. He opened his mouth, but all that escaped was a long wheeze.
Draco sighed. “This is the second time today I’ve had to asphyxiate a man. It’s really not as fun as
it looks. “Where is Henry?”
“Stop!” McInnes gasped. “I can’t bloody breathe”
“I’ll stop when you tell me what I want to know.” Draco applied more weight. “How did you get
in? Where is Henry?”
“This fucking place is cursed!”
“I know. I live here. You’re still not answering my questions.”
McInnes bellowed in pain as the crack in his sternum intensified.
“Hurry up, McInnes. I’m not as heavy as you are, but I doubt you’ll enjoy all of me on top of you.”
Draco leaned down. “Doesn't feel quite as good when you’re on the bottom, does it?”
“Wh–what?”
“Oh, don’t be shy, good sir. Granted, it was a while back, but I’d like to think I left a lasting
impression? Or at least my colleague did.”
McInnes’ mouth gaped open. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Aberdeen, winter of 1999. I was on a mission with a particularly rare specimen among my former
kind; a female Death Eater. She was a wisp of a thing. Didn’t last a day with you and your men. Do
you remember her? Do you remember me, Trevor McInnes?” Draco lifted the hem of his jumper,
revealing the dozens of razor scars across his abdomen. “Because I certainly remember you.”
“It was war, man!” McInnes shrieked. “It was nothing personal!”
“Not personal like kidnapping my son and threatening to dissect him? We’re not at war now, but
this feels rather personal, Trevor. Tell me, does the Ministry permit you to rape and execute your
female captives in times of war?”
A frantic McInnes tried to swipe at Draco’s leg to unbalance him, but merely succeeded in getting
his arm pinned under Draco’s other foot.
“Do that again and I’ll let my wife kick your ribs in. If they puncture your lungs it’s going to be a
rather painful, messy death. If only there was a doctor available to treat you….”
“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you, please…just get off me!”
Draco removed his foot.
“I…We got in through the Jamaica portal.”
Draco looked puzzled, but this was only temporary. “This is the booby trap my father set up in the
restricted wing? The one that transported the DMLE Dark Artefacts Recovery team to an exit
portal in Jamaica?”
“That one, aye!”
“It’s dismantled,” Draco said. “You re-installed it?
“Not me. Carter! He was on the Recovery team that catalogued your dad’s gear.”
“Oh, Trevor. You naughty boy. That’s so illegal. Especially now with the travel restrictions. So
that’s why you’re heading back to the restricted wing. You’re going to meet Carter and he’ll portal
you and my son to Jamaica?”
McInnes nodded.
“So where’s Henry?”
“I swear, I don’t know!”
Draco got down on his haunches. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“I fucking swear it! I don’t know where he is! Why the hell are you so bothered anyway? You have
your son back now. The other one’s not even your blood!”
“Tell me, do I seem calm to you?”
McInnes gaped at him.
“It’s not a trick question, you idiot.”
“Aye. Yes! You’re calm, I suppose…”

“Well, I’ll tell you a secret, Trev. And frankly, I don’t mind telling you because you’re not going to
be able to tell anyone else. I’m not calm.” Draco grabbed McInnes by the hair and hauled his head
up so that he was looking at Hermione. “You see my wife? She’s convinced that it’ll do me a
world of good to get in touch with my emotions. To really feel them, you know? One of the few
joys in my life is to make my wife happy, so I’m giving it my all, Trevor. I’m feeling as much as I
fucking can and believe me when I tell you that right now, I am not calm .”
“Malfoy, listen…”
“No, you listen.” Draco violently slammed McInnes’ head against the floor several times. “Where
is my son?”
“He’s in the restricted wing!” McInnes shouted. His eyes were glassy and unfocussed. Blood
dribbled from his ears.
“Be more specific.” Draco placed his wand over McInnes hand and a moment later, the man
bellowed in pain. His index finger bent backwards, now lying almost flat against the back of his
palm. “You have nine fingers worth of time to spare.”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! For fuck’s sake, Malfoy, I don’t know where he is! Carter and I came
upon the boy. He was rooting around in the dark with a flashlight.” McInnes noticed the new
tension radiate through Draco’s body. “We didn’t touch him! I swear it! It’s not him we wanted!”
“Your partner, Carter, he has Henry now?”
“No.” McInnes screamed again when another finger broke. “I’m telling you the truth, damn you!
Stop!”
“Where is Carter?”
“Dead...I think he’s dead!”
This managed to surprise Draco, “How?”
“Because your bloody pet monster took him, that’s how! It fucking came out of the darkness,
stinking of ash. It grabbed Carter by the throat…and then…and then he was gone.”
Draco spent a moment processing this information. “And my son?”
McInnes was close to fainting now. His eyelids drooped and his body was beginning to seize.
Draco slapped him. “My son! What happened to him?”
“The boy?” McInnes swallowed, blinking. “Aye, the boy…nothing happened to him. He ran. I ran.
I didn’t see Carter, nor the creature after that.”
“One last question and then this ends.” Draco helped him to sit up.
McInnes appeared disoriented now. He coughed up frothy, pink spittle and stared down at his
mangled fingers with a low moan. “Please…can you….something for the pain.”
“I’ll give you something for the pain in a moment,” Draco said, his voice almost gentle. “Does
anyone else know you’re here?”
“No. We didn’t tell a soul.”
“Did Carter tell anyone?”

“No. It was just us two. The boss, Hinkley…the cagey old bastard would never give us the go-
ahead…aye, so we didn’t ask. This was our plan to get…to get the evidence Hinkley needs. He’s
going to make sure you pay for your crimes.”
“The evidence to prosecute me? The evidence being a baby? My baby?”
McInnes grabbed the front of Draco’s ripped jumper with his uninjured hand. “Let me go and we
can forget this happened. I don’t get done for trying to grab your kid and you don’t get done for
killing two aurors. They’ll never stop hunting you if you kill me.”
“How can I kill you, McInnes?” Draco removed his hand from his jumper and stood. “You were
never here.”
McInnes looked equal parts hopeful and terrified. “Right! That’s right! I was never here! It never
happened…”
By now, Draco had walked to where Hermione and Orion waited for him.
Hermione descended on him. “What did he say? Did you find out where Henry is?” She took his
hand, “I saw you showing him your scars…”
Draco didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he touched his son’s head, his expression soft for only
a moment, until he saw the blood on Orion’s chin from where the baby had bitten McInnes. Draco
gently cleaned the blood away with his fingers.
“McInnes has a partner,” he told Hermione. “Both Henry and the other man are in the restricted
wing, but I think the man’s already dead.”
“Dead?” Hermione frowned. “How? And what on earth was Henry doing in the restricted wing?”
“I have no idea, but I’m about to find out.” He turned to Orion. “What do you say, Orion? Shall I
go and get Henry?”
Orion smothered his face into Hermione’s neck and resumed chewing on his fist.
“I told you, he’s not fine,” Hermione hissed at Draco. “Is it too much to ask that we have one child
who isn’t traumatised by this infection!”
For a moment, Draco looked broken. It was fleeting, but not so fleeting that Hermione didn’t
notice.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Not as sorry as I am,” Draco said. He pulled his wife and baby into his arms. “I’m Apparating you
two to the bedroom first. You’ll wait for me there. Are you ready?”
“What are we going to do with McInnes? We can’t just leave him here.”
“I’ll take care of it. Look away, Kiska.”
Hermione allowed herself to be pressed against Draco’s chest, facing away from the auror who lay
moaning and bleeding on the ground.
She saw Draco’s transfer his wand to his right hand, which was holding her to him. He opened the
palm of his left hand, fingers splayed wide, and Hermione felt the telltale change in the air
pressure, indicating the wards behind them had come back up.
But as the Apparition began, she saw Draco’s hand close into a tight fist. A strong gust of air blew
her hair around them. As they dematerialised in the corridor, Hermione couldn’t contain her
curisority. She turned back to look.
Draco had crushed McInnes using the wards.
The auror’s flattened remains covered a cross section of the corridor. It was, in essence, an entire
person, pressed flat against a background of red, pink and magenta. The end result resembled a
macabre art installation held between two panels of glass. Or perhaps a giant microscope slide.
Hermione could see McInnes’ face – a mouth that was open in a permanent scream, the jigsaw of
loose teeth, the ruptured eyeballs that left stretched, gaping holes. His hands were on either side of
his head, depicting his hopeless attempt to stop the wards from crushing him.
When they arrived in their bedroom, Draco took Orion from Hermione and placed him on their
bed. The baby immediately settled back against pillows and sheets that smelled like the safest place
he knew. His father added a pacifier to the mix and the child was on his way to sleep even before
Draco turned to speak to Hermione.
The look on Hermione’s face advertised that she had not heeded Draco’s instructions to look away
from what he had done to McInnes.
“Stay here with Orion,” he said. “I’ll bring you Henry in a moment.”
This time, he didn’t wait for her to agree or disagree. Hermione tried her best to keep the horrific
image of McInnes from showing through in her eyes. She was too exhausted to ensure that her
expression correctly reflected her feelings. The former was lagging behind the latter. If she had just
a moment longer; just the space of a few breaths, she might have been able to school her expression
to show the relief, concern and gratitude she actually felt.
But what her husband saw was revulsion and horror. Before she could say anything, Draco was
already gone.
In the restricted wing, Draco found Henry in a rather unusual set of circumstances.
The boy had been placed on top of a collection of scatter cushions and drop sheets. It looked like a
nest. A ripped curtain was thrown over him, serving as a makeshift blanket. The entire western
section of the restricted wing corridor was a disaster zone, with broken furniture and glass strewn
on the floor.
What was even more baffling was the lingering smell of a recent fire, though there were no signs
of smoke or burning. Nor was there any sign of Carter, but plenty of indication that someone had
met a rather unpleasant end.
Henry’s unnatural stillness robbed Draco of his ability to breathe, let alone do anything else useful
until Draco forced himself to look at this son not with the eyes of a father, but with the eyes of a
doctor; a healer.
The child was unconscious from what appeared to be a combination of shock and a blow to the
head. He was bleeding from a cut just inside his lower lip. Draco ran his hands over his son’s body,
checking for broken bones. He frowned when he felt something small and hard in Henry’s right
pocket. He took it out.
Draco didn’t think that anything else had the capacity to shock him that day, but he found himself
stunned once more as he looked down at the Malfoy signet ring in his hand.
Henry stirred. “Daddy?” he said, his eyes squinting from the Lumos Draco was hovering over
them. Draco immediately dimmed it.
“Lay still. Are you in pain?”
“My face hurts. Two men who broke in. One of them hit me.” Henry suddenly looked alarmed. “Is
everyone OK?”
Draco didn’t trust himself to speak yet. He passed his wand over Henry’s jaw and cast the mildest
pain relief spell he knew. One had to be very careful when administering pain relief in children
who had suffered head injuries.
“Both intruders are dead. Your mother and Orion are safe and waiting for you in our room. I’m
going to lift you up, alright?”
“Wait.” Henry grabbed his father’s arm. “I need to tell you….so you don’t hurt him.”
“Hurt who? What happened here, Henry?”
Henry was momentarily distracted when he spotted Draco holding the signet ring. “Oh, you found
it! I got it for you to help with your case. Lucius said I could take it!”
Draco wasn’t sure he could survive any more surprises. “What did you say?”
“His statue, Dad! The statue of Lucius Malfoy in the gallery was wearing the ring the whole time!
Can you believe it? I saw it when we walked through here with mum and Orion.”
“You came here to get the ring?” Draco asked, stricken.
Henry nodded. This simple movement made him wince. He felt his father cup his injured cheek
and allowed Draco to support some of the weight of his aching head. “Lucius said only a Malfoy
can take from him what a Malfoy gave him to keep. I think your dad gave the statue the ring before
he died. So do you know what that means?”
Draco shook his head.
“It means I’m a Malfoy, too! Just like Ory! You can keep me forever now!”
With tremendous care, Draco picked up his son and held him. Henry wrapped his arms around his
father’s shoulders, stunned to realise that Draco had erupted into heaving sobs that shook his entire
body, as well as Henry.
“Daddy," Henry gasped, astounded. "You’re crying .”
Any potential exchange between father and son was halted by the sharp, acrid stench of burning.
Draco looked up with streaming eyes just in time to see a nightmare step out of the darkness.
The creature was the size of a Clydesdale horse. It looked like the end result of a game magical
children sometimes played, where each child took a turn to name a different body part of a magical
creature, and then attempted to draw the resulting hodgepodge.
There was no other way to describe its skin, except to say that it looked like it had been turned
inside out. Its front legs ended in black, cloven hooves, with each hoof roughly the size of a dinner
plate. The back legs, meanwhile, resembled the hindquarters of a wolf. The creature’s neck was
perhaps the most horselike aspect of the thing. The equine resemblance stopped at the head
however, which was distinctly reptilian, almost dinosaur-like. From the top of its head to the base
of its neck was a shiny mane that looked like sea urchin quills. A simian, prehensile tail whipped
back and forth.
This was the monster that McInnes had mentioned.
It approached them now, its front hooves clattering over the floorboards. Draco gripped his wand
so tightly, he felt the shaft strain in his hand, doing its best to resist snapping.
“Don’t hurt him!” Henry cried out. “He saved me! He was so brave!”
The creature lowered its enormous, steaming muzzle to Draco’s face, opening a mouth that could
easily fit all of Henry and some of Draco inside it. A large, black, forked tongue snaked out,
proceeded to execute a single, enormous lick of Draco’s face, from chin to hairline. When it was
done, Draco’s fringe was standing on end, coated in drool.
Perhaps the most disturbing thing, however, was its eyes. They were completely at odds with the
other terrifying aspects of the creature’s anatomy. There was no mistaking the gormless, beady,
unfocussed, pug eyes.
Draco found his voice. “Hello Beelzebub.”
Beezles snuffled and then affectionately butted his head against Draco’s shoulder.
“You recognise him, right?” Henry asked.
“Yes,” his father croaked.
“He transformed when I got in trouble.”
“I gather.”
“I think he, uh, ate one of the men that broke in…”
“I think so, too, Henry.”
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“When I go to Hogwarts, can I bring Beezles as my familiar?”
There was a small silence.
“You’ll have to ask your mother.”

Hermione practically flew across the bedroom when Draco Apparated into it with Henry. She had
just put a new nappy on Orion and changed into a fresh jumper and a pair of jeans.
“Easy, he’s taken a blow to the head,” Draco cautioned. “The other auror tried to grab him.”
“Where’s this other man now?” Hermione’s gaze settled over her husband. His eyes were red and
swollen and he was careful to avoid looking at her.
“He’s dead. I’ll explain later after the kids get some rest.”
Henry allowed Hermione a minute to rock and hold him, before he asked to see Orion.
“Ory’s sleeping, sweetheart.”
“Dad said those men were here to grab him.” Henry climbed onto his parents’ bed and settled
himself alongside his sleeping brother.
“Yes, but your father stopped them. Why do you both smell like you’ve been to a barbecue?” she
asked, perplexed.
“It’s a long story,” Henry said, with amusing gravitas. “I think you’d better sit down.”
“No, we’re all going to lie down. But first, both of you, get out of those clothes. You reek.”
She took Henry to the boys’ room to get him dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, and then ran a quick
cleansing charm over his hair which had picked up all manner of dirt and debris from his ordeal in
the restricted wing.
When they returned to the bedroom, Draco had removed his ruined jumper, socks and shoes,
leaving his cargo pants on. Curiously, the hair at the front of his head looked like it had been
gelled. He was already lying beside Orion, his nose on the baby’s head, stroking Orion’s curled fist
between his thumb and index finger.
Hermione settled Henry into bed beside Orion, so that the children lay in the middle, between their
parents. Nothing more was said until Henry was asleep. This took mere minutes of Hermione
stroking his arm.
“Are you alright?” she asked Draco. The question was ridiculously inadequate.
She had seen Draco after the fleet coup, after he had been burnt, stabbed, beaten and shot at. She’d
seen him drenched in blood and gore after their narrow escape from magical zombies at Hogwarts,
on the day of Orion’s birth. But she had never seen him like he was now.
“No,” he replied, still not meeting her eyes.
It was then that Hermione noticed the ring he wore on his index finger.
“Henry found it,” he said, before she could ask. “That’s why he was in the restricted section. He
knew where it was. He heard you and Roth talking about how it could help my case.”
She was stunned. “I see.”
“I never bothered to look for it after Lucius was gone. I wanted to bury his legacy, lock it all away,
board it up, run from it. It’s nothing but pain and misery. Why Henry wants to be part of it so badly
is beyond me.”
“Draco–”
“I was a killer today, Hermione.”
“You saved our children in circumstances that would have got any other person killed several times
over.”
“It’s what I know how to do,” he said. “But I also felt it all. Everything .” He stared at her now, his
expression completely devoid of any affection. His eyes were cold. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Patience
Chapter Notes
So, um, this is not the last chapter. Honestly, everyone should just stop listening to me
(myself included).
Next chapter arriving later today.
The Burrow: Six months later
It was an intensely humid summer afternoon. Hermione stood just inside the enormous, mint green
and white-striped marquee that the Weasleys had erected in the field beside the Burrow. Dark grey
clouds loomed overhead and there was the faint scent of petrichor. Much of the UK had suffered
through a particularly dry start to the summer and everyone was looking forward to the imminent
downpour.
Not for the first time that day, Hermione plucked at the ruched bodice of the empire line, cotton
summer dress she wore. It was a lovely dress, with a repeating pattern of tiny, white cherry
blossoms on a buttercup yellow background. Thin straps tied behind the neck and the hem stopped
six inches above her knees. She didn’t and probably would never own something like it. The dress
was on loan from Ginny and while not a tight fit, the added humidity made it cling to Hermione’s
skin. Her strapless bandeau bra had already been uncomfortable to begin with, but now it was
downright torture. Hermione was about a minute away from vanishing the thing altogether.
“Hermione, am I even doing this right?” Neville whispered.
Five-month old Lily Ginevra Potter did not like being put down. She wasn’t terribly fussed about
who was holding her so long as she was being held by someone . Harry was running late and so the
guests at baby Lily’s Naming Day celebrations all took turns to give Ginny a breather.
Ginny did try to make life easier by acquiring a baby carrier so Lily could be worn, but Molly
suggested that such a device was likely to raise a few eyebrows among their magical guests. There
were tensions to be navigated between the old and new (or at least, newer ) way of doing things. It
often came down to Ginny’s decision as to which hills she would defend to the death, and which
she would abandon, to fight another day. The baby carrier was the latter type of hill.
Neville was no doubt regretting putting his hand up to volunteer.
“She’s not going to explode,” Hermione said. “Drop your shoulders, you look like you’re about to
take off.”
He tried to relax. “She’s so small. I feel like she’s going to slip through my arms. Are they always
this small? I’m not around babies very much, but I remember Orion being so much bigger at this
age.”
Hermione tried not to laugh. She touched the sleeping baby’s head, gently stroking the fine, soft
black hair. “Lily is perfect. And Orion’s always been large for his age.”
Henry had been complaining about this lately. One of the benefits of having a toddler little brother
was their portability. These days, Henry had to rely on Orion making his own way to and from
whatever mischief the boys got up to.
Speaking of her toddler, Hermione glanced at the other end of the marquee, to where Ginny had
cleverly set up a large playpen and toys to occupy the dozen or so small children in attendance at
the party. The playpen was a good example of a hill defended at all costs, and to Molly's credit, she
acknowledged that Ginny’s idea ended up being an excellent one.
Poor Orion was overwhelmed to see so many children in one room. While he was good at sharing,
he was less accepting of anyone touching his most precious comfort item, his copy of Where’s My
Cow? He insisted on taking it with him every time they left the house and until now, Hermione had
not seen any potential issue with this request.
The issue presented itself in the form of a dark-haired boy of about four or five years of age, who
had been eyeing the book for a while. He eventually walked up to Orion and plucked it from his
hands.
The ever attentive Beelzebub, who had been stationed outside the playpen like a sheep dog, was
now trying to find a way to leap over the side to go to the aid of his designated lamb. After several
failed attempts, during which the small dog only managed to jump an embarrassing two inches off
the ground, he gave up and settled for looking into the crowd and whining for Hermione.
His squinty eyes met Hermione’s, although as usual, it was always a bit difficult to tell. She was
already making her way across the room.
“Where are you going?” Neville called out, sounding panicked. “Don’t leave me with the baby!”
“I’ll be right back! You’re doing fine!” And then, because living with Draco was inevitably going
to rub off, she cheekily added. “Just make sure not to drop her!”
Hermione might have arrived at the playpen sooner if she wasn’t stopped by several other guests,
many of whom she barely knew. Not that it mattered because they all felt like they knew her .
It’d been this way since the start of the media campaign to disseminate Draco’s story to the public.
Whether the campaign successfully achieved its desired goal was a question that would very
shortly be answered.
No charges had been laid, but a Ministry inquiry date had been set, and Draco was to appear before
it in the following week. Saying Hermione was nervous was an understatement. Very soon, they
would know if all their efforts had paid off. Harry was doing his best to keep them in the loop.
The side effect of the media campaign was that people now felt like they knew Draco and
Hermione and had no qualms stopping them in public to ask rather personal questions. This was
what it felt like to be Harry, whose life story had played out before the entire UK wizarding
population. Notoriety was unpleasant, but in Draco’s case, it was a good sign.
Hermione tried her best to prepare Draco for the onslaught of attention, but even so, he struggled.
Before the media blitz, he’d been able to walk through Magical London with relative freedom.
True, people occasionally recognised him, but this usually resulted in avoidance, not engagement.
Not so, now. After spending most of his adult life on the run, trying to disappear into the shadows,
it was unsettling.
Muggle media outlets also ran the story, but there was just enough diversity in the Muggle
community for Draco to remain incognito so long as he covered his head. His trademark platinum
hair tended to give him away.
This downside of the media campaign was but one of several new developments in their
relationship. But today was not about her and Draco. It was about little Lily.
By the time Hermione reached the playpen, Orion had located the young book thief and was trying
to get the child’s attention. The boy seemed content to ignore him. Orion’s little face scrunched up
into a grimace. He began shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking increasingly distressed.
Use your words, Ory.
“Please!” he said. The other child didn’t even acknowledge him. To make matters worse, he was
now trying to peel apart the dogeared cardboard pages of the book.
Hermione arrived just in time to hear her two and half year old son say, “No!” very firmly, before
he hauled the older boy up by the front of his shirt and growled, “ Mine, ” into his face.
“Orion!” Hermione called out.
Upon hearing his mother’s voice, Orion immediately released the boy, grabbed up his book and
ran back to his spot in the playpen. Beelzebub poked his blocky head through the plastic bars and
gave Orion a consoling, or possibly, a congratulatory, lick.
Hermione was now aware that someone had come to stand beside her. She was ready to defend her
son, in the event it was the other child’s parent, but she relaxed when she saw it was only Molly
Weasley.
“Hermione, I tell you, that other boy had it coming! He’s a bad egg! Been snatching toys off the
children as soon as his father put him in there.”
“Nevertheless,” Hermione said, as she leaned over the railing to address her son. “We do not put
our hands on other people, do we Orion?”
The child shook his head.
“What do we do instead?”
“Use words?”
“That’s right sweetheart.”
“I use words, Mummy!”
“I know you did, and we’ll work on not using hands at the same time.”
“The child has a point,” Molly said, smiling.
The child was a tiny clone of this father , Hermione thought.
She approached the other boy, noting how the fabric at the front of his t-shirt was stretched and
twisted from where Orion grabbed him. “Are you alright?” Hermione asked.
He did not reply.
“That book you took belongs to my son, Orion. He’s awfully attached to it.”
“Dad says I don’t need to talk to magicals.” His accent was American. Hermione was surprised
that such a young child could deliver such a scathing retort
“And who is your father?”
He pointed at a short, rotund, middle-aged man who was sweltering in a three-piece suit.
“American Muggle ambassador,” Molly said into Hermione’s ear.
“That’s not a very diplomatic thing for an ambassador to tell his son,” Hermione whispered back.
“Like I said, bad egg.”
“I’m going to tell my dad about this,” the boy said.
Hermione could almost appreciate this classic ‘young Draco Malfoy’ move.
Molly stepped in. “You go right ahead. And I’ll tell the Minister for Magic,” she said, with a wink
at Hermione.
The boy’s eyes narrowed. He gave Molly a snooty once-over. “Like you even know him?”
“Why, I’m his mother-in-law. You and your father are here as my guests, celebrating the naming of
my grand-daughter.”
This news managed to wipe the contempt from the boy’s face. He turned on his heel and walked to
the opposite end of the playpen.
“Little upstart,” Molly commented.
Hermione choked out a laugh and was about to add something when Molly shrieked, her hand
flying to her bosom. She was staring down a Beelzebub. “Goodness! I swear my eyes are getting
worse. I thought he was someone’s bag until he moved!”
“I hope you don’t mind that we brought him?” Hermione said. “He’s very good with children.”
“Not at all. I can’t say I’m sorry Harry gave him up, though. Poor thing’s not about to win any
beauty contests, is he?”
You don’t know the half of it, Hermione thought.
It was hard to reconcile the small, gentle dog at their feet with Draco’s description of Beelzebub in
his ‘infernal’ form, as Richards called it. Hermione hoped to never have to see it for herself.
Henry’s detailed drawings were disturbing enough, particularly as most of them seemed to depict
him riding infernal Beelzebub in various Hogwarts settings.
Having thrown off the suppression spell that allowed him to be kept as a domesticated pet,
Beelzebub now had the capacity to change whenever he felt like it. Thankfully, he hadn’t done so
since the attack on Malfoy Manor. He seemed to prefer his earthly form because it meant Henry
and Orion were able to sleep with him. The only thing Beelzebub liked better than to be in the
constant company of the boys was to flop down in front of the library fire with his legs up in the
air. Hermione learned that she didn’t need to occasionally poke him to see if he was alive.
Ultimately, she didn’t care what he looked like. The dog had saved Henry and therefore, was the
goodest of boys.
“Have you seen Henry?” Hermione asked Molly.
“Yes, dear. Jack took a group of younger boys to the pond to play with the frogs.”
Jack Weasley was Bill and Fleur’s mild-mannered, charming twelve-year old. “That’s very kind of
Jack. It’ll do Henry good to meet older children and not have to be on big brother duty all the
time.”
Molly was looking fondly at Orion now. “They’re both such beautiful kids, Hermione. “Bright,
too. You’ve done very well.”
“It’s been a team effort.”
Molly’s eyes took on a distinct sheen. “I imagine Ron and your babies would have been the same
age by now…”
“Maybe,” Hermione said, kindly.
“You know, dear, any time you’d like to bring your boys over for a visit, I’d be happy to have
them.” She pulled a handkerchief from her bosom and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s such a big house
when it’s empty. Too empty and too big since Arthur passed…”
“Yule must have been lovely, though? All the family under one roof?”
Molly smiled. “It was. I’m glad Arthur got to enjoy one last Yule and see Lily come into the world.
It’s a funny thing, parenting,” Molly said, running her gaze to the children.
“How so?”
“I was practically a child myself when I had Bill, you know? That was just how it was done back
then.” She shrugged. “I can barely keep up with what Ginny tells me about all the ways she wants
to raise Lily.”
Hermione nodded. “It’s the same with anything, really. We know more and we try and apply what
we know.”
“I used to think just loving them was the start and end of it. But it takes more than that.”
Hermione felt a pang in her chest. Love was a necessary, but not a sufficient condition, on its own.
Molly shook off some of her melancholy when she next spoke. “You look very nice today, dear.”
Hermione ran her sweaty palms over the short skirt of her dress. “Thanks. The dress is actually
Ginny's.”
“You do it justice.” Molly gave her a fond look. “I remember the first time I saw you. Plain, quiet
little thing. All hair and nerves. But even then I knew you’d come into your own.” She stroked
Hermione's cheek. “Always had the talent and the bones for it, love. You’re one of those lucky
witches that get prettier as they get older. Ron was enamoured, of course, when he realised what he
had in front of him the whole time.” And then Molly's wistful look vanished. She eyed Hermione
with an almost critical, raised eyebrow. “Two boys is a fine start, but will you try for a girl?”
Hermione was not shocked by the question any more. She was asked it at least once a week, and
about ten times already that afternoon.
“Draco and I are done having kids.”

Molly looked annoyingly unconvinced. “You’re still young, dear. You may yet change your
mind.”
This, too, was something Hermione heard often. It baffled her why people bothered asking the
question if they were simply going to disagree or disbelieve the answer. She wondered if anyone
asked Draco the same thing.
“Mum, there you are,” It was Ginny. She walked over and handed Lily to Molly. “Can you please
mind her while I see to the guests? Harry’s still not arrived and some of them need to leave.”
“You go on and help Ginny, dear,” Molly said to Hermione. “I'll stay where I'm useful – with the
kids.”
When they were out of Molly’s earshot, Ginny said, “Everything OK there with mum? I saw she
was looking a little watery.”
“She was reminiscing about Ron and telling me how quiet the Burrow is now.”
“Dad’s passing hit us all hard, Harry included, but Mum seemed so strong until just recently. To
tell you the truth, Harry and I were having second thoughts about going ahead with this party, but
Mum’s so happy to have the kids around. She’s trying to get Bill to leave Jack over for the
weekend. Harry and I will be staying, too. Hey, I have an idea! Why don’t you let us have Orion
and Henry for the weekend? I reckon the boys would love it. Henry and Jack get along so well.”
Hermione considered Ginny’s suggestion. “Won’t it be too much to handle? You’ve got Lily.”
Psssh!” Ginny waved her hand in dismissal. “Mum’s got it down to a fine art. It would do her good
to have the house full, even for only a weekend.”
“In that case, of course.”
“And given how productive you and Malfoy were the last time we minded the boys, I’m guessing
you could make the most of it again this time, hmm?”
“How so?”
Ginny waggled her brows and chose to answer Hermione’s question via a tangential change in
topic. “I’m so glad you decided to wear that dress today. It looks ten times better on you than it
ever did on me. Half the men in the room can’t take their eyes off you, and a good number of them
have no business looking, I can tell you.”
“ Ginny .”
“Sorry,” Ginny said, looking utterly unapologetic. “I’m determined to live vicariously, seeing as
I’m obscenely randy of late.”
Hermione smothered a laugh. “Is Harry neglecting you? Would you like me to have a word with
my dear friend?”
“Hah! He’d be mortified, poor thing. Not that I have any right complaining seeing as he
specifically said to me that his first year in Office was going to be bad,” Ginny huffed. “I still have
trouble believing it actually happened. Hermione, I’m married to the bloody Minister for Magic!
I’m a politician’s wife!”
“He’s awfully busy, isn’t he?” Hermione said, sympathising. “I told him he needs to hire an
assistant. There’s a huge backlog due to the fact we haven’t had a Minister for Magic since
Scrimgeour stepped down. And it doesn’t help that Harry’s new to politics. It’s a learning curve
for him. And for you, too. Things will calm down once he’s found his feet, you’ll see.”
Ginny sighed. “I feel better getting it off my chest. I know Harry’s doing his best. But with Dad
leaving us at around the same time Harry got his appointment. I can’t blame Harry, really.” She
gave Hermione a contemplative look. “So what’s Malfoy’s excuse, then?”
“Excuse for what?”
“For moving into another bedroom at the Manor! Did he give you a timeframe on when things
might return to normal?”
“Not really. But he’s been completely upfront about why it needed to happen and said it’s only
temporary.”
Except ‘temporary’ had now stretched to six months.
They had fallen into a routine of saying goodnight after the kids went to sleep and retiring to their
separate bedrooms. Hermione was going out of her mind with wanting and it was impossible not to
feel hurt and rejected.
To make matters worse, they decided not to tell anyone about the attack on the Manor. The bodies
were disposed of and the mess cleaned up. No one had come to investigate. Harry’s campaign for
Office commenced in the new year and despite Hermione’s firm belief that as Minister, Harry
would oversee a fair and impartial investigation into unauthorised Auror missions, she concurred
with Draco’s concern that the incident had the capacity to derail Harry’s momentum.
The spectre of the incident continued to haunt them. Draco had been forced to defend his home and
protect his family while in a tremendously vulnerable emotional state. Of all the times to dismantle
his protective walls, it just had to be on the same day his children were nearly kidnapped.
Hermione had asked him to strip off his armour and then she all but shoved him into battle. To add
insult to injury, Hermione’s reaction to McInnes’ gruesome death had a profound effect on Draco.
No matter how insistent she was that didn’t care, the damage had been done. He had seen the
revulsion and horror on her face.
And her reaction seemed to have a mirroring effect. Now, those same feelings resided in him. This
was what came of trying to reconcile a life of violence during a time of war, with family life during
a time of peace. It was like trying to mix oil and water.
Explaining all this to Ginny without also telling her about McInnes, was difficult.
“It’s like he’s been running on a broken ankle for years and it needs a chance to heal before he can
run again. This is that time. He said that when he’s around me, he’s…”
“Distracted?”
“Sort of.”
“Isn’t that meant to be a good thing?”
“Not for Draco. He values his mastery of self.”
“Hmm. Sounds to me like he either feels he has no control or thinks he needs that much control to
function.”
“I think it’s a bit of both."
“How is he with the kids?”
“The same. He’s amazing with the kids. No change there.”
Ginny nodded. “That’s good, at least. But I still don’t like it.”
“Just as well that you’re not married to him then,” Hermione said, now in a clear, warning tone.
“I’m just concerned for you.”
“I wish you were just as concerned for Draco.”
“Who says I’m not? What do you even know about this therapist of his? They could be putting all
sorts of ideas in his head. Honestly, not sleeping in the same bed as your wife? I’d be demanding to
speak to this so-called counsellor.”
There were many things that recommended living in the Magical world. Antiquated views about
marriage, mental health and gender roles were not one of them.
“Ginny, the therapist is a Muggle doctor who works with soldiers and he’s very highly
recommended. I have no business contacting him to ask for details. That’s not how it works. And
there’s no blueprint for how relationships should work. Not everyone sleeps in the same bed
together. Or the same house, even. Families come in all shapes and sizes and they do what works
for them. People should be able to go about their lives however they wish so long as they’re honest
about it and no one gets hurt. You’re experiencing some of this with your own mother right now.”
“But you’re hurting!”
“So is Draco!” Hermione realised she was nearly shouting at Ginny and immediately lowered her
voice when several guests looked their way. “Why is his pain never a priority? Are his needs so
easily dismissed as soon as they come into conflict with mine? He has no one else other than me
and the boys. He’s been honest with me about why he requires time and space, and has asked me to
be patient while he works through certain things with his therapist."
But Hermione had run out of patience.
Not that this was something so easily admitted to herself, let alone to Ginny. Hermione was meant
to be understanding and reasonable. She was meant to support her husband. But trust was not a
switch that could be turned on and left on. It required upkeep and nurturing. Six months was a long
time to trust that a problem was being worked on without understanding what the solution was
going to look like. Sometimes, Hermione felt like she’d been running her own private Draco
Malfoy marketing campaign, and that she was the target audience.
“Draco demonstrates more insight and self-awareness than half of the magical folk I know with
similar issues.” Hermione’s lips flattened into a grim line. “ Harry included.”
One of the great things about Ginny was her ability to take a tongue lashing and remain largely
unaffected.
“Draco has us, too, you know. Harry and I. He’s not on his own. We consider him family.”
Hermione scoffed. “Why do you say that like you’re doing him a favour, like it’s against your
better judgement? Did you treat him like a member of the family when he came to you with the
kids before Yule last year?”
“Hermione, those were very specific circumstances. You were sick and unconscious! He told me
he had performed invasive, potentially life-threatening medical procedures on you without your
consent and then was complicit in wiping your memories! I’m not going to apologise for putting
your children’s safety over his feelings, which might I add, are incredibly difficult to read! How did
you expect me to respond?”
“You could have just said yes to his request that you look after the boys while he looked after me!”
“Well, it worked out that way in the end, didn’t it? Look, I’m sorry if I caused some friction there,
but he didn’t just pop into existence when you fell in love with him, Hermione. We have a history.
The Draco Malfoy you and I know from our youth is not someone I would trust with anyone’s
children.”
“Ginny, the Draco Malfoy we knew from our youth was a child himself,” Hermione said, unable to
keep the emotion out of her voice.
Someone was trying to catch Ginny’s attention now, beckoning her towards a group of guests.
Ginny held up a finger to indicate she would be with them in a moment. She took in a deep breath
and then picked up Hermione’s hand.
“Look, when it comes down to it, I trust you . I trust your judgement. Harry and I can be
overprotective, particularly since you’re so far away and it’s like a five-step process just to come
and see you what with all the Floo restrictions and the wards security. But even when we do visit,
he doesn’t make it an easy experience. It’s really hard to get to know him, Hermione. He’s…”
“Shuttered.”
Ginny nodded. “I get the sense things might change for the better depending on the outcome of the
Inquiry next week. You can live without this dark cloud hanging over your heads. And maybe…
maybe we can get to know him as well as you do?”
“That’s my hope, too.”
“But in the meantime, there has to be some way to work around this abstinence issue.”
Hermione groaned. “Ginny, please stop trying to troubleshoot my sex life.”
“All I’m saying is that if he’s anything like Harry, I’m telling you, sometimes the only way we get
any relief is after a good, hard–”
“I’m here!” Harry announced, rushing over to them. He gave Ginny a quick kiss on the forehead,
followed by a hug for Hermione. “Sorry, I’m so sticky,” he apologised. “It’s sweltering at the
office.” He looked at the two women, noticing their heated expressions. “Um, Is everything
alright?
Ginny stared at Hermione. They were still holding hands. “I hope so.”
“Everything’s fine, Harry,” Hermione said, though this reply seemed to be directed to Ginny. She
squeezed and then released Ginny’s hand. “Right. Are you two ready to do the rounds?” Hermione
walked over to a drinks table and took two glasses of cold lemonade for Ginny and Harry.
An appreciative Harry emptied his glass in seconds. “Oh, that hits the spot, thanks Hermione. First
things, first, where’s my princess?”
“She’s with Mum,” Ginny said.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll need to have a quick cuddle before–good God!” Harry exclaimed,
suddenly staring at Hermione in surprise.
“What?” Hermione asked, startled.
Harry gave his wife an accusing look.
“Oh, don’t give me that face, Harry. There’s no point letting it languish at the back of my closet
when it can do some good elsewhere!”
“Wait? Are you talking about the dress I’m wearing?” Hermione noticed that Harry was refusing to
look at her now. “I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t know it was yours.” She looked at his sweat-plastered
business shirt and trousers combo and said, with sincerity, “Would you like to swap?”
“Very funny. Unfortunately I look terrible in yellow. Hermione, you look very pretty. It’s just that
the dress has sentimental value and I was surprised to see you wearing it, that's all.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Lily was conceived in this dress. Well, not while I was wearing it. It was
probably on the floor at that stage.” She gave her frowning husband a withering look. “Don’t be
like that. It’s going to be months before I can squeeze into anything this size. Hermione could be
putting it to much better use.”
“Hang on,” Hermione said. “You loaned me this dress for seduction purposes?”
“Who are you trying to seduce?” Harry asked, scandalised.
“Who else , you daft man?” Ginny snapped.
“I’m not trying to seduce anyone!”
“Draco’s been sleeping in a different room since January,” Ginny informed, with irritating
sympathy.
Harry was infamous for responding with the wrong emotion at the wrong time. He demonstrated
this particular talent by becoming angry. “What! Why? What the devil is wrong with him?”
“Surely we have better things to talk about, Minister ?” Hermione said. “And Merlin forbid, if
something was ‘wrong’ with my husband, what an exceptionally sensitive and compassionate way
to raise the topic!”
“Look, I’d rather give a Hungarian Horntail a dental exam than talk about your sex life, but if
something’s wrong, you know you can tell us,” Harry said.
“Frankly, I’m regretting telling you as much as I have already,” Hermione retorted, scowling at
Ginny.
“Oh dear. Heads up. Here comes a gaggle of VIPs,” Ginny warned, staring at a spot over
Hermione’s shoulder. The approaching American Muggle ambassador was taking a keen, cultural
interest in Hermione’s legs. “We really need to do the rounds, Harry.”
Harry sighed. “Yes. Let’s get this over with.”

Ginny leaned over to Hermione “Could you please find Neville and make sure the poor dear isn’t
still breathing into a bag?”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He managed to drop Lily.”
Hermione gasped.
“Don’t worry. No harm done. He caught her right away.”
“Poor Neville. I feel badly for leaving him alone now.”
Harry was already in conversation with the American Muggle Ambassador, who also seemed to be
in silent conversation with Hermione’s chest.
“Perhaps it was for the best that Malfoy couldn’t make it today after all,” Ginny mused, as a
disgruntled Hermione folded her arms across her front. “I’d better go save Harry from a thirty
minute conversation on the inherent failings of the British sausage,” Ginny said. “And I wish that
was a euphemism. Are the boys still OK to stay at the Burrow for the weekend?”
“Yes, if you’re still happy to have them?”
“It would be our pleasure!” Ginny began walking over to Harry, but not before turning to give
Hermione a wink. “And yours too, I hope? Give Draco my best.”
An hour later, carrying Orion on his shoulders, Harry walked Hermione to the anti-apparition
boundary at the edge of the Weasley property. The path he chose was slightly overgrown with tall
grass. Henry and Beelzebub were a short distance away, at the pond. Henry was showing Jack
Weasley his perfected tadpole herding technique, while Beelzebub was splashing in the water.
Hermione wondered if he came with washing instructions.
“Bye Henry, I’m off now!” she called out to her older son. “Have fun!”
Henry waved back, holding up a jar of frogspawn with a triumphant expression.
“He’s like a different kid,” Harry remarked. “More…kid-like.”
“I know what you mean,” Hermione said. “Last week, Henry and Draco spent a whole morning in
the library going over the Zabini and Greengrass family histories.”
Harry whispered. “Heavy stuff. How’d it go?”
“Really good, actually."
“If you’re worried about the kids, don’t be. They’ll both be fine. We have clothing and nappies
aplenty. You’ll have them back on Sunday evening smelling fresh and with their bellies full.”
“I never have cause to worry about my children when they’re with you,” Hermione said. She stood
on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for today. I had a lovely time.”
“Did you? I noticed a bit of tension with Ginny earlier.”
“Ah, well that’s been a long time coming. I’m glad we had it out.”
“Is there anything you need to have out with me?” Harry asked, carefully. “I know I haven’t always
been…understanding.”
“You, Minister, have enough to deal with right now. And no, Harry, we’re fine.”
He nodded, relieved. He watched a breeze bend and sway the grass in the field. “It feels like a
season of change. You can look forward to more of the same.”
“Is that my friend, Harry, speaking, or the Minister?”
“Both.”
“You’re in for a fight, you know? Change doesn’t come easily to this lot.”
Hermione thought this might be the first time she and Harry had ever discussed the wizarding
community in terms of ‘them’ rather than ‘us’.
“It’s going to be a slow and painful process,” Harry agreed, “but I promise you, things will change
for the better. I didn’t take this detestable job just to usher in the same old guard again. Their time
is over.”
She was so proud of him. “If Richards was here, he’d tell you those are ‘fighting words’, Minister
Potter.”
Harry snorted. “I swear, sometimes it feels like the only thing I know how to do, is fight…”
“You sound so much like Draco when you say that.”
“Yeah? I don’t reckon we’re too dissimilar, at the end of the day.”
“Then please tell him how you do it,” she said.
“Do what?”
Not wanting Harry to see her expression, Hermione looked back at the pond, at Henry and Jack.
“How to fight and love at the same time.”
“Ah,” said Harry. “Well, the trick is not about how to do both at the same time. It’s about
understanding that sometimes you need to have something you love enough , to be worth the
fight.” He finished this sage advice with a wink.
“That’s quite good, Harry. Can I get it on a t-shirt?”
He made a playful grab for her, but Hermione ducked away, laughing. They were nearly at the
boundary point now.
“Henry’s not the only one that seems different. You do, too,” she said.
“How so?”
“Powerful. I mean, you’ve always been powerful, but also uncomfortable with it, you know?”
“I think it just takes age and time, Hermione.”
Orion managed to lose his hold over his book. Harry effectively snatched it out of the air as it fell,
and then handed it back up to the boy.
“Wow!” Orion exclaimed.
Harry executed a showy stretch, smirking. “But my Seeker reflexes are still intact, thank you very
much.”
“Henry wants to be a Seeker,” Hermione said. “Just like his father and godfather. Merlin help us
all.”
“He’s definitely got the build for it. This one, on the other hand…” Harry gave Orion’s right cankle
a squeeze. “A Beater, if ever I saw one.”
There was a distant roll of thunder and the rain finally began to fall. It wasn’t heavy yet, but it
would be, in a few minutes.
Orion’s delighted giggles at being caught in the downpour were contagious. Hermione was
impressed to note he had the good sense to shove his book under his shirt to protect it from getting
wet.
“I’d better be off, then.” Hermione blew her younger son a kiss. “I love you both. Ory, look after
your brother. Harry, please make sure Henry washes up before bed.”
“Will do. And you make sure to enjo y your weekend,” Harry said, with yet another wink.
Hermione Disapparated, mid eye-roll. She’d been the recipient of far too many winks that day.
Winking never looked quite as charming as people thought it did.
Draco was the exception, of course. His winks were few and far between. And always
devastatingly effective.
While the idea of surprising Draco with a much-needed weekend alone was risky, the thrill of it
made Hermione smile. This was an uncommon smile for her, lately. This smile–and really, it was a
grin now–was born of a very specific sort of anticipation.
Even if Hermione erased all the other things that made her so desperately in love with her difficult
husband, the way they made love, by itself, was enough to make her heart beat faster.
It was more than just about compatibility and attraction. Sex with Draco was also an enormous
amount of fun. He had a capacity for levity in the most inappropriate of circumstances. In a world
that was so serious, stifling and grim, it was good to laugh.
She felt transported to a place of healing and safety; of respite from other concerns. This was what
made for a healthy relationship, she thought. Their excellent test scores when it came to physical
intimacy had saved their relationship on more than one occasion.
There was a sweetness in Draco, fleeting and precious. She saw it when he looked at her in the
brief moments when she was allowed inside his walls. She wished she had a record of these times–
an entire album of every moment Draco lay next to her in bed, his face delicately flushed, his lips
red from her kisses, his grey stare so incredibly soft.
She experienced it indirectly when he looked at his children. It was there in his chuckle when
Orion found himself a stick and attempted to summon random objects to him with a very loud and
energetic, “KEE-YO!”
Hermione saw it in the week Draco spent gathering photos, articles, yearbooks, magazine clippings
and even tracked down a wizarding genealogy historian, in order to answer every conceivable
question Henry might have about his family history.
And when Draco did sit down with Henry for the eventual conversation, it took effort not to
interrupt them. Hermione peaked through the crack in the library door and saw Henry seated on his
father’s lap at the desk, his large brown eyes large and awestruck as they leafed through the
assortment of memories Draco had curated especially for him.
Lucius had been a poor father figure to emulate, which made Draco’s approach to fatherhood all
the more impressive. It wasn’t learned. He had no template. It was just how he thought things
should be.
She thought of the Draco she knew as a boy, and tried to superimpose that person onto the person
he was now. It wasn’t impossible, but this was probably because Hermione hadn’t known him that
well at school. Where there were gaps in knowledge, there was always room for possibilities. At
school, he was a persona, a reputation. She supposed everyone was a bit like this and the wizarding
world loved to typecast.
Hermione tried to project competence and calm, even when her knees were knocking together in
panic. Harry’s persona was one of determination and leadership, even when he cried when no one
else was watching and told her he was scared.
She thought about the eulogy Harry had given at Ron’s funeral. Harry said that Ron was the most
authentic person he knew. This was probably true. Ron didn’t project a persona. What you saw
was what you got. And this made Hermione wonder, someone uncharitably, if she had put off
pursuing a relationship with Ron during the pandemic not just because of bad timing, but because
he was too…easy.
Easy wasn’t a bad thing at all. Sometimes, you needed a light read, an entertaining page turner that
you could finish in one sitting. Loads of people preferred their recreation to be light and airy,
especially after a hard day of dodging Death Eater curses and problematic prophecies.
Not Hermione, though. She was discerning about how she chose to spend her time. A riddle that
piqued her curiosity was fine. A problem that intrigued her was good. A mystery that required
focus and effort was even better. A multi-layered challenge that pushed her to the limits of her
intellect was irresistible. For better or worse, Draco Malfoy had spoiled her for ‘light and airy’.
Granted, she had limited experience with other men from which to draw a basis of comparison. In
many ways, Voldemort had been a kind of default first relationship for Hermione and her peers. He
was the person you thought about when you woke up in the morning and the last thing you thought
about before you fell asleep. There was barely room for anything else, not for relationships and not
for future plans. Not without losing focus and creating liabilities.
Even as an adult, there was no way Hermione could have sustained a relationship during the war or
the subsequent outbreak. It would have been too emotionally taxing. Oh, plenty of people she knew
had casual, purely physical relationships. She supposed it was nice to come home to a warm and
welcoming set of arms, rather than an empty bed and nightmares. In hindsight, perhaps she should
have done that, too, if for no other reason than to add to her experience of being in any kind of
relationship.
Hermione was excellent at compartmentalising her feelings, but she could not do this regarding her
feelings for Draco. It overflowed into every other part of her life, dissolving boundaries. It became
the tapestry upon which the events of her life were stitched. That was how she loved him.
So, it was with a great deal of nervousness and anticipation that she Apparated into the corridor
outside the library at Malfoy manor, just in case he was in the library already.
He wasn’t.
She checked the bedroom next and then the children’s room. He wasn’t there either. Hermione cast
her location spell and was surprised to realise he wasn’t on the property at all. The only place the
spell could not penetrate was the restricted section, but that was now freshly sealed and warded.
Any attempt to enter would have alerted Hermione, no matter where she was. She and the children
weren’t due back from the party for another two hours at least, but Draco was supposed to be
home.
Feeling uneasy, Hermione walked to his set of rooms, pausing outside the door. She turned the
handle and was relieved to find it unlocked. Locked doors in their home meant danger and secrets.
Hermione had only been in Draco’s current set of rooms once or twice since he’d moved out of the
master bedroom. This had been his old bedroom growing up. It was painfully neat. Draco never
really lived in a place, in the sense that he never added any kind of personal touch.
Any recognisable aesthetic in the master bedroom, in the library, or in the boys’ rooms was
Hermione’s doing. It occurred to her that Draco could literally walk out of the house with
everything he owned in one bag.
This was not a comforting thought.
Where did you go?
She walked to a chest of drawers and opened it, feeling stupidly relieved to see a small stack of his
folded clothing. His winter cloak and two scarves were hanging in the closet and his lighter
summer cloak was draped over the chair at his desk.
Feeling a prickle of guilt, Hermione opened the desk drawers, looking at the letters he kept there.
There was nothing out of the ordinary. Gringotts correspondence, similar letters from other banks
abroad, receipts for various things he had ordered, business cards.
There was no personal correspondence whatsoever, which was unusual. He probably kept it
somewhere else, Hermione surmised. And she wasn’t about to go looking for it. There was nothing
in the hammered brass waste receptacle under the desk, nor in the outgoing correspondence tray.
She didn’t expect to find any research notes in the bedroom as these were all meticulously
catalogued in the library.
Hermione eventually sat back in the chair, drumming her fingers over the leather desk mat as she
thought.
She glanced behind her at Draco’s summer cloak and put her hand into the pockets. The second
pocket she searched turned up a small, folded piece of paper. It was a torn scrap of parchment,
bearing writing that was so flamboyant, Hermione initially had trouble reading the script.
Number X, Carlisle Place,
Westminster
In addition to the London address, there was also the current date and a time – '7pm'. This was in
exactly twenty minutes.
What made Hermione’s stomach twist into knots, however, was the message scrawled under the
address.
Let yourself in. The door will be unlocked
She sat at Draco's desk, reading the note over and over again in an effort to draw more context,
more information from the brief message.
Who was he meeting in London? Why was he going to this specific place and for what purpose?
Why had he not told her about it? Why the secrecy? Clearly he meant to go on this trip while she
and the children were away.
Hermione told herself not to jump to conclusions, even if the note practically screamed ‘clandestine
meeting’. She desperately wanted to trust Draco. The last six months had been so odd and strained.
The idea that Draco had been engaged in secret errands did not sit well with her. If anything, they
needed to be even more transparent with each other at the moment.
It was also unusual that he had not taken his hooded, summer cloak with him, particularly if he
was planning on going through Magical London. He always took his cloak so that he could pull the
hood over his hair. No cloak meant he was probably in Muggle London.
But the unusual address suggested a Wizarding establishment. Hermione couldn’t recall any
wizarding establishments in Westminster, unless…
No, this wasn’t an establishment at all. More likely, this was a private residence. Draco was going
to someone’s house in London, at seven pm, and the sodding door had been left open for him.
That did it. Hermione looked down one last time at the piece of paper before putting it back where
she found it.
It was almost seven.
The solution was simple. There was a mystery afoot and she was going to solve it.
Westminster was a very posh area, but it was not what it used to be.
Wealth may have provided more avenues for escape, but eventually, fuel and food ran out, as did
luck. Like many other neighbourhoods, it was riddled with burnt homes and abandoned cars. At
least the corpses had been removed and destroyed in order to prevent the spread of disease. The
Muggle government did not currently have adequate resources to rebuild anything other than the
most critical infrastructure. Repairing fancy homes for their dead owners was not on anyone’s list
of priorities.
Hermione Apparated to her nearest familiar location relative to Carlisle Place. This happened to be
a coffee shop on Bressenden that she had visited several times with her parents. The coffee shop
was long gone, replaced with a high-end stationery store, but the memory was sufficient to
facilitate the Apparition.
She arrived at exactly seven. Being June, it was still bright. There would be plenty of sunlight for
another couple of hours, at least.
As a rule, it was never a good idea to venture through urban environments alone, on foot.
However, this rule generally applied to Muggles. With the infection nullified, wands were proof
against most non-magical hazards, but even so, a wandering witch or wizard should always keep
their wits about them.
Hermione avoided walking in the middle of the street, choosing to stay close to the line of
townhouses on her side of Carlisle Place, but not close enough that she was within grabbing
distance of any of the doors or windows. Eventually, however, the street and sidewalk became
clustered with abandoned vehicles to such an extent that she had to climb over some of them in
order to keep moving forward. When there was enough unobstructed space and a clear line of
sight, she Apparated ahead in stages.
Some of the homes were burnt to just their foundations. All of them were evenly numbered on her
side of the street. As she walked, she took note of the numbers. Numbers 6, 8 and 10 looked like
they were practically levelled. Only their mailboxes remained There was nothing to indicate where
the oddly termed ‘Number X’ might fit into the scheme of things.
By now, sweat was pouring down her back and between her breasts. The thrill of the mystery was
all well and good when it wasn’t undertaken in the middle of a bloody heat wave. She was in dire
need of a drink.
She looked for the telltale signs that indicated a displacement charm was in effect, which masked
the existence of a magical structure nestled between two Muggle houses. Just like at Grimmauld
Place. Finally, between Numbers.16 and 18, she hit paydirt.
There was a faint heat mirage wafting up into the air. Next, she had to reveal the house and she
needed to get closer to do that.
The post-pandemic landscape often told a story, if you cared to read it. There was an unusually
dense pileup of vehicles directly in front of the house, many of them were crushed and on their
sides. It looked like the cars had been bulldozed. The explanation for this scene lay just ahead of
Hemione.
It was a tank. She’d seen abandoned tanks before, but it was always surreal coming across one in
an urban or even suburban environment. The hatch was open. Hermione wondered what had made
the soldiers venture outside and if they realised that opening that hatch meant certain death? Cars
were no obstacle to a rolling tank. Maybe they had run out of fuel? Maybe they had stopped to help
someone on the outside?
In any case, the sheer density of the debris around her would make Apparition to clearer ground too
risky. She would need to climb up to higher ground.
Hermione was making her way around an overturned sandwich truck when she saw them.
At first, she thought they were zombies, on account of the smell. But she quickly realised it was a
small group of people. Muggles – five in total, four men and a woman. They were so filthy that
there were cracks in the layers of built-up dirt on their skin. Though the government provided basic
housing and amenities for Muggle survivors, invariably, there were those who chose to live in the
wider freedom of the abandoned cities. Hermione suspected this was one such group.
“‘Lo there,” said a man in a baseball cap who could have been anywhere between 18 and 50 years
of age. Hermione couldn’t tell. He had the characteristic strut and swagger that earmarked him as
the possible group leader.
“Evening,” Hermione replied. She was standing knee deep in debris and the van was against her
back; the space was too tight to Apparate without the risk of splinching. She looked around for a
more suitable position.
The three other men circled around her. One of them was carrying a putter, which he was now
using to try and lift up her skirt.
“Careful now, Jimmy. She’s a stick!”
‘Stick’ was a reference to wands. It was the common parlance among those who weren’t overly
fond of magical people.
“Where the ‘el did you come from?” asked the man in the cap. He wasn’t coming any closer. The
same could not be said for Jimmy the Upskirter, who was looking at her with growing predatory
interest.
Hermione sighed. She didn’t have time for this. Draco was probably already inside the house.
“I’m on personal business,” she said, her voice loud and firm. “Stand back and we’ll have no
trouble.”
“Sure she’s a stick, Arch?” asked Jimmy. “I ain’t never seen one look like this, mate.”
Hermione turned her attention to the only woman in the group, whose eyes were downcast.
“Are you alright?” she asked the woman. “Do you need help?”
The other men laughed. The woman’s hands fidgeted with her clothing, but she didn’t look up.
“She’s not the one who needs help, love,” Jimmy said.
“Are you lost?” asked the man in the baseball cap.
“I’m not lost. I’m just passing through.”
“Fuck’s sake Jim, she’ll take your eye out if you get too close! I saw it once. The bitch popped ‘em
right out of the geezer!”
Honestly, she was this close to stupefying the lot of them, but the last thing Harry needed was a
‘magical incident’ in Muggle London. She would have been better off running into a zombie.
“I forgot what clean looks like,” Jimmy said, licking his lips. His stench was starting to make her
eyes water.
“Seckle, Jim.”
“Nah, mate. I ain’t bovvered when it looks like shite. But this one’s fucking chung !”
The man in the baseball cap addressed the woman. “Boss? Your call.”
To Hermione’s surprise the woman looked up. Her initial assessment as to the groups’ likely leader
was incorrect. It wasn’t the man in the cap. It was the woman.
“I like your dress,” the woman said.
“Thank you. It’s on loan. I’m going to ask you nicely one more time to back away and let me
pass.”
The woman responded by pulling out a switchblade and flicking it open.
Really? A switchblade? The only cliché left was the timely appearance of a rival street gang,
whereupon both groups would taunt each other via singing and choreography.
“Jim.”
“Yeah Boss?”
“Take the dress off her.”
Hermione groaned. She did warn them. She stunned four of them with ease, but was saving an
extra special, extra strong Stupefy for Jimmy, who made a token effort to fight back with a length
of rebar.
He charged at her, ready to swing, but then seemed to stop in mid attack, quickly falling to his
knees, unaware or uncaring that he landed on jagged metal and broken glass. Jimmy dropped the
rebar and put his hands up in the air. When he spoke, he wasn’t looking at Hermione. He was
looking up and behind her.
“Jesus and Mary…like she said, bruv, no trouble! No trouble here!”
Hermione knew, without turning around to look, that her husband was standing on one of the cars
behind her.
Break Me
Chapter Notes
“Draco, can you please slow down!”
He was moving so quickly that Hermione had to run to keep up. Suddenly, he stopped altogether,
whirling around to face her. Hermione ran right into him. It might have been amusing how she
bounced from him like a pinball, if it didn’t feel like she’d walked into a tree at full speed.
Draco caught her shoulders to steady her. “If you want to get yourself killed or worse, by all means,
continue traipsing around Muggle London while–” he stopped mid-sentence, staring down at her
dress. His expression darkened. “Go home. Immediately .”
Go home? Go home? Was he mental?
“I was home and you weren't there! I came here to look for you!”
They were now directly in front of Numbers 16 and 18. Draco climbed up onto a car and then
glared down at Hermione when she tried to join him.
“I’m coming back down, just stay there.”
Too late, she was on the hood now, so he gave her his hand and pulled her up beside him on the
bonnet.
“You’re very stubborn, do you know that?”
Hermione didn’t know how to respond to that, so she just stared at him and nodded.
Draco pointed his wand between the two townhouses and Hermione watched as the previously
hidden ‘Number X’ appeared. It was identical to the townhouses on either side of it, only the brick
was black.
“What is this place?”
He responded with another question. “Who’s watching the boys?”
“They’re spending the weekend with the Weasleys at the Burrow.”
Draco jumped down from the car roof and was about to lift Hermione down to him, when she
swatted at his hands. “I can do it myself.”
She was aware that her husband probably copped an eyeful of her underpants as she rather
inelegantly slid down the windscreen and then shimmied off the bonnet of the car. By the time her
feet were on the pavement and she had smoothed her skirt back down, Draco was already at the
house, holding the front door open.
“Are you coming in?”
“That depends on whose house it is.”
“It’s yours, Granger.”

She blinked. “Come again?”
“Just get in. I don't fancy having to deal with any more of your fan club turning up. Do you have
any idea what those men could have done to you?"
“I had it well in hand, if you didn’t notice?”
“One mistake…one miscalculation, Hermione. You’re far too used to the safety of our home.”
“Maybe I’m just used to the safety of you,” she said, softly.
He looked at her, his expression unreadable now, but definitely more affectionate. “Come on, let’s
go inside.”
She marched past him, confused and intrigued, but not so distracted that she didn’t feel his gaze
travel up and down the length of her, paying particular attention to her bare legs and chest.
Ginny really wasn’t joking. The dress was dangerous. It had to be charmed or something.
Once inside, Hermione noted that the house had been stripped of most of its internal fixtures.
Nothing decorative remained, not even the mouldings. She could see the areas where carpet had
been pulled up and wallpaper steamed off. The place looked like a bare canvas ready for painting.
Draco led her through to the kitchen and then to a small square room in the back, lined with
shelves along three walls. The floor was a black and white chequered tile. It was the pantry,
Hermione surmised. It didn’t take her long to work out the origins of the house.
“This house belongs to your family, doesn't it?” she said. “You once mentioned your father had a
place on the city. This is that house?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not meeting anyone here?”
He looked puzzled at the question. “No.”
He passed his wand over the pantry floor and a rectangular seam appeared, complete with a
handle. It was a trap door. Draco pulled the handle and lifted the door. The basement, if that was
indeed where the trapdoor led, was initially dark, but was soon illuminated by automatic sensor
lights.
“After you,” Draco said, holding out his arm. His lightweight, grey t-shirt was plastered to his
body. She knew the shirt well. The collar was starting to fray. She liked playing with it. He was
also wearing a pair of tattered, light blue, denim jeans. The knees were dusty.
She peered down the steps and hesitated.
“Granger, all the answers you seek are down there . In addition, it’s about 10 degrees cooler under
the house.” Almost as if to emphasise the severity of the heat, a drop of perspiration from his wet
fringe slid down his nose. His hair looked almost golden blond when it was wet.
Hermione proceeded down the stairs and was amazed to find herself in a fully furnished parlour.
The far end of the basement was still shrouded in darkness, but there was more than enough light in
the current space for a good look around.
There was something vaguely familiar about the decor. Hermione realised it resembled the colour
scheme in certain bedrooms at the Manor. However, the aesthetic was something straight out of a
1980s luxury home decor magazine. Red velvet, red leather and glossy wood panelling featured
prominently. There was a fully stocked bar in a corner.
Draco walked to it now and began opening cabinets. He took out a glass bottle of mineral water,
cracked it open, and chilled it with his wand.
"Here." He handed her the bottle.
Hermone rested her wand down on the bar and gratefully accepted the water. She drank and drank,
feeling Draco’s gaze on her. His eyes strayed to the fabric of her dress as it pulled taut across her
chest. The combination of the cooler temperature in the basement and her husband’s warm stare
made her nipples tighten.
“Thank you,” Hermione said, feeling restored. She handed him the bottle and he took a quick swig
from it. “So, are you going to tell me why we’re here?”
“Oh, I know why I’m here. How did you know I was here?”
“I, um. I found a note in your cloak pocket. It had the address.”
“You snooped.”
It was galling, but Hermione stopped herself from responding defensively. He was right, after all.
She had snooped.
“Who wrote that note? It looked like a woman’s handwriting.”
“Someone who works at a trust that oversees confiscated Death Eater property contacted me
privately to let me know about the house. Apparently the Ministry neglected to mention that it's
been returned to my family. The informant felt I ought to have access to what was rightfully mine.
She's working on duplicating a set of keys for me. There's only one set at the moment.”
“This person read your story in the paper, sympathised, and realised they could help you to get
your property back?” Hermione summarised. She was very pleased to know the media campaign
was having the right kind of effect.
“Seems so. They told me they’d leave the place unlocked today if I wanted to view the house
before the official handover. It was meant to be a surprise for you and the boys.” He stared at her.
“You thought I was coming here to meet a woman, didn’t you?”
Hermione could feel her face burning.
His reaction surprised her. He burst into laughter.
“I’m glad one of us finds this amusing,” she grumbled.
“When would I even have found the time to have an affair?”
“You know, that’s not nearly as reassuring as Hermione, don’t be ridiculous, I would never .”
He sobered, though there was still a smile in his voice. “Hermione, don’t be ridiculous, I would
never. Also, have I given you cause to doubt me? Have I been remiss in my duties at home; in my
duties to our children?”
“No.”
“Then what put this idea into your head?”
“Are you joking? You haven’t touched me in almost six months!”
He was very serious now. “Granger, I told you why.”
“I thought maybe. I don’t know…since Orion was born. I thought maybe there was a chance you
were, you know…”
“That I was what?”
“Losing interest.”
He was astonished. “In you ?”
She stared down at her sandals, nodding.
“Never. Do you hear me, Hermione? Never. Impossible.”
Well now that was a good response. She felt much better. “How come you never talk about this
place?”
“To be honest, until last week, I thought the Ministry had confiscated everything after my father
was arrested. It was submitted as evidence in his trial. I’ve always known of the existence of this
house, but never had cause to come here before now.”
“Why not?”
He met her eyes and she saw hesitation there. “I was too young. This house served a very specific
purpose.”
“What purpose?”
More hesitation. “It’s best if I just show you.”
She followed him as he led her deeper into the darker section of the parlour. More automatic lights
flared to life as they entered the space.
Hermione’s mouth dropped open.
Draco said nothing. He surveyed the assorted paraphernalia on display with his hands on his hips, a
resigned expression on his face.
“Good lord, this was your father’s sex dungeon!”
She caught the brief flash of amusement in his eyes. “That is one word for it, I suppose? To be
more precise, this was where Dark Revels were occasionally hosted.”
Everyone had heard of the Voldemort's infamous Dark Revels. Some argued they were apocryphal
and merely part of the Death Eater recruitment strategy.
“What did you mean when you said the house is mine?”
“I’ve transferred ownership to you.” He definitely looked hesitant now.
“Why?”
“Depending on the outcome of the Inquiry next week, you may wish to move to a more urban
locale with the children, closer to the Ministry and other amenities. After my case concludes, you’ll
have more freedom, you won’t be monitored or watched. Potter’s tenure as Minister will also see to
that. This could be a home for you. And when the world is back on its feet again, if you don’t want
it, you could sell it. You’ll never be able to sell the Manor, nor will you be able to maintain it on
your own.”
“Why do you keep talking as if you won’t be in the picture?” she asked.
He shrugged. "It’s a possibility. I just want you to have options.”
“A Wizangamot special inquiry is not the same as criminal charges, Draco. You’re just as likely to
walk out of there next week, completely cleared.”
“A Wizangamot special inquiry is also a common precursor to charges and arrest. This is merely a
precaution if that happens. You and the children are my priority, now and always.”
“I wish you’d told me all this earlier.”
She’d obviously said something wrong, but Hermione couldn't understand what it might be. He
looked angry all of a sudden. For a moment, she was sure Draco was going to, or rather, wanted to
explode at her.
But then, he closed his eyes and seemed to draw on some internal reserve. Or perhaps he was
applying a new approach altogether.
“Granger,” he began, somewhat stiffly, “I am allowed to have private concerns, fears and
insecurities. And I’m allowed to work on them without giving you detailed progress reports. I’m
already doing that with professional help. Seeing this house for the first time was something I
wanted…needed to do on my own. Many of my issues pre-date us, and it is not unreasonable for
me to have some privacy and time to work through them.”
The monologue sounded rehearsed. The idea that Draco’s therapist had helped him to develop a
readymade response to her meddling was mortifying. Hermione suddenly felt terribly ashamed.
She’d worked herself up to this. If only she’d left it alone. He only wanted to surprise her.
Draco was right. She was interfering.
“I’m very sorry,” Hermione began, and then, though it nearly killed her to admit it, she added, “I
guess my imagination got the better of me. And...and I miss you so much!”
It looked like he was going to go to her. The intention showed on his face, but he didn’t follow
through with it.
“And yet I frighten you.”
“You don't,” she insisted, not for the first time.
“Did it ever occur to you that you are, on occasion, afraid of me because that is a perfectly logical
and rational response? That there is nothing wrong with you? That continually trying to ‘get over’
this fear response is akin to telling yourself to relax when there’s a danger in the room? You need
time to heal, too. How can either of us do that if we’re constantly triggering each other?”
“I love you! That counts for something, surely?”

“You can’t love me and be afraid of me. Those things need to be mutually exclusive.”
“Is that why you’re staying away from me? Because you think I’m afraid of you?”
Draco moved very quickly. He was beside her in a flash. Hermione made a startled sound and
brought her hands up, instinctively.
“Liar,” he told her, tipping her chin up towards him. “But such a beautiful one. Where in the name
of Hades did you find this dress? I haven’t seen it before. I would have remembered.”
“I b-borrowed it from Ginny.”
He stared at her mouth, as he so often did when he wanted her. His thumb rubbed across her bottom
lip, yet another tell. “Poor Kiska. You cannot see the forest for the trees.”
“What do you mean?” Hermione was furious at her body’s response, because it really did make a
liar out of her. A cold sweat broke out over her skin. She gritted her teeth in an effort to stave off
her trembling.
Draco turned her around so that her back was against his chest, but his hand remained wrapped
around her chin, his fourth and little finger resting on her throat. “Look at this place, Hermione.
Look around you. If ever you need evidence that I come from very bad stock indeed, here it is.
We’re standing in it. I was literally bred for iniquity. No amount of nurture, not even from the likes
of you, is going to overcome nature.”
“You sound so fatalistic. So absolute.”
He shook his head. “No, just realistic. It’s difficult to have a healthy relationship with you when I
don’t have one with myself. Can you understand that?”
“I…I think so.”
“I am ill at ease with myself, Hermione,” Draco whispered into her ear. His wrist rested on top of
her collarbone now, his hand wrapped loosely around her throat. “It leaks out sometimes, in my
violence.” His voice lowered and so did his hand. It slid over the front of her dress, between her
breasts, down her belly, stopping just under her navel. His fingers curled against the cotton.
Hermione thought she was going to snap, so acute was the tension between flight and arousal.
“You saw what I did to McInnes, what I did to Amarov and Honoria. You have no idea about the
other things I’ve done.” The edge of his thumb rested against the rim of her navel. He flicked it
lightly.
Hermione was breathing harshly now, and when she chanced to look up at him, saw that he
watched his hand’s progress with hooded eyes. “When I fuck you. I can feel it under my skin. It’s
never happened with any other woman I’ve been with. Only you.”
Even amidst the cacophony of blood rushing to her head, Hermione made a mental note to have a
‘what other women?’ follow-up conversation.
“My feelings for you connect to a part of me that is very dark.” His ragged breathing was almost a
match for hers now. “My therapist says my mistake has been to try to suppress them. The results
can be somewhat…explosive.” He was lifting her skirt now, his fingers slowly dragging it up her
thigh.
“What…um. What does he suggest?”
“That’s fear in your voice, sweetheart. Do you want me to stop this conversation?”
Not bloody likely, she thought. Her body wasn’t just singing. It was its own choir.
She shook her head. “Nothing wrong with just a–a conversation.”
He responded with a low laugh. She felt the rumble in his chest.
“Yes. Just a conversation. Between two consenting adults.” He slid his lips down her ear, catching
her ear lobe between his teeth.
Hermione moaned, dropping her head back against his shoulder.
“He says I cannot compel myself to rely solely on common sense or logic to temper my baser urges
when I’m with you. This is what damages me. Because my other needs and wants when it comes to
you…” Her dress was now pulled up to her belly, exposing her knickers “...are entirely
incompatible.”
“What–” Hermione gasped. “What do you need and want?”
Draco palmed her belly, pressing the five points of his fingers into her skin, testing the resilience of
her flesh. It felt like he wanted to claw her open. “To be thrilled and challenged. To consume, take,
keep. Control. The things that make me good at what I’m good at, also make me a bad fit for
family life.”
“And what if I want to be consumed?” she whispered, tilting her mouth up to him. Her last word
ended with her voice catching because Draco slid his hand over the front of her underwear, his
middle finger pressing lightly against her saturated, cloth-covered core.
The sound she made was part moan, part whine.
“La Vie En Rose,” Draco said and Hermione nearly passed out when he ran the very tip of his
tongue across the seam of her mouth. She ached to kiss him, but he kept pulling away. He liked
controlling her the magnetic push and pull of his kisses. Between her legs, his finger has set up a
gentle tapping against her clit.
“What about it?” she asked, gasping.
“As the song goes, you choose to see me through rose-tinted glasses. But at the same time, your
instincts recognise what I am and that’s why you’re occasionally afraid. It’s your brain telling you
to take your glasses off, sweetheart.”
Hermione didn’t think Draco realised how tightly he was holding her. He’d been steadily grinding
his erection into her back, the rough denim of his jeans felt stiff and scratchy.
“You have absolutely no idea what I hold back from you. If you did, you’d take the children and
run. And the tragedy of it is that I’d let you.” He nuzzled at the thin skin under her ear, found a
spot he liked, and began to suck.
The front of her knickers was a sodden mess. Draco’s tapping finger was now making a more
distinct, compact sound against the wet fabric.
“You should trust me enough to tell me, to show me,” Hermione said, speaking in short, sharp
gaps. “Let me take the tinted glasses off.”
“That is what my therapist suggests. He said you have a right to know, to see me the way I see
myself. He says I should trust you.”
“Yes. Listen to the man….Oh God, Draco, please …” Hermione arched her hips, trying to force
his damnable hand to do… more , but he pulled it away.
“Please what?” he said, and there was a sliver of cruelty in his voice. “We’re just having a
conversation, aren’t we, Hermione?”
“Y..yes. We’re just talking.”
“If I show you all my dark parts, you’ll reject me. So I will work on them.”
“Where is my agency in this process, Draco? Don’t I get to decide what I can and cannot handle?”
Finally, he slid his hand inside her knickers. Hermione moaned, but the moan ended with a cry of
frustration because his entire hand simply rested there, long fingers cupping, but not moving.
Touching, but not pleasing. She was going out of her mind with need.
“You couldn’t ‘handle’ what I did to McInnes. I never want to be the reason for that look on your
face. Not ever again.”
“I don’t care about Mcinnes!”
“Stop lying,” he hissed. He used his index finger to part her slick-sealed folds, and then, blessed
Merlin and Circe, began rubbing on her clit.
Hermione whined, eyes screwed shut, face buried against his chest, under his chin. Draco’s scent
was all around her. She missed walking up to pillows and sheets that smelled like him.
“Hermione?”
She wanted to come so badly. It was there – bliss within reach, waiting for her.
Six months. Six, lonely, cold depressing months with only Orion and Henry occasionally in her bed
to play Cosy Cuddle Town, or to listen to a bedtime story. Six months of nearly giving herself a
repetitive strain injury in her right hand because no matter what she did, her sodding husband had
spoiled her for all other fingers on her body, including her own.
In that moment, Hermione would have done anything to get there; crawled through whatever filthy
muck he wanted her to crawl through, if Draco would just give her this release.
“Hermione. ”
He stopped touching her. She opened her eyes, staring up at him in hurt and bewilderment.
“Tell me the truth about McInnes.”
“Please, can’t we just–”
He gave her a gentle glide of his finger.
“The truth.”
“Please!”
His lips were at her temple now. “Please, nothing. Tell me what I want to know. Shh. Close your
eyes. It’s alright, you can do this.”
What was she supposed to say? She’d see him kill people right in front of her. But what she saw
that day at the Manor was something else. It was a macabre, almost performative kind of
premeditated violence.
Hermione honestly felt McInnes deserved it. She told herself that any parent would want to do
terrible things to the person that hurt their children. But when confronted with what that terrible
thing actually looked like, the reality of it, Hermione knew she could never have done it. Not that
way.
But Draco could and did.
And she relied on him to be this way, didn't she? He took on the unsavoury work when others were
too squeamish to do. How could she think less of him, or differently about him, for doing what she
herself wanted to bit didn’t have the guts to do? So, yes, she was scared and disturbed, but she was
also grateful and very sorry. How could she convey all of this to him in a way he could understand?
It was much easier to say no, she was not scared.
“Yes, it scared me.”
“Good girl. Thank you for being honest.” His fingers resumed working on her. “But you love me
more than you're scared of me, don’t you?”
“God, yes. Pleasepleaseplease. I need this so much. Need you.”
“I know, baby. I know. You’ve done so well.”
He took her to the summit and held her there. She climaxed, thrashing in his arms, letting him take
the brunt of it. When the last wave dissipated, she was very still.
On shaky legs, Hermione stepped away from him. “Why…why did you have to do it like that?”
She felt…she didn’t know what she felt. Teased? No, it was worse than that. Used? Toyed with?
Manipulated?
“That’s…that’s not how we should have had this kind of conversation. You shouldn’t use sex to do
that. You know how much I wanted you. One minute we were just talking and then-”
“I gave you what you wanted, didn’t I? And in return, I got the truth that you were not even willing
to admit to yourself.”
“So the end justifies the means?”
“Sometimes."
"Draco, you've just hurt me rather badly," she informed, tears now falling.
What part of ‘you married a son of a bitch’ don’t you still get?”
It occurred to Hermione, that just like her, Draco’s approach to their relationship was also a
tapestry. It was the background that connected everything else. He was worried that his violence
was impossible to quarantine. And when she thought about it that way, his concerns seemed
justified.
“I didn’t realise self-loathing was a full time job,” Hermione said, in a shaky voice. “So that’s why
you’ve stayed away from me?”
“I promised I wouldn’t leave and I didn’t. I simply stayed away from your bed because otherwise
something like this fucking happens!”
“My God, we’re never going to have any peace, are we?”
“No. Not until we’re both brutally honest. You’re very good at accepting your own lies,
Hermione.”
Something inside of her snapped. It was like an unleashed landslide of pent up hurt and frustration.
“I HATE YOU!” she screamed. “You make everything so fucking difficult! Why does it have to be
like this? When I’m not trying to save your ungrateful hide or give you a safe, stable home, I’m
trying to anticipate the next thing that will set either of us off!
“I give you my body, my heart, my faith, my trust! I gave you fucking everything I have, Draco!
You had a rough childhood? A terrible father? Guess what, you’re not the only one! Harry was
raised in a GOD-DAMNED CUPBOARD by people who starved him and hid him like a circus
freak in their house! He lost so much! All the men in his life that should have been there to show
him how to be a great husband, a good father, a best friend. But he would never hurt Ginny the
way you just hurt me! I am sick of having to explain you to other people, to defend my judgement
for being in love with you!”
Hermione frowned at his stony silence. “Have you nothing to say?”
He apparently did not.
She sobbed. “You make me feel so strong, and safe and protected. I feel like I can do anything
when I’m with you. I feel like you see me more clearly than I see myself. I would die for you, you
stupid, awful bastard! I have children and I'm a terrible mother for thinking like this, but I would
still die for you…”
Draco didn’t move a muscle. He continued to simply stand there and look at her. The only sign that
he was feeling anything at all were the tight fists at his side.
Hermione somehow managed to make her way to the bar. Draco’s wand lay there, just beside hers.
Even their wands looked like they belonged together, she thought.
“This place,” she said, in a hoarse voice. “The things that went on here, were they consensual?”
He took a moment to adjust to the change in topic. His voice was tight when he replied. “This was
a place for Death Eaters and their partners. So yes, consensual.”
“Partners meaning like your mum and dad?”
“Yes, and assorted friends.”
She nodded, looking around the room, taking stock, thinking. “Uhuh.”
“Hermione–”
When she faced him again, her wand was in her hand. She saw the small frown of concern on his
face. She wasn't sure it was going to work, but it was worth a try.
“Ligare Involucrum.”
Not even Draco could dodge this, she knew. Though Hermione hadn’t really anticipated that every
single binding in the room was going to attach itself to him, all at once.
They flew from their respective storage areas, and in some cases, from wall displays, and latched
onto him like leeches. Belts buckled, straps strapped, buttons snapped into place, and zippers
unzipped and re-zipped. It would have been comical if she wasn't so devastated.
Hermione only just managed to grab on to a monstrous looking harness with an attached
appendage, before it reached him. Not that he saw this near miss because he was now wearing at
least three masks, topped off with a ball gag.
He would have fallen over if not for the chains that held him up, connecting him to the wall and
ceiling. If she left him like this, he would suffocate to death.
It was tempting.
Hermione quickly walked over to him and removed the majority of the bindings. She discarded
anything that was red, because it wasn’t going to look nearly as good against Draco’s bare skin as
the black leather.
By the end of it, there was only a chest harness, a hip and thigh harness, a leather collar, and cuffs
at his wrists and ankles. He was still fully dressed.
Hermione dropped the ball gag to the carpet, with a grimace. “I hope for your sake that your father
sanitised all his toys after use.”
Draco was almost spitting with anger. “What the hell are you playing at?” He was also eyeballing
his wand on top of the bar.
Good, she thought. A little fear was good.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Draco. I’m playing.” Hermione walked up to him, smoothed back
hair, mussed from where she'd peeled off a latex mask, and then ran the tip of her wand along the
prominent bulge in his jeans.
“Looks like you want to play with me, too. But if you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”
These were the exact same words that an extremely inebriated Draco said to her on the night he
took her virginity. It was the same fateful night they conceived Orion.
The anger left his face now. In its wake was something that made Hermione’s pulse quicken. She
got the distinct feeling he was indulging in one of the 'dark parts' he spoke about earlier.
“Don’t play games when you don’t know the rules, darling.”
She walked around him, ostensibly to experiment with the give on his bindings, but also to calm
her racing heart. He was frightening and she was glad he was incapacitated. The bindings were
expertly calibrated to respond to her wand. She touched the chains attached to his wrists and with a
simple tilt of her wand, could move him whichever way she wanted.
“Seems to me like I’m in a position to make the rules up as I go. Wow, these chains are very
responsive, aren’t they? Your father really spared no expense. I’m starting to see the appeal.”
“What are you hoping to accomplish with this?”
“Whatever I want. But if you want me to stop, I’ll stop,” she repeated.
Draco looked annoyingly calm. If he saw this as a challenge, he was not likely to back down.
Fine, Hermione thought. Challenge accepted. His eyes followed her as she completed her circle
and came back to stand in front of him.
“I’m interested to see what you think you’re going to do.”
“Me too,” she said, with a smile. She bent down to untie her sandals, leaving her feet bare. The
plush, black and red floral carpet was garish, but felt nice between her toes.
“But don’t hurt yourself, do you understand?”
Hermione laughed, though it was entirely hollow. “I’m not the one who’s in danger,”
“Not that kind of hurt,” Draco said, and now the concern was back in his eyes, only this was very
much a concern for her. “You know what I mean. Don’t do what cannot be easily undone.”
“That’s precious. You’re worried about my feelings now after what just happened? At this time, I
don’t think I can feel anything else other than being extremely fucking horny. But you’re going to
help with that.”
He looked down his nose at her. Hermione felt hopelessly short given she was barefoot and he still
had his shoes on.
“Am I ?” he said and there was a tiny catch in his voice. “Why would you want to fuck someone
you hate?”
Ah, so he was wounded by what she’d said to him. Hermione was aware that part of her was still
screaming and sobbing, but she slammed the door on it. “Draco, surely you know that hate makes
for the best kind of fucking.”
“I don’t hate you. I love you.”
Hermione swallowed, her fortitude almost crumbling. “Then show me,” she said.
She added some slack to his collar chain and then pulled his head down to kiss her. Her intention
was to make it sharp and rough, but as usual, Draco’s kisses worked their familiar magic. She was
breathless and clinging to him before she recovered her wits. Well, that backfired. She pulled
sharply on his hair, yanking his head back. There was a flash of pain in his eyes, followed by
anger.
“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop,” she whispered.
His cool, grey, unflinching gaze was the unsurprising response.
“I’m going to take your shirt off,” she said. “This is an opt out system, Draco. You’re going to have
to say something if you want it to stop.”
He was silent.
Hermione vanished his t-shirt, leaving him topless, but for the chest harness and collar. He was
wearing an impatient, resigned expression now.
Good lord, he was stunning.
His arms were locked behind his back. The chest harness was in the shape of an X, with four points
joined by a metal ring in the center of his chest. They fastened with buckles. A leather collar of the
same design was around his neck, attached to the wall behind him by a chain. The hip and thigh
harness looked awkward over the top of his jeans, and Hermione was keen to get his trousers off as
soon as possible.
She was right though, the contrast of the black leather on his pale skin was lovely.
“This is too good to be true. Big, bad Draco Malfoy, all trussed up.”
She could see goosebumps on his skin, which she promptly exacerbated by tonguing first one
nipple, and then the other.
Draco hissed sharply.
One last spell was needed. A precautionary one. “The bonds will release you on a timer in the
event I pass out, or something else happens, OK?” she said, stroking his cheek.
He gave no response.
Hermione stood on her toes and licked his clavicles. The leather collar looked disturbingly good on
him. For a moment, she wondered what it might look like on her.
“You’re all salty,” she said, trailing her fingers down his sternum, running them over the metal ring
of the harness before hooking over the waistband of his jeans and tugging. He wasn’t wearing a
belt that day. She put her lips against a pectoral muscle and bit hard enough to leave a mark. He
instinctively sucked his stomach in. Hermione pressed her cheek against his chest and spent a
moment simply listening to the hammering of his heart, smiling.
She touched the horizontal scars across his belly, gently raking her nails over the raised, white,
scar tissue. She knew he was very sensitive there. He let out a long, shaky breath and then cleared
his throat.
“What was that, did you say something? If you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”
No response.
She kissed her way down his chest, and then got on her knees, pleased with the way his breathing
instantly picked up in pace and intensity. There was a wet patch to the left of his zip fly, from
where his precum had soaked through his underwear and jeans.
“Oh,” Hermione said, with a feigned pout of disappointment. “Did you come already?”
“I have not,” he snapped.
She laughed at his quick, offended reply. “He speaks! Then you won’t mind if I take these off and
see for myself, hmm?”
He stared straight ahead, refusing to look at her.
“Draco, if I take your cock out, what would I see?” She rested her cheek against his denim-covered
thigh, batting her eyelashes up at him. “Will you be pale? Or maybe flushed the same colour as my
nipples after you suck on them? Or the red of my mouth after you kiss me until my head spins? Or
is it the deep pink of my cunt after you’ve fucked me raw?”
His gaze dropped to her, his expression an odd mixture of rage, longing and fear. His eyes were
nearly black.
“Last chance,” Hermione said, raising her wand again. When there was no response, she proceeded
to vanish his jeans, underwear and shoes, now leaving him naked, but for the collar, cuffs and
harnesses.
His hard, leaking cock was now inches away from her face. She could smell him – musk, salt and
sweat. “You know, people are always talking about purebloods being inbred. But if the Malfoys
did anything right, this is it,” she said, running a fingernail along his heated flesh, causing him to
flinch. “Generations of careful, selective breeding delivers this to me now.”
She took him in her hand. “It looks like you're in pain. Are you hurting, Draco?”
He groaned. The chains shook.
“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”
“No, I don’t want you to fucking stop!” he snarled.
“Yes? Tell me. What do you want, then?”
He looked away, frustrated, but unwilling to give in.
Hermione laughed at him. “You're worse than Orion. Use your words.”
He still wouldn't look at her.
Hermione lifted her hands to the back of her neck and began to untie the straps that held up her
dress. They fell and the bodice dipped a little lower, but it was too fitted to come off entirely
without assistance. She untied her hair next and let down her curls.
And yes, now he was looking at her again. Hermione peeled the bodice down, exposing her breasts
to him and was rewarded with a twitch from his cock.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
Hermione crawled closer to him until her mouth was brushing against the side of his erection. She
grabbed hold of the harness straps around his upper thighs, for leverage.
When she spoke, her breath ghosted over him. “I await your instructions, husband.”
No response. And he called her stubborn?
Unhurried, Hermione busied herself by rubbing her breasts against his bare thigh, enjoying the
sensation of the golden blond hairs tickling her skin. She put her mouth on his hip bone and sucked
along the delicious line of muscle just above it. Her chin accidentally bumped the wet head of his
cock and he nearly jumped out of his skin. She proceeded to dragged her aching core against his
shin, sliding herself up and down until she left a hot, damp trail on his leg.
“Suck me.”
Hermione snapped to attention at the request. He sounded like he was being strangled. “Suck you,
did you say?”
“Yes!”
“I’d love to. Suck you where, my love?”
He blinked at her, looking almost apoplectic now. “My cock, you teasing bitch! Suck my cock!”
“There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She grabbed him and he groaned when she squeezed.
“Do you kiss your wife with that nasty mouth?” Holding him in one fist, she used the other to pump
him a few times, causing fresh precum to bead at the tip. She wiped it off with her thumb and then
while looking up at him, smeared it across her lips, leaving them wet and shiny.
Hermione wondered if Draco knew he was literally gawking at her. Wizard, pureblood scion,
fearsome Death Eater, hero of the fleet, science nerd, and the father of her children. Her husband.
How on earth they were going to make it work was anyone’s guess.
“I think about how you taste when I touch myself.” Hermione told him. She closed her eyes and
sucked at her lips, her tongue doing a comprehensive job of cleaning off his precum.
Tasting him was a mistake, Hermione realised. She was overcome by her own desire. After all, this
was about her needs, her taking from him, not the other way around. With a groan, she latched her
mouth over the head of his cock and sucked like she'd been dying to do for months.
Draco was shaking. She felt it, but also heard it in the sweet shimmering of the chains, the squeak
and creak of the leather harnesses. There wasn’t much give to his bindings, but he still managed to
deliver shallow thrusts into her mouth.
“Mmmmmmm,” Hermione hummed, losing herself in the sensation. She set up a rhythmic
pumping and twisting, sliding his skin up and down, fisting the head of his cock to feed into the
hot, tight suction of her mouth.
Draco moaned and shuddered. His eyes were closed, head lolling backwards and occasionally
muttering her name in conjunction with ‘fuck’ and ‘hell’.
“Hermione,” he gasped, looking at her now.
Her eyes fluttered open. She looked up at him, her pupils blown, drunk on his cock.
He said something in Russian, followed by her name again.
As soon as she recognised the signs of his impending climax, she immediately released him and sat
back on the floor.
His cock was red and angry, and so was he. “If you’re trying to teach me a lesson, I think it’s been
learned.”
Hermione positioned her hips away from him, lay back against the carpet and removed her soaked
underwear. Her hand settled between her legs. She closed her eyes and imagined she was back
home at the Manor, in her empty bed, touching herself under the blankets.
Her flesh was sensitised and swollen, but her fingers were nowhere near as good as Draco’s.
Undaunted, she concentrated on the lingering taste of him in her mouth, and continued working
between her legs until she was breathless.
“Do you want to see?” she gasped. She spoke to him as if only just remembering he was there.
He nodded, though the nod looked like it was forced out of him, stubborn prick.
Hermione angled her hips to face him.
He’d seen her pleasure herself before, but she'd been forced to adapt her technique over the past
few months. This one was perhaps the most effective.
She fucked herself with her middle and fourth finger, while the knuckle of her curled, index finger
rubbed against her clit with each penetration. She lost track of how many minutes passed, but when
she felt herself close to climax again, she dropped her knees as wide apart as they would go on
either side of her, completely baring herself to him as she worked.
“I’m close,” she whispered.
“You’re doing so well,” he said, his voice both raw and tender. The look on his face was painfully
intense. “Don’t stop, Kiska.”
“Draco, I’m going to come.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t look away,” she pleaded.
“Not bloody likely.”
Hermione came for the second time with a soft, utterly feminine cry. As was her usual way, she
brought her knees up and turned to her side. Had Draco been there with her, this would be when
he’d hold her, stroke her back and her hair, and tell her she was beautiful and that he loved her.
“Release me,” he commanded. It was not a request.
If violence had an expression, it was on Draco’s face at that moment. He looked like a caged
animal, liable to devour her if she did anything so foolish as to set him free.
She released him.
He was on top of her as soon as the last buckle slid free.
“My turn.”
He grabbed her, pulling her down onto his cock while simultaneously ramming up inside her. The
force of the penetration and her excellent preparation allowed him to bottom out with his first
thrust, but the sudden invasion was intense and overwhelming. She screamed.
He dropped his forehead against hers. “You’re going to kill me,” he hissed. “This… this is how I
die.”
And then he was slamming into her. “I’m going to fuck you so hard and so deep, you’re going to
taste me,” he snarled. “You’re lucky I’m not going to last because I’d be buried in your arse
otherwise. Would you like that, Hermione?”
“Y-yes” she said.

His eyes raked over the breasts, which were bouncing with each snap of his hips. He thrust so hard
that her back arched. This inspired him to slip his hand under her to pull on her hair, so that her
head was tilted as far back as her her body allowed, and her neck was exposed, deepening the arch.
She wrapped her legs around him, but her ankles were unable to lock around his hips because of
the ferocity of his movements.
“Is this what you thought about alone in your bed?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to rut you, don't you?
“Yes.”
“Mark you.”
Yes.”
“Come inside you."
Yes.”
“I want to fuck you everywhere, Hermione.”
“Yes.”
“I don't need to kill for us anymore, but this is where my violence will play itself out. In your body.
Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
He grabbed her throat and squeezed. “Do you?”
“Yes!” she gasped.
“You want this?
“Yes!”
He growled, sliding his hand down to hold her breast. “Do you really hate me?”
She began to cry again. “No, I don’t hate you. I love you.”
He swallowed, his eyes clouded over with tears.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said, just before he exploded inside her. He continued to thrust with each
ejaculation, before finally collapsing on top of her.
She was still crying when Draco pulled her into his arms. He pried her hands away from her face
and rained kisses over her. “You’re perfect. You’re my sweet, kind, brave, girl and I love you
beyond reason and I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”
They lay there for a while, his hold over her tight and urgent, despite the relative calm. Hermione
rested her head on his chest, completely exhausted. She was almost asleep when she felt him gently
prod between her legs. She knew instantly what he was up to and put an immediate stop to it.
“No,” she said, slapping at his hands. “Don’t fuss over me. If you brood and mope, self-loathe and
leave me alone again, I will divorce you. Leave it alone. Well go home and I’ll have a bath and
then you’ll hold me and tell me nice, soft things. And then you can go back to your Fortress of
Solitude if you need to, and we’ll continue to pine for each other and be miserable. Or you can
come back to me and have me when and how you want, and you’ll either believe that I want the
same thing or treat me like I don’t know my own mind. What we have should be celebrated, not
treated like an aberration.”
“You realise the problem is that I feel like I’m the aberration.”
“You’re not. But you won’t take my word for it, so continue to work on that with your therapist,”
she said, patting his arm. She yawned.
There was another long silence.
“Draco?”
“Hmm?”
“I said some really awful things to you earlier.”
He kissed her nose. “I know. I didn’t think you had it in you to be so mean, Granger.”
“I can be mean. I can also lie to myself and believe it, like you said. It’s not a nice thing to realise
about yourself. It makes me trust myself less. And you can be sweet and gentle. We’re not the one
thing all the time.”
“I feel like I might be.”
“It’s because of your stupid tapestry.” She really was trying her best to stay awake.
“My what?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“I missed you too, you know,” he said. “Terribly. Nearly give myself calluses from all the
wanking.”
She dragged his left hand up to her face and kissed the inside of his fingers. "Were you sacred,
earlier? When I had you all strapped up?”
“I was, actually. I thought I was going to have a brain aneurysm when you took my pants off.” He
sighed. “What do we do now?”
“Love each other and have really good sex, and occasional screaming matches that end in really
good sex. We survived zombies and psychopaths. We can survive each other.”
“You make it sound like we haven’t tried to do that already.”
“It’s a marathon, not a sprint,” she said, and then yawned again.
“My therapist said that.”
“I really like this guy. Does he do couples therapy?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask.”

“Oh, and Draco. I like this house.”
“Even the sex dungeon?”
“Yes. Only it’s more of a sex basement, isn’t it? But that doesn’t have quite the same pizazz.”
“When you move in after the Inquiry, you can call it whatever you want.”
“When we move in, you mean?”
He didn’t reply, he kissed her instead.
Chapter End Notes
Next, the Inquiry. And we end with a funeral.

Swiss Army Knife
Chapter Notes
This was originally 1 big, final chapter, but I kept losing the formatting every time I
saved it! So the good news is that the remaining 3 chapters are already written and
ready to go. Will be posting 2 chapters next, with the final chapter going to some folks
for early review first, before posting here.
Seated in a leather armchair across from Dr Dennis Fong, was Draco Malfoy, a thirty-two year old
British wizard and convicted terrorist. The technical term was ‘Death Eater’, but the UK charges
for Malfoy’s crimes were comparable to a terrorism conviction in the US.
The request had come via an official referral from a magical healer at London’s St Mungo’s
Hospital. Flattered, Dennis asked how his name could have possibly come up in British wizarding
circles and the response had been something along the lines of, “He has a very resourceful wife.”
Taking on magical clients required a crash course in understanding how magical communities
operated. Wizarding folk were not a monolith. Fong spent a considerable amount of time simply
asking Draco to talk about his world. This also had the added effect of building rapport and earning
Draco’s trust. The man did not trust easily. It took three months before Dennis even learned that
Draco had two children.
Fong was one of only a few Muggle psychiatrists willing to extend services to magical folk. He
could understand why his colleagues were so reticent, though. Mainly, they felt unqualified. The
world was still coming to terms with the existence of a previously hidden subset of people.
But Dennis realised very quickly that magical folk were not so different from regular people after
all. Suffering was part of the human condition, and so Dennis was pleased to be able to provide a
similar service to his magical clients, with a few interesting detours.
The current detour involved Dennis asking Draco about his experience with violence–both as a
victim and as a perpetrator. The ensuing conversation was fascinating, as of course, was the wizard
himself.
“The penetration point is the suprasternal notch,” Draco said. "As you would know, it's useful
because it offers access to the trachea and the major blood vessels of the upper heart.”
“Ah,” Dennis said, thinking that he and Draco probably had very different ideas of ‘useful’.
Draco came to Dennis’ home in Seattle once a fortnight for their therapy sessions via a form of
travel that involved fireplaces. Dennis didn’t own a fireplace and so Draco used the closest,
publicly accessible alternative. On his very first visit, he walked the remainder of the distance to
Dennis’ house, showing up on the doorstep completely dry, despite the rain. A water repelling
charm , the wizard later explained.
Dennis warned Draco about the perils of the perpetually overcast Seattle weather, to which Draco
responded, in his James Bond accent, “Not so different from London, then.”
Where does on begin to describe Draco Malfoy?
Most magical people Dennis encountered in the US looked like any other people. They blended in.
They were your neighbours. They were the mom who always made the most money during the
school bake sale because her cookies were just that good. Or they were the hippie couple who sold
the most amazing organic produce at the farmer’s market all year around, no matter the season.
British magical people were different. Their habits and customs seemed antiquated compared to
their non-magical counterparts. There was no attempt at integration, other than accidental, or
through the identification of a magical child born to a Muggle family. Prejudice was rife, especially
among Purebloods, a group of so-called magical elites to which Draco belonged. Dennis could
only think of one fitting comparison, but he held back on mentioning the Nazis until Draco’s fourth
session.
It was true to say that there was something noticeably…otherworldly about Draco. This wasn’t due
to any single attribute, but rather, you noticed it when you looked at the man in aggregate. If you
stuck Draco in a lineup with five other similar-looking men and asked a regular person to play spot
the wizard, they’d pick him a hundred percent of the time.
Apart from his abrasive arrogance and an unnerving stare, Draco made for a very intelligent and
witty conversational partner. Dennis’ weekly sessions with Draco were not a chore. Besides being
an extremely good-looking man, he was also clinically fascinating .
“But how is this different to the previous technique you described?”
“The substernal notch?” Draco asked, now standing to demonstrate on Dennis. “A thrust into that
area causes instant paralysis of the diaphragm. The weapon enters here,” Draco pressed two fingers
to Dennis’ chest. “Penetrating the length of the heart, from the bottom. They can’t speak. They
can’t shout. And that is always a risk so long as the diaphragm is functional.” He resumed his seat
in the leather armchair. “This rather neatly solves that problem.”
“And you found both techniques to be particularly…effective?”
Draco shrugged. “It’s a quick death, if that’s what you want.”
“Are there circumstances where one wouldn’t ?”
Draco was silent for a moment. It wasn’t quite amusement in his eyes. That would have earned him
an entire page in Dennis’s clinical notes. No, this was more like memories .
“Oh, I can think of a few.”
“Your understanding of anatomy makes you very effective in a fight. I know doctors and surgeons
who are also trained in combat. They don’t use what they know like you do.”
“That’s because they use it to help, not harm,” Draco said. “Unlike them, I never took the
Hippocratic oath.”
“I get the feeling the oath wouldn’t have changed much,” Dennis commented.
Now, there was definite amusement in Draco’s grey eyes.
“But you’d already bound yourself to another oath. You were a Death Eater. Did you join them
before you left for Russia?”
“Yes, in my final year at Hogwarts.”
“Did you want to?”
“What I wanted was beside the point. It was my birthright to be offered the Mark if I proved
worthy.”
“And if you refuse?”
Draco shifted a little in his chair. “If you’re in a position to receive the Mark, they’re not going to
let you just leave without a guarantee of allegiance. You stay and live, or you refuse and die.”
“If you refused, would your father have protected you?”
The wizard was now rapping his fingers across his knee as he glanced out the window behind
Dennis’ desk. Any mention of the elder Malfoy elicited a similar avoidance behaviour.
“I don’t know. We weren’t really on speaking terms at the point I left for Russia. In going directly
to the Dark Lord with my proposal, I went over my father’s head. That’s not the done thing in
families like mine. There is a hierarchy.”
Dennis leafed through his notes until he found the page he needed. “If I remember correctly, you
said you approached Voldemort to propose a new line of funding, creating and supplying black
market drugs? So he liked the idea?”
“Terrorism is an expensive business,” Draco said, by way of reply.
“I can imagine. What was in it for you?”
“I was looking for a way to delay the inevitable and, I suppose, do the things I really wanted to do
during that delay. My serving Voldemort was an inevitability, but at seventeen, four years seems
like a lifetime. I promised the Dark Lord I would return from Russia with the knowledge required
to run his drug manufacturing venture. In exchange, he would provide me with my own lab, staff,
equipment and the freedom to do as I like.”
“What did your father have to say about this?”
“Nothing nice,” Draco said. He examined his fingernails. “He cut me off. I was on my own at that
point.”
“That would have been very hard, fending for yourself in a foreign country at such a young age, in
a culture so alien to your own. How did you manage?”
“Not well, initially. But then I ingratiated myself with a Bratva lieutenant. He said if I survived a
week working for him, he’d mentor me.”
“That sounds like a good deal for the mob, to have a wizard on staff?”
“Ah, but the catch was that I had to complete my trial week without magic. I turned in my wand at
the start of the week and if I made it through to the end, I’d get it back.”
“And of course you did make it through?”
Draco smiled in memory. “Barely. That trial week was a harsh lesson in not resting on one’s
magical laurels. I got beat up a lot by bigger, touger, meaner men, but I also made a few good calls.
So, they let me stay.”
“And that’s when your internship into the criminal underworld began?”
“Yes, but I was in Russia mainly to acquire medical training, not spend my days collecting
protection money. I made arrangements to attend classes that interested me, at a variety of schools.
In turn, I was able to make myself useful to my mentor by digging out bullets, sewing up stab
wounds, that sort of thing.”
“So for almost four years, you’re going to classes during the day, and then at night you’re
interning with a mafia crime boss,” Dennis summarised. “This sounds like a great villain origin
story.”
A rare laugh from Draco. “When you put it that way....”
“Tell me what you learned from your Bratva mentor that you’ve found useful.”
“I learned quite a bit, Dr Fong,” Draco said. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
The wizard's unflinching stare was difficult to get used to. “Anything. Give me examples.”
After consideration, Draco uncrossed his legs, leaned forward in his chair and rested his clasped
hands across his knees. “I learned how to speak Russian, how to drive, how to steal a car, pick
locks, cheat, steal, rob, threaten. Low-level thuggery. I learned how to drink bad vodka and how to
appreciate good vodka. I learned how to toast. Very important social skill in Russia, toasting. I
learned how to fight with no weapons and a variety of weapons. I became intimately aware of what
it’s like to be hurt by said weapons. I think the major difference is that instead of teaching me how
to fight to win, I learned how to fight to survive .”
“What’s the difference?”
“Survival is a brutal affair. In nature, predators don’t concern themselves with honour or ethics.
When you fight to win, on the other hand, you’re inherently human. You immediately inject a
value system into it. Lines in the sand, that sort of thing. Whereas for me, if there’s any sand, you
can count on me throwing it in your eye. I don’t think I’m as technically skilled as some, but I’m
brutal. When I hurt a man, I don’t intend for him to get back up to retaliate or call for help. All this
sounds barbaric, but violence is only ever a last resort. And again, this is not due to any moral
equations. Violence is costly. You incur the expense only when all else fails. To that end, I was
taught to assess risks and opportunities, to read situations and people and avoid a fight where
possible.” Draco tilted his head to the side, observing Dennis’ expression. “I’ve alarmed you, Dr
Fong.”
Twenty years in the business of assisting combat veterans to heal and reintegrate into society and
Dennis had never been as disconcerted (and mildly aroused) as he was now. He cleared his throat
and spent a calming moment jotting down notes. “I’m not alarmed,” he eventually said. “It can
take me a moment to process, but then I’m good to go. Did you want to add anything else to that
impressive list?”
Draco chewed on his lip as he thought. “I learned how to fuck,” he added, with a nod. “They were
most adamant about my not disgracing them once I left the fold.”
“A…um, another useful skill,” Dennis commented, clearing his throat. “Speaking of which, did
you meet anyone while you were there?”
“You mean girls?” Draco shrugged. “Many. Some. Nothing serious. I had no future in Russia so it
was pointless to form attachments.”
“You saw your future as being back in the UK,” Dennis surmised. “Did you go home at all during
that time, maybe to see your family?”
“A few times, but not to see my family. Occasionally, I was tasked with missions for Voldemort
that required a temporary trip back. My father was in prison shortly before I turned twenty-one.
And I didn't see my mother after that.”
“Why not?”
There was a pause before he replied. “Because I cared about her.”
There was clearly quite a bit to unpack there. Dennis made another note in the book. “We’ll circle
back to that. So in summary, you walked away from your family, from the life you knew, while
still essentially a boy. You moved to a new country where you had no connections, no money and
didn’t speak the language. The only thing you took with you was a promise to return to serve
Voldemort.” Dennis took off his glasses. “Because that was the one thing you could never run
from.”
“That’s an accurate, if depressing summary.”
“It was the illusion of choice, wasn’t it? You were never really free even when you were in
Russia.”
“Like I said, I wanted to put off the inevitable for as long as I could.”
“And when you returned, what went wrong?”
“With the Death Eaters?”
“Yes.”
Draco inhaled slowly, gathering his thoughts. “You’re a doctor. You’ve been around the dead and
dying at some point in your early training, correct?”
“During my residency, yes.”
“Then you know how to read the signs of impending death. That sudden flurry of energy and
optimism after a long period of sickness. Only it’s temporary. It’s like the dying body’s last
rallying cry. And then systems begin to fail, one by one. A cascade event. How long this goes on
for depends on whether death is treated as something inevitable and accepted, or something to
battle against.
“I left the Death Eaters during what you might call a brief period of rejuvenation. They had Marked
an influx of new recruits and were optimistic about the future of the organisation. They were
convinced that youth was the answer. But the movement was already terminally ill. In my absence,
the sickness metastasized and by the time I returned to Voldemort to fulfil my end of our bargain, I
saw an organisation that was well past its time to die. I should have abandoned them. My criminal
record in the UK was relatively minor compared to my peers who had served the Dark Lord in my
four-year absence. I could have walked into the Ministry and negotiated a pardon in exchange for
everything I knew.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Draco sighed. “I ask myself that question very often, Dr Fong. Why did I choose to stay? I was
stupid and greedy and wanted an opportunity to make something that was mine . To put my skills
to use. I wanted to practice research. I couldn’t do that anywhere else. I couldn’t remain in the
Muggle world. I would have been hunted down and killed by Death Eaters, or hunted down and
arrested by the Ministry. Voldemort offered me an opportunity to finance projects of my choosing.
So I stayed.” Draco’s smile was wry. “And the rest, you know.”
“After you were caught, the Ministry trial was a significant, traumatic experience for you, wasn’t
it?”
“Let’s just say I don’t hold much faith in the judicial process, having gone through it with the
Wizengamot and then with the Americans, under Admiral Grey.”
“Draco, from what you’ve described to me, those were abuses of power . There was no natural or
procedural justice. Not all judicial processes are like that. Not the ones that are accountable to the
public, anyway.”
“Now that Harry Potter is Minister, hopefully that will change.”
“Is that why you suggested that Harry should run for Office?”
Draco snorted. “I didn’t suggest it, so much as twist his arm and guilt him into it. Honestly, all that
power and influence with the ambition of a goldfish. And no, I didn’t think Potter would be able to
enact that kind of change in time to help my case. I did it because I wanted him in the best possible
position to protect Hermione and my children when I end up back in prison.”
“ When ?” Dennis asked.
Draco’s smile was cold. “If. If I end up back in prison. And I suppose, he might actually be good at
the job, in his own fumbling, gormless way. The people like him. That’ll make for a pleasant
change from our last few Ministers.”
“Are you nervous about the Inquiry? About the prospect of being arrested at the Ministry?”
“You know, it’s a strange thing. If my wife asked me that question, I doubt I could answer it with
complete honesty. I find myself quite able to discuss these topics with you without feeling the need
to fuck or hurt anyone in the immediate vicinity.”
Dennis’ glasses fogged up. He removed them and used his sleeve to wipe the lenses. “That’s the
point, Draco. This is therapy. It’s a private, safe and confidential space. What you say here stays
between us. Also, I think it helps that I am a…sorry, what’s the word again?”
“Muggle.”
“Yes–a Muggle. I’m removed from the situation. I don’t know any of the people you tell me about.
I’m not a stakeholder. My only priority is to help you help yourself . So, how are you feeling about
tomorrow?”
Draco stared up at him, his expression a mirror for what he said next. “I’m terrified.”
“That’s understandable. Have you spoken to Hermione about this?”
“Of course not. She’s got about a dozen spinning plates in the air, managing my bloody case. I’m
forbidden from intervening and I’m not about to add to her burden.”
“When was the last time you felt this so acutely?”

“Dr Fong, I haven’t stopped feeling terrified from the moment I realised I was in love with the
woman. She’s not safe with me or around me.”
Dennis tapped at his chin with the top of his pen. “Draco, let me ask you this. Do you believe
you’re an inherently violent, bad person?”
“Yes.”
“You answered that really quickly. Why do you believe that about yourself?”
“I’m not sure how anything I’ve told you today would lead you to any other conclusion.”
“I don’t think you’re a violent, bad person.”
Another cold smile. “Is that your professional opinion, Dr Fong?”
“Yes. It is,” Dennis said. “How are you so sure of what you are?”
“I… feel it. I feel the rage and fear turn into something like…” Remarkably, Draco couldn’t hold
Dennis’ gaze. He looked away, blinking. He sounded much smaller and younger when he next
spoke. “I don’t like myself when I hurt her. You don’t hurt the person you love.”
“Hermione, you mean? Do you hurt her, Draco? How?”
The grey stare wavered, glancing to left and right, and Draco’s pale hands were now gripping the
armrests so tightly, the leather squeaked. “I hurt her all the time. I make her cry. I make her worry.
I make her feel like she needs to keep secrets from me just to keep the peace. She tries to stay
several steps ahead of me to clear obstacles in my path. I make her think she has to use her body to
ease me into accepting difficult truths. She’s afraid of me. I’m not…gentle. She deserves gentle.”
Draco let out a shaky breath, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead.
Dennis looked down at his notes, allowing the wizard a moment to collect himself. “Has Hermione
raised any of these aspects as a problem in your relationship?”
“Yes and no. Most of the time she just perseveres because she thinks she can ‘handle’ me.” He
gave a hollow laugh. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about because she has no experience in
relationships or matters of intimacy.”
Dennis put down his pen and notepad. “You think her judgement is flawed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I told you. She has no experience to use as a basis for comparison. She cares for me. It clouds her
judgement.”
“Doesn’t her intellect count for anything?”
“Even that’s suspect, frankly,” Draco muttered.
“Why?”
Now, Draco’s cold look was unnerving. “Dr Fong, you’re clearly trying to walk me to some kind
of conclusion that you’ve already arrived at. Why don’t you just tell me?”
“Alright. I believe that you think Hermione’s judgement and intellect are inherently compromised
and therefore she is unable to accurately determine if you’re a good match for her, by virtue of her
choosing to be with you in the first place . It’s a paradox.”
Draco stared at him, looking incredulous and if possible, even paler. And then he shot up from his
seat and began pacing. Dennis hoped the wizard didn’t notice his slight flinch.
“If I’m right, then is it any wonder that there’s nothing she can do or say to convince you that she
knows what she wants? It’s ironic, because for all your insistence that you want her to be
empowered and have options, you’ve simultaneously taken away her capacity to make the most
important decision in her life right now–to be with you. You don’t trust her where it counts the
most.”
“Is that your professional opinion? That I’m fucked?”
“No, you’re not fucked. If you were, she’d have left you already. But that doesn’t mean she won’t,
because this can’t go on.” Dennis sat back in his own chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and
steepling his fingers together. “Draco, now that you’re making an effort to acknowledge and deal
with your feelings, there’s bound to be a period of adjustment. Remember how we talked about the
three Rs? Recognise. Recalibrate. Reset. It’s a process.”
“I know. I’ve been practising. That’s why I’ve been keeping intimacy to a minimum!”
“Against my recommendation, might I add? But ultimately, I agree that you need to feel ready to
re-establish intimacy with your wife. After what happened at your father’s London townhouse last
week, how are things now?”
Draco sat down. “They’re…good. Very good, actually. But until the Inquiry is over, I feel like I’m
trying to outrun something.”
“Have you had any more panic attacks?” Dennis asked.
“I don’t know what they are,” Draco admitted. “I mean, I recognise the feeling. It’s always been
there, but on the periphery, only slipping out once or twice before. But now…now it feels
overwhelming. Sometimes, I look at Hermione and my sons when they’re sleeping and I can’t
fucking breathe…”
Dennis nodded. “I think you might be ready to try an approach I used with other combat veterans. I
call it the Swiss army knife .” Dennis smiled. “You’ll like it. Lot’s of metaphors about sharp,
pointy things.”
“No, these won’t do at all,” Hermione said, wrinkling her nose at the robes Draco laid out to wear
to the Inquiry.
Freshly showered, he was standing at the chest of drawers on the other side of their bedroom,
selecting underwear and socks. “What’s wrong with them?”
Hermione sighed. “Look, I’m just going to come out and say it. You dress like a Diagon Alley
vagrant.”
Draco turned around to look at her, one eyebrow rising. “It sounds like you’ve been holding on to
that particular opinion for a while.”
Her cheek felt warm. “I’m sorry. I understand that clothes aren’t a priority for you so long as
they’re clean and warm. I’m the same, believe me. You lived out of a bag for years. But you
deserve some nice, new things that are comfortable and fit well. When we move into the
townhouse, you can work on your wardrobe. You know, get a few pieces here and there. You wore
some bloody sharp outfits back at the fleet.”
“Borrowed from a psychopath,” Draco reminded her. He strapped on a wristwatch and walked over
to her. “And here I thought you liked me for my personality.”
She glanced down at his damp, nude body. “Yes,” Hermione said. “Personality.”
Who in their right mind put their watch on before their underpants? Her husband, that’s who. He
smelled good. Soap and shampoo and aftershave. As much as she enjoyed his stubble, there was
something almost decadent about his luminous, smooth skin after a fresh shave.
Draco glanced at his watch. “Why are you getting me ready two hours before we have to leave for
the Inquiry?”
“I need to get there early and see to a few things.”
It was more than a few things. There was a Russian nesting doll’s worth of plans in motion. Just as
she did before major missions or exams, Hermione was constantly running checklists in her head,
making sure that any last minute changes in the order of events were noted and factored.
There were going to be curve balls and she had to be agile.
It was depressing that throughout the entire process of managing Draco’s case leading up to the
Inquiry, she couldn’t rely on her most powerful asset, her own husband. It was like driving in a
race knowing you had a damn Ferrari sitting idle in the garage.
Suddenly, she frowned. “Hang on, we should have three hours, not two.” She grabbed his wrist to
look at the time, but was thwarted when he picked her up and placed her in the middle of the bed.
“I allowed an extra hour for religious observance,” he said, with gravitas.
He crawled over her. Hermione’s field of vision now consisted of his clean, pale skin. The spiked
tips of his wet hair dripped water down the side of her neck. She shivered, raising her hand to palm
his smooth, freshly shaved cheek. He was so shiny, her husband.
“Religious observance?”
Draco was looking down at her with a covetous, but tender expression. One hand slowly untied the
belt of her port-coloured, silk dressing down. The belt slid free with a whisper. “This is a beautiful
colour on you,” he said. He dragged the silk belt across her neck, the blacks of his eyes growing
larger. “Mmmh.”
“What?” Hermione asked, although she knew what he was thinking, and felt the familiar, pleasant
fluttering between her legs.
“I’ll show you when we have more time.” Unhurriedly, he parted the edges of her robe, laying her
bare beneath him. “This is an important day, however, and it’s prudent to make an offering at the
altar of the goddess I worship.”
Hermione snorted at his unabashed cheesiness. But then he was sucking on her neck and she
stopped laughing. Her skin became a single, sensitised organ. A warm flush swept across her in a
wave, starting from her hairline. His big, rough hands slid down the side of her body, touching
everything and yet simultaneously missing all the best parts. He nipped gently at her chin with his
teeth before his mouth covered hers. The mental checklist she’d been working on began to lose
cohesion.
“No, no. Don’t kiss me,” Hermione said, looking apologetic, “I have loads to do this morning
before the Inquiry. I’ll get all foggy-headed,” she explained, entirely earnest.
“Granger, my devotionals this morning will entail eating you out until you I’m satisfied my prayers
have been heard.” And then he added, sounding adorably disgruntled. “I even shaved.”
“Yes, that should be fine.” She nodded, patting him on the arm. “Just no kisses. Please. They have
a deleterious effect on my long-term concentration.”
He dropped his face into the middle of her chest, chuckling. “Clearly I’m not doing one of those
things right.”
Four hours later, Draco was seated on a hard, wooden bench outside the Inquiry chamber at the
Ministry for Magic, staring down at the ceiling’s reflection on his polished shoes. He could
occasionally make out the sounds coming from inside the room: muffled, low voices, chairs
scraping as their occupants stood or sat, doors opening and closing.
It was difficult not to feel like he was standing outside his body, looking down at himself. The
world was too bright. The glare from the window on his right was giving him a headache. He was
very thirsty. He might have conjured up a drink of water, but Inquiry witnesses could not bring
their wands into the chamber. It was currently sitting in a visitor’s locker in the Atrium.
Draco pulled at the stiff, Mandarin collar of his floor-length, black robes. After Hermione nixed
his grey robes, Draco had been forced to raid Lucius’ wardrobe. He hadn’t been able to disguise
how annoyed he was that the robes fit him like a second skin. Perhaps they were too tight, even?
No. It wasn’t the robes, it was his skin . It felt… constricting. He looked down at his right hand, at
the black and gold signet ring on his index finger. The ring felt tighter and heavier, somehow. He
flexed his hand in a bid to rid himself of the strange feeling.
Of all the bloody times to have a panic attack.
“Hullo,” said a voice to his left, causing Draco to jump. He hadn’t even noticed the chamber doors
opening.
It was Potter. His algae-coloured eyes peered at him with concern. “You’re not supposed to be
speaking to me.” Draco didn’t mean to growl at the man. He was disconcerted that anyone had
managed to sneak up on him.
“Call it Ministerial privilege,” Harry said. “You look like you’re about to lose your breakfast.”
“I didn't have any to be able to lose it.”
“You get the wobblies too, huh?” Harry scrutinised him closely and Draco had to resist the urge to
shove his face away. “You hide it really well. I bet even Hermione doesn’t know. Are you going to
spew?” he asked, inching away slightly.
“No.” Draco took in a fortifying breath. “How is she?”
“Hermione?” Harry snorted.
Because this wasn’t an answer, Draco glared at him.
“She’s making them sing and dance.” There was pride in Harry’s voice. “I don’t know what you
did in a past life to deserve her, Malfoy, but you’re a jammy bastard in this one. I hope you know
that?”
“She sent you out here to check on me, didn’t she?”
“Sure did. The Committee’s in recess at the moment and she’s having a word with, um, she’s just
busy, is all you need to know. Or she’d be out here herself.”
“Tell her I’m fine.”
Harry shook his head. “No can do. She knows when I’m lying.”
“How the hell are you a politician?”
“Mate, I ask myself that question when I wake up every morning. That campaign was hell!”
“Hell? You won by a landslide. Your wife and mother-in-law managed all your events and
Hermione wrote all your speeches. People practically flung their babies at you by the end of it.”
Too many words. Too much effort. Draco put his head in his hands in a bid to stop his head from
spinning.
“I think you need something to eat. They’re not going to call you in for another two hours at least, I
reckon. Bastards. These things don’t need to go for this long. It looks like they’re only looking at
the submissions now. It’s bloody ridiculous and a waste of everyone’s time. Can I get you a bite? A
drink, maybe?”
Water.
“No.”
Through his fingers, Draco watched with mild alarm as Harry lifted a hand in the air and kept it
there, hovering uncertainly several inches above Draco’s shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing, Potter?”
Harry lowered his hand. His face was slightly red and his eye blazed. “You’re a difficult son of a
bitch to be kind to, you know that? Even after everything that’s happened. You married my best
friend, I’m a godparent to both your children. Everything we’re doing here today is for you. I’m not
expecting us to braid each other’s hair, I’m just trying to be a friend.”
“Don’t kid yourself. You’re doing this for her, not me.”
“You and Hermione are a package deal, you arsing bastard. A good outcome for you is a good
outcome for your family.” Harry made a frustrated sound and stood up.
Swiss army knife , Draco reminded himself.
“Wait, Potter. I’m sorry. I’m not used to…”
“To letting other people help you? No man’s an island. Independence doesn’t have to be your
extreme sport of choice, Malfoy. Stick to Quidditch.”
“Thank you, Draco said. “For helping me.”
Harry’s expression softened. “Pfft. Like you said, I did it for Hermione.” But there was a twinkle in
his eye. “I have to go back in, but I won’t be there when they call you. Conflict of interest and all
that business. But my story’s already out in the papers, like all the others who answered
Hermione’s call.”
“When you go back in, please tell her not to worry.”
“She’s going to worry as soon as she sees that lovely shade of green you’re sporting. Look, the
lunch trolley will come by any minute now. Make sure you eat. The last thing you want to do when
you’re in there is throw up over your nice shoes.”
Draco had his eyes closed and his head leaning back against the wall behind the bench when he
heard the rattle of the lunch trolley. The clinking of plates and cutlery grew steadily louder until it
eventually came to a stop beside him.
“Merlin! It’s you, isn’t it?” said a female voice.
Draco was used to inane questions. He shared several classes with Harry Potter for seven years. “I
suppose it must be?”
The Ministry’s ‘old lunch lady’ was something of an institution. As the title suggested, she was
typically a woman of advanced years. The asker, in this instance, was a pretty young woman of no
more than twenty. She wore a frilly white apron tied in an enormous bow at her back, and a
matching jaunty cap. Her name tag indicated her name was ‘Victoria’.
“Of course, I read all about you in the papers!”
So had the rest of the world. His entire life story, told with one-hundred percent too many
adjectives. To Draco’s consternation, she sat down next to him.
“You look just like your pictures, only your hair’s longer. I think it’s better like this. My sister
works downstairs. She says the ladies have a cutting of you in their tea room.”
Draco heartily wished Potter would come back.
“I really connected with your story,” Victoria said.
This actually made him sit up and look at her. “Really. Which part?”
She gave him a commiserating squeeze on the arm, only she forgot to remove her hand at the end
of it. “I have an absolute tyrant of a father, too. He won't even let me out after dark. I’m practically
a prisoner.”
“Practically,” Draco repeated, blinking. A wave of nausea rolled over him. He dropped his eyes
from her face, attempting to unfocus his vision to reduce the dizziness. Unfortunately, this meant
that his gaze was now unintentionally fixed on her chest.
Victoria smirked. “And here I thought it was going to be another dull day at work.” She made a
show of conspiratorially glancing up and down the deserted corridor.
“You're looking a bit peaky, if you don’t mind me saying? It’s dreadful how long they leave
people out here when these meetings go on. Let’s get a little something into you, shall we?” She
moved closer until her thigh was touching his. Her perfume probably was not unpleasant, but in his
current anxious state, all his senses were extra keen.
“Let’s see…I’ve got Bedfordshire Clanger, Banbury cake…” She leaned in and whispered,
“which, frankly is not as good as it used to be because old Mrs Clatch is half blind and really
should be replaced, but you didn’t hear that from me. There’s also Eccles cake, pineapple cake,
custard tarts and my personal favourite, custard puffs. I made these myself,” she said.
Her voice lowered, along with her eyelashes, “Try one.”
“No, thank you.” Draco’s fingertips were feeling oddly tingly. The girl’s face became a swirl of
blonde hair and white frills.
Of all the bloody times .
The last time it was this bad had been just after Orion was born and good job Draco hadn’t been
holding his son when he fainted. He was going to pass out and they’d find him slumped over the
floor in a pile of cake and Hermione would be summoned.
“I insist.”
“Really, I–”
Victoria shoved a custard puff into his mouth. A child could have taken him on at this point. It was
galling. What he wanted to do was get up and move away, but standing was beyond him. He opted
for the path of least resistance and ate the damn thing.
“Good, isn’t it?” Victoria purred. “Oh dear. You’ve got some custard on your face. Here, let me.”
Before Draco could respond, she was leaning forward, her apron-covered bosom now pressed
against his arm as she dabbed a napkin at the corner of his mouth. Draco was vaguely aware that
the chamber doors had opened and shut, and despite the state he was in, he could recognise those
footsteps anywhere.
It was surreal, the relief he felt over something so simple as Hermione being there when he felt like
this. For a man who valued control, feeling so out of control over something as fundamental as his
body, was awful. Never had he wanted another person like this. Not even his own mother. Not
even when he’d been very small.
No, it wasn’t just want . It was need . He needed his wife.
Just thinking of her, picturing her face, imagining himself burying his nose in her hair and inhaling,
was already working to slow his heart rate.
“Oh good, the lunch trolley,” Hermione said. Without waiting for Victoria to serve her, Hermione
took a small plate from the cart and began piling it with pastries. “No pasties today?”
“Um, no.” A flustered Victoria made to assist, but Hermione had already placed the plate of
stacked food on the bench beside Draco and was now pouring two cups of tea. When she was done,
she smiled at Victoria. “Thank you, that will be all.”
Victoria added up Hermione’s purchases. “That looks to be two galleons, even.”
“Oh? I thought this was free? You just fed him a cream puff, didn’t you? Did he pay for it?”
“It was a custard puff, actually,” Victoria said. “And it was a gift.”
“A gift? How generous. I’m sure the Minister would condescend to be just as generous in my case.
Please add my bill to his tab.”
Victoria, who was about a head taller than Hermione, scowled down at her. “I’m sorry. And you
are?”
“Hermione Granger.”
The girl lost a bit of colour, but impressively stood her ground. “I didn’t recognise you,” Victoria
said, and then unwisely followed this up with, “Thought you’d be taller.”
Draco took one of the cups of tea, drank from it and watched the exchange with interest.
Victoria served up a third error. “Would you like anything else?” she asked Draco, literally over
the top of Hermione’s head.
“He doesn’t want any more of your puffs, Victoria . Pack up your trolley and roll along.”
Hermione waited until Victoria and her trolley disappeared around the top of the corridor, and then
sat down next to Draco. Her hands immediately went to his face. “Darling, you’re having a panic
attack, aren’t you?”
No. Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.
He nodded.
“Come here.” She pulled him close and wrapped her arm around him. Their height difference was
too stark for him to rest his head on her shoulder, so he settled for leaning against her and resting
his head against the wall behind them.
“Do we need to postpone your interview?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll be fine.” Because you’re here.
“Eat something.” She handed him a Banbury roll and it was an indication of how unwell he felt
that he automatically accepted it. Hermione waited until he’d finished the entire roll and drank the
remainder of his tea before she spoke to him. “Better?”
“Much. Thank you.”
“I leave you unattended for a moment and when I come to check on you, a pretty girl is sitting in
your lap, feeding you sweets. I wished the Committee could have seen you just now. I’ve just sat
through three hours of listening to their account of Draco Malfoy: rabid danger to society.”
“She caught me at a bad moment and she was not in my lap, thank you very much.”
“Lucky for her ,” Hermione sniffed.
Draco rested his chin on top of her head. “How goes the Inquiry?”
“Tedious, infuriating, but going to plan so far.” She turned to face him. “Draco, I came out here to
tell you something.”
He began to undo the top buttons of his robes.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking my clothes off. I’m assuming we’re about to have sex given you’re planning to deliver
unsettling news to me. This is hardly the place, Granger. But when it’s time, it’s time, I suppose?”
She snatched his hand away from his collar. “Oh, stop it. It’s not bad news. Suffice to say, there’ll
be a few surprises in there when you walk in.”
“Such as?”
“It’s better that I don’t tell you what it is, so you can be surprised.”
“But you’ve just told me.”
“Yes, so know to act surprised, because otherwise you’re just going to saunter in there and be
yourself and that will entail looking completely unsurprised .”
He frowned. “I do not saunter.”
“Just be prepared to be caught off guard. It won’t be anything bad, I promise you. You need to
seem surprised because you’re not meant to know anything about how any of this has been
arranged.”
“I honestly don’t know anything about how any of it has been arranged!”
“Good. Now please act that way if they ask you.”
“Fine. I promise to act surprised in the event I am surprised.”
“Thank you.” She kissed his cheek. “That’s all I ask.”
“Oy! No one is to speak to the witness!”
A Ministry security guard had arrived. Amongst many other in-house reforms, Harry was in the
process of mandating re-training of all guards, due to numerous complaints about their heavy-
handed tendencies.
Draco wondered if the young ‘old lunch lady’ was also part of Potter’s reforms. He made a mental
note to ask the Minister, preferably when Mrs Potter was around.
This particular guard already had his wand out. Not a good sign for a peace-keeper.
“I just came out to make sure he had something to eat. He’s been sitting here for hours and is
feeling poorly,” Hermione told the guard. She was already on her feet, brushing crumbs from her
robes. Despite this, the guard grabbed her elbow roughly enough to cause her to stumble sideways
into him.
Draco was on his feet, the dizziness instantly taking a backseat.
“ Don’t, ” Hermione whispered. This was not directed to the guard. It was for Draco. He saw the
warning in her eyes.
Swiss army knife . Draco repeated the mantra in his head. Over and over.
Army Knife… Army …. Swiss ….
Knife .
He was not a knife. Not just a knife. He folded back the cutting tool, remembering what Dr Fong
told him. He didn’t have to be a blade sheathed. He didn’t have to continually fight to suppress that
part of him. It would always be a part of him, but it was not all of him. The blade was but one
handy tool in an arsenal which provided him with more options than violence.
Though, if the son of a bitch didn't take his hands off Hermione in the next five seconds, Draco
was going to throat punch the man
“Sir, if you will kindly escort my wife back into the chamber, she is quite able to walk on her
own.”
The flame that threatened to drop into the puddle of fuel snuffed out. The guard’s hand fell away
from Hermione’s elbow. He even managed to look apologetic. “Come along, then,” he said to
Hermione, still eyeing Draco warily.
Hermione gave him a parting look as she was led away.
I love you , she mouthed, just before she disappeared past the chamber doors.
Inquiry
When he was finally called, Draco was shown into the chambers and taken to a witness stand.
The Inquiry Committee consisted of six Wizengamot representatives, overseen by DMLE Director,
Darius Hinkley. The formalities were relaxed in comparison to a traditional Wizengamot hearing.
As such, the trademark plum robes with the silver ‘W’ were not worn. Like Draco, the Committee
was attired mainly in black.
Behind him and to the right was the gallery, which was open to the public. Given the high profile
nature of the case, only a small number of public spectators was permitted. Draco scanned the
faces present, quickly locating his wife, along with the surprise she had warned him about.
Hermione was flanked on either side by no less than Asher Roth and Barnaby Richards.
The three had their heads down together, deep in discussion. On Richard’s right was Professor
Vadim Belikov. The second row of the gallery yielded further surprises.
Dr Felix Wallen had been a hollowed out husk of a man the last time Draco saw him, so severe had
been his abuse at the hands of Amarov’s men. Now, he still bore some of those physical scars, but
he looked fit and healthy. Next to Wallen was Dr Kate McAllister, sporting a buzzcut, facial
piercings and a tattoo on the side of her neck. He almost laughed when he recognised what it was–
the molecular structure of D.R.A.C.O, though the design could easily pass as abstract, to the
uninitiated.
There was a third person in the same row who Draco did not immediately recognise, though she
seemed vaguely familiar. She was a pale, dark-haired, middle-aged woman dressed in a Muggle
pantsuit. The gold visitor’s pass pinned to her lapel indicated she was no ordinary Ministry visitor.
She was a VIP.
It was perhaps the third row of the gallery that brought the biggest surprise.
Anatoli looked much the same since Draco last saw him. He was no less a giant, occupying two
seats and was dressed in an entirely inappropriate chartreuse velour tracksuit and enough gold
jewelry to fund another coup. Amarov’s former bodyguard lifted his gold-rimmed aviator
sunglasses and pursed his lips at Draco in a horrendous parody of a kiss. This earned him a smack
from his wife, Marina, who sat beside him and was more sensibly dressed in dark colours. She was
also extremely pregnant. The Ministers, either former or current, were not present. Ginny Weasley
was also not in attendance, but this was because she was at the Burrow with the boys and baby
Lily.
As per Hermione’s request, Draco slapped on a startled expression, though perhaps it was too
startled, because she scolded him in non-verbal sentences using only the movements of her
expressive eyebrows.
Simply looking at her made him calmer.
Draco knew she had fussed over her appearance that morning. In line with her personality, she
wanted to get every detail just right. Her robes were a dense, Egyptian blue, tailored in a
contemporary style that didn’t rely on gravity and draping alone. The chest, shoulders and long
sleeves were fitted, each sleeve ending in a gently flared cuff that covered her wrists up to the first
row of knuckles. From her modest, high neckline, a row of flat copper buttons continued along the
length of her outer robes; the flared skirt extending to mid-calf. Under this outer layer, she wore
slim, black trousers, the fitted hems ended just above her ankles. Black heels completed the outfit.
Her hair, and really, it was an embarrassment of riches, was coiled and folded into an elegant
chignon held in place by a single, copper comb.
He knew she was going for prim, proper and professional, but the severity of the robes accentuated
her petite figure and small, fine features. The blue was a lovely counterpoint to the brown of her
hair and eyes. Draco realised he must have been staring because Hermione was repeatedly inclined
her head in the direction of the Committee bench.
“Mr Malfoy, are you quite ready?” asked Hinkley.
“Apologies,” Draco said. “I was just taking in the sights,” He cast a final, lingering look at
Hermione and though he could only see her profile now, he could still make out her blush.
Hinkley nodded to the chamber stenographer who was using two Dictoquills to record the
proceedings.
“I hereby commence these proceedings, a British Ministry for Magic Inquiry into the role of
British wizarding citizen, Draco Lucius Malfoy, in the creation and dissemination of the Hendry
Virus. I, Darius Hinkley, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will occupy the
role of Committee Chair.”
The names of the Committee members were read. Apart from Hinkley, Draco didn’t recognise any
of the others either by name or by sight. He suspected they were all new appointments and was not
sure of whether this boded well or not.
Hinkley’s thin, raspy voice required Sonorous to be heard by the entirety of the chamber. It also
left an unpleasant susurrus echo that was wreaking havoc on Draco’s hyperacusis.
“I wish, Mr Malfoy, that we were not meeting again under such unfortunate circumstances.”
“Given that you sentenced me to life in solitary confinement the last time I stood before the
Wizengamot, it was unlikely that we would meet again under any circumstances,” Draco said.
“Prison has not dulled your wit, I see,” Hinkley said. “Though I will ask you to maintain the
appropriate decorum during this Inquiry. This may not be a formal hearing, young man, but when
speaking to me, you will address me as Director Hinkley, Chairman, or sir. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“I will ask you a series of questions related to the allegations we seek to explore today. A simple
‘yes’ or ‘no’ response is acceptable, unless I request additional elaboration. Should you take issue
with any the information presented or the question I ask, you may raise your hand and wait to be
called on to speak. Are we clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then let us come to the crux of the matter, Mr Malfoy. In your capacity as a Death Eater
serving the Dark Lord Voldemort during his second ascension, did you assist a Muggle scientist,
Hendry Tan, to create what we now refer to as the Hendry Virus?”
Hinkley was momentarily distracted by a commotion in the gallery. His eyes scrutinised and then
narrowed. “ Mr Asher Roth . Why am I not surprised to see you here today? Members of the gallery
are not permitted to speak in this Inquiry.”
Roth stood and bowed his head at the Committee.
“Director Hinkley, if you will indulge me for just a moment? I believe Inquiry rules allow for an
individual to provide a witness with emotional support during proceedings?” He smiled. “As a
close, personal, very dear friend of Mr Malfoy, I volunteer to be that person.”
“Mr Roth, this is not a judicial matter, the witness does not require legal representation. You have
previously identified yourself to be a noted barrister who practises in both Muggle and Magical
jurisdictions, are you not?”
“I am and I do,” said Roth, oozing deference. “However, I’m not here today in a professional
capacity. I would like to offer Mr Malfoy my support, given that he is distressed and on the verge
of a breakdown. If he were to become incapacitated, sir, these proceedings would have to be
postponed, incurring further magical taxpayer galleons.”
Hinkley’s eyes snapped to Draco. “Mr Malfoy. What say you? Are you very distressed and on the
verge of breakdown?”
Draco exchanged a look with Roth. “Yes, sir. I am but moments away from collapse.”
Someone sniggered. Hinkley scowled in the direction of the gallery, before turning his beady-eyed
attention back to Draco.
“You don’t look particularly distressed to me, Mr Malfoy. Yes, Mr Roth, what is it now?”
“With respect, Director Hinkley, the determination of my friend’s level of distress can only be
accurately determined by a qualified mental health professional. It so happens that I have here a
letter from a Muggle doctor who has been referred by St Mungos Hospital to provide mental health
treatment for my friend.” Roth held up an envelope, waving it cheerfully.
Hinkley summoned the document, read it and passed it along to the other Committee members.
After a brief conferral, an agitated Hinkley addressed Roth.
“Very well, Mr Roth, you may stand beside the witness. But you are not to address the Committee
unless prompted, is that understood? Oh for goodness sake, what is it now?”
“Sir, my friend’s distress may require me to speak on his behalf from time to time.”
“You are trying my patience, Mr Roth,” Hinkley snapped. “See that such interruptions are to be
kept to a minimum, are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr Malfoy, please provide a response to my previous question. Did you assist Hendry Tan in
manufacturing and disseminating the Hendry Virus?”
“No,” Draco said.
“You worked at the same operation as Tan when the virus was created, did you not?”
“Yes, I did. But I didn’t create it. Nor was I aware it was being manufactured.”
“That seems unlikely, Mr Malfoy. After all, you created a cure specifically designed to counter the
virus.”
“Director Hinkley, D.R.A.C.O is a magical, broad spectrum antiviral. It is designed to counter a

number of pathogens. That it has any effect at all on the Hendry Virus is fortunate, but there was
never any guarantee. In fact, the original formulation wasn’t effective on its own. It had to be
combined with Regeneration Potion.”
“This is the potion developed by your wife, Mr Malfoy?”
“Yes, more commonly known as Re-Gen.”
“If you were unaware of the existence of the Hendry Virus, can you explain why you cast Paenitet
on Tan?”
“I had no evidence that he was creating a potentially catastrophic pathogen,” Draco said, “But I
suspected he might be. I cast the Conscience Curse as a precaution, to provide him with an obstacle
in the event he had any nefarious intentions. There was little else I could do without drawing the
attention of the Dark Lord to my activities.”
“But by then, Tan had already remove a sample of the virus from his laboratory inside the body of
a wizard, is that correct? And then he killed himself due to Paenitet subsequently taking effect?”
“Yes.”
“I still don’t understand how you can cure something without knowing about the disease!”
Roth tapped Draco on the shoulder.
“Excuse me for a moment, sir,” Draco said. “It appears I am to receive some emotional support.”
There was a brief pause during which Roth whispered into Draco’s ear. When Roth was done,
Draco glanced at the gallery, in the direction of Dr Kate McAllister, before speaking to Hinkley.
“Director Hinkley, if you will look at page forty-seven of the public submissions to this Inquiry,
you will see a layman's scientific description of D.R.A.C.O, prepared by Muggle virologist Dr Kate
McAllister. The good doctor herself is present here today, should you wish to verify her
submission, her qualifications or require elaboration.”
McAllister waved from the gallery.
“We will of course require time to peruse this document at length, as well as ascertain that Ms
McAllister’s qualifications are as she states.”
“Doctor McAllister,” Draco corrected. He turned to the stenographer, “If you would please make
that addition to the record?”
“Mr Malfoy, can you describe to the Committee how you developed the version of the cure that
eventually proved successful?” Now, the silence in the chamber took on a more serious tone. “In
layman’s terms, please,” Hinkley said, with another sharp smile. “We are but humble civil servants
and do not possess rarefied expertise.”
“To develop the cure, I extracted cells from a foetus that possessed a natural immunity to the
virus.”
Hinkley made a show of frowning and nodding.. “Are you referring in this instance to your son,
Orion, Mr Malfoy? You used him to create an additive to D.R.A.C.O called the Orion Serum?”
There was only the slightest of pauses before Draco answered. “Yes.”
“And to create this Serum, you performed repeated, invasive surgical procedures on your wife and
unborn son without your wife’s consent, while you were in league with a rogue US Muggle
military operation.” It was not phrased as a question. “Tell me, Mr Malfoy, how many times did
you have your wife Obliviated so she would not remember what had been done to her?”
Draco was about to respond when Roth held up his hand.
“Director, my friend is too upset to speak on this extremely painful topic, but as he and I have
discussed this matter at length, I feel equipped to speak on his behalf.”
“How fortuitous,” Hinkley sneered. “And what have you to say on his behalf, Mr Roth?”
All trace of deference fell from Roth's face. There were no more ingratiating smiles. Now, he was
all fangs and venom. “My friend would point out to you, Director, that this Inquiry was called to
determine if there is any basis to the allegation that he might be responsible for the creation and
dissemination of the Hendry Virus. My friend would also like to remind you that his experience in
captivity by Admiral Titus Grey and the circumstances under which he was forced to develop the
cure to the Hendry Virus is outside the scope of this Inquiry, unless you can demonstrate a clear
connection.”
“Mr Roth, your friend cannot prove to us that he didn’t knowingly develop the virus!”
“Director, as to that, my friend would like to point out that since this Committee raised the
allegations, is it the Committee that carries the burden of proof, regardless of the positive or
negative content in the claim. You cannot reasonably expect my friend to prove the absence of
evidence.”
The Committee once again paused to confer. At the end of this, Hinkley levitated a stack of
newspapers and magazines to Draco, dropping them in front of him.
“Mr Malfoy, I would like to address the Committee’s concern that you have engineered a
campaign to misinform the community in order to influence the tide of public opinion against any
potential negative findings in this Inquiry. What do you say to this?”
“I am not aware of any such campaign,” Draco said.
“Truly? Look at the publications before you and tell me what you see.”
Draco spent a moment perusing the stack. “It appears hemlines are once again on the rise?”
There was laughter from the gallery.
Hinkley held up a sheet of parchment, vigorously flapping it about. “This is a list of seventy-five
publications, all of which ran stories from survivors of incidents during the pandemic that were
directly associated with your work on the cure! Fourteen of your current or former associates
provided their accounts to these newspapers and magazines. Here is the list, Mr Malfoy, would you
care to read it to us?” Hinkley levitated the parchment to Draco, who proceeded to read as
intstructed.
“From Project Christmas: Rufus Scrimgeour, former Minister for Magic; Mr Harry Potter, Minister
for Magic; Ms Hermione Granger, adjunct member of the Ministry for Magic, Special Research
Unit; Mr Barnaby Richards, former US Wizarding Senate special agent; Dr Felix Wallen,
microbiologist ; Dr Katherine McAlister, virologist; and Professor Hanata Yoshida, Potions Master.
“From the Taransay Island Refugee Settlement: Mrs Ginerva Potter; Mrs Molly Weasley; and Mr
Neville Longbottom.
“From Alexander Amarov’s fleet: Professor Vadim Belikov; Mr Anatoli Berezin; and Mrs Marina
Berezin.
“From the UK Muggle community: William Reeves, son of The Right Honourable Eleanor Reeves,
Recovery Task Force Chairperson and…” Draco paused, now looking back at the gallery, “the UK
Home Secretary.”
Many pair of eyes observed the Muggle VIP seated in the second row. Draco had of course read
the generous account of young William Reeves, whom Draco and Harry rescued during the
Netherton mine collapse. But he was unaware that the boy’s mother also happened to be a Senior
Cabinet Minister.
There was one last name on the list.
“And from the British wizarding community….” Draco swallowed, his voice noticeably tighter
when he said, “Henry Greengrass Zabini Granger-Malfoy.”
“Mr Malfoy, can you enlighten us as to what your seven-year old son could possibly have provided
to the media that might be newsworthy?”
Draco dug through the stack in front of him to locate the magazine in question. He held it up for
Hinkley. There, on the cover of Wizards Quarterly , was Henry’s drawing depicting his ‘capture’
of Honoria Cloot as she tried to stowaway onto the Cassiopeia after the fleet takeover.
“In answer to your question, sir, my son was five-years old when he captured a co-conspirator of
Alexander Amarov. I think that’s rather newsworthy, don't you?”
There was a loud snort from the gallery. It was unmistakably from Anatoli.
“I cannot imagine a seven-year old posting his drawing to a magazine editor, Mr Malfoy. Did you
do it on his behalf?”
“No, sir. I did not.”
“Then how–”
“If I may, Director?” Roth interrupted. “Is this line of questioning directly related to the Inquiry?”
“It is, Mr Roth. The integrity of this Inquiry is at stake due to misinformation that has been
willfully spread by…” Hinkley’s eyes narrowed at Draco, “Someone!”
“Director, if you have read these accounts, you can see that each of them has been submitted to
these publications by the writers of the respective accounts. This detail is confirmed by the editors
of the publications at the end of each article. My friend has nothing to do with these articles other
than featuring prominently in the writers’ tales of survival. And that is no surprise, surely, because
if not for my friend’s actions in freeing more than a thousand wizarding captives from Alexander
Amarov’s tyranny, not to mention his subsequent work on the cure, most of these people would not
be alive today to bring us their stories.”
“These articles represent a coordinated attack on this Inquiry, Mr Roth! I refuse to believe their
simultaneous publication is a happy coincidence!”
Roth’s voice was noticeably raised when he next spoke. “Then I submit that the Committee may
rest easy, Director Hinkley, because the rules of this Inquiry state that the Committee can only
pursue what is likely to be proven, rather than what is likely to be believed.”
There was a sharp silence in the chamber. Draco knew Hermione was looking at him, seeking out
his gaze, but he would not look. Could not look. Not yet.
“Given that your purpose here today is to provide your dear friend with emotional support, you
seem to be tremendously knowledgeable about the rules of this Inquiry, Mr Roth,” Hinkley said.
Roth spread his hands in a placating gesture. “Now that , sir, is a happy coincidence.”
“God damn,” chuckled the Cowboy, which earned him a snarling rebuke from Hinkley.
“Members of the gallery will refrain from making any comments! I refuse to–”
“Does the Committee have any further relevant questions for the witness?”
The chamber doors were wide open and looked like they were going to stay that way. It was Harry.
He had returned and was now addressing Hinkley directly.
“It has been eight hours , Director. This is an expensive Ministry Inquiry, not a fishing expedition.
You chose to call this session, providing only one week’s notice and nevertheless received two-
hundred and ten submissions from the public. From what I’ve heard in the last few minutes alone,
it seems you haven’t bothered to review those submissions in order to ask targeted and relevant
questions of the witness.”
“Minister Potter, I must insist–"
“Either end this session and deliver a finding, or adjourn the session and cite a lack of preparation
on the part of the Committee. Whatever you do, ensure your decisions are in accordance with our
own rules.”
The tension was enormous. Draco looked between Hinkley’s apoplectic face and Harry’s stubborn
expression.
“Rock and a hard place,” Draco said, under his breath.
Roth snorted. “Kid, you ain't seen nothing yet.” The older man now addressed Hinkley. “Sir, while
we are on the topic of submissions, there is one final document to present to the Committee.”
“What a pity, Mr Roth, given that I am about to bring these proceedings to a close, in accordance
with our Minister’s strident advice.”
“But the submission is from my friend, Director Hinkley. Inquiry rules state that at any point prior
to the close of the session, a witness can present new information.”
Hinkley looked to the other members of the Committee. Several of them nodded.
“Very well, Mr Malfoy, you have something for us?”
“It appears so, sir,” Draco said, looking at Roth.
Roth held up a single sheet of paper. “May I approach the bench, sir?”
Hinkley waved him forward. Roth walked up and gave Hinkley the document. He stood and
waited as Hinkley read through it and then looked up at Roth in shock. No one heard what Roth
subsequently said to the Committee, but when he was done, Hinkley was as white as the paper in
his hand.
The DMLE Director stood up. “The Committee will accept this late submission to the
proceedings.” He cleared his throat. “By Dr Hendry Tan.”
The chamber erupted into chatter. It sounded like the beating of a thousand pairs of insect wings
against his skull. Draco felt the earlier wave of dizziness return, only all his symptoms were
occurring at once. He gripped the podium with both hands.
Not now…please.
“This session is ended!” Hinkley said, having to shout above the noise. The witness may leave!”
Harry stopped beside Draco on his way to speak to the Committee. “Hermione wants you to stay in
the building and wait for her. She won’t be long.” When he saw Draco’s expression, he frowned,
reached into his robes and pulled out a large gold key. “Take this. Use my Office. Show the guards
the key and they’ll let you through. Go on. I’ll send Hermione to you as soon as I can.”
Recognise, Recalibrate, Reset
Chapter Notes
Draco wasn’t quite sure how he made it down to Level One during the end of office hours rush,
though it did help that several people scrambled to get out of his way. Everything was too loud, too
bright, too much.
His wand was still locked up in the Atrium, so there was no hope of even casting a desperate
anxiolytic spell. If only someone bothered to tell the Ministry that he was probably more dangerous
without his wand than with it. He felt more civilised when he had his magic.
It was a weakness, this condition. The price he paid to become something that could love without
wreaking destruction. It was the condition Lucius had raised him to fear, and now there was no
turning back. He was thoroughly unravelled, but even as he stopped several times to hunch over,
hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, he knew that the feeling would not last forever. It
would pass, and what awaited for him on the other side of this bridge, if he kept going, was
peace.
He arrived at the purple carpeted corridor where the Minister’s rooms were located. Three guards
stopped him outside the waiting room.
Three, he thought, almost wanting to laugh. Only three. He could see himself perform the
necessary movements, even in his current state. Muscle memory would probably take over. Three,
maybe five quick blows to render them unconscious, but more importantly, silent, and then drag
them into the shadows.
Easy.
To think he had once stood in a state room on Amarov’s ship, holding on to Hermione, entirely
willing to take on five armed guards if it meant he could keep her. He remembered the desperation
of that moment, the single-minded, all-consuming need to protect her.
But these were not those times and he was thankful he did not have to make such calculations.
Mustering the last dregs of his self-control, Draco reached into his pocket with a shaking hand and
took out the gold key Harry gave him.
“Minister Potter has allowed me to use his office,” he explained, somehow managing not to
stumble over his words. He didn’t blame the guards for being sceptical. Draco wouldn’t have let
him pass either.
The guards were still discussing what to do, when a plump, kind-faced woman walked across from
a receptionist station.
“Let him through! Shame on you!” she scolded the guards, who didn’t seem to take it personally.
“He’s got the key, hasn’t he?”
“Key or not, just make sure he signs in, Luce. If anything’s missing, it’ll be all our jobs.”
I’m not a thief , Draco wanted to say, with his fist.
“I’ll sign in for you, love,” said the woman.
Draco assumed she knew who he was because she didn’t ask for his name when she wrote it down
in a visitors’ log-book.
She told him hers, however. “I’m Mrs Lucy Phelps, the Minister’s assistant.”
Draco remembered that Hermione had been haranguing Potter to hire an experienced administrator
to put his office to rights. Sometimes, you could practically smell the competence on a person. Mrs
Phelps was one such example. Draco would not be surprised to learn that Hermione had played a
part in finding and hiring her for Potter. Like knew like.
Mrs Phleps pulled him along towards Potter’s office with the determination of a tugboat. Two
opened and closed doors later, Draco found himself in a small sitting room adjacent to the
Minister’s office. She all but shoved him into a leather club chair and disappeared. When she
returned, she placed a cup of tea on a side-table, and a lined, waste receptacle next to the chair.
“The black tea is extra sweet and the bin is just in case the tea doesn’t do the trick. Oh, and the
washroom is just behind you.” She observed him, one hand on her ample hip. “Is there anything
else I can get you, Mr Malfoy? I imagine they’ll come down to see you shortly?”
“No, thank you, Mrs Phelps. I just need a minute.”
“Take all the time you need, love.” She patted him on the shoulder and then walked to the shiny
mahogany door. “If you don’t mind my saying, I'm only new here, but I can tell you’ve got a good
friend in our young Minister. He and that lovely wife of yours burnt the candle at both ends to
prepare for this flash Inquiry. Never had any doubt in my mind it would pay off.”
Aside from the guards, the Minister’s rooms were deserted by the time Hermione arrived.
“Is my husband in there?” she asked. The guards insisted she sign in a log-book. It was annoying,
but Hermione was glad for the formalities. Harry was much too lax about his own security. The
answer to her question was in fact in the log-book, though Hermione noted that Draco’s name had
been written in someone else’s hand.
“Mrs Phelps took him in herself before she left for the day,” explained one of the guards.
Hermione was glad for that. Harry’s new assistant was as capable as she was kind. Draco could
probably do with a bit of kindness right about now. She entered the Minister’s office and quickly
worked out that Draco wasn’t there. Next, she walked into the adjoining sitting room, shutting the
heavy door behind her with a soft click.
“Draco?”
She couldn’t see him. The low-level anxiety in her chest blossomed into fear. It was similar to how
she felt on the occasions she temporarily lost sight of her boys when she was with them in public. It
was a hyperbolic response, an awful helplessness that passed quickly, as soon as Henry appeared
from around a corner, or Orion popped out from behind a clothes rack.
The reason she didn’t immediately spot him was because he was sitting on the floor at the foot of a
bookcase. His knees were drawn up and he was resting his forehead on his folded forearms.
“There you are.”
“ Hermione ,” he said, looking at her as if he hadn’t seen her for years.
His expression was one of relief and something else – a desperate yearning. The raw vulnerability
on his face brought a lump to her throat. She knew how strong he was, how strong he was
determined to remain, and that his current state must feel frighteningly debilitating.
Don’t cry , she told herself, blinking rapidly. Do. Not. Cry. Not yet. There was still a bit more work
to do before she could lose herself in him. She would let him take his comfort from her, however.
He pressed his face into her hair and she heard his slow, shuddering inhale. “Do you need me to
leave? Does Harry need his office back?”
Hermione couldn’t remember the last time he referred to Harry by his first name. It was always
Potter and it was always scathing. “No. We can stay here as long as you like.”
Not holding him was agony. She felt him slide the comb out of her hair to take down her chignon.
He gently speared his fingers into her curls and began to unfurl the coil. It occurred to Hermione
that Draco’s entrancement with her hair was something he and Orion shared. When her hair was
unbound and around her shoulders, she caught his hands. His fingers were icy. She cupped his
hands in hers, and breathed over them.
It felt amazing to finally be able to tell him the good news. “The Inquiry Committee has
determined that there are no charges to pursue, now or ever. And your pardon is official.”
His reaction was not what she expected. He looked flat, almost defeated.
“How did you manage this?
“By pointing out a detail in the evidence that had been overlooked. It’s to do with your lab setup.
Your respective labs were in separate buildings, right?”
“That's right. In the event either I or Tan was raided, we wouldn’t be able to disclose the location
of the other’s lab.”
“Makes sense,” she said. “And you were both given free rein in the design of your labs?”
“I’m not sure about Tan, but I was. That was part of my agreement with Voldemort. My own
operation, my own staff.”
“Do you remember the safety protocols you used in your lab?”
“Security wards, automated sterilisation, a decontamination station, an autoclave. Standard, really.”
“All the same magical protocols used by Project Christmas at Grimmauld Place. Did Tan ever
describe or discuss his lab setup?”
“No. Each lab was to exist as an independent entity in case one of us was compromised. We
corresponded at a distance, mainly about data, experiment results, production lines, sales and
targets, that sort of thing. It was a business, at the end of the day.”
Hermione took out a small stack of photos from inside her robes. “These were taken by the DMLE
on the day Tan’s lab was raided. Tell me what you see.”
Draco examined the photos with frowning intensity. “His staff are wearing full-body suits. Looks
like each has an independent air supply. OK, that’s definitely a decontamination shower. And those
vents might indicate a filtered ventilation system. I’m seeing dual-stage, sealed exits, maybe?
Interlocking doors.” He looked at her and she could see, in real time, the dots connecting. “Tan
was running a BSL-4 operation.”
“Precisely,” she said, with a sad smile. “It had the same basic magical containment wards as your
lab and Project Christmas, but given he was a Muggle, Tan also implemented the maximum
biosafety level protocols he knew would be needed if he wanted to work on a lethal, infectious
agent for which there is no available vaccine or treatment …”
“His whole lab setup was designed to create the Hendry Virus,” Draco concluded.
“Or other pathogens just as dangerous. In contrast, McAllister and Wallen reviewed the
specifications and equipment at your lab and determined that it aligned with BSL-2 protocols. This
is completely in line with your product inventory. Draco, there was no way your operation could
have created the Hendry Virus.”
“That’s what you meant when you say the proof boils down to a single number. It’s my lab’s
biosafety level; two .”
“Yes.”
Draco dropped his head to his knees again. “I didn’t know what he was doing. I suspected, but
Merlin, I could have tried harder. I could have stopped it…I should have stopped it.”
Yes. He could have and should have, even if it would have meant his death. Her love for Draco
now didn’t change the fact he had not acted on his suspicions. She could not absolve him of this
and he would be dealing with the fallout for the rest of his life, even if it was only inside the
privacy of his conscience.
“But it so happened that someone else didn’t merely suspect, they had confirmation of what Tan
was up to, and they told the Ministry,” she said.
“Amarov.”
“That’s right. Psychopath though he was, he wrote to the Ministry to warn them of a potential
bioterrorism threat right under their noses. The Ministry, with their incompetence, arrogance,
ignorance and abuse of power, tried to cover up the whole affair by raiding the labs, burying the
evidence, and putting you away for life. When the virus got out, and when people were dying and
cannibalising each other in the streets, the Ministry sat on the information that could have led to a
cure quicker, because it would have required them to free you and expose the cover up. If the
Americans hadn’t come forward with their own intel about your work and the potential of
D.R.A.C.O…My God, I don’t even want to know what shape the world would be in right now.”
“Excuse me,” Draco mumbled, and then he was off like a shot towards the washroom.
Hermione stood outside the door, uncertain about whether she should open it, or whether he
preferred to be alone while he was throwing up. In the end, she didn’t have to decide because he
emerged, his face pale and wet from where he’d splashed it with water.
She got to her feet and brought him a cup of tea that sat untouched on a side-table. “Drink this.”
He stood beside her and drank without protest. “So what was in the document Roth gave the
Committee?”
“The most innocuous thing, really. It was Tan’s receipt for the equipment he purchased to set up
his Level 4 operation. McAllister and Wallen added a simple explanation for what each piece of
equipment was used for, and we also included an itemised comparison of the equipment in your
lab.”
“And what did Roth say to Hinkley?”
“Roth laid out a simple bargain for the Committee’s consideration: your justified exoneration and
pardon, in exchange for our silence. I’m sorry we had to put you through this. I’ve been agonising
over this case for months, and it was so difficult not to be able to tell you, to share it all with you.
But it was essential that you were seen to be subjected to the official process and come out of it
with an official outcome. And Harry needed that outcome in order to close the book on the old
Ministry using their own Inquiry. This Inquiry served a dual purpose of ensuring your safety and
defanging the old guard.”
“I understand,” he said, nodding. “I do.”
Her expression turned fierce now. Why was he being so damned passive? “No one can touch you,
Draco. Do you hear me? No one can take you away from me. I promised you that and now it’s
done. You’re free.”
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
They still had to go back upstairs to put his seal on the paperwork. If she started crying now, she
wouldn’t be able to stop until she had him alone and in bed, and that was going to be hours away.
He pulled her close. “You saved me,” he whispered, cupping her face. “Not with violence or guns
or your bare hands.” His lips brushed against hers. You freed me from Azkaban. You saved me
with your brilliant mind, your spirit and your unspeakable bravery.” His voice broke. “And you
endured so much for me…”
Hermione rested her face against his shoulder. If she looked at him, she was going to lose it.
“You did quite a bit of saving, too. You are so incredibly worth it, Draco Malfoy. You believe me
don’t you? I’m madly in love with you. Our babies love you and need you, and we have a chance
to give them a wonderful life together now.”
She let him hold her until his shuddering gradually ebbed. Eventually, he cleared his throat and
relaxed his death grip over her, muttering his apologies.
“I think I’ve cried more in the last three years than in my whole life prior to Azkaban,” he said,
sheepish.
“I don’t want to be the reason you cry, Draco, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. We’ll raise our
sons to feel their emotions, to not see attachment as weakness.”
Draco gave her a shaky smile. “How bad do I look?”
He looked like he’d been crying his heart out. “Close your eyes,” she whispered, and as soon as he
did, her face crumpled. Hermione bit her lip and forced herself to breathe normally as she passed
her wand over his face, applying a gentle, cooling charm over his swollen, red eyes.
There was a tiny, adorable furrow between his eyebrows. “Is it working?” he asked, with his eyes
still shut.
She caved, almost growling as she stood up on her toes, grabbed him by his hair and pulled him
down to kiss. His answering groan raised a pleasant throb between her legs. Hermione nearly
climbed him, wanting to wrap her legs around his hips and nestle herself against him. She slanted
her mouth over his and then kissed along his jawline. The high collar of his robes didn’t afford
much access to his neck.
“Kiska, we should stop...”
Merlin. Hermione realised he was shaking and she could tell it wasn’t in a good way. She dropped
her head against his chest again, and didn’t look at him until she was sure she could do so without
bawling.
“We need to go to the DMLE and sign your documents,” she said, stiffly.
They spent a minute smoothing down their hair and robes, and then Draco offered her his arm. It
was steadier now.
“Shall we?”
They spent an hour signing documents in Hinkley’s office, magically binding thanks to the signet
ring, approved on the spot by Harry, and witnessed by Hermione. By the time Draco collected his
wand from the Atrium, Hinkley was gone and Harry and Hermione were the last ones in the
building besides custodial staff and guards.
“Late night, boss?” said one of the guards.
“They’re all late nights, Harry said, with a smile. He had already undone the top two buttons of his
robes.
Hermione stood beside Draco in the Atrium. “All set?”
Harry paused. “Hang on, I need to grab something from the tea room.” He was back in minutes,
holding a bottle of liquor and what looked like a scrunched up ball of paper.” He also looked
slightly disgruntled.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Charlie sent this from Romania. It’s called Ţuică.”
“Not the drink, I mean what’s that in your hand?”
Harry looked surly now. “I keep finding these things pinned up in the sodding tea room. It’s not
proper.”’
“What things? Give it here.”
“It’s nothing.”
She had to grab his hand and peel his fingers away from the wad of paper. He might be the
Minister for Magic, but to Hermione, he was still her Harry.
The ball of paper was actually two sheets of paper. “Oh,” said Hermione. “I see.”
“What is it?” Draco asked.
Hermione was pleased to see Draco interacting more normally now. He looked and sounded much
better as soon as he had his wand back in his hands.
“Magazine clippings,” she said. “This looks like it’s from a while back. Witch Weekly, probably.”
The first clipping was of a shirtless Harry, wearing jeans and gardening gloves, on his knees in
Molly Weasley’s vegetable patch. The caption read: Our new Minister for Magic: not afraid to get
his hands dirty! ”
“For the record, I was weeding ,” Harry said. “Why would anyone be interested in that?”
The second clipping was of Draco. Unlike Harry, however, Draco was more puzzled than
embarrassed. “What an odd photo to display. This would have been taken during one of my
Ministry hearings. They’d transport me from and back to Azkaban on each day of the trial.”
“That’s even worse than my weeding photo. You look feral, Malfoy.”
Hermione sighed. “One day, when I have the time and energy, I’ll explain the female gaze to the
both of you.”
The photo showed a shackled, twenty-two year old Draco walking between two Aurors. His hair
was shorn almost to the scalp. He was bruised, unshaven, unkempt and looked absolutely filthy in
ragged robes. Even so, the picture managed to accentuate Draco’s height and leanness, in contrast
to the shorter, thick-set Aurors.
Despite the wildness of his appearance, there was an almost regal tilt to his chin. He wore a slight
smirk as he spoke to his security detail.
“That’s a ‘fuck you’ if ever I saw one,” Harry commented. “You look like you might have had nits,
Malfoy.”
“Hmm. Could be. That would explain the shaved head.”
Harry was still grumpy. “I’ll have a word with the ladies who use that tea room about not putting
up these things.”
“Unclench, Potter. People have been collecting these kinds of souvenirs since Salazar.”
“He’s right, Harry. You remember all the ones of Sirius?” Hermione turned her attention to the
bottle of liquor. “That was awfully nice of Charlie to send it to you.”
“That’s just it. He sent it to us to open when we won the case. It’s a traditional spirit made from
plums. I know it’s been the longest day ever, but would you two fancy a drink? I think we’ve more
than earned it,” Harry suggested.
Hermione looked at Draco. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I could do with a drink,” he said.

“Harry, do you know where everyone is staying tonight?”
He nodded. “Of course. They’re all in Ministry apartments. Much more secure than any inn.
Why?”
“I have an idea.”
The celebration was in full swing by the time Harry Flooed the last guest, Belikov, to Malfoy
Manor. Apart from Marina, who was seven months pregnant and already in bed, everyone else was
very amenable to the idea of a gathering.
Anything was better than a night spent alone in their depressing, Ministry-appointed apartments.
Belikov had already warned them about the lack of facilities to make a decent cup of tea.
Ginny left baby Lily with Molly, and brought the boys back to the Manor from the Burrow. It was
two hours past Orion’s bedtime. Molly had already put the boy into his pyjamas and read him
Where’s My Cow?. As far as Orion was concerned, his sleep switch had been flicked on. Poor
Ginny was trying to carry him on her hip when she stepped through the Floo with Henry and
Beelzebub.
Draco immediately took the sleeping child from her.
“Thank you,” she said, with a chuckle. “He’s out cold, but this one’s still got some juice left.”
She was referring to Henry, who was not in the least bit sleepy after being informed that his
father’s Ministry case had been successfully resolved.
“We’re having a party!” he declared, doing a victory lap around the library. “Please, please please,
can I stay up? Just for tonight?”
Draco had already left to put Orion to bed, so it was up to Hermione. “It’s awfully late, Henry.” She
was in the process of loading music onto the gramophone.
“Please? This is the first party we’ve ever had here!”
“OK, but only for another hour.”
Henry gave a whoop of delight. “I’m going to make a drawing of the party!” He went to fetch his
drawing pad and pencils.
Ginny helped Hermione to lay out a spread of cheese, crackers, bread, fruit and cold meats for their
guests. Harry also tried to help, but stopped when they told him he was doing it wrong.
“I’ve just realised we don't have much in the way of liquor,” Hermione said. “Just some brandy
and a few bottles of wine.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” Harry inclined his head to the fact that their
guests had come fully stocked.
A good example was Dr Kate McAllister, known supplier of quality whisky since their Project
Christmas days. She brought two bottles with her from home, and had already distributed a first
round of drinks.
She approached the food table now. “Can I interest you three in a wee sip?”
“Yes, please.” Harry held out his empty glass.
“No more for me, thanks,” Hermione said. “If one of us is going to be two sheets to the wind
tonight and sleep in tomorrow, it should be Draco.”
Ginny also declined a drink, on account of breastfeeding Lily.
McAllister's attention was now fixed to the spot in front of the library fireplace, where Felix
Wallen sat on a lounge. “Um, Hermione. Wallen’s far too polite to say anything, but your…I want
to say… dog ?”
“He’s a dog, yes.”
“Your dog’s been humping his leg for the last five minutes.”
They all looked and true enough, Wallen was trying to discourage Beezles' carnal inclinations with
a tepid, “No, no, down boy.”
Ginny laughed. “Harry and I will finish putting the food out. Hermione, you go look after your
guests.”
Hermione rushed over. “Beezles! You stop that right now!”
A startled Beelzebub immediately froze in place, and like a fainting goat, keeled over with his legs
in the air. Wallen gasped. He rushed over to the dog and would have commenced some form of
resuscitation when Hermione stopped him.
“He’s fine,” Hermione reassured the poor man. “Honestly. He goes into these faints when he’s
overly emotional. Trust me, it's better than the other things he sometimes does. I’m so sorry, Felix.
I didn’t even think Beezles had any of the required, um, parts to be inclined to hump anything.”
“Maybe he can sense lycanthropy?” Wallen said.
McAsllister put down her drink. “In the interests of science…” She got down on the floor to check,
lifting Beezles’ curly tail to have a closer look. “Tassels, yes. Knackers, no.”
“What is he meant to be, Hermione?” Wallen asked.
“He looks like a Star Trek transporter accident,” McAllister said.
It was Henry who supplied the answer. “He’s a hell hound.”
“A what?” McAllister blinked.
“He’s mostly pug,” Hermione said and then belatedly added, under her breath, “Give or take the
odd handle.”
“But he can catch on fire and also transform into a big monster,” Henry said.
“Really?”
“Don’t worry. He only eats bad people.”

“And what does the big monster look like?” McAllister asked. “A set of matching luggage?”
“I can show you.” Henry grabbed his art pad and flipped to a recent drawing.
McAllister stared at the drawing and took an extra large swig from her glass. “Well, mystery
solved, Wallen. I think we know why he’s so keen on you.”
Having put Orion to bed, Draco re-joined the festivities in the library.
As usual, his eyes searched and found Hermione, his visual anchor point in any room she happened
to be in. She looked very relaxed, seated with her knees under her on the lounge, beside Potter. He
had one arm thrown over the backrest, behind her, and they were sharing a plate of food that Potter
was balancing on his knee. She laughed at something Kate McAllister said and then rested her
head against Potter’s shoulder.
The aspect of Draco that his therapist referred to as the ‘blade’ wanted to pick up Potter and throw
him across the room, heedless of their shocked guests and the screams of Ginny Weasley. He
wanted to drag his wife to their bedroom and fuck orgasms into her until she forgot her own name,
let alone that of Harry Potter.
There was an unassailable bond between Harry and Hermione, a friendship and love that was older
than Draco's recent history with Hermione. The pair had only grown closer since Ronald Weasley’s
death. It was unreasonable for Draco to be jealous, but as unpleasant as it was, it was even more
unreasonable to ignore his jealousy.
Draco could easily summon up memories of watching the golden trio at Hogwarts. With their easy
camaraderie, their obvious affection for and devotion to each other, their cloying goodness,
sentimentality and optimism. How very Gryffindor .
It’d been easy to hate them for any of these things, but Draco hated Harry most especially because
the thing that drove Potter, that moved him to undertake such acts of bravery, was something
Draco simply could not fathom.
It was dangerous to fight something you didn’t understand. Tom Riddle made that mistake and he
had died for it. If you squinted, Harry’s superpower looked a lot like stupidity. Draco teased and
belittled Potter for so many years that it had become their default banter.
But Potter wasn’t stupid. He was driven because he was fiercely loved and loved fiercely in return.
And when you had Potter’s uncharted, raw, magical talent, love wasn’t just a feeling, a spark, or a
catalyst. For Harry Potter, it was fuel . It took nothing less than Hermione Granger, a member of
the golden trio, to help Draco understand this more than twenty years later.
Perhaps countless tragedies might have been prevented had Tom Riddle simply fallen in love? On
the other hand, it might have just as easily had the opposite effect, making Riddle even more of a
monster in the event that love was threatened. Draco knew he had the same potential. And he
knew Hermione probably knew it, too.
“Daddy!” Henry called out to him, waving. He was sprawled on the floor showing Felix Wallen his
sketches, his head almost entirely obscured under the Cowboy’s hat.
Draco started to walk towards them when he was accosted by Anatoli. Rather, it was an attempted
accosting. The large man tried to sneak up on him, but his bright green tracksuit was so loud, it was
practically audible. Draco sidestepped him and ended up having to catch Anatoli to arrest his fall.
“Weezard!” Anatoli bellowed, thumping Draco so hard on the back that Draco stumbled forward.
He thrust his drink into Belikov’s hands and approached Draco with what at first seemed to be a
hug.
Too late, Draco realised that it was not.
“Anatoli, do not ,” Draco warned, but a tussle, even a friendly one, was going to alarm other
people. He resigned himself to being bear-hugged and lifted clean off his feet, shaken about a bit
before being set down again.
“Come! We drink!” Belikov shouted.
Anatoli thrust a glass at Draco with such momentum that most of its content sloshed over the rim,
leaving Draco holding an empty glass.
The big man swore so heatedly that even Draco raised an eyebrow. Something about farm animals
and a soldier’s lonely wife? Luckily, no one else spoke Russian well enough to understand.
“Ah! Sorry! Sorry!” Anatoli said. “Vadim! Weezard must have a drink!”
One celebratory Russian was manageable. Two were their own party.
A chuckling Belikov refilled Draco’s glass. “There you go, my boy.”
“Is this from home?” Draco asked, taking a tentative sip.
“But of course!” Belikov said. “Only the best for this celebration!”
“You were that sure of a good outcome, eh?” Draco said, almost closing his eyes and sighing. The
vodka was glorious.
“I am not a gambling man, but I will always bet on Hermione Granger.”
“To Harminonie!” Anatoli roared, momentarily pausing all conversation in the room, and not only
because he absolutely butchered her name.
“Tolya! Keep your voice down. The little one is sleeping!” Belikov admonished, though he was
only marginally quieter.
Belikov held up his drink, a beatific expression on his face. “Everyone, if I may?” He addressed
the room. The chatter paused again.
It was time for the toasts. Draco braced himself, but he was sure he knew Vadim Belikov well
enough to be confident that the toast was not going to be lewd.
“As my great-grandfather used to say…”
Draco quickly adjusted his confidence level to around seventy-five percent.
“...a man has a wish to buy a house, but he has no means. A man has the means to buy a goat, but
he has no wish. So on this day, a good day for our memories, after so many bad ones in our past,
we drink together so that our wishes will always match our means!”
Well, that was surprisingly painless.
"Za dolgoletie,” Draco said with a wide smile. He held up his glass, as did everyone else.
Across the room, still squashed beside a now rather tipsy Minister for Magic, Hermione smiled at
him with a mixture of affection and such frank salaciousness that Draco wanted to cover the eyes
of any man in the immediate vicinity, lest they see it too. She tipped her own drink at him and took
a sip.
Her smile had him rock hard in seconds. Thank goodness for wizarding robes and their ability to
hide a multitude of secrets, Draco thought, not for the first time.
Several toasts later, Draco was finally permitted to leave the Russians, whereupon he walked over
to where Barnaby Richards was in deep conversation with Asher Roth.
“Can I get you a gentleman a drink, or perhaps something to eat?”
“Way ahead of you.” Richards grinned, holding up a glass of whiskey. “We came prepared. If
you’re done swilling Belikov’s potato water, have some of this.”
Draco was sad to toss back the excellent vodka, but Richards wasn’t going to wait to summon a
fresh glass. He allowed the Cowboy to pour a nip of whiskey and then both Richards and Roth
watched and waited. Apparently Draco would need to be initiated into the conversation via
whiskey before it could be resumed.
He took a sip and though not a fan of whiskey, was pleasantly surprised. It was sweet and spicy,
with hints of vanilla and fruit.
“Well?” Richards barked.
“It’s lovely.”
They narrowed their eyes at him for a moment, gauging his sincerity. Apparently, he passed.
“You can’t buy what you’re drinking right now, son,” Richards said. “Only 150 bottles from this
particular barrel were made at the Michter’s Fort Nelson Distillery in Louisville. Nothing quite like
it. Straight rye. Twenty-five years old, which coincidentally is about as young as Ash will dare to
sample.”
“I’ll sue you for slander,” Roth said, without feeling.
“It’s only slander if it’s not true.”
They refilled Draco’s glass as soon as he was done. “It’s going to be a rough morning,” Draco said,
looking at the Cowboy through watery eyes.
Richards snorted. “It’s going to be the best one you’ve had in a while. How does it feel to be a free
man?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know.”
Roth was being uncharacteristically quiet.
“Asher,” Draco said, “Welcome back to the Manor.”
“Gotta admit, I didn’t think I’d see this place again any time soon.” Roth glanced at Hermione.
“Let alone have your wife take me up on my offer to help at your Inquiry.”
There was an extremely subtle, but nevertheless sharp glint in Roth’s eyes.
Draco returned the courtesy. “And you did help today, so thank you .”
“Christ, it’s like Grimmauld Place all over again,” Richard muttered, pouring yet more drink into
their glasses. “Only last time it was Malfoy and Potter.”
“Kills you to thank me, doesn’t it?” Roth said.
“Ash,” Richards warned, from over the rim of his glass.

“No, but I’ll kill you if you even think of touching her again. Are we clear?”
“Relax. Barney’s already read me the riot act. As has the lady herself.”
“How’s your throat?” Draco asked Roth. “I hope I didn’t do any lasting damage?”
“That was months ago.”
“Yes, but bruises on the elderly take such a long time to heal.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Richards was laughing so hard, he sloshed
whiskey over his knees.
Roth glared at his best friend. “Really? You’re three years older than me.”
By midnight, the party was winding down and guests were saying their goodbyes at the fireplace.
Long , goodbyes, in the case of the Russians.
Henry and Beelzebub were curled up together, fast asleep on one of the Chesterfields, both of them
covered with Draco’s outer layer of robes. Harry was asleep in a seated position on the opposite
lounge, a drink in his hand, the Cowboy’s hat covering his face.
It’d been a while since Draco had felt quite this drunk. He was out of practice.
Fortunately, Hermione had not overindulged, and had done a wonderful job seeing to the comforts
of their guests. Unfortunately, this also kept her rather busy, which meant he didn’t even get a
chance to sidle up against her for a cheerful grope, or place a kiss on her sweet, scented hair.
At one point, however, she put a plate of food in his hands. In a swirl of blue and cognac coloured
curls, she was there and gone before he could coordinate his limbs to touch her, and Merlin, how
he wanted to touch her.
“You will eat something now or I’m cutting you off,” she said.
It was very odd to be told what to do in such a tone by someone who wasn’t pointing a wand or a
gun at him. But then he remembered that he hadn’t eaten anything apart from a Banbury roll and
cups of tea. He felt her glaring at him from across the room and quickly began to demolish the
bread, cheese and meat on his plate.
Draco felt an unexpected melancholy stirring, completely at odds with his current contentment, and
dare he say it, happiness. He wasn’t sure how to recognise it if he was happy, or what happy might
have been like, if he had felt it before.
Someone had changed the record on the gramophone. There was an expectant silence, devoid of
music, followed by the poignant strains of La Vie En Rose .
Some fresh air would be nice. He put down his plate, poured himself a snifter of his own brandy,
and walked to the ground floor balcony that had the best view in the house - a house he would soon
be leaving.
To his surprise, the balcony was already occupied. Ginny Weasley had also stepped outside to take
in the expansive grounds, with the greenhouse in the distance and beyond that, the lake shimmered
silver under the waning moon.
She smiled when she saw him. “It’s been almost four years since the cities went dark and the stars
came back, but we’ve barely spent any time looking up at the sky.” Ginny pointed. “That looks too
big to be a star. Mars, perhaps?”
He squinted at the celestial body in question. “At this time of year, no. I think that’s Saturn. One of
the things I missed most in prison, apart from magic and hot baths, of course, was the sky.”
“You had no windows that whole time?” she asked. When he shook his head, she wrapped her
arms around herself. “I can’t even imagine. I would have gone mad.”
“I think I was working up to that when Hermione and your husband showed up. And the funny
thing is, despite wanting so much to see a blue sky or the night sky again, I think this is probably
the first time I’m looking at it for its own sake. It’s amazing what you take for granted when it’s
there for the taking.”
“Don’t,” Ginny said.
“Don’t what?” he asked, confused.
“Don’t do whatever it is you’re thinking about.”
Draco rolled the snifter of brandy slowly in his hands. “And what might that be?”
“She knows you, you know? Hermione was worried you’d retreat into yourself after the Inquiry
because you don’t think you deserve to be happy.”
“Look, Weasley, we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but–”
Ginny snorted. “That’s an understatement. Your dad almost got me killed when I was twelve.”
“I know. It may not mean much coming from me, then, but I want to thank you for taking such
good care of Hermione and the children. I’m truly grateful for what you, Potter and your family
have done for us. I’ll do my best to make them happy.”
She gave him a long, assessing stare. “Good. And I hope by now you see that we look after our
own?” Ginny surprised him then, by giving him a hug, “Welcome to the family, Draco. Now, if
you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find my husband and head back to the Burrow while he can still
walk on his own steam. Thank you for a fun night.” She touched his arm. “You and Hermione
should get some hard-earned rest.”
She was nearly at the balcony doors when she paused, turned around and added, with a little smirk,
“Oh, and I’m so glad you enjoyed the dress.”
Hermione was already asleep by the time he stumbled into the bedroom.
All he could make out was her curly head on top of blankets that were pulled up to the bottom of
her nose. She was always cold and he was always hot. It evened out in the end.
Draco kicked off his stiff shoes, probably with a little too much enthusiasm. He couldn’t find the
energy to put his formal robes away properly. In fact, he was quite sure he never wanted to see
them again, let alone wear them.
As Hermione suggested, a new wardrobe was in his future. When they moved to the London
townhouse. Draco thought he’d be happy to take nothing from the Manor that they hadn’t brought
into the house themselves. He could shed his skin and start afresh.
The Manor had served them well, but it was like a vestigial organ in his life; something indicative
of a previous identity that had no relevance to who he was today. He had evolved not to need it any
more. Generations of Malfoys had been told where and how to live. That legacy would end with
him.
So he left the robes where he dropped them, stripping down to his skin and climbed under the
covers. His hands sought her out, finding her dressed in one of his t-shirts and her knickers. Her
skin was soft and wonderfully smooth. Draco fit her smaller body into the curve of his own, and
was content to just hold her there, but then he felt her stir in his arms.
“Sorry to wake you,” he whispered. This was a lie.
“’Salright. D’you check on the boys?” Hermione asked, eyes closed.
“Yes. Sound asleep.” He pulled the neck of the t-shirt to the side so he could kiss the freckled skin
of her shoulder. “Beelzebub is with them and snoring so loudly I’m surprised we can’t hear it in
here.”
His hand slipped under the t-shirt to cup her soft, warm breast. His cock was so hard it felt like he
was going to split his skin.
“You must be exhausted,” he said, gently massaging the soft mound of her beast and rolling her
nipple between his fingers.
“Mmmh, and yet,” she said, wriggling her bottom against him.
Recognition. Draco paused for a moment. He knew he was drunk and the last time he had
Hermione in his arms after too much brandy, it was her first time, and he had treated her with
cruelty and callousness. He needed to take much more care with her when he was like this; when
alcohol loosened whatever few inhibitions remained every time he touched her.
Without self-condemnation or shame, he acknowledged what he wanted at that moment.
And what he wanted was to push her legs open and bury himself inside her, to fuck her into
incoherence.
That was his modus operandi, wasn’t it? To overwhelm them both, because it was only during
those times that Draco forgot about his darkness. It left him alone, even if it was only temporary.
Once this unhealthy intention was spotlit and scrutinised, Draco understood that he used Hermione
like a drug. He loved her as a means of escape and he could not do that to her anymore.
Recalibration . She was not his greatest risk. She was his source of comfort, peace and respite and
he did not have to take these things from her. She was not hoarding them from him and her love
was not a finite thing. Hermione would readily give him all that she had. And it would be to their
combined detriment if he did not reciprocate with just as much generosity.
Reset. He could love her and still be afraid, hurt and angry. His feelings need not be mutually
exclusive. They could assist alongside each other and be experienced and managed, rather than
denied and suppressed
“Are you feeling alright?” she asked him, intuitive as always.
He pressed his erection against her backside. “You be the judge.”
Still with her eyes closed, Hermione took his hand from her breast and slid it down into her
underwear, parting her legs for him.
“Oh,” she huffed, startled at the unexpected coolness of his signet ring against her warm skin.
“One moment,” Draco said, removing the ring.
He didn’t want the ring to play any part in this. It was odd, but he felt a weight lift from him as he
placed the ring on the bedside table. He had always found the ring to be imposing and grim. It
represented an unbroken line of enforced familial responsibility.
But now, it looked so harmless. It was a piece of jewellery that earmarked its wearer as belonging
to a silly club that didn’t even allow girls to join. Draco wanted no part of it and he wondered if it
took him voluntarily putting the ring on and taking it off, to understand that it was a choice now.
His hand, now sans ring, returned to touch his Muggleborn wife, slipping between her thighs to
gently ease her open and rub at her until she was slick. Hermione moaned into her pillow, grinding
against his hand.
“Can I have you?” he asked her.
She turned to look at him over her shoulder. “Yes, darling. Always.” While her face was there, they
shared an open-mouthed, leisurely kiss.
He pulled down her knickers, angling his hips just as she arched her lower body to assist his entry.
Draco took his time, savouring the hold she had over his body and mind. He kept his thrusts
relatively shallow, merely sampling her depths as he continued to rub and pluck at her clit with
slippery fingers.
His lips stayed at her temple, where he told her how beautiful she was, how exquisite she felt, what
a wonderful mother she was to their children, how proud he was to belong to her, and how much he
was going to enjoy coming inside her.
They continued like this for some time until Hermione climaxed with a soft cry, so exhausted that
she barely even shook. Her body clutched at him, her delicious contractions pulled at his cock,
drawing him deeper into her.
Now, with the confidence that he could control it, Draco allowed a little more darkness to seep out.
He felt the familiar surge in him, but knew it would not take him over completely. Just as her
internal spasms ebbed, he thrust once into her until he was buried to the hilt, drawing a startled,
guttural cry from deep in her throat.
He didn’t thrust again, so much as rock against her, the head of his cock gently buffeting her
cervix. And through all this, his fingers continued to circle, flick and rub to draw forth another
orgasm, and then another. And one more after that. He could die happy inside her, he thought. His
heart could stop as she clenched and squeezed, and he would go without a fuss.
Hermione’s final orgasm resulted in a series of desperate, mewling whimpers that obliterated the
remains of his self-control. Their timing was textbook. She tightened around him right as he began
to pulse, pouring himself into her. His own orgasm, combined with how inebriated he was, nearly
rendered him insensate. But Draco forced himself to stay awake for a little while longer.
She lay very still, the only sound in the room was her hitched breathing. He was in the process of
repositioning them so he wasn’t lying on her hair, when she spun around in his arms and burrowed
into his chest. He felt the wetness of her tears.
Cold dread cut through his post-orgasmic languor.
“Kiska?”
She was sobbing now. Draco was appalled, confused and too bloody drunk to properly organise his
thoughts. He caught hold of her chin so that he could get a look at her face, hoping it would tell
him what she wasn’t saying.
“Did I just hurt you?”
“No, you didn’t hurt me, you goose!” she wailed.
“Then why the hell are you crying?” he demanded. His own voice was making his head ache.
More gently, he said, “Hermione, what is happening?”
“I can’t even explain. I don’t…oh God, that was…Merlin. That felt so different .”
He frowned. “In a good way or bad way?”
“Good. So, so, so good,” she said. “Draco, I could feel you.”
She sounded happy, but if she was happy, why was she still crying? The sound of it was making
his heart hurt. Not for the first time, he wished Hermione Granger came with a manual.
But Draco thought he knew what she meant. He knew what was different now. However, because
he was slightly embarrassed and generally uncomfortable with overt sentiment, he said, “I should
hope you could feel me, I was balls deep inside you.”
Hermione’s head was now on his chest, eyelids drooping. “I don’t have the energy to give you a
full analysis right now, but please, more of the same, Draco.” Her voice trailed off. “More of the
same…”
Chapter End Notes
WE'RE NEARLY THERE!!!!
The Beezles drawing was one of 4, drawn at the LIATOTZA Wrap-Up party held at
the start of Jan. I'm just collecting the team members' names and will add them here
when I do.
Additional thanks to Adina for the Romanian liquor info, and to Vivianvivi1, for the
Russian <3
Hermione finished adding a cushioning charm around the gramophone’s crate when Orion walked
into the library with Beelzebub. Her mental checklist was at the front of her mind, telling her that
all their books were already packed and transported, along with most of the master bedroom, toys,
clothes, kitchen supplies, canned and non-perishables goods, selected pieces of furniture, and
research notes. All that was left were their beds, fresh food and a bag each of personal items.
“Orion, I’m almost done here. Are you hungry yet? I was going to make us some sandwiches for
lunch.”
“Mummy, Hemmy’s crying.” Orion’s silver-blue eyes were wet.
Hermione bent down to her son, although lately, she didn’t have to bend down quite so far because
Orion was going through a growth spurt. She lamented the gradual loss of her toddler’s lovely,
chubby folds. His previous bulk seemed to be channelled towards vertical growth. He would
probably still make for a decent beater, but the boy was starting to resemble his lanky father more
and more with each passing day. The biting had finally stopped, thank goodness. And he was
talking up a storm.
“Why is he crying?”
“Hemmy says he misses the dead frog. I gave him a hug, but he said I’m a silly baby and I don’t
know anything.”
“Oh, sweetie, I think Henry must be upset. I’ll talk to him.”
There were still very few things that could make Orion cry. Such as disagreements with his brother,
for example.
The boys were going through an adjustment period which entailed Henry making friends his own
age and older, and Orion feeling a little left out. Henry was trying to navigate this phase as best he
could. It was tricky keeping up with older kids when you had a three-year old constantly at your
heels, even if they happened to adore you.
Ah, sibling dynamics, Hermione thought. A lack of experience in this area was something she and
Draco had in common, being only children. Moreover, Orion was not small enough to drag around
in a box any more. It seemed crazy to think that Henry was only a year older when he’d been
fighting for his life in Amarov’s Pit. She found it difficult, in general, to remember a time when
Henry was not hers, but it was important not to give in to this feeling. He was Daphne and Blaise’s
son, and now he was hers and Draco’s. The latter set of parents did not cancel out the former.
Rather, they were simply the current beneficiaries of Henry’s love.
She took Orion’s hand and together, they walked with Beezles to the boys’ bedroom. They would
have separate bedrooms in the townhouse, which would be another milestone for the brothers.
Henry was seated at the bay windows, drawing. Lately, however, he’d also been writing quite a bit
and was developing quite a knack.
“Something on your mind, son?” Hermione asked. She went to sit beside him.
Henry looked like he’d been expecting her. “I’m sorry for losing my temper with Ory just now. I’ll
apologise to him. It’s just that he was asking me a lot of questions and I just wasn’t in the mood,
you know?”
Hermione bit her lip. Henry had gone from seven to seventeen in a matter of weeks. It was Jack
Weasley’s influence, she thought. Bill and Fleur’s son was an old, mellow soul. He was the kind of
child that made you oddly self conscious about your table manners.
“What’s this I hear about a dead frog? Don’t tell me we’ve lost another one?”
“It’s not another one. It’s the same one.” He shut his drawing pad. “I’ve been thinking about
Goblin again and how badly I treated him…”
“Henry, you didn’t treat him badly at all!”
“I mean after he died. You know, when I didn’t want to bury him properly? And you and Dad even
set him aside and waited for me to come home from the Potters’. I’m feeling…” he struggled to
think of the word.
“Regret?” she suggested.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He looked down. “I was being such a child.”
Hermione refrained from reminding Henry that all this had occurred less than a year ago. “Well, if
you want to, we could still bury him.”
“What do you mean? Isn’t he worm food?”
She laughed. “Sweetheart, he’s not worm food. I cast a preservation charm and kept him in the
greenhouse. I thought it was possible you’d have a change of heart about burying him. He’s still
there, exactly as you last saw him.”
Henry jumped up from his seat. “You did that? Even after I told you I didn’t care what we did with
him because he was just a frog?”
“I did.”
He surprised her by throwing himself into her arms. “Thank you,” he said. “When should we have
the funeral?”
“Funeral?”
“Yes. I’ve already written a eulogy and an epitaph. I never thought I’d get to actually use it!” He
flipped open the drawing pad to show her. “Here, see my design for his tombstone? I hope it’s not
too flashy? He was only a simple frog.”
“Wow,” Hermione said, with a low whistle, though she expected no less precociousness from a
child who was three-quarters Slytherin. “Maybe Orion can help, too?” she suggested, pointedly.
“Oy! Ory! Come ‘ere!” Henry called.
Orion was pouting. “Don’t wanna!”
Despite this exchange, Henry was already down on one knee and Orion was walking into his hug.
Hermione had to hand it to them. Her boys definitely had their own affectionate shorthand.
Orion helped Henry to decorate a tiny tombstone using a suitably shaped rock and acrylic paint.
The epitaph was written with a thin, black felt-tip marker and Hermione finished the project with a
sealing charm to ensure the design would weather the elements. She imagined future generations
walking past the tiny grave and wondering what kind of pet Goblin had been.
Henry practised his eulogy in front of Orion. Hermione had to explain to her younger son that they
were not expected to stand and applaud at the end.
“Do you want to have the funeral now while it’s daytime or shall we wait for Daddy to come
home?” Hermione asked the boys. Draco had been away for two whole weeks. This was the
longest time he had spent apart from his family since Orion was born.
They were unanimous in wanting to wait.
Draco stepped through the fireplace just before dinnertime. Hermione was seated on the floor,
using her wand to cut out the front pages of various newspapers. Beside her, was a large, empty
picture frame. The lascivious cuttings of Harry and Draco in the first floor tea room at the Ministry
had given her an idea.
“Daddy!” shouted Orion, running to Draco.
It gave her a little pang to note that Henry didn’t quite do the running leap into Draco’s arms any
more. He was no less pleased to see his father, of course. But now, he walked to greet him. It was
inevitable, she thought, the business of growing up. As with countless other parents before her, she
reminded herself to slow down and enjoy her time with Orion. Henry’s younger years had been a
blur of danger and constant precarity.
Hermione’s stomach did its usual little flip as soon as she saw him. There was something soothing
to the eye as it recognised his familiar shape and lines. It was an odd thing to feel more so
protective but at the same time also incredibly safe, when Draco was back home with the family.
Draco’s trip to Jamaica to locate and shut down the other end of the portal that had allowed the
rogue Aurors to enter the Manor. This was an important last thing to take care of before they
moved. Whatever purpose the Manor served in the future, it would need to be secure from
intruders. No matter how hard he searched, he could not locate the gateway in the Manor’s
restricted wing. He travelled to Jamaica on the odd chance that the other second gateway would
give up its secrets more readily.
It’d been hard going, from the look of him. Draco’s black clothing was powdered with pulverised
rock dust and dirt. There was a week’s growth of beard on his face. His shoulder-length hair bore
traces of mud splatter. It was grossly unfair how some men could look even more attractive when
they were dirty. But then she reminded herself that Draco cleaned up very well, also.
He dropped his backpack just in time to catch Orion. Hermione tried not to visibly hold her breath
when Draco flipped his younger son over his shoulder, and then blew raspberries on the tummy.
Orion’s giggles were magical. They could be bottled and sold as joy in a jar.
Draco (and on occasion, even Harry) was known to throw, bounce and swing the boys around.
What mattered was that Draco always caught them. Orion boy had no doubts his father would
always catch him. This was a level of trust that had not come so easily with Henry, in the
beginning.
“Dad, did you find it? Was it there?” Henry asked. “And did you bring anything cool back?”
“I did, it was, and…” Draco got down on his haunches to take something out of his bag. He
enlarged the Reduced gifts, revealing two, colourful cloth and bamboo-framed kites with long,
trailing ribbons of black, gold and green.
“Kites!” Henry exclaimed, looking very much his age all of a sudden.
Orion wasn’t so sure about what he’d been given until Henry explained that their gifts would be
able to fly. The boys thanked their father for their souvenirs.
And then Draco walked over to Hermione, who had been patiently waiting or her kiss. She stood
on her toes and met his mouth on its descent. “Where’s my kite?” she murmured against his lips.
“I’ll make you feel like you’re flying later tonight,” he said, laughing at her blush. “In the
meantime, is my safe return not enough of a present?”
“Of course it is! How was Jamaica? Did you manage to take care of all your business there?” She
asked
“It’s a paradise, not that I could do any exploring. I spent most of my time crawling through
tunnels, thirty meters under Fort Charlotte. I finally found the damn portal gateway only
yesterday.”
“Did you manage to close it?”
“Yes. Though the spell nearly took my head off.”
Hermione smacked him on the arm. A small cloud of dust billowed into the air. “Seriously?”
Draco shrugged. “Explosive spell. Small, confined space.” He bent down to unlace his mud-
encrusted boots before walking any further into the library, but she stopped him.
“Leave those on. We need you for one more errand this evening before dinner.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to wash up first?”
Henry came over. “Don’t change, Dad. Black will be perfect! Guess what? We’re going to a
funeral!”
Draco blinked. “That’s not usually announced with such enthusiasm, Henry, but sure, I’m game.”
To Hermione, he raised an eyebrow, mouthing the words, “Who died?”
Henry decided that the ideal spot to bury Goblin was under a Sessile Oak just beside the larger
Manor lake. Draco was tasked with the serious responsibility of holding on to the small cardboard
box that stored Goblin’s remains. Orion was desperate to get a peek inside the box.
“Thank you all for coming,” Henry began, addressing the mourners in a solemn, serious voice. “It’s
nice to see so many of Goblin’s loved ones gathered here today to celebrate his life.”
Draco cast Hermione an amused, sideways glance. She ignored him, despite the subtle twitch of
her lip, resolutely keeping her eyes on Henry.
“I’ve prepared a few words for the occasion.” Henry allowed a dramatic pause, before flipping
open his art pad. There was apparently a problem, however. Henry walked over to his father and
whispered into his ear.
Draco responded by casting Lumos. Hermione didn’t have to wonder if he was thinking about the
last time she and Draco had met by Lumos-light beside the muddy shore of a Manor lake, because
of a frog. She could practically feel his smirk.
“Thank you, Dad,” Henry said. There was now enough light to read.
Orion tugged on Hermione’s hand and pointed up at the light. “Mummy, look. It’s so pretty.”
“That’s right. Ory. Mummy is so pretty.”
Hermione gave her husband an exasperated look. Henry was going to notice that Draco was not
taking the funeral seriously. To Orion, she said, “I see it, bubby. It is pretty, isn’t it?”
Henry cleared his throat.
“Sorry, son,” Draco apologised. “Please continue.”
“As I was saying, we are gathered here today to bid farewell to our friend, Goblin.”
“Bye-bye, Goblin!”
“Not yet, Ory,” Hermione whispered. “We have to wait for Henry to finish speaking first.”
“Goblin was a good frog, a happy frog.”
“A very good jumper,” Draco added.
“Er, yes,” Henry said.
“ Too good for his own good, some might say…”
Hermione was about to glare at Draco, but stopped when she caught sight of the suppressed
amusement on Henry’s face. He was trying not to crack a smile at his father.
“Goblin was raised with his frog family in our greenhouse and it didn’t matter to him that his
brothers and sisters all came from different ponds. They were all frogs and they loved each other.”
“Possibly too much, because now we have even more frogs.”
Hermione nudged Draco with the side of her foot.
“A family is what you decide it is,” Henry continued. “Even if you’re not related by blood and
even if you happen to look very different from each other. Our frogs are part of my family, too. I
decided that they are. And so they are.”
There were no more quips from Draco. Now, he was looking rather seriously at his older son.
“My first father said to me that your family is where you are loved the most, even when you act
the worst. You can make mistakes, but you don’t have to be scared that your family will stop
loving you. Good families don’t do that. I’m not sure why Goblin decided to escape from his tank.
Maybe it was an accident? Maybe he was looking for an adventure? What I do know is that I didn’t
make time to look after Goblin when he died, and I should of. I’m sorry about that.” Henry sniffed
and Hermione was about to go to him when she felt Draco slip his hand around hers and give her a
subtle shake of his head via just his eyes.
It occurred to her that she and Draco probably had their own version of a parenting shorthand.
She assumed Henry was done with the eulogy and was just about to speak to her son when he
added, in a rush, “Also, a big shout out to my Mum for keeping Goblin’s body fresh so I can give
him a proper goodbye before we move to a new house. And thank you also to my baby brother,
Orion, for drawing little flies on the tombstone. Goblin preferred crickets but Orion can’t draw
them, but that’s fine.”
Orion looked up at his mother with an expectant expression, “Now can I say it?”
“Almost,” she said, touching his soft hair.
“Dad, can you please pass me Goblin’s box? Orion can help if he wants?”
With a slightly skeptical look, Draco got down on a knee and placed the box in his toddler’s hands.
“Remember what I said?”
“Look no touch,” Orion repeated, not taking his eyes off the box.
“Excellent. Go on, give this to your brother.”
Orion was doing very well until his curiosity got the better of him. Stopping about a meter short of
Henry, he released a small grunt of frustration and flipped open the box lid.
“Mum! He’s poking it!”
Hermione stepped forward and picked up the wriggling child.
A disgruntled Henry gently laid the box in the hole and covered it up with dirt. The placement of
the ‘tombstone’ completed the ceremony. The assembled mourners were then permitted to place
flowers over the grave. It really did look very pretty and serene by the end of it.
“ Here lies Goblin Granger-Malfoy. May he rest in greener ponds . That’s lovely, Henry,”
Hermione said. “And yes, Ory. You can say it now.”
“Bye-bye, Goblin! We love you!” Orion farewelled, blowing several wet kisses.
Later in the evening, Hermione resumed laying out her newspaper cuttings on the floor. It was odd
being in the library when it was so empty. The slightest sound echoed. She had laid out several
layers of thick blankets on the floor and added a pile of pillows for the children to use when they
lounged about in the library.
A clean and fed Draco stood over the sealed gramophone crate, wearing a t-shirt, faded, moss
green sweatpants and a thoughtful expression. His feet were bare. It occurred to her She knew
exactly what he was thinking.
“Take it out if you want, darling. It’s no bother to re-pack.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to undo all your hard work.”
“Positive.”
Using Leviosa, he lifted the gramophone from its crate, turned over the crate and rested the
gramophone on top of it. A moment was spent re-attaching the horn to the tone box. There were
few items in the house to which Draco demonstrated an obvious attachment. The gramophone from
Hermione was an exception. He took a great deal of care with the device.
Not looking up from her task, Hermione smiled when La Vie En Rose began to play. “Now how
did I know you were going to pick that?” Draco occasionally diversified, but he was almost
obsessively devoted to the song.
“Are you sick of it?” he asked. His voice had taken on an odd inflection, enough to make her put
down wand and look at him. The question was simple but she got the sense he was asking her
something else.
“Never,” she said. “Impossible.”
He came to sit beside her on the floor, drawing up a knee to rest his chin upon it. “You need to take
a break from all this sorting and packing. We’re allowed to take our time.”
“I’m enjoying it. It keeps my mind busy. I’m not making nearly as many lists as before and I do so
enjoy my lists.”
“Yes, you do,” he said, in an oddly resigned voice. “ Hermione .”
It was the way he said her name. She put down her wand and gave him her full attention, frowning.
“What is it?”
“A couple of things, actually.”
Hermione felt a growing unease. “Go on.”
“You remember the UK Home Affairs Minister from my Inquiry?”
“I’m unlikely to forget,” Hermione said. ““Eleanor Reeves made one of the most compelling
submissions. And her son William’s story was such an invaluable addition to the news articles.”
“Well Reeves has reached out to us. She’s aware that we’ll be vacating the Manor shortly and has
put forward a proposal for us to consider.”
“What kind of proposal?”
“That we turn the Manor into a MagiScience Research Institute for the purpose of studying the
integration of Muggle science, technology and magic.”
“We, as in you and I?”
He nodded. “She feels it’s an ideal location for a number of reasons.”

“I can see why she’d think that. It would be a very secure facility. But what does that mean for the
Manor? It becomes Ministry property?”
“It would be a lease. I cannot legally sell them the Manor. It will go to the kids eventually, but they
won’t be able to sell it either. One of the perks of my demented familial legacy.” Draco ran a hand
through his hair, frustration evident in his expression. “But this way, they could derive some
income from the place and it might even be the start of a new legacy? Something meaningful and,
dare I say, modern? My ancestors would be mortified.”
“Fuck your ancestors.”
He gave her a sexy, lopsided smirk. “Do you kiss your husband with that mouth, Ms Granger?”
“I do all sorts of things with my mouth and Mr Malfoy loves it,” Hermione said. “Oh, Draco! I
think it’s a brilliant idea!”
“You do?” He looked relieved.
“Don’t you?”
“I’m in favour of the proposal because it will put me to work.” He was referring to more than
work, he was referring to purpose. “Though I confess, I always imagined myself toiling away in
obscurity in some dark, laboratory basement.”
“No way! No more of that,” Hermione warned. “Dark basement laboratories is how you get
Hendry Tans. I hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but your days of obscurity are long gone. You
might as well put your notoriety to some use. So would this Institute be a joint operation between
our governments?
“Yes, Potter’s got his hands full implementing the Recovery Act. Reeves suggested tasking you to
draft the Institute’s terms of reference, in collaboration with Reeve’s people. You’re still an adjunct
with the Ministry’s Research Unit, so your clearance is up to date. You could start as soon as you
wish.”
“Hmm,” she said.
“I know that face.”
“What face?”
A raised eyebrow was his response.
“And I know that eyebrow,” she countered. “Wow. We’re really going to do this, aren’t we?”
“If you want to,” he said, carefully. “Bearing in mind that if we do, I don’t want any part in
administration or governance, I can tell you that right away. No one wants or needs me to be
managing people. Put me in a lab. Make it as well lit as you want and leave me to my own
devices.”
She gave him a knowing look. “That’s the deal you struck with Voldemort isn’t it? In exchange for
your Russian sabbatical?”
“More or less.”
“You’re allowed to want more now, you know? To want to be the boss rather than the–”
“Lackey?” he supplied.
“Don’t put words in my mouth. I was going to say employee , actually. But ultimately, you need to
do what makes you happy, OK?” she said, eyebrows rising. “We didn’t earn your freedom for you
to ignore your options now that you have them.”
Hermione’s mind was racing, lists already piling on top of each other, jostling for priority. But then
she remembered that Draco had mentioned there were a couple of things to discuss.
“What else did you have to tell me?”
He sighed. “The Ministry is looking into the disappearance of McInnes and Carter.”
She felt a familiar, cold, sinking sensation, but a few calming breaths was all it took. When she
spoke, she sounded nonplussed. “Is that right?” And how does this concern us?”
Draco gave her a curious, measuring stare. “It doesn’t. I just wanted to let you know. An
investigation was bound to happen given that Aurors don’t just go missing. Not these days anyway.
Foul play is suspected.”
Hermione resumed sorting through the broadsheets. “Well, I certainly hope they find them. But
after so long, it does seem rather likely, does it?” she said, blinking.
“Oh yes. I’d say the odds are slim to none.”
“Well there you go. We have nothing to worry about.” She squeezed his hand. “And if we did, I’ll
invite Harry over for a spot of tea and he and I can have a nice long chat about it.”
“Granger?”
“Yes, Malfoy?”
“You do realise that part of what Potter’s trying to do at the Ministry is to dismantle its nepotistic
tendencies? There will be limits to the favours you can or should be asking of him.”
She snorted. “I think you’ll find that there are no limits to what I will do to keep this family safe
and together.”
“You can be quite diabolical when you need to be, you know that?”
This made her laugh. “You have no idea the amount of times Ron and Harry have said to me over
the years.”
He touched her cheek. “My sweet love, you don’t know scary...”
“It’s not a competition, Draco.”
“If it was, I’d win every time, against you, or anyone else.”
This was going to be their long-term challenge, Hermione knew. Draco was balanced now. But
he’d told Hermione about certain concerning, darker aspects to his personality that he was only just
beginning to unpack.
The fact was that Draco’s emotional well-being, his stability, his productivity and functionality
were all intrinsically connected to Hermione . Neither of them had intended this to be the case, but
it was now a reality.
“What does this mean, in practical terms?” she’d asked him. Hermione needed to know what kinds
of lists to make if she was going to solve this problem.
She would never forget the look on his face, or what he said to her.
“Whatever you do, don’t die first.”
Hermione felt like she’d been standing in a room with a stranger. It transported her back to their
early interactions and Draco’s warnings about what it would mean for her to be with him, about
the acknowledgement that Draco’s moral and ethical boundaries were frighteningly relative.
Now, Draco was looking at her as if he could read her mind. And to be fair, it wasn’t very hard,
considering she tended to wear her feelings on her face.
He was wearing a strange combination of expressions. Hermione thought she detected pride, awe,
and quite a bit of arousal. The boys were asleep and even though he was probably tired from his
trip, she really needed him to make love to her. She’d been positively pining the entire fortnight,
and extremely frustrated with her unsuccessful attempts to bring herself off. Her body was not
behaving as it should.
“How the hell were you not sorted with me into Slytherin?”
“And spend seven years sleeping in a dank dungeon? No thank you. But you be sure to remember
you said that the next time you accuse me of being all peaches and cream.”
He took her left hand, curled her fingers and brushed a whisper-soft kiss over the top of her
knuckles. “You are all peaches and cream.”
The simple caress was distracting already, but then, still holding her fist, he began to run the very
tip of his tongue between her knuckles, flicking lightly at the sensitive webbing between them.
Hermione had a one-track mind. It was pathetic really. Anything interesting her husband did with
her mouth automatically made her think about what it would feel like if he did the same thing, but
between her legs.
On one occasion, she’d almost burnt the children’s eggs because she’d been preoccupied watching
him eat a banana with a fork, the ridiculous man
“I come in several shades of grey as well, I’ll have you know.”
He blew over her moist knuckles. “Surely not. You are a paragon of virtue.”
“Is that so?” she said, teasingly. “Then it must have been some other bloke I trussed up in chains at
your London townhouse.”
The grip on her hand tightened, infinitesimally. “No.” The lightness in his eyes clouded over. “No
other man will touch you. You are mine.” He pulled her to him, his mouth catching hers in a biting
kiss. “Say it.” His fingers caressed her jawline, her chin, slipping down to grasp her neck. The hold
didn’t even really qualify as a grip, but the feel and weight of it there sent a puddle of heat pooling
between her legs.
“Say it, Hermione.”
But she did not, and she wasn’t entirely sure why. Not on principle, at least not only . She was
taking her defiance out for a test drive. He was frowning at her now, though this was tempered with
a healthy dose of amusement.
The hand at her neck disappeared. His wand was in his hand for a moment, and that was all it took
for him to vanish her red and black plaid shirt. The unexpected coolness over her skin startled her
back into focus.
“Sir, the cheek!” she admonished.
Her hair was in a single braid down her back. He took hold of it and tugged, tipping her head back
and exposing her throat to his mouth.
“Do you know that the thought of you communicating with Asher Roth for months without my
knowing drives me mental?”
“What?” Hermione tried to lift her head to give him an incredulous look, but he held her in place
with her hair. “Still?”
“My love, I didn’t say I was being reasonable. I’m a jealous son of a bitch. That bastard had your
time and attention. He deserves none of it.”
“You hate him.”
“Yes and I always will.”
“Even after what he did for you at the Inquiry?”
“Yes, because he took something from you that you did not consent to give him. The last man that
did that did not fare so well.”
“Is this how it’s going to be? Are you going to menace every man who looks at me the wrong
way?”
Draco slid his arm under her back and arched her towards him, bringing her bare chest to his
mouth.
“Not every man.” He laved at a nipple, alternating between swirling and stabbing the point of his
tongue at the sensitive nub. “Just the ones like me, because I know what they’re capable of.”
Draco drew her nipple into his mouth and suckled hard, causing Hermione to buckle and wince
under him. When it was distended and swollen to his satisfaction, he popped it out of his mouth,
letting it rub along his wet lips for a moment before releasing it. Then he slid his hot, open mouth
across her chest. Just when it seemed he was going to lavish the same attention on her other nipple,
he lifted his head.
“Me, Roth, Amarov, there’s a common thread that runs through us….”
Hermione groaned and twisted and squirmed on his arm, trying to move his head to take her other
breast, but it was impossible to shift him. “That’s…ah—that’s not true.”
“Yes, it is. In differing concentrations, of course. Where it concerns you, it comes down to a need
to have you, to be around you.”
To her relief, Draco latched his mouth onto her previously snubbed breast. Hermione was
astounded at how sensitive, full and heavy her breasts felt.
She closed her eyes and whimpered, falling back against his arm. Draco lowered her the rest of the
way down onto the blanket, not releasing his suction over her captured breast.
Her arousal was different now, sharper, tighter, bordering on painful. It felt like there was an
invisible chord connecting all her erogenous zones and if he didn’t stop sucking, there was a
chance she could climax from that alone. The thought both thrilled and alarmed her. Hermione still
had her trousers on and she hadn’t laid a hand on Draco yet. It was much too soon to be this lost
already.
“Not…not so hard,” she whispered, putting her fingers into his hair. He obliged by stopping
altogether and resting his chin on her damp chest, looking up at her with stormy grey eyes.
“My beautiful girl.”
“Malfoy, you’re going to give me delusions of adequacy.”
“Nothing about you is merely adequate.” He kissed a puckered nipple and she could not contain
her little gasp. “You are exceptional in every way.”
“Oh yes?” Hermione felt muzzy and thick tongued. She felt drunk, truth be told. “Name one.”
A smirk. “Your pussy.”
She rolled her eyes. “What are you, seventeen?”
“Oh, you want specifics?”
God, yes. She wanted his words. She wanted his hand between her legs and his sexy voice saying
wonderfully depraved things in her ear.
“Hmmm,” he said, his voice a low, deep rumble. Then he cupped her between her legs, over her
jeans, palming the seam and pressing it into her. Oh, that felt good. And safe, too. Not too much
sensation, blunt, indirect, precisely what her overly sensitised body needed right now.
And right now, she really needed to come.
“How about a trade?” he suggested. “Give me your words and I’ll give you mine.” He didn’t stop
the movements of his hand. “Say it for me, Hermione. Humour me. Please.”
The ‘please’ was asked with such tenderness that it was no longer fun to continue withholding what
he wanted.
“I’m–ah–yours. All yours, Draco. Only yours… please don’t stop .” His mouth caught her gasp.
“Your turn now. Tell me.”
He lay his head down next to her, close to her ear, and whispered. “As you know, I am terribly
fond of feasting on your delicious cunt.”
Hermione groaned. She needed this. She drew both her knees up, her feet providing added traction
over the blanket covered floor as she rocked against his hand.
“But on those rare occasions when we get to sleep in past six o’clock, I make it a point to wake
you up in my favourite way. Do you know what that is, Kiska?”
“No.” This wasn’t true. She knew, and he knew she knew.
There was a smile in his voice. “You’re already in my arms, so I turn you over and put you on your
back. I slide down your body and spread your legs…but you keep them closed and tight.”
She grabbed his hand and took over the task of grinding it against her. Draco assisted by making a
pointed fist so that the knuckle of his index finger became a lovely focal point for her clit. His hand
was taking a pummeling, she realised. She could see the muscles shifting in his forearm and took a
moment to run her nails along them, delighting in his strength.
“And invariably, I feel your hands on my shoulders and in my hair. You push me away. You tell
me no, Draco, I can’t. Draco, you shouldn’t. You tell me, in your sexy, sleepy, morning grumble,
that you’re a sticky mess from the night before, full and dripping with my cum and your slick…”
“Oh God…”
“What do I say to you, then? Do you remember?”
“Mm-hmm.” She was close. So, so close after two weeks of frustration. She was pretty sure the
skin of his knuckles were raw from rubbing so forcefully against the denim of her jeans.
“I say…Hermione, I can , and Hermione, I should . And so you make a space for me between your
thighs and and if I wasn’t hard before, I’m fucking hard by then. I’m so hard it feels like my skin’s
going to split because I’m about to do my favourite thing in the world…”
“Yes?” she whimpered.
“I part your sweet, tasty little slit and take my time licking and sucking you clean, inside and out,
until you’re pink and shiny. I could come just from doing this, did you know that?”
With her eyes screwed shut and head thrown back, she didn’t see him pick up his wand. Her jeans
and underwear disappeared, leaving Hermione completely naked and shivering beside his fully
clothed person.
He barely grazed her swollen, abused clit when Hermione peaked, her hips coming off the floor.
She managed to bite down on her lip and avoid the scream that would have carried down the
corridor, given the lack of sound insulating furniture.
Oh no, this sensation was familiar. The last time Hermione felt like this was when Draco took her
in the shower on the home ship, on the day she infected herself with the virus.
It didn’t feel bad, but it wasn't exactly good either. Her insides were assailed by odd cramps, as if
her usual orgasm nerve routes had been dismantled and re-wired, but incorrectly. She doubled over,
clutched at his arm and whimpered. Honestly, was it even possible for her to have a non-dramatic
orgasm when her bloody husband was concerned? Yes, technically, this was the opposite of a
problem, but it was still embarrassing.
“Hermione?” Draco was sitting up beside her now, trying to unfold her, but she was still coming
down from her climax and any skin on skin contact was making her twitchy. He pushed her hair
off her face.
She groaned into her fist. “Gimmeaminute.”
Her husband, bless him, repurposed his clever hands and they were now on her lower back,
kneading the muscles on either side of hips, where her spine ended. Within moments, the spasms
died down. She could feel how flushed, hot and clammy her skin was. Typically, she might end up
in this state after a night of sex, but not after a bit of grinding and no intercourse. Too, she was
nauseous.
“Ugh,” she said. “I don’t feel very good. I’m sorry, I don’t think we can continue.”
“Of course.” Draco was gone and she was sad and confused. But then he was back with her fluffy
bathrobe and she was happy again. He slipped another pillow under her head and she could already
tell he was in almost-practically-a-doctor mode.
“Did you eat anything unusual today?”
“No.”
“Were the boys sick in the last fortnight?” He put his hand against her forehead.
“No.”
It was also a ‘no’ to gardening without gloves on, insect bites, eating unwashed salad and
swimming in the lake on a particularly warm day.
“Oh, is it cramps?”
“Yes.” She could practically feel his satisfaction at getting to the bottom of the matter.
“Would you like some pain relief?”
“ No ,” she said, a little too forcefully, and she probably didn’t really need to grab his wrist to make
sure he wasn’t about to cast anything.
There was a moment of silence and because she would never marry a stupid man, she wasn’t
entirely surprised when he asked, “Hermione, are you pregnant?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes.”
His hand tensed in her grasp, and then, to her dismay, he pulled away.
“I thought we were being careful.”
Ouch . “We were,” she said, in a tiny voice.
“How far along are you?”
“Almost eleven weeks.”
He appeared to be running the numbers. “So…that night in London? At the townhouse?”
“Yes. After the madness of the last few months, I didn't notice that I was late, even though I’m
usually as regular as clockwork.” Hermione was going to add a ‘sorry’, but stopped herself
because she had nothing to be sorry about.
It was a conception story to rival Orion’s. They had conceived a child in Lucius Malfoy’s soon-to-
be-refurbished sex basement, while Hermione had been wearing Ginny’s sodding fertility charm of
a dress.
“I know we said we were done having children and I didn’t plan this…”
He wasn’t angry or upset, but he wasn’t happy either. He was just…staring into space.
“What are you doing?” she asked, peering at him.
“I’m recalibrating. One moment, please.”

“Is this a therapy thing?”
“Yes.”
An excruciating, tension-filled minute passed, and then Draco said, “When did you find out?”
“Just after you left.”
She decided it was best to give him her entire thesis in one hit. He would know, by now, that she’d
been overthinking it the entire time he was away and it was burning a hole through her brain to
keep it all in. Though she wasn’t sure if the band-aid approach was for his benefit, or hers.
“My pregnancy with Orion was probably one of the most traumatic things I’ll ever endure. Since
the memory block was lifted, I have a sense of what happened to me, but it’s more like
information, rather than memories. It’s like a summary of events. All the individual moments that
make up what it was like to carry a child – it’s all blank for me. I don’t remember watching my
belly grow, or feeling his kicks. I never listened to or saw Orion’s heart beating. I didn’t know he
was a boy until you put him in my arms. I literally woke up to find myself nine months pregnant.
And then I thwarted your execution, got rescued by Harry, got chased by zombies, and then
returned to the fleet. Is it any wonder I went into labour? The end result is Orion, and he’s worth
everything , but I have such a fraught relationship with those memories. I feel robbed, Draco. And
as I’m saying this to you, I’m also mindful that I don’t want to have another baby for my own
selfish reasons, just because I feel cheated that I didn’t experience it the first time with Orion. And
that’s not even factoring your experience of the pregnancy…”
“My experience?” he asked.
Hermione nodded. “I have no idea what you went through, watching him grow inside me every
day, watching me grow attached. Or maybe I wasn’t attached or maternal?” She shrugged. “Maybe
I was terrified and wanted none of it and raged at you and blamed you? I don’t know. I do know
what you did to keep us alive and that you were going to let yourself die at the end of it all. I don’t
blame you if another pregnancy is not something you want to relive.”
“Hermione.”
She stared at him with trepidation, her brown eyes tearful. When she did start crying, it wasn’t
because she was upset, it was because she could see the truth of his feelings on his face now.
“Do you want this baby?”
“ Yes .”
“Then come here.”
Hermione went to her favourite place in the world. She crawled into her husband’s lap.
Draco kissed her forehead. “It is one of my profound failings that I never talk to you about those
missing months in Boston. Because if I did, you’d know that I was there for all those things you
don’t remember. I held your hand the first time we saw his little heart fluttering on the screen and
heard it thumping, loud and strong. You were a warrior, Hermione. You were… are the bravest
person I know. You protected our son from the moment you realised he was in danger, even when
that danger was from me, in my adamance that if it came down to you or the baby, I would save
you. I’ll never stop being sorry for what I did to you and for failing to find another way out of that
mess. And I’m so sorry I never told you what a wonderful mother you are.”
“But you have told me.”
“I have? When?”
“The night of the Inquiry. You had quite a bit to drink.”
“Ah, that explains it. Well, I’m glad I told you, because it’s true.”
“Draco, I know the sex of the baby. I wanted to know because even though I don’t get that awful
nightmare about Padma any more, it’s left an indelible anxiety.”
“This is the dream where she tells you you’re going to lose all your boys?”
Hermione shivered. “I still get chills when I think about it. It was all I could think about the whole
time you were gone.”
Draco was quiet for a moment, and then his expression communicated his realisation. “I’m going
to have a daughter, aren’t I?”
She nodded.
“The boys will have a little sister.”
“Yes.”
“You know what else this means?”
“What?”
“Only four more children and we can have our own Quidditch team.”
His expression did not match the levity of his words. He looked like he’d been punched in the
stomach.
“Are you happy?”
“Yes, I’m happy! It should be illegal for someone to be this happy, let alone the likes of me. You
are my miracle, Kiska.”
Draco held her for some time, their hands intertwined, resting over her belly. Hermione’s eyes
began to fall shut.
“I’d better get you to bed,” he said, against her hairline. “Especially since you’re resting for two
now.”
This was it , Hermione realised. This was what she missed out on the first time – the small
moments. She would get to share it with Draco after all, and now with Henry and Orion, too.
He helped her pack up the newspaper cuttings she’d been organising. “What were you going to do
with these?”
“Well, I was inspired by the clippings of you and Harry in the Ministry tea room. I wanted to pick
one of those front pages from the media campaign to put in a frame and hang it up in our
townhouse. Only, I couldn’t decide on a headline. They’re all variations on a theme. And that
theme is not subtle,” she admitted. “You’ve read most of the articles by now. Was there a particular
headline you liked? Or a photo perhaps?”
Draco rubbed gentle circles over her back as he looked through the cuttings. “I forgot how bad
these are,” he said with a grimace.
“ So bad,” she agreed.
“What would you pick?”
“This one’s probably my pick of the lot.” Hermione pulled out a copy of The New York Times .
“ A Death Eater’s Redemption .” He snorted. “A bit on the nose, isn’t it?
Hermione laughed. “OK, not that one. What about this?” It was from The Guardian .
“ The Floating Fiefdom of Alexander Amarov . I appreciate the alliteration, but I’d rather not have
that bastard's name anywhere in our house.”
“Good point,” she said, wondering how she could have overlooked that. “Moving on.”
Next, was The Scottish Sun.
Draco was unimpressed. “ Courage and Carnage on the High Seas . I remember this one. I don’t
like it.”
“Why?”
“Makes me sound like a pirate.”
She grinned, now leaning back against his chest and letting him take her full weight. “Fine. Keep
going.”
“No,” Draco said, scrunching up his nose at Desperate Times, Unlikely Saviours, from the
European Bild . “But oh, here we go.” He pointed. “This one.”
Hermione frowned at the clipping in question. “Hang on, that one shouldn’t even be in the shortlist.
I must have put it there by mistake.”
“Nevertheless. This is it. This is the one.”
She looked at the headline, and then looked up at him. “This one? Really?”
It was the worst title. Frankly, she expected better from the Daily Prophet .
“Yes,” Draco said. “I think it perfectly sums up the entire pandemic and its aftermath. And look,
it’s even got that photo you took of me and Orion .”
“I wasn't sure you’d have fond memories of that picture. We were having a very bad week, if you
recall?”
“Only because Asher Roth was trying to get his damn hands all over your oyster berries.”
Hermione opened her mouth to ask, but then changed her mind. “It’s so cheesy, though.”
“And A Death Eater’s Redemption isn’t? That one sounds like a bloody romance novel.”
She gave him a look. “Malfoy, have you read our story? It’s a romance.”
“Most romance novels have fewer deaths and a lot less zombies. But I suppose if romances end in a
‘happily ever after’, then I imagine we qualify?”
Hermione kissed him on the cheek. “That’s the one, then. Love In A Time Of The Zombie
Apocalypse .”
FINAL NOTES
And there we have it! Thank you so much for following this story, for commenting and
encouraging me to keep going. The story is flawed, I know. It's not my best work. This is the result
of my stop/start approach to writing over a long period of time, and without the benefit of another
set of eyes for developmental edits or a proofread. But it's a process that worked well for me
because my fanfic writing is inherently indulgent. The priority is on writing as a therapeutic hobby
and not as a profession.
AUDIOBOOK
LIATOTZA is available as an audiobook, recorded by ETL Echo Audiobooks.
WHEN/HOW DID THEY FALL IN LOVE?
I see this question a lot, and here is a wonderful explanation, via a Reddit user and my response to
an Ask on Tumblr.
RANDOM LIATOTZA FACTS
1. This story is not beta edited and took 10 years to complete, on a very dodgy, inconsistent
update schedule with a 2 year hiatus in the middle.
2. I do not have a science or medical background and I have no combat training to speak of
other than a 45-min Krav Maga Groupon lesson during which I made a man cry. So I am
confident that I know all I need to know.
3. Alec Mercer and Asher Roth are real people. Mercer is my husband. He really is a
neuroscientist and he really does leave chip packets everywhere. Unlike fic-Mercer, irl-
Mercer is actually a really good shot and a master archer. So once I work on my cardio and
inability to drive, I think we’ll be ready for the zombie apocalypse. Roth is a barrister. He,
too, is accurately represented in the fic and that’s all I’m going to say about that.
4. Beezles is the upstairs neighbour's pug. I have never met such a small dog with so many
feelings.
5. My daughter draws all the Beezles art I post. The latest being this one.
SOCIALS
I'm always online. My socials are all here https://linktr.ee/RizzleWrites

TRANSLATIONS & BOOKBINDING
My Transformative Works Policy is at the bottom of this page, on my website.
OTHER PROJECTS
Fanfiction
I've added some one-shots to the LIATOTZA Universe Series.
In terms of Dramione, I'm also working on SLAY, a high fantasy AU Dramione
Original fiction
I’m writing a book series and am so excited about it, OMG. If you think it might be up your alley,
please subscribe to my mailing list .
Works inspired by this La

oneVie En Rose by rizzlewrites
Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!

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Love In A Time Of The Zombie Apocalypse

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/28137807.

Love In A Time Of The Zombie Apocalypse

Harry and Hermione perpetrate a high risk, jail-break.

See the end of the chapter for notes

03/03/2022 - OK, Desmond is gone! RIP Draco's temporary butler!

Is now complete (by ETL ECHO)

"Do you really think he's still alive?"

"Everyone's dead. There was simply no one left to remember."

"Do you reckon he has absolutely no idea what's been happening?"

"I rather like that hex…"

"I know you do, Harry."

"I invented it, you know."

"On the count of three?"

"One, two, three. REDUCTO!"

The front doors to Azkaban prison exploded open.

Harry cast lumos.

"You OK?" Harry called. He was halfway down the stairs.

Hermione could have hated him for that alone.

And here he was. Draco Malfoy. Reading.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"What's that for?" Harry asked.

"For proof. Would you believe us?"

Emily. Also deceased.

"And what do I get in return, Mudblood?"

"Caged like an animal, you mean?"

"I see," Malfoy said, speculatively.

"No one needs that! No one can possibly be that desperate!"

"What do you want?" she asked, plainly.

"A full pardon. My title and property restored to me, unconditionally."

"I am to take your word for it?"

"We need to go!" Harry yelled.

"Do we have a bargain?" Hermione demanded, simultaneously.

Malfoy nodded. "We do."

"Then stand back."

Malfoy held up his hands. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Tether him," Harry said to Hermione.

"You remember that?"

Chapter End Notes

Come poke me on Twitter:

Draco meets the Brains Trust and Hermione gets a scolding.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Padma gave Malfoy a cool once-over. "Is he safe?"

Harry held up his wrist. "We used your tether."

Harry winced. "That bad, is it? Hermione's speaking to him now."

Malfoy sighed. "So what is ReGen?"

"And this ReGen has been trialed?"

The silence was grating.

"Sir, if I could just—"

Harry called them the Cowboy and the Debutante.

"Don't what, sir?"

"Don't use the 'r' word."

"Sir, I was actually going to say 'earn his freedom'."

"You're foolish to think that."

"What do you mean exactly by 'ask'?"

The Debutante spoke. "Exactly how volatile is the Subject?"

"We'll get it done." Hermione was adamant.

"Who is Lex Luthor?"

"How? Harry and I acted alone."

"Precisely because you chose to act alone!"

"You have no idea what Draco Malfoy is capable of."

"So you keep saying," Hermione said, with a frown.

"I understand you're using Patil's tether to secure him?"

"Yes. The tether works."