Chapter 1
The laughter around her was immense, but it wasn't contagious. The twirling bodies of Ministry wizards and witches filled the dance floor while others enjoyed the music, food, and drinks. Hermione Granger was absolutely and completely bored with exhaustion. The salad that sounded wonderful, as a recommendation, didn't even hold her attention for long. All Hermione wanted was a nice glass of wine, a good book, and to curl up in bed.
She glanced at her counterparts that looked exactly how she felt. Her team was barely keeping it together. Lister was constantly rubbing his eyes to keep them open and Browning had her head propped up on an elbow. Hermione smiled weakly at them thanking her lucky stars for a team so dedicated to nailing down a final site for this year's World Cup.
When it came to quidditch she realized that grown wizards could instantly revert back to a childlike state. You name it, Hermione had to negotiate through it. From yelling and bargaining and underhanded tradeoffs to a ministry leader withholding the mascot of one of the winning teams. It took months of negotiations, constant bickering, sleepless nights, and deals with the proverbial Merlin to finally get a site that each ministry could agree on. This night was to celebrate their hard work and it came complete with asado, chimichurri, empanadas, and dulce de leche. Little children went back for their third and fourth helpings of tres leche cake while their parents swirled around the dance floor, trying to rekindle the love that lost its way. Single men of the ministry were either gripping each other firmly in fierce hugs or trying to laugh over the loud music that filled the room. The women balanced cocktails in their right hands and empanadas in their left looking longingly at the dance floor. If Hermione weren't so very tired she would have found all of this very amusing.
Lister took out his silver pocket watch to check the time and yawned loudly. Browning took the last of the empanadas and the tray refilled itself once more with delectable cultural delights.
"Alright guys, I think we were here long enough." Hermione piped up stifling her own yawn. "Enough people saw us so we can duck out early."
Hermione glanced around the crowded room taking in all the happy faces. Even though she wasn't a huge fan of professional quidditch she knew that she and her team did a wonderful job of putting together this celebration in no time. She looked to Browning and Lister who already donned their cloaks.
"Take Monday off," Hermione said smiling, "you guys deserve it."
With their last farewells, Browning and Lister made a hasty exit. Hermione knew that she needed to leave too, but she had to at least check in with the head of the department first before she finally departed. She scanned the room once more and found him surrounded by wizards laughing loudly at their own antics. Hermione slowly made her way to her boss. Never in a million years would she have thought that she would be the one in charge finding a place for the Quidditch World Cup. Everyone who knew her knew that she had no interest in quidditch, which to her boss's delight made her the perfect candidate to select the perfect venue. She had no biases and with quidditch as the largest wizarding sport that was a rare viewpoint to have.
She continued on slowly making sure not to run into anyone or spill anyone's drink. Her red lace dress clung tightly to her frame, the long sleeves keeping her slightly warm along with the exuberance that emitted throughout the room. She appeared at Jonathan Bickerton's side. His infectious chortle filled the space around him so much that Hermione couldn't help but smile. His large rotund frame matched his large personality. His black hair was slightly tinged with gray and his black dress robes pulled tightly around his bulging belly.
"Ah! The woman of the hour!" He yelled turning to her. "Congratulations on a job well done!"
"Thank you, sir."
"We should toast."
"There's no need for that, sir, I was only doing my job."
"A job well done, as you can all see," he replied gesturing towards the dance floor and back to the group of men who yelled with cheers of delight.
"Argentina," he continued on fixing his gaze on the small crowd. "Who would have ever thought of Argentina!?"
Hermione felt the necessary need to explain why Argentina made the most logical sense, a trait that never failed her at Hogwarts. Before the words could spill out a man in the group yelled: "To Argentina!" They all lifted their glasses in salute and yelled a cry worthy of a quidditch match. Throwing back the shot glasses, which smelled oddly of rubbing alcohol they all hooted, their excitement making Hermione smile once more.
She patted a hand on the large forearm of Bickerton, who moved in close.
"I am leaving now. Told Lister and Browning to take Monday off. I also need a little time to recuperate if that's fine."
"Of course, of course."
Hermione walked away from her boss finally feeling the slow release of stress leave her. It was almost as if there was a minuscule leak in the bubble that had built itself up on her shoulders over the past three months. She made her way slowly through the crowd to the large double doors that led to her freedom. It seemed as though the mass of people surrounding the dance floor multiplied considerably in the time it took for her to speak to Bickerton. Rather than try to clamor her way back through the crowd she hugged the edge of the dance floor, which was now lit with a giant spotlight. The raucous crowd cheered happily as the Ministry wizards from Argentina took up their native dance. London Ministry wizards in different levels of drunkenness tried their hand (well feet really) at imitating the intricate dance moves, but to no avail. Applause erupted as the tanned men lifted the curvy witches off of their feet. Hermione continued slowly onward to her salvation as the dance floor filled once again with experienced and un-experienced dancers alike moving rhythmically to the drums that played. She finally reached the end of the large dance floor when a large very strong hand enclosed around her forearm.
"May I have this dance, Granger?" A voice whispered in her ear.
The voice sounded familiar and warm. She smiled and turned to the owner of said voice.
"Draco Malfoy, you indeed flatter me."
Hermione took in the former Slytherin and couldn't help but notice that the cold critical eyes that once glinted angrily at her were warm and inviting. His height towered a full foot over hers. His slender muscular frame was expertly covered in well-tailored black dress robes. His white button down was open at the collar, which revealed his very prominent Adam's apple and his pale unblemished porcelain skin. She looked to the exit of the elaborate hall as if contemplating this decision. Stay with Malfoy or find the calming refuge of home.
Malfoy who sensed her hesitation responded, "Unless you need to be somewhere else."
She turned back to him smiling. "I have time for just one dance."
"Just one?" He said returning her smile grabbing her hand in his.
"Only one."
And just like that the stress bubble released when the once enemy now turned colleague pulled her onto the crowded dance floor.
Hermione awoke very suddenly with the sun pouring into the windows of her flat. She glanced at her battered and worn alarm clock that blared angrily at her to wake up. She had charmed this particular clock to spray her with water in case she didn't wake. It wasn't a very pleasant experience; clinging on to the whispers of a dream and then jolted out of sleep with a spray of ice-cold water, but it was an effective way of getting out of bed. She stretched, loving the emptiness of her large bed, but her toe grazed something unfamiliar and warm. She froze momentarily her mind working furiously through her usual mental checklist after nights like this:
1. I am home…right?… she peered bleary-eyed at her pale yellow walls and extremely cute yet functional furniture and then taking in once again the battered alarm clock.
2. Is my underwear still on? Bra no… underwear yes, that was a good sign.
3. Do I remember last night?... The events of last night flowed through her mind like sludge… feeling exhausted, drinking water, talking to her boss, dancing one dance with Malfoy, then another dance with Malfoy, wait, how did that glass of wine get there, more wine, more dances, more wine…
4. Who is in my bed?
"Good morning," a voice called to her still heavy with sleep. She relaxed into the mattress recognizing the voice belonging to Draco Malfoy.
He draped a strong muscular arm across her bare stomach. She turned to him at his touch, his face stuffed into the softness of her favorite pillow, striking grey eye staring blearily at her. She had to admit, this was nice.
"What's so good about it?" Hermione asked, her vocal cords struggling to make the sounds. She didn't know what it was about alcohol that made her voice hoarse.
Malfoy lifted one appreciative eyebrow at her response. "Well, that I have a beautiful half-naked woman in bed and that I'm still here."
At those words, Hermione's stomach did a flip-flop. She'd never let Malfoy stay this long before, to avoid moments like this. They were now both in uncharted territory and it set her in a right panic, but she didn't reveal her feelings. Hermione disliked the feeling of uncertainty; it was so foreign and unwelcome. She spent most of her life trying to take into account all possibilities so that the uncomfortable feeling of uncertainty never reared its ugly head. However, in her confidence to have Malfoy, she'd never thought of this outcome. Cursing herself for the obvious and almost inevitability of this moment questions surfaced to the forefront of her mind.
How can I get him to leave?
What did we do last night?
What happens next?
Will this be a regular thing… shouldn't he have left by now… creeping out during the wee hours of the morning?
Doesn't he have a girlfriend?
Do I even want him in my life…?
Hermione chased away the last question, easily distracted by Malfoy's hand, which was making small circular strokes across her bare torso.
"Malfoy?"
"Hmm," he responded lazily, his finger still lightly skating across the delicate flesh underneath her navel.
"What happened last night?"
"Nothing that hasn't happened before."
She felt the corner of her lips turn into a small smile. She remembered the glasses of wine and the dancing and immediately her smile fell. "Well," she piped up, "I meant… at the party, I didn't make a fool of myself, did I?"
Malfoy's fingers stopped and Hermione was grateful, she couldn't think when his hands touched her. Hermione wouldn't be able to forgive herself or forget the embarrassment of losing herself and her wits to good wine and good company in front of her colleagues. She has a reputation to keep up after all. Malfoy's intoxicating scent of cloves, cinnamon, and cedar made her a little light-headed with want (and for some reason hunger… she didn't really eat anything last night after all), which is why they ended up here, which is why her lips always ended up tasting every ounce of his flesh that she could.
"No, you didn't." He said snapping her out of her thoughts. "I wouldn't let you do that to yourself."
Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she held in.
"However," he continued, "the Granger that I saw last night is a Granger that I would like to get to know better."
He scooted closer to her his lips finding her neck and she relaxed into his warmth. She easily fell under the spell that made her tingle with anticipation, thoughts of uncertainty long forgotten. His hands traveled painfully slow across her soft curves until her breast filled his palm. He stopped momentarily and the quiet of the morning broken only by his soft breath in her ear, the chirping of birds, and the pounding of her own heart.
After a few moments of this agonizing silence, Malfoy asked, "What are you thinking about?"
Hermione captured his gaze with her own, her hands reaching up to feel the planes of his bare chest, hard yet soft, chiseled yet round under her thin fingers. She wasn't doing much thinking at all at this point, she had to admit. What did she need to say? What did he want her to say? How did she answer that question? Did she tell him how much she enjoyed his company or how much she wanted him to do other things to her? Does she say that she doesn't want him to leave or does she respond by just taking her lips to his? She searched his face as if he held the answer, but she was at a lost, and once again the feeling of uncertainty settled in her stomach once more. This is why she didn't want Malfoy to stay over and she said the one thing that she'd hoped would convey the message that she didn't want him here any longer.
"I'm thinking about how hungry I am." She started looking at him.
"Is that all you're thinking about?" He asked, knowing smile forming on his soft lips.
"And…work."
"Mmmhmmm." He said closing his eyes.
"And… when you are going to leave."
She cringed inwardly at her own words. As much as she wanted him to leave, she didn't want to outwardly tell him that, but he wasn't getting the hint… either that or he chose to ignore the hints that she was giving him.
"You want me to leave?" He asked smirking, removing his hands from her body which she missed almost instantly.
"Yes…?"
He chuckled softly. "Are you asking me or telling me?" He said capturing her eyes with his grey ones. She shook uncontrollably under their intensity. At that moment she believed that it was latter not the former. He knew that she wanted him to leave and he chose to ignore her because he knew that she didn't believe what she said.
"Both?"
"Oh Granger," He said with a sigh. "You wanting me to leave makes me feel so cheap and dirty."
It was Hermione's turn to smirk. "I thought you didn't mind dirty, as for cheap, we both know you are not."
His hands found her once more and she warmed at their firmness and memories of what they could do to her. She couldn't help herself and leaned in, finding his lips with her own. His tongue stroked hers with a comforting familiarity that was hungry for her and she moaned into his mouth. She felt his heart speed up underneath her hands, his kisses getting hungrier claiming her delicate neck as his own, then her ears, her collar-bone and the delicate flesh between her breasts. Malfoy was a great distraction, he always demanded her full attention, and that kind of attraction was scary to her. Even when she was with others her mind would go to some other place, some other thought, or to her mental to-do list, but never with Malfoy. If he knew the real effect he had on her, she couldn't help but think how much power she would give him. But would that be too bad, giving into someone so fully and completely?
"Malfoy," she half moaned and half whispered. His lips had found their way beneath her navel. She had to stop this before she lost herself.
"Malfoy," she said again a bit more forcibly. He stopped raising his eyes to hers. His platinum blond hair was messy and sexy, his grey eyes filled with the want she knew she had in her own. "I think you should go."
He looked at he quizzically and smirked.
"Only if you insist."
Hermione watched as he quickly removed himself from her. The absence of his warmth made the aching that only he could satisfy intensify. He quickly put on his trousers, which miraculously looked unwrinkled and then his dress shirt and dress robes. Hermione watched him in silence debating whether she should invite him back to bed. She didn't know what bothered her more; the aching feeling that filled her or her uncertainty of how she felt about Malfoy. Was it that she was only attracted to him or was she afraid of the intimacy that they shared?
Once fully dressed he bent down and captured her lips in a soft kiss.
"Owl me when you want me to take you out on a proper date." He said flashing a smile at her.
He left her there oddly cold as the thoughts of her day bubbled to the surface of her mind.
The wizened wizard made he is way through the crowded London streets. He tried to ignore the protest from his stomach as the smells of food that usually tickled his fancy caressed his senses. Today the freshly baked pastries or egg sandwiches could not distract him. He had only received an owl moments before that stated urgency. He had to get out of bed an hour earlier than his usual wake time and apparate to the closest location of his destination. His craving of fresh breakfast biscuits and buns strengthened as he ambled on, going as fast as his legs and the hoards of tourists would take him.
Soon the crowd thinned considerably and he made the turn down the abandoned side street. The smells and sounds of the busy London streets faded away and he knew that he had passed through the muggle wards. His stomach lurched perceptibly as if angry in not partaking in his usual lazy Sunday morning fare: a morning bun with sunny side up eggs, bacon, and a cup a tea (Earl Grey with milk and a single teaspoon of sugar, thank you very much!). His mind wandered for a moment to the familiar feeling of the weight of the Sunday Prophet beneath his fingers. He sighed and continued forward, weather warming considerably with the appearance of the sun.
The abandoned storefront sat there, unchanged for what seemed like decades. The uncomfortable cobblestones of the street muffled his shoes as he made his way across it to the front door. He glanced at the window filled with dirty mannequins and outdated fashions. Many of the occupants were in varying states of dress and undress. Varying hues of matted and tangled wigs adorned the plastic lifeless bodies. He walked through the window and after an uncomfortable swooping sensation of his stomach a gleaming hospital waiting room greeted him. A sign embossed in gold letters stated that he had arrived at his destination: St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and injuries.
The owl that he received was so urgent that he thought he would see complete and utter chaos had befallen the world-renowned wizard hospital, but it was oddly normal. The usual quiet of healers talking in hushed tones unnerved him. He tipped his hat to the volunteers working at the reception area taking in the clean warm colored walls and the fresh flowers that lined the walls in glass pots. The air filled with the sweet smell of flowers and the tangy harsh scent of disinfectant quieted his stomach almost instantly. It was almost as if his stomach knew how severe the situation was.
He made his way to the lift that would take him to the fully funded wing that his department saw after. He walked down the silent hallway coming across a set of double doors. The only decoration on the wall was an electronic wand reader that glowed red. He inserted his wand and the reader beeped three times before the light turned green. "Welcome Edgar Cromwell" a cool voice emitted in the hallway. He sighed as the set of double doors opened to a small entryway. The doors shut behind him and a rush of cool air filled the room. He gasped, always uneasy at how the cool air beat against every part of his skin. The revealing spells did not have an effect on him and the experience was over within seconds. The next set of double doors clicked loudly and swung toward him.
A wave of noise exploded like a cannon as he entered the ward. The healers and their assistants ran up and down the polished corridor into room B-51. He could hear the deafening shrieks of a man coming out of that room as the door snapped open and shut. He was momentarily paralyzed, unsure of what to do when a familiar hand grasped his shoulder from behind.
"Cromwell, glad you could finally make it." The voice thundered cheerfully. He looked to his department head with a questionable look. How could he smile when a man was in agonizing pain? "Have you met Edmond Taylor?"
Cromwell's eyes glanced to the stoic man standing at his boss's side. The first striking thing Cromwell noticed about the stranger was how much he towered over both him and his boss. He was not only tall, but he was a mass of muscle and bones. Through his muggle clothing, he could see thick cords of muscles, an organized mass of bulges, twists, and turns that tightened around his frame. His blonde hair cut severely short and his blue eyes sparkled with intensity. Cromwell put out a shaking hand as the screams reverberated down the corridor. When his hulking counterpart grasped his hand it was strong, but he had the strong inclination that this stranger could crush his fingers if given an incentive.
"As you can see the eh… healers ran into a bit of trouble."
"A bit?" Taylor chuckled softly. "You could say that this is more than 'a bit of trouble'."
Cromwell was a bit taken aback; he expected his voice to be as large as he was. Taylor's voice sounded as if his very vocal cords consisted of sandpaper and thick muscle. His voice sounded rough and raspy, like a man who met with many scrapes in the past. However, as rough as it was, it was also carefully measured, quiet, and soft like the rumble of the tube beneath the London streets.
Cromwell agreed with a nod of his head. "What is his status?"
"He loses a bit every day, nutters he is."
"Well considering the circumstances - " Cromwell started.
"If he was a wizard do you think his circumstances would've been better?" Taylor asked quietly.
"Those were darker days –"
"As I recall that was before the Dark Lord showed himself for the second time." Cromwell interrupted.
"You sound like those protestors."
"Well, you can't argue with the truth." Taylor's voice called out. "The Minister feels the pressure to placate all the member of our wide community."
Cromwell didn't know what to think of the quiet thoughtful man standing across from him, but he did make a good point. His own work in the ministry was obscured for years and now because of the end of the Second Wizarding War, his work was finally being taken a little more seriously. Cromwell always thought that his work was important even though most people didn't agree with him. 'Untapped resources' he would state as an argument to convince the boss that stood before him of the importance of his work. However time and time again galleons would get diverted from his office to another larger more exciting branch in the department. Cromwell never minded it. He was confident in his work and knew that one day the time would come when people would finally look to him for answers. As long as he could continue to work, that was all that mattered to him.
The bickering between them stopped because at that moment the noise stopped. There was a ringing echo in the corridor and they took it as their cue to head for the door marked B-51. Healers in lime green robes made their way out of the door and huddled together, talking in low voices to one another. The head healer glanced sideways at their party and broke up the huddle on their approach.
"Thomas, I didn't know you were bringing guests." The healer called out.
Cromwell took in the healer. Exhaustion clouded his watery blue eyes. His wand was still limp in his enclosed hand. His black curly hair fell neatly around his head in a mass of a salt and pepper halo. His eyes were too far apart and his nose too high up. His thin lips formed a slight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Healer Jonas Pennyweather." John Thomas said introducing the healer with a wave of his hand. "This is Edgar Cromwell and Edmond Taylor."
They both shook the healer's hand.
"Well, the patient has turned into quite a handful. We might have to move him with the other long-term addled patients."
"Why is that?" Cromwell asked.
"It doesn't look good. The treatments we're giving are wearing off faster than we can administer them. This experimental treatment is just that… experimental."
"How fast is the cycle?" Taylor asked.
"It's coming on more often almost every 4-6 hours like clockwork."
"Well, what was it before?"
"Every 4-6 days before that, every 4-6 weeks before that, and every 4-6 months before that."
"Other than the frequency, is there anything new that has occurred? Any new symptoms that have come about?"
Pennyweather paused, his mind working furiously behind his tired eyes. Cromwell shifted his feet, so there was something new. Pennyweather looked to Thomas as if asking permission and Thomas nodded in response. The healer took a breath before saying, "he believes he's a seer."
"A what?!" Cromwell asked aghast.
"A seer," Healer Pennyweather continued, "he has made a prophecy."
For the first time, John Thomas was speechless. The usual grin that adorned his face in any situation was now replaced with worry, a look that Cromwell knew his own face mirrored. Taylor just looked on curiously, his mind working and calculating silently behind his eyes.
"So what does this mean?"
"We need to confirm it –"
"How is this possible?"
"How many prophecies has he made?"
Cromwell and Thomas asked more questions back and forth as Healer Pennyweather and Taylor were silent. Cromwell shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the next. He couldn't possibly be a seer now, could he? If his circumstances were different they could just write it off by saying that he's deranged, but his circumstances were very different indeed. Cromwell didn't know what it meant, but he grew excited with each passing moment. If this was accurate, if this was possible, it could catapult his research tremendously. They could be one step closer to a breakthrough after decades of dead ends.
"Cromwell," Thomas started, "I want to keep this close to the chest. I need you to go back to the ministry and confirm with your own eyes the truthfulness and existence of this prophecy.
"Taylor, we need to get more recruits into the department as soon as possible. How fast can you work on this?"
"I can have them narrowed down by tonight." The stoic man replied. "It's been a long time since we had any formal recruits."
"I want to do a preemptive strike before anything gets back to the Minister. I want him to know that we were on it before there was an 'it' to be on. Cromwell, once you confirm owl me right away and then help Taylor. You usually have an eye for picking the top recruits."
Cromwell and Taylor nodded in unison and with that they turned on their heels.
"There is one more thing you should know," Healer Pennyweather said quietly to Thomas. No matter how much he wanted to turn back on these words, to hear what the healer had to say, he didn't. He knew his place and if it were truly important Thomas would've called them back.
As they made their way through the set of double doors Cromwell's stomach protested with a loud rumble. It reminded him oddly of the voice of his counterpart and a simple smile upturned the corners of his lips.
"I don't know about you, but I'm starving."
"But doesn't Thomas want us to get on this right away?"
"Of course," Cromwell started, "but we need to eat sometime."
Cromwell stepped onto the called lift, his stomach empty, but his mind full of possibilities.