Chapter 3: Mobbin' Like That


7 May 1929

WEDDING OF THE DECADE:

THE LOVE STORY OF MISS GRANGER AND LORD MALFOY

By Rita Skeeter

Lord Draco Malfoy DCM OBE VC MP has always been a man of many talents and has achieved every goal he set his brilliant mind to (with evidence in his title alone!). A revered war veteran, Lord Malfoy's accomplishments in the Great War are the stuff of tales; his preeminent leadership and intent for self-sacrifice saved not only his brethren, but also a significant battle on the frontlines. A beloved son, Lord Malfoy returned from the war to only one parent and did not hesitate to set his mother, Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy née Black, on the path to success; our hearts go out to the prodigal son at the recent news of his mother, and the strength he must find in this most personally troubled time.

It begs the question, then, why Lord Malfoy's most infamous achievement is none of those previously mentioned. Rather, it is his impending marriage to Miss Hermione Granger that takes the cake.

Miss Hermione Granger is also notoriously clever and accomplished. Although, she did not attend the most prestigious comprehensive school as a young girl, Miss Granger was able to secure herself a space at the University of Oxford. Miss Granger majored in English language and literature but spent half of her schooling years there working directly under the late Professor Longbottom, an esteemed chemist. Her inconsistency continued into her career as Miss Granger attended the London Metropolitan Police Academy, using neither her English literature and language nor her chemistry knowledge. Astonishingly, Miss Granger's career did not end there; shortly after graduating the academy, Miss Granger resigned from the force and was employed by none other than Malfoy Company Limited.

While Lord Malfoy's accomplishments have a clear path, Miss Granger's do not.

Though, since she has come under the employment of Malfoy Company Limited, Miss Granger has remained focused; she has since moved up from Lord Malfoy's secretary to his company's Chief Operations Officer, working directly under Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy. As the future Mrs. Malfoy, all eyes are on Miss Granger to see if she is able to measure up to the name, and there is much pressure as the legacy left by its predecessor is inimitable. However, we – as a nation – are eager to see how Miss Hermione Granger is able to fill this societal role bestowed upon her.

If there is one thing that we can all agree on, it is that if Lord Malfoy sees potential in his future wife, then we must as well.

Draco is the prodigal son of the nation and I am the dirt he walks on blah, blah, blah.

Nothing new.

Except, Rita nearly brought me to tears when referencing the doubt that the nation has in my ability to fill Narcissa's impactful, enormous shoes. I would never have imagined myself becoming irrefutably close with Draco's mother, especially when for the first five years I knew her she wanted nothing more than my head on a silver platter. We grew to not only respect one another, but to also revere and trust in one another.

It pains me to think about her now.

Partly because I did come to love her as my own mother (it probably helped that my actual mother was rather useless and distant), but mostly because I feel immensely guilty for her fate.

Nonetheless, I suppose that's my own karma. I would rather it be me who pays the price, but when one makes a deal with the devil, it is never them who pays the price, is it? It is never them who makes the sacrifice, but instead it is always them who sacrifices another.

So, then, why should I be surprised?

I didn't know Tom was the devil, not when I first met him. I know now, though, and I look forward to spilling his blood. If there is one thing, I learned well from Narcissa, it is that revenge is the sweetest when meticulously planned and executed. Thus, tomorrow will be a very busy day. All I can hope now is that the latter of the execution goes according to plan – oh, and that Draco and I manage to avoid persecution for this. That would greatly ruin my wedding day.


21 March 1926

"Come on, let me have a little taste. You know it'll be a good time."

"I would, really, except I think I want to keep this one around a bit longer than a one-night stand."

"Oh, please, we both know it would be more like a long weekend – at least."

"Wait – What?" Hermione blinked, tuning back into the conversation around her and registering equally mischievous grins across both Blaise and Astoria's faces. Hermione followed their line of sight to where Wood stood with a couple of visiting New Order members across the sitting room. "What are you two talking about?"

"Blaise, here," nodded Astoria with an exasperated sigh, "won't stop trying to sleep with my boyfriend - "

"Didn't you just say he was nothing more than something pretty to keep your attention and sexual needs up to par?" Blaise criticized, inhaling a puff of smoke and pressing his lips into a slightly disapproving line.

Astoria shrugged.

"Fine," she amended, "he's not my boyfriend – yet – but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you persuade him into an illustrious, coke-filled weekend away. The last time we did that, my boytoy went running for the bloody hills and – like I said before – I might actually want this one to stick around a bit longer."

"Hm," he grunted. "I suppose that means I'll have to return to my efforts in the pursuit of one, fiery Ginevra Weasley."

"Wait," Hermione chimed in, finally piecing everything together. "Blaise, are you – I thought you were gay?" She blinked; a bit dumbstruck.

Blaise exchanged a wary look with Astoria, then shook his head disapprovingly at Hermione. "Shame on you, Granger," he chided playfully. "Thinking I would dare limit myself to one gender? With these god-like good looks? Honey… They all want me, and, really, who am I to deny them?" He paused. "I thought you were cleverer than that."

"Oh," said Hermione after a moment. "Alright, then."

Astoria laughed; a beautiful melodic laugh that lit up the room. "Don't worry, Hermione. You aren't the first person to make the mistake of not putting Blaise on a high-enough pedestal, and I doubt you'll be the last." Blaise nodded in confirmation, then dragged through half of his cigarette. "It is quite irritating, though," Astoria added with a sidelong, playful glare at Blaise, "when he and I have the same fucking taste in men."

"You can say that again."

"You – You do?" Hermione asked, taking a tentative sip of her blackcurrant juice and wishing it was even marginally alcoholic; withdrawals were a bitch, but she was almost a year sober and fuck all if she was ruining that streak.

"Oh, yes," Blaise supplied. "It's a difficult, increasingly lonely life for one who shares the same taste in men with the enrapturing Astoria and the same taste in women as the enigmatic Draco." At Hermione's clear shock, Blaise waved his hand impatiently at her. "Don't fret, Granger. Draco has only ever had eyes for you. You were always off-limits."

"So," Hermione began, trying not to think about Blaise's last comment too deeply. "You – Astoria – men – Draco – women – then - "

"Yes," confirmed Astoria with a cutting laugh. "It never happened, though, thank fuck for that."

"It was some form of fate, I'm sure," said Blaise. "Can you imagine how catastrophic that would be if the three of us slept together?" Astoria and Blaise theatrically shivered and rejected the idea, while Hermione's head immediately reeled with images of Blaise and Astoria tangled between the sheets with Draco. A catastrophe indeed, she mused.

Then, an ugly thought popped into her head; Hermione recalled that Blaise had not only said he intended to pursue Ginny, but also that he had the same taste in women as Draco. As if bringing the very dreadful realization to life, Draco emerged from the office opposite the sitting room with Ginny on his heels. Hermione averted her gaze quickly, willing her pulse to calm the hell down.

"Gin," said one of the New Order members – whom Hermione then recognized as Emmeline – that had been talking to Wood a moment ago. "Ron just sent a messenger and said he needs us back immediately."

Ginny nodded to him, then peered over her shoulder at Draco imploringly. Hermione's insides twisted unkindly when Draco didn't immediately scowl back; she tried to tell herself it was because he was playing the brilliant diplomatic, and not because they may have shared more than words behind closed doors.

"I'll get back to you on our arrangement as soon as this new development is dealt with," she informed him briskly. Draco nodded. Ginny turned her attention to the other New Order member, "Diggory," she said, "Find Potter, will you? We might need him today."

Ginny caught Draco's raised silver brows and arched her own red ones defiantly, challenging him.

"That won't be a problem, will it?"

Draco's lips twitched at the corners, hinting at a smirk. "No," he replied calmly. "By all means, take Potter." He paused as she and Emmeline moved to leave the room. "While you're at it," he added, halting her at the door. "Keep him."

"Won't Nott get lonely?" Ginny countered, earning a snicker from Blaise and Astoria. Draco shrugged, nonchalant, and Ginny disappeared through the threshold. Hermione waited all of three seconds before following them out of the room. She caught the tall man named Diggory turn to the left, heading up the main staircase, but Hermione knew Harry could only be in one place this close to midnight if it weren't with Theo.

Hermione descended the stairs in the back of the Manor and crept down the dimly lit dungeons, peering in the open stalls for any sign of Harry. Finally, at the last one, she saw him.

"Seriously?" She asked, gesturing to the triangular blades in his hands. "Haven't you grown tired of that, by now? If you haven't picked it up in your three years of living here, then I don't know if you ever will."

Harry merely shrugged, then threw one of the Eastern-style blades at the target across the wall. It landed to the right of the shaded outline of a person.

"Wonderful," she drawled, slow clapping for him. "Now, he's still alive and even more pissed. You've effectively signed your death warrant, Potter." He grimaced at her, then shoved the remaining two blades in her hands.

"Let's see you do better then, know-it-all," he scoffed, stepping back to give her a clear shot.

Hermione didn't want to play into his games; she also really didn't want to show off if it was only going to make him more upset, especially since she'd come down here to get information out of him before he was hauled away to stay with the New Order for hell knows how long.

Eventually, the need to prove her worth won out.

Her fingers curled around the triangular-shaped blades. They were smaller than the weapons she was used to throwing at targets, lighter than most weapons in general, and also wickedly sharp. Hermione bit her lip as one nicked her in the process of her adjusting to gripping them. She caught Harry's roguish grin from the corner of her eye. The first blade left her fingers and soared through the air, piercing the top right corner of the target; not actually hitting the outlined figure.

Harry grunted, "Ha,"

Hermione closed her eyes, weighed the last blade in her hand again, then trusted her acquired instincts to take over. Again, she threw the blade. This time, however, it landed squarely in the center of the figure's neck.

"You missed," muttered Harry, shifting to retrieve the blades from the opposite wall.

She shook her head, "I didn't miss. If that blade had connected with your throat, then you would have likely bled out in seconds." She pressed two of her fingers to either side of her throat, tapping her arteries knowingly.

"Whatever," Harry grumbled. "You're still a know-it-all,"

Hermione shrugged.

After a moment, they both made their way out of the room and up toward the main part of the Manor. Harry glanced askance at her, catching – as he usually did – an underlying suspicion regarding her intentions. "Why did you come looking for me?" He asked.

"I need something from you," she admitted, not bothering to lie to him. As generally unperceptive and unaware as Harry could be on a daily basis, he did have a knack for knowing when someone was hiding something; even if didn't know what that might be. "Information," she added, stopping him just before the door at the top of the stairs.

Harry arched an ebony eyebrow, pressing his round glasses further up the bridge of his nose inquiringly.

"Ginny Weasley," she growled. "What does she want? What does she really want?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's not Draco, Hermione, relax. She's here on official New Order business, you know that."

"Still, she could also be - "

"She isn't." He said, cutting her off. "I thought you didn't care about him anymore, anyway?" Harry challenged with another roguish grin. Hermione groaned.

"It's complicated."

"Right," he nodded, playing along.

"Never mind. Forget I said anything. She's looking for you, by the way. Official New Order business, I presume," she muttered, pushing the door open forcefully and storming through. A hand caught her wrist, pulling her to a stop. Harry's emerald eyes scanned her face for a moment before he let her go. Hermione wanted to run, especially given the somewhat pitiful look on his face, but her feet were grounded.

"If you don't believe me, then why don't you come with me and see for yourself?"

Hermione scoffed, "What?"

"Seriously, Hermione. It would be good for you. It'll help get your mind off things, and if Ginny asked me to come back with them, then I have a feeling that was actually for Ron's sake which means, most likely, there might be a few bones for you to break if you come with me. That will certainly get your mind off Draco," he shrugged.

Hermione considered it.

"Why would they ask for you if there's going to be a fight?" She countered, crossing her arms and aiming for mockery to bide her time. "It's not like you're the most skilled fighter they have – Oh – Don't tell me you are – No wonder they call you the bloody Chosen One. They're all helplessly doomed," she pouted.

"Shut up," he quipped, elbowing her. Harry pursed his lips. "You know they can fight, Hermione, and stop stalling. You coming with me or not?"

"I'm not supposed to put myself in danger - "

"When has that ever stopped you before, hm?" He chuckled. Harry swung an arm around her neck, steering her toward a confused Diggory and impatient Ginny waiting at the end of the hall. "Come on. It's about time you met the New Order, anyway," he beamed.


"Here we are," Harry whispered in Hermione's ear as she slid off of the back of a tall Clydesdale; her back was sore from the ride because she wasn't used to riding horses anymore, being surrounded by the Malfoy's wealth and preference for automobiles. "Welcome to the Burrow."

The Burrow was the headquarters of the New Order – or, the largest of the several safe houses they operated from, which Harry had kindly informed her on their way there.

Hermione took in the towering building before her with a heightened sense of skepticism. It was enormous, easily housing as many rooms as Malfoy Manor, but it was decidedly less affluent. For one thing, it was located in a very dangerous part of the city. For another, which caused Hermione to falter in stepping through the creaking front door behind the others, was that the old, brick building looked ready to collapse at any minute. From the outside, it was clearly falling apart, and from the inside, it wasn't much better. Even from her quick surveillance of the grand entrance room, it was evident that up-keep and grandeur was very, very low on the New Order's list of importance.

"What the fuck is she doing here?"

Hermione locked eyes with the grimacing ginger who jabbed a freckled finger in her direction. She recognized him as one of the Weasleys; he was Harry's best mate, Ron, the apparent leader of the New Order, and the very first person that Hermione had ever stabbed with a blade.

"She's with us," supplied Harry, effectively protecting her from any future criticism of her presence. "Come off it, Ron, don't be like that. She can be helpful to whatever you've called us all here for, I'm sure."

Ron's grimace deepened, but he didn't continue to argue. Well, not that point anyway. He turned to his sister, flinging an arm in Hermione's direction again, and bellowed, "You agreed to this?" After a breath of hesitation, Ginny nodded. "Why? What were you thinking – Bloody hell," Ron paused. "Was she even blindfolded?"

"She was not," sniffed Ginny.

"It wouldn't have made a difference if she had been," came an oddly familiar voice. "She would have figured out where she, and ultimately the Burrow, was anyway. She's far brighter than any of us, Ron."

Hermione squinted into the darkness. The room was dimly lit, by only a few yellowed lamps and scattered candles, making it difficult for her to see everyone gathered in the dark corners of the spacious room. She knew the Order had outnumbered the Death Eaters; Narcissa and Draco had said it often enough for her to believe it, but she hadn't quite realized how much they outnumbered them.

From her initial scan of the room, Hermione recognized nearly a dozen of the original Order members that had shown up to various bar brawls against the Death Eaters. All of the Weasleys were present, which was predictable, as well as a few women Hermione recognized by description. Moody and Lupin, in particular, glared back at her with extremely narrowed eyes. Peering a bit closer at the bodies surrounding her, however, Hermione realized there were about another ten faces she had never seen before, nor could recall have ever been described.

Her pulse raced uneasily.

Still, Hermione couldn't make out who had made the comment about her cleverness. Then, the most unexpected face stepped out of the shadows and into the light, placing an arm on Ron's shoulder before approaching her. Hermione stepped forward, unable to prevent her jaw from dropping.

"Longbottom?"

A crooked smile pulled at his lips. "I thought I told you to call me Neville."

"Oh," input Harry. "I forgot you two know each other."

Ron gaped, "What the actual fuck – "

"We don't have time for this." Ginny snapped, holding up a hand to shut her brother up. She spun around to face Harry, Hermione and Neville. "You two can catch up later. Right now, we have work to do." Ginny reached for a light, sparked a cigarette, then waved everyone around a large wooden table in the center of the room.

Hermione, quickly to Harry before they joined the others, whispered, "I thought you said your best mate was the leader?"

He tilted his head back and forth, not a direct yes or no, in reply. "He is, technically. It's more of a diversion tactic, to be honest. They wanted me to be the leader, but with my liaison between the New Order and the Death Eaters, it didn't fit well enough. To throw suspicion off the real leader, Ron is the decoy one." He gestured to where Ginny was opening several enormous rolls of parchment and snapping her fingers at various members.

"I see," replied Hermione. "It protects her in any kind of attack." It was clever, she mused internally. Quite clever. "It's a bit suicidal of your mate, isn't it? Brave, sure, but stupid."

"You said the same thing about me once," Harry chuckled. "It's true for most of us, I expect. Though," he paused, throwing her a smirk as they shifted closer to the table. The next words out of Harry's mouth were whispered so quietly, they were practically inaudible, but Hermione made them out – and they came to haunt her. "You aren't too different from us, are you?"

"Bloody hell, does she really need to be right here?" Ron snapped, crossing his arms. Hermione sighed, sensing this was going to be a recurring theme if she didn't defend herself. Evidently, Harry's word – and Ginny's subsequent backing of it (which was still a mystery to her) – was good enough for everyone else (for now).

"I understand you don't like me," Hermione said, glaring back at him. "Trust me, the feeling is mutual. If you let me, I assure you I can of use to whatever it is you have to do." She nodded toward Harry on her left and Neville on her right. "They can vouch for my abilities."

"Who's to say you aren't just here to spy on us for Malfoy?" Ron countered.

Ginny sighed heavily, but let the interruptions carry on. She, like Hermione, must have believed it better to get the bickering over with now rather than allow it to build and explode later.

"Because, you dim-wit - " said one of the Weasley twins.

"- we work with Malfoy now," finished the other twin.

"For now," grumbled Lupin. Beside him, a woman with bright magenta hair scoffed and slinking one arm around his waist and the other around a bump protruding from her stomach; she was heavily pregnant.

"I don't like it," sounded Moody. A couple of other members grunted and nodded their assent, but again, Harry spoke up and silenced them all.

"Listen," he sighed. "I know your instincts are not to trust Malfoy or Hermione, here, but you're going to have to. Like George said, we work with them now. You all knew that was part of the deal when you signed up to join the New Order," he said. Lupin and Moody exchanged unhappy glances but remained silent following Harry's pointed stare. "If you don't want to be part of this, then there's the door. No one is forcing you to stay."

At the lack of response, Ginny pointedly put out her cigarette on the table and cleared her throat.

"Right, are we bloody done here?" There were muttered responses of assent. Ginny huffed, crossed her arms, then nodded to Ron. "You called this meeting – why?"

Ron nudged a tall boy next to him. "Cormac caught wind of suspicious activity near Camden. It sounds like more of the usual stuff to me, but then he mentioned something about the missing boys being from that area and – Yeah – Figured it was worth looking into."

"McLaggen," Ginny said, addressing him, "What exactly did you hear?"

"McLaggen," Hermione gasped under her breath. He was one of the coppers on Malfoy's payroll. Hermione wondered if the New Order was planting spies in Draco's vicinity for a darker purpose, or if Draco even knew about it. Hermione relaxed her face, conscious of Harry's – and many others – eyes on her; scrutinizing her every micro-expression. Later, she would bring this up.

"Well," he drawled, catching Hermione's eye and subtly winking; she fumed. "Slughorn says another two boys went missing last night."

"That brings the total up to seven now," supplied Lupin.

"Right," nodded McLaggen. "He's still on the case, can't figure it out. Honestly, it's got all of us coppers a bit stumped, but then a few hours ago there was something… strange… going on East of Camden Market. It wasn't clear what the guys were saying, but it sounded like gang violence."

"Gang violence?" Ginny repeated, unconvinced. "There aren't any gangs in that area."

"That we know of," interjected Neville with a shrug.

"Well, we're hardly going to go barging in there based on some fuzzy communications about suspected gang violence." Ginny said. She shook her head, "That's not enough on its own."

"What about the boys?" A new voice chimed in.

Ginny sighed, making eye contact with her parents uneasily. She leaned forward, spreading her palms against the parchment on the table; her flaming crimson hair fell over her shoulders. Hermione, finally looking more closely at the parchment taking up the entirety of the long table, realized it was a map of London. There were the usual militaristic markings that were usually present on Theo's maps for Death Eater business as well, but then there were several symbols Hermione didn't recognize.

She committed them to memory for later research.

"I'm working on that." Ginny finally ruled. "I'm concerned about them. Malfoy is even more concerned about them. But that doesn't mean their disappearances have anything to do with whatever else is going on around Camden."

"So, we're going to do nothing?" Harry questioned, brows furrowed and mouth deeply downturned. Ginny looked up, and, for once, Hermione saw that she seemed to soften, looking genuinely downcast about the prospect.

"For now," she ruled.

"Why?" Pressed Harry.

"Yeah," seconded Ron. "A few of us can go take a look around. Not Cormac, no offense, mate," – "None taken," – "but a few of us who are less recognizable. It's worth a shot, don't you think?"

Ginny considered this. "Fine. No Weasleys, though, sorry Ron." He looked ready to argue, but his father laid a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

"She's right, Ronald," said his father. "We're too easily recognizable. It was a fair point you made, even if it means you can't go." At his son's obvious anger at being left out from his own plan, he added, "We can work out the details for them and make sure everything goes smoothly."

Ron, probably more willing to break femurs than sketch plans, shook free of his father's grip but said nothing against the suggestion. Hermione was impressed he knew when to hold his tongue seeing as thus far, she seriously doubted he knew how. The irony of her inner criticism, seconds after she thought it, was not lost on her.

"That's sorted then." Ginny declared. She flicked her wrist toward three men and one woman to her left. "Diggory," – "Which one?" Two men asked in unison – "Both of you," she ruled, earning a nod from what must be a father and son duo, Hermione realized. "Macmillan and Chang, you two go with them. Be vigilant." She turned to Ron, "You, Fred and George run this from the Burrow."

"Sorry there wasn't an outlet for you to punch," shrugged Harry as they made their way back outside to the Clydesdale.

"It's fine," Hermione supplied, hoisting herself up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist as he took the reins. "You owe me, though," she mocked as they took off for the Manor.


Hermione didn't jump along with the other aristocratic women at the sound of the gun going off; she was far too used to hearing that familiar, deadly pop. Her gaze cut across to the empty seat next to hers, and she sighed. Where the bloody hell was Draco now? She stood, excused herself from the rest of the abominable bourgeoise party she sat with in the spectator booth, and left them to watch the horses race around in the dust on their own. Per usual, the attraction was not the reason she and Draco were in attendance, and Hermione was not about to let him carry on with his Death Eater work without her.

She nearly died for them, and she'll be damned if she's left out of another event.

In the past few months, business picked up just as Draco's new responsibilities as an MP did. He spent most evenings in Westminster, while Theo overlooked the Death Eater's and Hermione struggled to be of service to Narcissa and the company. Business as usual; except, when everything seemed eerily mundane, Hermione instinctively became suspicious. This time, she suspected Draco's disappearance had less to do with acquiring a third whiskey and more to do with re-establishing his superiority in the betting shops.

Sure enough, when Hermione slipped into a side alley beneath the racetracks, she saw Graham emerge from the shadows and spark a cigarette. The decision on whether or not to reveal herself to him weighed on her shoulders. Before she could come to a decision, though, Graham spotted her.

"Oi," he said, coughing up a puff of smoke into the darkness. "What the fuck are you – Does Draco know that – No – I bet he doesn't," he shook his head, rested his arm on her upper back, and guided her further into the alley. "I'm not surprised, really, but still," he muttered. "Draco won't be pleased."

"I don't give a fuck if Draco is pleased," snapped Hermione.

"Clearly," came a new voice from the shadows. His luminous blond hair shimmered in the dim lighting as Draco stepped out and settled his darkened grey gaze on her. "You never learn, do you, Granger?"

"Sod off," she replied.

"Hm," he grunted. Draco nodded mutely to Graham over her head, and the other man instantly tightened his grip on her shoulders, swiveling her back toward to racetrack.

"Wait,"

The voice was definitely not Draco's low, timber voice. Instead, it was high-pitched and rang like that of church bells; melodic, piercing, and slightly foreboding. Hermione frowned. Graham paused, turning to face Draco with a quizzical expression. Draco, though, didn't look nearly as restless or anxious as Graham did, but extremely irate and not at all taken aback. Interesting.

"Let her stay," came the same voice; this time, Hermione was able to place it as distinctly feminine. She blinked into the darkness and finally caught another gold glint as the petite woman stepped forward. "You must be Hermione Granger," noted the other woman. Her iridescent skin gleamed and her bountiful curls – not dissimilar to Hermione's in texture – fell over her shoulder when she tilted her head inquiringly. "Are you going to fucking answer? Or are you mute?"

Hermione blinked; how she was still able to be shook by vulgarity was beyond her.

"Yes," she grimaced. "Who the hell are you?"

The young woman blinked; her large, owl-like eyes bore into Hermione. "I would think a woman of your perceived intelligence would know precisely who I am, Miss Granger," she drawled. Then, her eyes lifted to the ceiling. "Curiouser and curiouser." Hermione looked up but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. "Let's get back to fucking business, shall we?" She said, prompting the others to follow.

Draco and Graham followed suit, and, after a breath of hesitation, so did Hermione. The small statured woman – no taller than Hermione, if the same height – led all of them through winding, dark alleys until they emerged into an open, lit space. Beside a door at the other end of the space stood three menacing men. Hermione glanced at her two men to gauge whether or not she should panic. Their faces were placid, if a bit pale, so, Hermione exhaled slowly.

"Scar Joe," said the woman to one of the men, "escort Lord Malfoy and his companions to Azkaban," she waited for half a moment, her wide eyes narrowing at the man; his dark eyes flickered up and down the three of them, then nodded askance to the young woman. "Lovely, now fuck off," she added, flicking her wrist.

Scar Joe – which Hermione suspected was not his actual name – was an enormously muscular man with a striking, jagged scar down his left profile who towered over the three of them. His lip curled into a mean, sly smile. "This way," he grunted, leading them out of the door behind the blonde woman and the other two men. Hermione, again, glanced at Draco and Graham. The latter of the two looked immensely more concerned than he had a few minutes ago, but the former simply nodded and ducked through the doorway without looking back.

In the backseat of the car, Hermione – squeezed between Graham and Draco – hissed, "Malfoy, what the fuck are we doing? What is this?" He gave her a tired expression; one she was all-too familiar with when she first started working with him. "I ask too many fucking questions," she muttered, "I know. But you can't seriously tell me you trust these people?"

"Trust has nothing to do with it," he finally answered.

His grey eyes flickered up and Hermione caught the dark eyes of Scar Joe meeting his in the rearview mirror. She gulped. Aware that she had probably already said too much but unable to prevent herself from pressing the issue further, added, "Who are these people? The woman she – she seems younger but – obviously, she must be lethal – I – is this Death Eater business?" Hermione asked with her voice as low as it could go while still being audible to Draco.

"If it is, then it's none of your business," he snapped back. "I haven't forgotten that you aren't even supposed to be here," he reminded her unkindly.

Hermione frowned; her lips pressed into a thin, angry line. "I have not forgotten that you were just going to leave me there had I not went looking for you,"

Draco's gaze slid across to finally meet hers, and her breath hitched. The fire in his eyes was unmistakable. "You keep doing that – looking for me – and it's going to get you killed. It hasn't yet, because somehow you've been extremely lucky, but that luck will run out, and then where will we be?" He shook his head, and Hermione thought for a moment she had heard genuine concern behind his cruel tone. "You never learn," he said again.

Some twenty minutes later Scar Joe pulled up beside a warehouse on the edge of the Thames, outside the city center – Azkaban. Hermione nervously twisted the amethyst ring around her finger. She traipsed behind Draco and Graham, taking note of everything she saw in case this insanely questionable business deal went horribly sideways. The tall chimneys of the brick building released clouds of black, which were already beginning to make her eyes water; there was a loud clogging, sounding every sixty seconds on the second; to her right was the coursing, black water of the Thames, but to her left were demolished buildings and not a single person in sight.

An ideal location to murder or hostage people, but not exactly the best spot for a decent getaway.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The blonde woman said to a man guarding an old, iron door. She snapped her fingers in his face, cutting off his hurried response. "No – No – I'll tell you what the fuck you're doing – Fuck all, that's what – The fuck is this?" She paused briefly to pinch a flask from his coat pocket. "Fuck off," she said.

The man, trembling, hesitated for a moment, then took off toward the demolished buildings. The woman waited approximately ten seconds before she whipped a revolver from her waistband and aimed it at the retreating figure. The gunshot echoed through the industrial park.

"Never fucking liked him anyway," she sniffed.

Hermione blanched.

"Muscles McGee," the woman chirped, holstering her weapon. "Take Mr. Montague aside for a little chat." One of the three men stepped forward and gestured for Graham to follow him inside. Hermione wanted to insist that Graham not go wherever this madwoman told him to go, but before she could even think about saying anything, Draco's hand clamped down on her wrist.

"Don't," he murmured in her ear.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. What the fuck was happening? she thought.

"Handsome James," said the woman, summoning the taller and leaner of the two remaining men to her side. "Search them," she instructed, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag.

Unlike many other bouncers and doormen, Handsome James' nimble fingers were invasive; he thoroughly patted her and Draco down. Other than the ring – which thankfully went unnoticed – Hermione hadn't adorned any weapons. Handsome James handed Draco's two guns and the knife he kept in his sock to the woman. She nodded to Draco's newsboy cap – ordinarily he didn't wear it to prestigious sporting events, but he did wear it this time – and held out her hand expectantly. Draco willingly obliged, placing the cap in her small palm.

"Clever," she commented, ripping the blade from its seam and tossing the cap back at Draco.

Inside the old warehouse were rows of tall drums hissing and billowing smoke. Hermione counted the barrels and quickly did the math; based on the amount of liquor produced by the end of one week alone this madwoman would see a sizeable profit. Hermione wondered if, perhaps, Draco's business with her was related to his gin industry. Though, that didn't seem to fit well with Graham's presence or the obvious lack of cover-up for Draco's less-favorable hobbies.

"So," the woman began, taking a seat behind a desk that seemed to swallow her up, "You want to fucking talk? Let's fucking talk, then," she waved her hand, gesturing with the cigarette for him to start the conversation.

Draco's eyes lifted pointedly to the two men standing behind the woman.

"Don't mind them," she told him primly. "They are sworn to secrecy and to me. Unless I say so – or die – they won't dare repeat a word of this." Her blue eyes flickered to Hermione sitting beside Draco. "I imagine the same thing can be said about your fucking bird?"

"Yes," he replied. "But you already knew that."

"I know many things," shrugged the woman.

"As do I," countered Draco, leaning back in his armchair; despite the comfortable position, though, Hermione could see his muscles were tensed. "We have a lot in common, don't you think?"

"That's rather obvious, isn't it, Malfoy? Or else, why would either of us be here, hm?" Her gaze shifted so that she was staring at some fixed corner of the room; again, Hermione didn't see anything noteworthy. "I suppose it can also be said that none of us are really here. If there is such a thing as here. There are many contexts of the word, and yet none of them come with a justifiable answer. Wouldn't you agree?"

Draco nodded, "Absolutely."

Hermione's head swam.

"Right," said the woman. "You give me what the fuck I want, and I give you what the fuck you want. Basic partner shite. If this fuckery goes belly-up and I get caught, then you die."

"If this fuckery goes belly-up and you get caught, then I die." Draco repeated, mimicking her wording in a tone of agreeance. "If this fuckery goes belly-up and I get caught, then you take the blame."

"And then you die," finished the woman, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

Draco tapped his fingers against his thigh. "And then I die," he repeated.

"What?" Hermione shrieked, rising to her feet, and finally breaking her silence. "How on earth is that - "

"Sit down, Miss Granger," cut in the woman with a smug expression. She inhaled another long drag, then exhaled a puff of smoke directly toward the ceiling. "There won't be any silly shite or foolish fuckery going on here. Malfoy and I are very skilled at what we do – very skilled." She paused, tipping her cigarette toward Hermione's clenched fists. "You think I didn't notice that pretty little poison on your finger? Fuck off,"

Hermione opened her mouth to quip back a snotty retort, but the woman waved her hand.

"Don't bother fucking denying it," she went on. "You can bloody well keep it for all I care. The sooner you realize that I am a threat but not to you, then the sooner we can all be bloody friends and sing fucking kumbaya." Her blue eyes shifted to Draco, ready to resume their conversation.

Hermione tasted blood; she'd bit through the inside of her cheek.

"Who the hell are you?" She seethed, not giving a damn if she interrupted their strange, nonsensical meeting.

"I," replied the madwoman with a particularly piercing glare and mischievous grin, "am Luna Lovegood."


Since December, Draco had officially been sworn in as a Member of Parliament, into the House of Lords – no less – and secured the position he coveted so strongly the year before; he now had the power to shape the country's future from within the Chamber walls, not just from the dirty, smog-filled streets of London. It was everything he wanted, and yet, Hermione suspected it was every bit a nightmare for him as well.

By the end of May, especially, his responsibilities were taking a toll on him.

Normally, Hermione was busy keeping his company afloat with Narcissa, but this evening she accompanied him to Westminster. It wasn't unusual for wives or girlfriends to be present in Westminster; they were strictly forbidden from entering the chambers when in session, but they were welcome to stroll the grounds and chat in the lounges. Hermione and Draco, though, were what Parliament considered to be high-profile persons. Ordinarily, that also wouldn't force Hermione into hiding away in dark library corners when she went to Westminster, but when partnered with her and Draco's unstable relationship, well…

They were careful to keep up the charade of dazzling lovers when in the public eye. This included in front of everyone in Westminster, too, unfortunately. They held onto each other as though the thought of not touching was preposterous, or even marginally detrimental to their health; they were seen leaving and entering the Palace of Westminster with beaming smiles across their face; they ensured that the press captured every stolen glance, warm embrace, and loving kiss.

Behind closed doors, however, Draco went about his business as MP as usual, and Hermione secluded herself either in his office – only when he was in the Chamber – or in the depths of the library.

Her muscles ached from that morning's tasks with Narcissa (drafting over a hundred letters to clients renting property from the company – that she ultimately did "wrong" and had to redo, which took hours) and that afternoon's training session with Astoria (where she and Wood boxed and grappled for hours – Wood repeatedly pinning her with his brutish Scottish tactics). Hermione stood, stretched her sore limbs, and replaced her book in the shelf. She emerged from her corner of the library to find it entirely deserted.

The grandfather clock read quarter past two in the morning.

Exhausted, Hermione set off to find Draco. Surely, he would be eager to return to the Manor by now. Trusting that he hadn't already left her, Hermione descended the grand staircase of the library to the main floor, then turned down the familiar path from its haven to that of Draco's office.

A hand snuck out and tugged her into a dark corridor and another wrapped around her mouth. Hermione immediately sunk her kitten heel into the shin of the person who grabbed her, then spun and swung a fist for her opponent's temple, hoping to throw off their equilibrium.

"Whoa," chuckled Tom, blocking her incoming fist. "There's no need for that, love," he said, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't scare me," retorted Hermione.

"No," he agreed, and his blue eyes glinted. "I suspect I didn't." Tom's hands were cold, surprisingly so given the warmth of the stone building in the late spring evening and the heat of his breath on her neck.

Most of their relationship had involved hushed conversation about various intellectually intriguing topics such as the effect of shell shock on veteran's mental health, which circumstances make it easier to dehumanize one's enemies, and how impressionable the young and vulnerable can be. For months, Tom had not pressured Hermione into doing anything that she was not strictly and wholly comfortable with.

"I know your predicament," he told her early on, when they had first encountered a highly charged interaction, "and I don't pretend to understand the difficulties of your situation. You and Lord Malfoy are beloved by the public, and I am not eager to be the man who is blamed for your separation. Should the time come where you would like to be more than friends, Miss Granger," Tom said, "then I will gladly accept whatever you can give me. I want you, however I can have you, and for however long. But I want to hear it from your lips – your lips only."

Thus, Hermione remained silent.

For one, in part, because Tom was right. Her predicament was peculiar, and that was from his perspective on the outside – he had no idea what he was asking her to do; how much she would be risking her life (even if he did supposedly know about the Death Eaters, he couldn't possibly understand the extent of her precarious position within the gang).

For another, and most importantly, because she wasn't sure what (re: who) she wanted.

Draco was familiar, though recently unavailable and cold, but now and then Hermione caught a glimpse of the old them – the old flame – and it always left her with an ember of hope, sparking to life. Tom, conversely, was new and exciting; his ocean eyes entranced her heart and his unfamiliar hands thrilled her soul.

It was an impossible decision, and not one she planned on making lightly.

There were many factors at state, though as Tom's breath hitched, hands lingered on her hips, and gaze flickered to her lips, Hermione suddenly forgot everything that had been warring inside her head. Her mind went blank.

"Tom," she whispered breathlessly.

"Yes?" He smirked.

Hermione opened, then closed her mouth.

Tom tutted, backing away a breath of a distance. "I told you, Hermione," he said, tucking a frazzled curl behind her ear. "You have to say it. I need to hear the words. Or," he paused, dropping his hand from behind her ear to graze along her clavicle, "I won't touch you. I can't."

At the word touch coming from his perfectly curved lips, Hermione's resolve withered.

"I want you," she gasped, choking on the confession. "I do. I want you Tom,"

The dark glint in his eyes shone in the incoming moonlight. "Good," he whispered against her cheek, once again leaning into her. "Wait," he sighed, backing away and, but this time dragging her with him, out of the alcove. In the quiet darkness, the two of them slipped through the deserted corridors and wound up a side staircase until the stepped foot onto a narrower corridor; offices lined both sides, and Hermione gasped, instantly jerking out of Tom's grip.

"What the hell are we doing here?" She gasped.

He shot her a devilish smirk. "Need not worry, Hermione. We aren't paying your precious boyfriend a visit." Tom led her into one of the unlocked offices and shut the door behind them with a soft click. "This is myoffice," he informed her.

Hermione had to admit she never realized that his office existed just thirty meters away from Draco's, but, then again, they had never met in his office before. This was the first time they had ever been alone – truly alone. The returned glint in Tom's eyes relayed that the thought had occurred to him as well, and that he had no intention of letting the opportunity pass.

"Do you know how much I have wanted you, Hermione?" Tom murmured, backing Hermione against his desk. He picked her up and placed her atop the desk with ease, knocking papers onto the floor. "It has been rewarding to become so familiar with your quick, witty mind." He laughed. "I still don't fully understand it, I'll admit. You continue to perplex me; like a puzzle I could only dream of solving."

Extraordinarily puzzling

"I cannot lie, though," he went on, "and pretend as though I haven't wondered what it would be like to touch you – to feel your skin burn for me and lick the salt off of you after an evening well spent."

His hands secured her hips to his, and Hermione could feel his erection pressing against his trousers.

When his lips finally met hers, the gravitational pull Hermione felt toward him tore open. He took her next breath, holding it captive; his arms ensnared around her body, diminishing the space between them in an instant. If Draco was to be her sun, planets, and all her stars, then what was to come of Tom? Who was he to her? Tom was controlling, possessive, and highly attentive; that much, Hermione already knew about him before he slid her skirt up over her hips and tugged roughly at the tights beneath it. His nimble fingers quickly released one clasp atop her thigh and moved onto the other, meanwhile his teeth sank into the fragile skin at the bottom of her throat.

Tom was detrimental, dark and entirely unknown. He was the bleak blackness of space and behaved like a vacuum, drawing her in with the promise of safety and then ripping her very being to shreds the moment she was his. There would no turning back, once the damage was done – Tom was a blackhole.

Hermione felt trapped.

This was not what she wanted.

Not at all.

For the past six years, Hermione's body – and mind – had only ever known one other man, though sometimes it felt like she had known several. Draco could effortlessly shift his persona; it had been a trait that she had never quite grown comfortable with, until this moment.

More often than not, Hermione saw the leader of the Death Eaters face. He was cruel and distant, devoid of emotion in order to make the most calculated decision. This face of Draco's was cunning and highly logical, though to a point that made Hermione's head spin more than once. His morals were often skewed when he wore this face, which made her previous existence as Penny perilous beyond measure.

Then, there was the face he wore when he was alone with her. It had taken her a while to earn this version of Draco – to glimpse at the man others followed blindly, loyally, and were willing to die for. This was the version of Draco that Hermione had come to fall in love with because it was his barest face; he wore his heart on his sleeve. He was everything to her when he wore this face, and although she hadn't seen it in a long time, she knew it was there. It had to be.

Lastly, there was the ghost face Draco had recently taken up. It was her least favorite because she didn't recognize it. He was vacant, stoic and avoided her as often as he could. When he was in her presence, this face was unreadable, more so than the first face that she had come to understand. Draco would look at her without really looking at her – instead, staring right through her as if she didn't exist; as if she didn't matter.

The opposite of love, as Hermione had learned the hard way, was not hate, but apathy.

In all of the times she and Draco were intimate, there existed several different moods, so to speak. There were the ones that were passionate and hot, where hands could not rip cloth from searing skin quick enough, and then the ones that were divine and saccharine, where it was unclear where one of them ended and the other began.

It was this last mood that woke Hermione up like a splash of cold water straight to the face.

She and Draco destroyed each other nearly as much as they worshipped each other, and it was the result of this twin flame that existed between them that brought as much pain as it did pleasure in their relationship. It wasn't evident to Hermione just how tied to each other she and Draco were (she once called it destiny, and she supposed fate could be cruel in its way given their history) until Tom touched her. It was his enticing conversation and alluring gaze that pulled her in, but it was his touch that pushed her away.

How does one escape a blackhole?

Was it possible?

Hermione didn't know, but she knew she had to try.

For, in all of the various points of her relationship with Draco, even when they were especially destructive, there was never a point where he touched her that she felt quite like this. As Tom's hands roamed further up her thigh, and his lips further down her exposed décolletage, Hermione felt… dirty. It felt wrong. It all felt very, very wrong.

Until Hermione couldn't take it anymore.

She wrangled herself free of Tom's embrace, muttering incoherently, and tripped over her own feet. Cursing herself, Hermione struggled to her feet. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of the papers that fell from Tom's desk. She hadn't intended to pry but one page caught her eye. She had less than a second to make a decision so, Hermione acted on instincts. Her hand reached out to close around the paper –

"What are you doing?"

Hermione straightened up, pulling her skirt down and re-clasping not only her tights, but also her blouse. "Nothing," she assured him, plastering what was hopefully a convincing smile across her lips. "I just – I realized – Draco is expecting me. I have to go, or he'll be suspicious. That's – That's all, Tom."

He stared at her, and Hermione willed her pulse to slow, knowing he would be studying her most minute reactions – ones she could not fake so easily, or at all.

"Alright," he finally ruled. "You're sure everything is fine?"

Hermione nodded, chewing on her bottom lip and shrugging on her coat. "I just – I don't want him to catch us, you know…" She waved her arm lamely, stepping backwards toward the door. "I'll – Err – See you around, then, Tom?"

He nodded; his jaw clenched and blue eyes blazing into her.

No sooner did Hermione emerge into the relative safety of the corridor did she see Draco step out of his office at the other end. He halted mid-step and blinked. "I was just coming to look for you. It's quite late – I didn't realize." Apparently, that was all he planned on saying because he turned on his heel and ducked back into his office without another word or acknowledgement toward her. Hermione sighed, stuffed the stolen papers in her inner lining coat pocket, and traipsed down the hall into Draco's office.

They walked in silence through the empty halls of Westminster to the car.

As they descended the steps outside the main entrance, Hermione felt the hairs prick at the base of her neck and peered nervously around in the darkness. Something felt… off.

"Draco, I think - " No sooner than that thought crept across her mind, pricking at her senses, did the night light up in a white blaze. "Draco!" She screamed. Hermione immediately ducked, attempting to do the impossible and dodge the incoming bullets.

"Hermione!"

Draco's hand shot out, wrapped around her waist and pulled her toward him. His body shielded her as he slid his revolver out from its gun strap and aimed it into the darkness. "Come out!" He shouted. The white lights were gone, though, and those responsible with them. It all happened so quickly, but it was over now. Draco refused to accept that, "You bloody cowards! Come out! Come out! Show your fucking faces, you cowards!"

"Draco," Hermione croaked.

Her head throbbed anew. Each breath was labored and ached; her ribs could barely expand against the insurmountable pressure on her chest. Then, there was the fact that despite the warm London evening, her fingers and toes were frozen and numb. None of these were good signs. Hermione lifted her arm to try and take her pulse, to better assess the irreversible damage – well, she tried to lift her arm. It wouldn't move. Another bad sign.

Fuck.

"Draco," she repeated, desperate to steer his attention toward her. "For fucks sake," she swore, her head bobbing against his shoulder as it got thicker and heavier. Her vision swam. "Draco, look at me." Finally, he did. His slate grey eyes pulled her focus towards them, blurring out everything else. "Hospital," she whispered.

"What? No," he shook his head, "Absolutely not. We can't - "

"We can," she insisted with the last of the energy she could muster. "We – were shot at – in public – we're known figures – it's fine," she huffed. Her lungs burned with every breath.

Something warm trailed down the side of her face and for a moment Hermione feared she sustained a head injury, but then she caught a glimpse of Draco's hand in her peripheral vision. He had stowed the gun to caress her, and his other hand tightened its grip around her waist. Hermione's head bobbed again.

"Alright," he choked out, swallowing hard. "Alright, fine. Yes. We'll go. We'll go to the hospital – just – stay with me? Alright, stay with me." Hermione felt herself leave the ground; her vision swarmed and sent her spiraling. Rather than succumb to the new wave of nausea at being carried, Hermione dutifully shut her eyes and leaned into Draco's chest, inhaling him and using it to anchor herself to the present. "We're almost there," he murmured, cupping her cheek with his palm while he veered recklessly through the empty streets with the other. "Stay with me, Hermione. Don't you dare fucking leave me now."

"Who is the sun?" She mumbled incoherently. "Is it you or is it me?"

The car screeched as the tires burned against the asphalt at the entrance to the emergency department. "Hermione, please. Stay with me." He said, and once again, Hermione was lifted, spinning and spiraling.

"Mine – I forgot – Why you? – Inevitable – Puzzling and inevitable," slipped from between her trembling lips. Everything was cold. It was so, so cold. She wanted to curl up and sleep. The scent of Draco was comforting, perhaps she could just put her head down and sleep for a minute –

"Hey," Draco's voice sounded, piercing through her fuzzy state momentarily. "Stay with me, Hermione. Don't you dare leave me now. Don't you dare," He paused, huffed, then everything got very bright again. "Help! Someone! My – Err – She needs help, she's been shot. Please, I need her –Please,"

"Lord Malfoy," came an unfamiliar male voice somewhere to her left. "Calm down. You need to let her go, so we can treat her." A pause, then louder, "GSW – Get an operating theatre ready, stat – Female – She's lost a lot of blood – Lord Malfoy, you need to let her go,"

"I can't,"

"We need to operate, Lord Malfoy, you have to – We need to take her, now, or she'll continue to bleed out – Fuck, I can't even see how many bullets there are – Let her go,"

"I - "

Hermione couldn't make out anything else before the blackness encapsulated her.


There was a vague sense of falling; amidst a dream-like state, Hermione had the impression that her body was suspended but slowly descending which was utterly disorienting. She couldn't actually feel her body, which was more confounding. It was as if she didn't exist outside of her consciousness and she suspected in some strange, abstract thought process she didn't exist outside of her consciousness (something, most likely, Luna Lovegood would preach).

Her mind, however, was hardly at its full potential.

It was singed; each intake of new information was a loose fragment, and her brain struggled to connect them. It was futile, she was sure, but the predisposition to make sense of her world was ingrained too deeply to attempt otherwise. With her world succumbed to a black numbness (not unlike a blackhole; the irony of that did not escape her) all Hermione could rely on was her sense of hearing.

"Lord Malfoy? You can see her now," some shuffling, a deep inhale, and then, "It was touch and go for a while. The injury was quite extensive. Luckily, she did make it through with what we believe to be no irreparable damage to her vital organs or any others."

"But – How is she?"

Draco, her brain informed her.

"We'll monitor her closely, and she'll be here for a while, I'm afraid. But – I don't want to say anything that might mislead you - "

"Then don't." Clipped and sharp. He was fuming. "Do you have a telephone I can use?"

"Downstairs," replied the calm, monotonous voice. "Ask the receptionist and she'll glad you show you where it is." A moment of silence, followed by, "She can't have visitors, yet."

"Why not?"

Don't be rude, Draco, she wanted to scold him, They are only trying to help. Besides, this will do nothing to help your publicity.

"It's protocol," insisted the other voice, sounding slightly on edge now. "We need to be able to monitor her closely. She's not completely out of the woods yet, Lord Malfoy, and visitors will only – Err – It would make our job of keeping her alive very difficult."

"Fine." A heavy, exasperated sigh. "Is that all?" No audible response, the healer must have nodded. "Lovely, please leave us."

"We'll be back throughout the next few days to check on her progress until she's out of the woods. Once the doctor has given you the all clear, then we can move her out of the intensive care unit and into a more comfortable suite for the rest of her stay. Any visitors will be welcome then, so long as they abide by hospital rules."

"Understood."

A pause, then more shuffling. There was a faint creak, as if a door was only half-shut. "Goodnight, Lord Malfoy. I do hope you are able to get some shut eye before our morning rounds." There was a more definite thud as the door shut.

Another exhale; this time much closer to where Hermione must be.

"Fucking hell, Hermione," sighed Draco. She imagined his disapproving grimace ordinarily paired with the statement. "You never learn, do you? I don't know why you won't stay away from me, but I am so fucking glad that you won't. I know that's horrible, but as it is, I probably already have a special place reserved for myself in Hell and if you don't stay away from me, then what I am expected to do? Fuck knows I can't stay away from you."

Hermione yearned for one of her other senses; she wanted to touch him – comfort him with a gentle caress – or to see him and lose herself in the sparkling silver of his eyes.

Suddenly, her consciousness darkened and swam; her thoughts returned to a state of confusion and chaos. She did, luckily, catch a few more words slip from between Draco's lips as she drifted into sleep again.

"I know I have no right – no fucking right – to ask this, but please stay with me. Don't leave me, Hermione."


"What happened?"

With the shriek of a new voice entering her senses, Hermione struggled to place where she was and what was happening. Evidently, it was a fair question all around. Her conscious was still sore and frazzled; the intake and processing of information was about all it seemed her brain was currently capable of which proved infuriating for attempting to orient herself. However, there was a new development that was, on the one hand, a sign that her recovery was most likely moving in the right direction and, on the other hand, explicitly unwelcome.

Everything hurt.

Her entire body was sensitive and ached with any touch or movement. While part of her was aware that someone was holding her hand to comfort her, as well as themselves, the other part of her wanted to scream at them to please stop touching her. Everything was raw; her sense of touch, previously deprived (for fuck knows how long) of connections, was now hot as a live wire and burned at the smallest input.

With every breath, her lungs constricted and stretched against sore muscles and throbbing bones.

"Well?" The voice prompted; Hermione registered it with a painful lurch as belonging to Astoria. "Also, why didn't they let us see her earlier? It's been days, Draco, and your incredibly infrequent phone calls were not sufficient when Rita bloody Skeeter is constantly releasing rubbish articles about what she thinks transpired. So, what the fuck happened?"

"Firstly," he said, sounding irritable and tired, "I am not to blame for that. It's hospital protocol that no visitors are allowed in the intensive care units. Personally, I think it's fucked up but…" He trailed off, and Hermione's hand burned anew as he must have taken up holding it again.

"Don't be rude, Draco," chided another feminine voice – Narcissa. "They are only trying to help and berating them will do nothing to help your the way, it was a brilliant idea to take her to a hospital in the first place."

"The nurses and doctors agree," he replied. "They say she's lucky enough to have made it from Westminster to the operating table without bleeding out. I wouldn't say that's fucking luck, but who am I to judge?"

Astoria added her assent, "I can't even think about what good it would have done to bring her back to the Manor. We can dig out a few bullets and patch up some nasty wounds, but this? This was far out of our league. It was definitely a good call."

"It was her idea, actually," Draco corrected.

There was a subtle cough. "I meant it was a brilliant idea because of the press," clarified Narcissa. "But those are good points, too." A low chuckle escaped her lips, and Hermione could practically feel the smug expression Narcissa was giving her; pursed rouge lips, pale narrowed eyes and accentuated cheekbones. "Even minutes from death, Granger still outwits us all. It'll be a pity if she doesn't make it," she remarked. "She was growing on me." A weighty pause, followed by, "Don't you dare fucking tell her that."

"Noted," quipped Astoria drily. "Really, though, what the bloody hell happened?" she went on, clearly addressing Draco as he was the only one among them withholding the truth of the situation.

"Rita fucking nailed it, actually," Draco replied. "For once in her life."

A soft grunt from Narcissa, then, "Of all bloody times."

"Shit," exhaled Astoria. "What happens now?" Hermione's other hand was immediately doused in fire. Fucking hell, she groaned internally. "Obviously, we're going to hunt down and kill these fuckers, right? I mean – Fuck the judicial system and all that. If we do it correctly - "

"Using our New Order allegiance, you mean?" Cut in Narcissa.

"Yes, clearly." Astoria sniffed. "I can run the initial investigation. We both know I'm the best at gathering information without being noticed. Besides, I'm growing bored with these missing boy cases, Draco. They ran away – it happens. Let me track down the motherfuckers who did this to her and I promise I will leave at least one for you." A pause. "The best one. Come on. Gathering intel is what I do best so, let me do that. Let me be useful."

There was an audible sigh, followed by the sweet relief of Hermione's hands being lifted from the searing fire; they let go of her.

"Fine. But you have to report back everything to me. No going rogue, understood?"

"Yes, yes, fine. I'll tell you everything." Astoria promised.

There was a repetitive noise that must have been Draco impatiently tapping his foot against the tiled flooring. "You're going to do whatever you want, aren't you?"

"Yep,"


"Draco, you look shite."

Theo, Hermione mused inwardly, definitely Theo.

"Thanks," came Draco's drawled response.

"Hey, don't mention it." Theo quipped in return. "Seriously, though, why don't you go back to the Manor? You could definitely use a better wash-up than whatever you're getting here. Plus, that decade old armchair is doing absolutely nothing for your posture. How do you expect to run the bloody Death Eaters with a hunchback, hm?"

"For the love of God," groaned another male voice. Harry, she realized happily. "Shut up, Nott."

"For once, I agree with Potter. Shut up, Nott."

A disgruntled scoff emanated from somewhere to Hermione's right. This semi-state of consciousness, she felt a bit more alert of her surroundings and her body. It was still raw and painful, but at least her other senses seemed to be functioning properly, picking up the gap her vision left. A dark thought twisted in the base of her skull, prompting Hermione to fear her vision may never come back. Quickly, she shoved that foreboding possibility aside.

"Draco," Theo said again, earning an exasperated sigh from the other man, "Go the fuck home. Honestly, the nurses are complaining. I'm sure at this point it's actually detrimental to Granger's health for you to still be here - "

"Fuck, fine." Draco snapped. "I'll go if you just shut the fuck up."

"Deal, done." Theo replied hastily. Hermione guessed he wore an exceptionally smug grin. "Go."

"I'll be back in a few hours, and if you dare pull any of your usual shenanigans, Nott, I swear to fuck - "

"When have I ever - "

"Nott," growled Draco warningly.

"For fuck's sake," muttered Theo. His footsteps echoed as he moved across the room and settled beside Hermione, presumably literally taking Draco's place.

"Don't worry," input Harry, "I'll be here to oversee everything. She's in good hands."

"That's hardly reassuring, Potter, and I sincerely doubt that's true. Nevertheless, Theo's right, I have to go. Just – Don't touch anything – Try not to burn the hospital down – No harassing the nurses - "

"What about - " Theo started.

"Or the doctors," Draco interrupted. He paused, "Or the other patients, or anyone. Just – Leave everyone alone and don't do anything until I get back." His footsteps receded along with muttered obscenities just before a loud boom echoed, alerting Hermione that the door had slammed shut behind him.

"Thank fuck," exhaled Theo. "I love Draco, but he needed a break. This whole not leaving her side thing was clearly starting to get to him." There was a bit more shuffling, followed by what Hermione could only imagine to be Harry sitting at the foot of her hospital cot. "What?" Theo prompted, referring to an expression on Harry's face that Hermione could (obviously) not see.

"You love Draco, huh?"

"Oh, fuck off, Potter. You know I love you, too."

A low chuckle. "I know. I just like hearing you say it."

"You mean you like making me say it." Theo corrected in his notorious matter-of-fact tone. It was infuriating mostly because it was accurate in that, usually, he was right.

"Same difference," sniffed Harry. He adjusted his position to rest a hand on one of Hermione's shins. This time, it didn't send jarring spikes of burning pain up her nervous system, to her immense relief. "Also, why did you say that about Malfoy like it was a bad thing? Are you saying that if I ever ended up in Hermione's situation, or one like it, that you would leave my side?"

A drawn-out groan.

"No," countered Theo. "That's not at all what I meant. It was a fucking joke, Harry," he said, almost pleading with his partner, "So, will you just – Oh, you fucking prick – You know I hate it when you do that. Fuck, I fall for it every time." Suddenly Theo's finger was tracing funny shapes along Hermione's upper arm. "If you were in the same situation as Granger," he went on. "I don't know what I would do."

There was a beat of silence.

"I would like to think I would have hunted whoever was responsible down by now. Made them pay. Take my time with their deaths and make them wish they'd never been born in the first place." Theo murmured. "Then again, I don't think I would risk leaving for one second in case something happened because…" A deep inhale and exhale. "Because you are my fucking life, Harry. Literally. If something happened to you – I don't – I can't even think about it."

"I know," replied Harry softly. "I know, Theo. I feel that way, too."

"Fuck you," sniffed Theo, obviously wiping away snot or tears – or both. "You make me so fucking soft, Potter."

"And hard," added Harry.

A choke on laughter. "God, that was fucking horrible. Don't quit your day-job, Potter." He paused, gathered himself together, then continued. "Speaking of your day-job, any updates?"

"Well…"

Hermione never heard what Harry told Theo because the familiar pull of darkness beckoned to her once more. This time, she greeted it like an old friend and wondered what new development in her recovery process would awaken when she did next.


The first thing Hermione noticed was instead of an abyss of blackness, her vision swarmed with a steel slate grey. She blinked, registering that her sight had returned; through the blurriness, she could just make out a golden halo floating just above the grey. She stirred, testing her sore muscles and was relieved to find that, although still throbbing with pain, it was a manageable, predictable pain.

"Draco," she croaked, testing her voice for the first time in who knows how long. "What happened?"

He inhaled sharply, fully coming into focus as he loomed over her in the hospital cot. He was sitting beside her, propping his hands on either side of her face. "Hey," he greeted. His lips formed a thin line, and behind him the bleak twilight slowly morphed into a bright, orange sunrise. Hermione shifted to cover her eyes from the incoming harsh light, but Draco was quick to stop her from moving. "Don't move just yet. You're still fragile, I'm afraid. Healer says you're going to be in a world of pain, but I'll go convince the nurse to increase your morphine drip now that you're awake."

He began to sit up, but Hermione moaned her opposition.

"No," she murmured. "Don't go yet. I – I want to know what happened."

"I – I don't - "

"Please," she begged. Her memory was fine, she believed, but it was still foggy what actually happened to her body; she knew they had been shot at, and that she had taken a few bullets, but no more than that. "Tell me."

Draco sighed.

"You are impossibly stubborn." He sat back down on the cot, then looked out the window rather than meet her imploring gaze. "We were ambushed leaving Westminster. I'm still not sure who is responsible, but I promise you they won't escape their fate. I can't wait to rip - "

"Draco," she sighed, cutting off his tangent.

"Right. Well," he cleared his throat. "I was probably the intended target, but they missed me entirely. You, though, you – There was a lot of blood. I lost my mind for a bit, then you insisted on going to the hospital. It was a good call, but at the time I – I was a mess. I didn't want to – Anyway," he shifted, still not meeting her eye, instead staring at his pristine leather shoes.

Hermione took in his appearance.

He wore exquisite clothing, as he always did, and she had no doubt that each piece cost more than the average Englishman's monthly income – perhaps, yearly even. That didn't seem to matter to Draco as he clearly treated his attire with less than his usual attention. Rather than having a three-piece suit with every time piece, button, and clasp perfectly placed to give him an air of authority and wealth, he opted for a simple oxford and trouser with both wrinkled. The top three buttons of his oxford were even undone, giving Hermione a glimpse at the tiny golden chest hairs that gleamed in the morning light.

Draco looked effortlessly handsome.

"They took you away from me," he said, continuing on with the story. "I didn't hear anything for a while. Then, finally," he choked on a low chuckle; a sad exhale of relief, "they let me see you. The doctor says you sustained a lot of internal bleeding."

He told her what the doctor relayed, almost verbatim, which was comforting to Hermione in a way that she hadn't quite expected. She supposed it might have been because her extremely logical, calculated brain could make better sense of what happened based on the extent of her injuries.

Hermione had suffered three gunshot wounds to her abdominal region.

The massive damage led the doctors to believe Hermione had not been shot just with a typical, low-energy pistol bullet. A low-energy pistol bullet would give up its energy fairly rapidly once it makes contact with its target; if it hits muscle, for example – like it did with her left external oblique muscle – it causes some laceration of the tissue.

Two of the bullets that hit Hermione were low-energy pistol bullets. The first was the one that tore through her muscle; alone, it would not have caused irreparable damage and her recovery time would be much less than in reality. The second bullet lodged itself in her inferior phrenic artery; it would have been difficult to remove without inflicting further damage, but since it was not a through-and-through, it ended up helping her in the long run but not tearing through the artery.

A high-energy, high-velocity bullet from a semi-automatic rifle, however, causes extensive injury into the organ it hits. As the velocity of a bullet is doubled, the energy it releases upon impact is quadrupled – Einstein's theory of relativity can be applied here. When a high-energy, high-velocity rifle bullet hits a target, then the bullet tends to tumble inside the body. If such a bullet hits an organ such as the liver, for example, which is enclosed in a capsule, then it can literally blow the liver apart.

This is what happened to Hermione.

It was the entire reason Hermione nearly lost her life (again). The right lobe of her liver had been shot to pieces and there was a huge tear in her diaphragm. The profuse bleeding from one of her hepatic veins was the reason for all of her blood loss and is what made it difficult for the surgeons to locate and stop the bleeding.

It was touch and go.

From repairing her diaphragm and liver – miraculously given what was left – to suturing every hole in her arteries, veins, nerves and muscles, Hermione survived.

"I thought I was going to lose you," admitted Draco.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond reflexively and reassure him that it was fine, she was recovering well and would be out of here before they knew it. But then she caught the twitch at the corner of his eyes. He didn't mean physically – well, perhaps, he did but he also meant it another way.

"The way we're going you just might," she confessed.

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair before meeting her eye again. "I just – I don't know what to do. I still care about you – I do. But every time I look at your or talk to you, I can't help but wonder who you are. Which memories were real, and which were an illusion? Which parts of you were Penny, and which parts were Hermione?"

Hermione licked her lips.

She wanted to make this work, and she could see in the tension of his shoulders that he did, too. Besides, hadn't her dalliance with Tom only proved just how much she wanted to be with Draco? She knew she would choose him; fate would choose them.

"Then ask me," she said, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen between them. "Ask me. I promise I will answer honestly, but you have to give me your word you won't use this against me. If you were serious about caring for me, and not wanting to lose me, then you have to swear to me, Draco. Swear you won't punish me." She exhaled loudly. "I have had quite enough of that from you."

"I know," he lamented. "I don't know who I was last year. It felt like I was an empty shell. A man with no soul, just a body. I didn't know who I was – what I wanted – what to do with you – and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Hermione."

She hesitated for two breaths, then nodded.

Not forgiven – yet – but understood.

"Ask me," she repeated. "Why don't we start lightly, hm?"

He shifted, toying with his hands, then mumbled, "Your birthday," he recalled. "You said it was the fourteenth of September."

"Penny's was," Hermione replied. "I was aware of your knowledge and connections before I went undercover. At the time, I hadn't fully understood just how extensive both were, but…" She trailed off, shrugging. "To be safe, I gave a fake birthday when Theo asked."

"Your actual birthday is the nineteenth of September," Draco recited. "Still a Virgo, then?"

Hermione bit back a laugh; her abdomen reared in pain at the motion. "Yes. That's true."

Draco contemplated his next question. His grey eyes scanned her face, seeming to study it. Hermione wondered if she'd suffered and facial lacerations but discarded the concern for the gleam in Draco's silvery gaze. He'd thought of another one. "Your car," he began. "When Theo and I first saw you – When I first met you. Was that a ploy this whole time?"

Again, Hermione stifled a laugh.

"Yes and no. It was Shacklebolt's intention for me to get hired by your company and spy on you from the inside. Penny was supposed to be a skilled assistant with an impressive resume, including driving. I, however," she gave him a soft smile, "am extremely unskilled at driving. I couldn't start the car. Neither of us could have predicted you would be the one to rescue me. Thanks for that," she added with a cheeky grin.

Draco's lips curved into a pleasant half-smile. "No problem," he remarked.

And so, it went on. He asked her various details of their previous life – as Penny and Draco – and she answered him as truthfully as she could. That is, until, Draco asked his final question. At this point, he had shifted to lay beside her on the bed; it was risky in that they both knew the morning rounds were taking place by now and a nurse could walk in on them any second. It was thrilling, she supposed, how they both felt like guilty teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

"Hermione," Draco murmured tentatively. "Was any of it ever real? Did you love me – Do you still?"

A bitter taste formed on the tip of her tongue.

"That's not a fair question."


A/N - I am so sorry for the late update! I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy during this pandemic. Luckily, it means I will have much more time to write (and now that I have fully developed the plot, it will update frequently). I know I said this before, but this time I mean it lol! Thank you again for all of your wonderful reviews and support for this story! PS - the complete playlist is now available at the bottom of my page :)

The title of this chapter comes from Drake's song Headlines from the lines tuck my napkin in my shirt, cause I'm just mobbin' like that / you know good and well that you don't want a problem like that / you gon' make someone around me catch a body like that xx