There wasn't much of a fuss when Hermione began her work day. Her colleagues inquired after her health and she assured them she was fine, just a bit of a cold. And that was that. They knew she wasn't chatty. She answered memos in her office for an hour and dealt with some of the endless clutter that she accumulated. Then she went to one of the labs to start working on the latest import from Scotland. A few old crypts that the Auror Department were investigating held a small stash of rare and valuable items — golden goblets, spears and swords, a rusted axe from the 7th century. Half of it held curses.

When wizard warriors were buried, they often placed curses on the objects that they hoped would accompany them into the afterlife should anyone try to rob their graves. It was one of the most common projects she encountered in her role as a junior cursebreaker. She'd just worked out a memory curse on a small dagger when a memo zoomed into the room, circled her head, and landed beside her. It was a paper airplane in a familiar design. An update from Harry about the patients at St. Mungo's.

She unfolded it carefully and scanned it. Every afflicted Muggleborn woke instantly, after a single drop of the antidote. Harry said that Robards was impressed and that Draco had been effectively promoted after she'd left them. She summoned a scrap of parchment, ink, and quill intending to write a memo to Draco. There, at the top of her bag, was the piece of wood she'd taken from Nott Manor. A long shard from the statue of Salazar Slytherin's staff.

After some research when they'd first returned, Hermione was almost positive it was snakewood, due to the pattern of the grain. The same wood that Slytherin's wand was crafted from.

She quickly wrote a note to Mr. Ollivander explaining her findings and theories, and a brief summary of how she came to be in possession of the wood. Then she started to go on,

I know you do not work with this particular wood, but I wanted to send it to you for your own research. Should you wish to craft a wand from it, I would only ask that you return any leftover materials to me once you're finished. There have been some interesting thoughts about the use of different woods to heat a cauldron for potion brewing, and runic casting stones often—

When she finished her rather lengthy letter she wrapped it around the wood, sealed it with a spell to prevent tampering, and asked her department's assistant to owl it off for her. Once that was done, she returned to her work at the lab. And the note she'd initially intended to write.

A promotion and they put you in charge of the antidote brewing? I told you that you're brilliant. Harry said it's working and the affected Muggleborns are all waking. Well done, you.

xx H

Turning to a shield with a Medusa charm — so that if one looked at it straight on they would be petrified — Hermione continued working. It was nearing lunch, and she was starting to feel hungry. Mostly she was curious about what Draco was doing. If everyone in the Poisons and Potions department was kind to him, or at least professional. She had a hard time believing that anyone would question head Auror Robards but she'd seen firsthand how nervous Draco was at work. Always alone. Always clearing his desk at the end of the day, like he was preparing to get the boot.

She'd been working steadily for about an hour when a crisp memo arrived at her elbow. It was a paper crane, like the ones she used to try to make in school as a girl. Before she knew what Hogwarts was.

Granger, please end my curiosity and agony and explain what those bloody x's mean. The Poison and Potions department is, as predicted, a mess. Do you know how many times I've had to correct techniques? You'd think the Ministry would hire people who know the difference between chopping and dicing.

DLM

Hermione chuckled to herself, picturing him in flowing black robes, skulking between rows of potioneers and correcting them like Professor Snape had — with a biting tongue and limited patience. If she could wrap up her work early, she might be able to pop back up to that floor and observe him at work. The way the steam from the cauldrons brought out the waves in his platinum hair. He'd probably have to roll his sleeves and — she tamped that thought quickly, before she blushed too fiercely.

Shall we meet Harry and presumably Theo after work to discuss their incompetences over drinks?

xxx H

P.S. — An x is a kiss. Some Muggles use xoxo, kisses and hugs.

Lunch was a sandwich from the café that she picked at while finishing the last of the cursed objects that had come in from that weekend. Because of her runic sequencing she was able to get through a dozen objects before the day officially ended. Her colleague, Harriet, likely received six objects from the crypt and it was with a small bit of smugness that Hermione wondered how many she had manaaged in the same amount of time. She'd never ask, nor would she offer to help. It was easier this way. To coast by and keep under the radar. Since she had time left, she cleaned up the space.

Another paper crane landed beside her and she smiled. When she opened it she blushed. The entire paper was covered in little pale grey x's beneath his black ink script. Almost like a pattern. Insignificant to anyone else but it made her skin warm.

I told my new colleagues to purchase a copy of Advanced Potion-Making and start studying. They're an Acceptable at best. Quite a few Trolls, and not the kind you can send off to the forest.

Any interest in transferring departments? Your new supervisor would be quite handsome, at the very least. An improvement on your current circumstances.

Theo said they will meet us at the Scroll & Raven at 6 sharp.

May I walk you there?

DML

Perhaps the tedium of her days would improve now that she had flirty memos to write and respond to. She kept herself busy with research and once the clock struck half five, she returned to her office. In the time she had before heading to Diagon she fixed her hair as best as she could. At quarter to six, there was a knock at her door.

Waving it open, she called, "Come in."

"Hermione, you ready to go?" It was not the wizard she expected.

"Hi, Harry, yes just need my cloak."

He shifted, and leaning against the wall behind him, grey eyes on hers, was who she'd been eager to see. As she fastened her cloak she blushed a little and his lips turned upwards in the slightest hint of a smile.

The three of them walked to the lifts with Harry leading.

"Good day?" She asked, looking up at Draco.

"Better now," he replied at the same time Harry said "Yes," then coughed.

When they stood in the lift, hands grazing, Draco drew a tiny X on her knuckle. More than a few heads turned as they walked through the atrium to the main entrance but Hermione didn't pay them any mind. Every bit of her focus had narrowed to the burn in her skin. How much further it was to the pub. If she'd be able to sit beside him and trace shapes of her own on his thigh. Or just hold his hand beneath the table. She wondered if Harry would sit with Theo. If she'd have to make him so that she could live out her current hand-holding in wizarding public fantasy.

"You're three minutes late," Theo said, "Abysmal manners."

He stood with his hands in his pockets, a relaxed nonchalance that was betrayed by the tightness in his jaw.

"Hello, Theo," she said, and pulled him into a hug.

"Welcome back, Hermione. Looking especially lovely. Like there's a pleasing glow about you—"

"Theo."

"Harry."

"Right, let's just leave this outside, shall we?" Draco said, holding the door open.

The pub wasn't nearly as crowded as the Leaky Cauldron tended to get after work, and Hermione followed Theo to a booth at the back. He slid onto the bench and she filed into the opposite side. Without hesitating Harry sat beside Theo and smiled up at him.

"Ogden's?" Draco asked, and both wizards nodded. "For you, Granger?"

"Can you recommend a white wine?" She asked, knowing the answer.

"Butterbeer it is, then."

Hermione watched him approach the bar before turning back to Harry and Theo. She'd already seen Harry that morning, and apologized for her rash behavior. He was less forgiving than Draco had been but she knew he just needed time to come around. Theo, however—

"Here's the thing Hermione," he said, leaning back and slinging an arm over the top of the booth. Drumming his fingers. "I know we only had the one bonding evening together but I thought we were on the same page."

"That depends, Theo, I'm a fast reader and often of multiple books at once so you'll have to tell me what page you're talking about." Humor was his game, and she thought she might defer to his preferences while Harry watched with a curious expression.

"The page, my dear, is the one in which you told me that you cared about my best mate very much. I know you care about this one," he tapped an unamused Harry on the top of the head, "but I had assumed that all that caring meant that you would consider the consequences of your actions."

"Don't hit my head," Harry said, buying her a moment.

"Theo, I may be bright but I'm also…I can be a bit…"

"Bloody stupid?"

"Yes, that has been the general consensus. I was going to say impulsive. But in my defense it has almost always worked out in the end," she replied, grateful for the drinks that had just floated over to their table. Sipping her butterbeer she watched Draco fold himself into the seat. Drink in his left hand.

"Don't worry, I made her promise no more heroics," he said, and beneath the table he linked their fingers, until their hands were clasped together.

"Do share how you managed that," Theo said, taking a measured drink of whiskey. "I could use some pointers."

"Hermione can promise whatever she wants, I'm not required to do the same," Harry said. When Theo moved his arm from the top of the booth to drape across Harry's shoulders he didn't move away, and Hermione smiled.

For a while they just talked. She didn't want to compare, but there was something different about their conversations compared to the ones that she used to have with Harry, Ron, and Ginny. They'd always talked of the past. Of before the war. Of things that had long changed. With the Slytherins, she found that they talked of everything. And it was exhilarating to be able to share theories and laugh together. All while the delicate skin of her wrist was traced by long fingers. Draco had expressive hands, and by the time they'd ordered dinner she was about ready to push him out of his seat and haul him from the pub.

"Potter, what is taking so long with the investigation? Truly?" Draco asked. They'd had a few rounds of drinks by then and finished their greasy pub food.

Harry sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Honestly? We haven't much to go on because we don't know how it's being distributed. None of the patients we spoke with had ingested anything in common with each other. It seems unlikely that whoever is behind this is delivering poisons one by one but right now that's what the department is pursuing. Robards spoke with Theo's stepmother today. She cooperated fully. Took veritaserum and everything. Checked out."

"And that was your prime suspect? A middle-aged woman who retired to France because she hated her husband?"

"Everyone with a connection to the Dark Lord is or was a suspect at one point or another. It's just narrowing it down that's taking a lot longer than I would like," Harry said.

"Perhaps now that there are more people to speak with one of them will remember something odd that happened?" Hermione suggested.

"Here's hoping," Harry said, resting his head against the back wall.

"You keep differentiating with what Robards and the department are doing and what they think. I want to know what you think. It's obviously different," Draco said. A hint of challenge to his voice. Hermione squeezed his hand and he squeezed back.

"I think keeping things quiet is only hurting the investigation. If there were more eyes open — if the Prophet did a write up and put people on edge, maybe someone would share what they know. Or whoever's behind it all would get scared and stop long enough for someone to remember something useful."

"Why don't you just speak with a reporter then?" Theo asked.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment and breathed.

"Because there aren't many reporters who would speak to us without wanting to know more than we're willing to share," Hermione answered for him. Harry nodded and Theo frowned.

Drinks were sipped in silence. Hermione stared at the patterns on the table, beneath the rings of condensation from their glasses. She'd learned a lot about wood grains in her research of the snakewood.

"What about the Quibbler?" Theo said finally. "You gave them an exclusive before."

"It's no longer in print. The Lovegoods are on sabbatical in America looking for some beast or other," Harry replied.

"Pansy would help us. Help you," Theo said. "She's at the Prophet."

"I'll think about it. It's getting late, we should probably settle the tab." Harry pushed his glasses up his nose again and glanced at Hermione. She knew he was weary of reporters. It was even harder after Xenophilius Lovegood, one of the few he trusted, had betrayed them during the war. And now, all they wanted was another piece of Harry Potter to tear apart.

"Here," Draco said, tossing a galleon onto the table.

"He's wealthy too, you know," Theo said, tilting his head towards Harry. "You'd think he would have shared some of that wealth with his destitute friends when he was in school—"

"Yes, yes, talk more about how vast my vault is. We get it."

"It's a pile of knuts compared to mine," Theo said with a wink. "And we don't speak of His Highness and his wealth."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Granger, my apologies. Theo can be rather gauche. Comes with the territory, after all, being new money."

"We saw portraits going back several generations at Nott Manor, how can he be new money?" Hermione asked.

"Not all of us can trace our ancestors as far back as he can, so even Queen Elizabeth the first is new money in his view," Theo countered. They all slipped from their booth and made for the exit. More than a few eyes on them. Hermione kept waiting for Theo to make a joke about two Slytherins and two Gryffindors walking into a bar.

They stood outside the Scroll & Raven, hands in pockets.

"Lunch tomorrow, Hermione?" Harry asked, and she nodded. "See you at work, Malfoy."

Theo gave her a hug and then the two of them walked down the street, turning towards Theo's townhouse.

"Still want to sleep in my bed as often as you like?" Draco murmured in her ear.

Hermione tugged his arm, leading him towards the other end of Diagon Alley and the apparition point. "I'm afraid you'll have to deal with my far inferior thread count tonight."

"Is that so? In addition to the snoring? Now I'm not so sure—"

She bumped her hip against his and he smirked at her. "If you think that's bad, wait until you meet Crookshanks."

They walked side by side to the apparition point, passing very few people at the late hour. He asked a few follow-up questions about her cantankerous familiar and when they reached the alleyway she laced their fingers. Twisting away to her flat.

As unhappy to see her as her cat was, he was even more unhappy that there was a new person at her side. Crookshanks made a noise she had never heard him make, then leapt from his spot on the (shredded) sofa and sauntered down the short hall to her bedroom. Bottlebrush tail high in the air.

"Not the most friendly creature," she said to Draco, who looked amused. Hermione fixed her furniture and took off her cloak, hanging it on the hook by the door.

"You did abandon the poor thing. A cold shoulder is expected."

"Don't take his side! My sofa is held together by single stitches at this point."

Draco laughed and placed his cloak beside hers. "As if I'd ever take a side that isn't yours."

Hermione put the kettle on and busied herself in the kitchen while Draco glanced around her flat. Now that she'd spent time in his she was less embarrassed by it than she would have been. The furniture was mostly secondhand, but she had a few framed art prints on the walls and some photos. He was particularly intrigued by the John William Waterhouse postcards that hung above her desk.

"Where was this taken?" He asked, pointing at a photograph of her and her parents. In it she was grinning broadly, and her father's arm was outstretched to take the photo. It was the summer before third year. The last summer she spent entirely with her parents. After that was the World Cup, and then the Order. And then the end.

"We'd just been to see a production of As You Like It in Stratford-upon-Avon. Made it a long weekend to tour the town. It was one of the last normal things we did as a family."

Draco nodded and moved along, taking in the details of the paintings again.

"Here," she handed him a cup of tea and sat on the edge of the sofa.

They talked a little of the play and argued over whether or not Shakespeare was a wizard. Draco seemed convinced that he was, and that the ingredients that the witches used in Macbeth were far too accurate for a Muggle to have just made up. That lead to more talk of Nott's poison and the antidote. And the distribution.

They considered different beverages that could have been tampered with. Butterbeer taps at the Leaky Cauldron. Or bottled pumpkin juice, a favorite in the autumn months. But none of it seemed likely, based on what Harry had told them. They talked round and round in circles, each idea more outlandish than the last. Hermione had stood and started pacing the flat. Draco tidied their tea cups and leaned against the kitchen counter.

"If it's more than one person, targeting Muggleborns at random in pubs or restaurants would make more sense," he said. "It could be a group, acting separately but with the same goal."

"What about an unregistered animagus?"

"How common is that, though?" He replied.

"More than you'd think. Skeeter's one, and if she's capable then I'm sure there are others. Do you think there's a Death Eater who might have hidden that ability?"

Draco sighed. "I think it would have been a useful tool for the Dark Lord to exploit if there was, and he was a powerful legilimens so it's rather unlikely."

"So we're looking for someone or someones who have excellent brewing capabilities and the means to poison Muggleborns one at a time without notice. No wonder the Ministry hasn't figured it out yet, it's like trying to find a needle in a haystack." Hermione continued her laps around the cramped living room. Crookshanks had finally emerged from the bedroom, though only to hiss at Draco before claiming the sofa as his own.

"Nott Senior must have been close with someone before his arrest. Enough to have taught them how to brew it and entrust them with the Sacred Twenty-Eight blood sacrifice. Potter's probably already asked him about it but perhaps another Death Eater might know. They should be interviewing all of them again," Draco said.

They were quiet for a while, both thinking. It was late, and though she was starting to feel tired her worries were greater. The longer it took to figure out, the more people would be admitted to St. Mungo's. And even though they'd made an antidote, the thought made Hermione feel guilt. She'd tried so hard to make the wizarding world a better place for people like herself, and now she felt as though she was failing them.

"Don't Muggles have some way of testing things for… what is it called? They talk about it all the time on the crime program Theo watches. It's like bits of you that get left on things."

"DNA?" Hermione guessed.

"Yes, that. Could there be some on the vial of poison we turned over to Robards?"

"At this point so many hands have been on it I'm not sure."

Draco tugged at his hair. "Maybe there's something else we can test it for. Traces of a magical signature or something. There has to be a way to link it back to the brewer. Though, in this case, it could just lead us back to Nott instead of his apprentice."

"I can't believe I spilled some of the sample we took. We could test—"

"Granger, you're bloody brilliant," he said, cutting off her thought.

"What?"

"It got on your hands. It's not ingested it's transmitted through touch. That's what they're missing. Muggleborns aren't drinking something that's been poisoned, they're touching something."

Hermione thought about how she always had little smudges of ink on her fingers. The way that the ink would bleed into the skin. "When I spilled it I kept thinking about how it was like ink…Draco, what if it is ink? Or it's been added to an ink somehow?"

Draco contemplated it, looking at her hands. Like he, too, was thinking of the stains she often carried. "There haven't been any reports of it in the Muggle world. Everyone who has been affected by it is a witch or wizard. And they've all touched something with this inky-poison."

"How many witches and wizards read the Prophet, do you think?" Hermione wondered aloud. "A fairly large percentage, I'd gather. And if you don't read it you at least come across it during the day. Sweeping it into the rubbish bin from a café table or moving it off a seat. It would have a large reach."

"We should speak with Pansy. Before the Aurors burst in and muck everything up," he replied. "She's a more junior staff reporter but I know she's made a few friends. Creevey, for one. The younger one. I think she said he works in production. They might be able to help. Tell us who their ink supplier is or—"

"Can we even trust her? How do you know she's not involved somehow?" Hermione crossed her arms. "She took N.E.W.T. potions with us."

"Because I know her."

"Do you?" She trusts him so she bites her tongue from saying more. Friend of Draco's or not, Parkinson was still a reporter, and in Hermione's experience, they did whatever they had to for a story. A poison that only affected Muggleborns was front-page news. What better story for a junior reporter trying to prove themselves? To target the inadequacy of the Ministry in the process.

"Pansy was horrible to you at school and I'm sorry for that, but Hogwarts was her sanctuary from everything at home. Just like it was for Theo. I don't expect you to like her but—"

She interrupted so that he didn't misunderstand her. "I trust you. If you say it can't be Pansy I believe you."

"Granger, she wouldn't. First because she's worse at potions than Potter, she cheated her way up. Not to mention that she donated half of her inheritance to the rebuilding efforts at Hogwarts because she felt like she owed the school. You don't have to like her but I know her, and I know she's not involved."

"Alright," she said, dropping her arms. "Send her an owl. It's late, but maybe she can meet with us tomorrow during lunch."

"I can talk to Potter about it in the morning, I suppose." Draco glanced around the flat, then towards the door.

"I meant what I said earlier. You could stay," she said softly. "If you want."

Draco gave her a half smile and put his hands in his pockets. "I don't know if I have his permission." He nodded towards Crookshanks, who sat in the center of the sofa. Orange tail swishing back and forth while he glared at them. Daring them to encroach on his space.

"Don't worry, he's just dramatic," she said, and scooped him into her arms. Crooks let out a wailing sound to rival the horn on the Hogwarts Express. "You're quite similar." The half kneazle leapt from her arms and sauntered over to the armchair by the window.

"Oh, she's funny now," he replied, stepping closer. Until they could lace their fingers.

Tugging him along she smiled up at him. "That's my secret. Ron's not the funny one, I am."

He tsked, "Granger, if anyone sincerely thinks Weasley is funny I'll brew them an anti-confundus immediately. Though I might first need to create a remedy for your orange beast."

Hermione pressed him against the wall outside her bedroom and his hands settled on her hips.

"Didn't think you'd have this sort of reaction to me insulting your cat."

"He's more likely to curl up on top of you once we go to sleep than anything else. Judging by the way he looks at you."

"And how does your monster of a cat look at me, Granger?" He grinned at her, thumbs making circles on her skin.

"Almost the same way that I do," she said, and hauled his mouth to hers. Prepared to exhaust herself enough to fall asleep in approximately twenty minutes — forty, if she was lucky. When he started to tease the skin just beneath her trousers, skating his knuckles across her hip, she knew it would be the latter.

The next morning Hermione spread thick pats of butter over toasted bread. Taking it all the way to the edges and back. Then she dusted each slice with a spoon of caster sugar and topped them all with cinnamon.

It wasn't freshly baked scones or French pastry, but it was something she'd always had as a girl. Even when she hadn't done the shopping she could always make cinnamon toast. She slid a plate in front of him and sipped at her coffee.

"How did you know?"

"How did I know what?"

"Cinnamon—that I love cinnamon," he said, taking a large bite of toast.

"I didn't," she replied. "It's something my mum used to make me in the mornings. Sometimes after school, before Hogwarts."

He considered her for a moment and took a drink of his coffee. Flicking his eyes to the photos on her wall.

"What is it?" She asked.

"Your parents — I know you said you weren't sure if you wanted to try to reverse the memory charm," he took a breath and leveled his gaze on her. The cool grey of his eyes calmed her beating heart. "But it should be your choice. If you ever wanted to try, I have a few ideas about a potion—"

If he had something else to say she didn't hear it. Because she stretched across her tiny table and kissed him soundly, tasting coffee and cinnamon and everything she hadn't known she needed before.