Reader discretion is advised.

-Yearn-

"Mirrors on the ceiling
The pink champagne on ice
And she said, 'We are all just prisoners here
Of our own device'..." - Eagles

4 January 2012 7:59AM

Everyday he gets the haunting call of an old friend breaking through his occlumency walls, and he locks himself in a bathroom to greet it. That chilling embrace lures his hand to hover over his left sleeve. The darkness in the gloom; the song of a dying phoenix; the bittersweet iron scent… Pain is the closest friend that Draco Malfoy has.

He stares at his gaunt reflection in the pristine mirror, all hollow cheeks and sunken eyes with complimentary shadows. Most people mistake it as being overworked. Beads of sweat are forming on his forehead where his hair is slicked back with a vibrant green saamis. He does not deserve the saamis. He does not deserve to even be sweating or even breathing in this sickening orchid odoured, glossy-tiled bathroom. Watching himself go blurry in the mirror as he bares his teeth, Draco rips up his left sleeve.

He doesn't need to blink away his tears to know that the Dark Mark is stark and smooth on his skin as it ever was. It's as pristine and immaculate as the mirror facing him. A few tears tumble down his cheeks. Everything can be blamed on this damn mark — everything. The Muggles call it karma. Draco plunges his hand into his green robes and whips out his wand. Just this morning he'd burned it, for what may have been the hundredth time. He's lost count. The skin surrounding it is still blistered. If he tries to cut the Dark Mark, only his blistered skin would suffer for long. The same applies for jinxing, hexing, potion and plant poisons, burns or stings.

The Dark Mark dies, and is reborn in seconds. Draco lives for those few seconds. In the blink of an eye he can forget, only revel in the pain, the real, true, human pain.

"Sectumsempra!" he snarls, then gasps as he watches the black-inked skin rip open. He grits his teeth and grins, breathing shakily, as the blood he had been so proud of pours over the cracked skull and split snake. For three seconds, the delusion survives: he is a free man. His skin stings, most noticeably at the blistered rims, but then when the snake begins to stitch itself back into place it's as if a Dementor has returned to snatch his soul away. He clenches his eyes shut. Snake-like eyes forever imprinted in his eyelids gleam as the voice of a dead man hisses a haunting tune,

"You can check out any time you like,
But you can never leave."

The sharp knocks at the door startle him so much he nearly drops his wand. Eyes snapping open, Draco casts the counter-charm for Muffliato.

"Are you in there?" He exhales through his nose. Now the euphoria has sort of died he can shove back his old friend behind his occlumency walls.

"Yes, Parvati."

As her body weight leans on the door, Draco whips the green sleeve of his robes back down. He checks the floor and his shoes for any drops of blood but it's as if nothing ever happened. "Did you have Mexican last night or something?" That manages to draw a small snort from him.

"C'mon, Parv!" he goads, "You've gone missing in the bathroom way longer than today on several occasions, I recall. How come women get a free pass but for men it's life or death?"

Parvati's muffled scoff makes him smirk. "Women do their makeup! They make themselves presentable in civil society, Draco. I bet if I were to open the door you would still look like a mountain troll." He scowls at his reflection in the mirror. She's right.

"Well," he says teasingly, turning his back on the mirror as he takes long strides to the door and cleaning his cheeks of any drying tear tracks on the way, "in our line of work I hardly see a plausible reason for looking like a Witch Weekly model. Wouldn't you agree?"

"What, so we can scare off our patients towards Nightingale's?" she retorts. He rolls his eyes, his polished shoes going tap, tap, tap, against the tiles.

"Everybody knows Nightingale's is for illegal surgeries. Not to mention illegal Healers."

"It's hip with the youth, now," she snarks.

"Ouch. We're not getting that old, are we?" he asks, making the final few steps to the door.

"No, just loads of kids doing things they shouldn't be. If the Ministry would only agree to patient confidentiality…" He hums in agreement.

Grabbing the door handle, he pulls the door open abruptly and Parvati nearly stumbles into him. But one of the things he admires about her is her ability to regain her composure quickly. With her sharp, brown eyes, she glares up at him. "Prat. You did that on purpose."

Draco fixes her with his signature smirk, and shrugs. "I can't see through walls, can I?" She cocks her perfectly arched eyebrow skeptically. "And you are aware that men can do their makeup, too?" She mirrors his smirk.

"I can tell you haven't." She slaps something onto his chest; Draco looks down his chin, taking a second to process the upside-down 'Happy 4 Years' flashing on the sticker. His smirk fades. As he looks up, Parvati tilts her head to the side. "The crew's waiting for you in the cafeteria. Susan made a cake. Dennis brought a camera. Penelope promised not to fight. Try and be nice, eh?" He plasters his smirk back on, ignoring the stone in his stomach.

"When am I not?"

4 January 2012 8:25AM

She hates Mrs. Walker with the same passion that she hates the scumbag breeders she unearths from the dregs of Knockturn Alley. Damn Mrs. Walker and her long, spidery legs in those stiletto heels. That click, click, click, against cement printed with hopscotch squares and graffitied with chalk drawings of flowers and cars. The elegant way that her glossy blonde curls bob; damn the way she takes 'not a single hair out of place' too literally. Somehow she has the time to coat her face perfectly in makeup in the mornings. Her clothes evolve with the seasons, and today she has that white obnoxious fur coat. A brave choice. Mrs. Walker's favourite colour is in fact white. And yet whether it be a summer dress or that damn fur coat, there will never be a single vomit, piss or chocolate milkshake stain. The child hanging off her hip and the other trailing after her obediently have been well trained. The worst part of it all? Mrs. Walker does not have the help of magic.

"Why won't you listen to me Mummy?" Hermione flinches. "I don't want to go back to school!" She rips her glare away from Mrs. Walker and redirects it on the tiny madam with the quivering red curls. The colour of Rose's face is an alarmingly similar shade to that of her hair — it means that she's either going to go completely silent or scream in similar fashion to one of the many banshees Hermione has to deal with in her line of work. But between the banshees and her daughter, she'd say it's the latter that's made her go permanently deaf in her left ear. Hermione tightens her lips and gives Rose 'the eyebrow', but sweat breaks at the back of her neck despite the biting new year's air. There's just no knowing with this kid.

"And why not?" she chastises, "You've spent all your holiday complaining about how bored you were. Now you have something to do, sweetheart." If possible, Rose goes even redder. And little tears spring up in her cobalt eyes. God and Merlin help me now. Her prayers are somewhat answered. Rose goes completely silent, sulking sullenly down at the floor. Hermione breathes a quiet sigh of relief. Though she does frown as she studies her daughter's defeated figure. Now that she thinks of it, as of late, Rose's tantrums have ended more and more on the quiet side. Perhaps it's because the past few months have been tough on her. Or maybe Rose is more comfortable being herself around Ron.

Frown deepening, Hermione whips out her phone and starts reading the thirty or so text messages she'd agonizingly ignored for the sake of a morning routine. A dozen clients with some re-raised legal concerns. Theme there's the standard anonymous, untraceable death threats. She's impressed that someone who claims to be a former Death Eater has grasped the concept of using a phone — this twat states that he/she knows that she works at the Ministry. She's half tempted to respond with 'no shit Sherlock', but that probably wouldn't pack the same punch with a culturally oblivious Voldemort worshiper. Hermione just blocks the numbers and keeps scrolling. When she catches sight of a Cho Angel link for discounts her eyes roll so far up her head she feels momentarily dizzy. When on Earth did she shop at Cho Angel and give up her phone number? She must have been drunk. Her thumb pauses on the text below the clothing promotion. Hermione's eyes widen.

Bending down and placing a quick kiss on her daughter's forehead, she says, "Have a good day, baby."

"Are you at least going to be home early?" Rose's small voice asks, so small that Hermione doesn't register it until she's sprinted halfway across the playground, right past Mrs. Walker and her magnificently obedient children. She comes to an abrupt stop, her plimsolls skidding across the concrete and smudging a chalk drawing of a flower in the process. With her handbag swinging at the crook of her elbow and her phone clutched in her hand, Hermione whips around. But the classroom door is now gaping open with a teacher standing guard, and her daughter is nowhere in sight.

4 January 2012 8:43AM

They stand there, frozen, as the door swings shut behind them, casting out the general clamour and bustle of St Mungo's first floor corridors. Susan hadn't even managed to cut her gorgeous-looking red velvet cake before the Patronus flew in. Several months ago, a man had walked in and given the main reception visitors a fright — two jagged arm sockets protruded grotesquely from the torn sleeves of his jumper, and on one of his shoulders he carried a duffel bag containing both his arms. A few months after that, a child was rushed in by his frantic mother; his lower jaw had been ripped off completely, and was in the sobbing woman's fist. On New Year's Eve, a young woman somehow Apparated into one of the wards with her bleeding heart clutched in her hands. Draco had to leave Scorpius with his mother, who was as happy about having to stay at his home for the night as he was about having to leave his son during the festivities, when he got the Patronus.

But despite their grisly injuries, there was one thing that always killed these patients first: an unknown poison that Longbottom is dubbing 'Achlys' Love'. The most troubling part about it is that although it kills them, it is also the same thing keeping them alive through otherwise fatal injuries. He claims it's a venom from a creature that has almost certainly been genetically modified several times, both through natural and magical means, and that to trace its original species is near impossible. Draco just throws thousands of galleons at him and always tells him to get on with it.

In the meanwhile, they have to deal with another victim.

"Wasn't expecting another one so soon," Parvati breaks the silence between them, her shaky exhale blowing against his neck. Draco barely hears her over the blood-curdling howls of the man before them. If he were to hazard a guess, both Dennis and Susan wouldn't have heard her at all. But they've already wasted ten seconds staring at the patient and time is not a luxury when Death wants a soul.

"Dennis!" he barks, not turning to see if he'd startled the poor lad, "I need you to perform diagnostics on him. Check for blood loss, water levels, sugar levels…" The young man stumbles forward with his wand in hand, darting hesitantly towards the hospital bed where the curled up man is screaming. As Dennis voices the standard procedures of letting the patient know what is about to happen to him, Draco turns to a bone-white Susan and commands, "We need dittany and blood replenishing potions. Bring the First Degree Emergency Kit too." She nods and practically sprints out of the door. "Parvati, get Longbottom here. In fact while you're at it, drag in Lovegood too. Maybe we could get something out of his blood for an antidote…" They lock eyes, and a grim understanding finishes the sentence for him; all traces of the poison vanishes from the blood of the victim when they die, whether it be in their body or out. Parvati Apparates out of the room as the time ticks. Finally, Draco turns to his mentor. Penelope has a tendency to give him critical looks and sneering remarks, but right now, she gives him a nod of approval.

Somehow, that's worse.

Averting his eyes, Draco focuses on monitoring both Dennis and the patient's health status. If it wasn't for the fact that the man has been cleanly skinned, it would appear that he's perfectly healthy. Checking the bed and sheets underneath the man with a silent flick of his wand, Draco scoffs faintly at the sloppy work. No cushioning charms, no extra antibacterial and antiviral properties have been added. Just watching the man's bare muscles sticking to the hard cotton sheets makes a cringe scrape down his spine and curl his toes. He casts the required charms to the sheets, as well a non-sticking one. The pop behind him informs him Parvati is back.

"Merlin!" breathes Longbottom, as he skids to Draco's side and slips on some dragonhide gloves.

Snapping his head towards him, he orders, "Take a blood sample. Now!" As Longbottom wastes no time, he swivels around to find Parvati alone while Penelope watches everything in the corner. "Where's—"

"In Australia," says Parvati, as she simultaneously watches Dennis and Longbottom over his shoulder. "On a Quibbler trip with her father."

"Salazar's Grave," he murmurs.

"I doubt the Australian Ministry would arrange her portkey fast enough so I just told her to enjoy her trip." As she finishes her sentence, he nods and gestures towards the patient's bed. Dennis takes his cue and steps aside, waving his wand so a parchment and quill zoom out of his pocket and hover beside his head. Longbottom's vial becomes full of almost black liquid, at which point he Apparates out of the room to his lab. Parvati approaches the bed and starts waving her wand to do more advanced diagnostics, like checking for injuries other than the obvious and traces of any other herbs, potions or drugs. Draco reads the diagnostics, brows furrowed. From behind him, Dennis' quill scratches furiously. They need to reconstruct this man's skin in the same way they would for the rare burn victims they get. The only difference is, skin, being the largest organ in the human body, is going to take a mighty long time for them to do correctly for this man's whole body. Any number of mistakes could happen. Not to mention the fact that they've never had a patient in this condition before; nor have they had to reconstruct skin to this magnitude.

As if reading his thoughts, Parvati asks, "Should we just give the poor man some pain-reliever?" It's a stupid question, and judging from the grim expression on her face when he looks up, she knows it. They learned from the child victim that pain-relieving potions, in a similar fashion to death, alters the properties of Achyls' Love for blood both inside and out, preventing Longbottom from being able to find a cure.

"Where's Susan?" Draco demands the room at large. Penelope marches to the door and wrenches it open, but backs away as the loud clamour emerges into the ward. A woman wearing jogging bottoms, a hoodie and strange flat shoes storms in, her copper curls as wild as they always were and her eyes burning. Behind her, Zabini contrasts with her horribly in his crisp suit and tie, polished shoes and slicked back hair. Finally, Susan stumbles in, clutching the First Degree Medical Kit to her chest.

"Everything's in there," she pants, cheeks red, "and I tried to stop them."

"Granger," she flinches, a clear sore spot, which he takes a quick note of since the Slytherin in him never quite died, "Zabini," Draco greets loudly with false pleasantry, "Lovely to see the both of you. Unfortunately, now is not the time." He points at the howling man for emphasis as Susan speeds over to the bed and starts applying the required potions to the man with Parvati's guidance. Penelope catches the closing the door and holds it open for them. Zabini, looking rather green around the gills, moves to step away, but pauses when Granger doesn't move. Her eyes study the patient, before landing on Draco.

"He's one of my employees," she snaps. Jaw clenching, Draco nods patiently. "He shouldn't be in the Magical Creature Ward — I've read about the cases, and there are no creatures on Earth who are capable of this damage. It's too clean for even the more sentient man-killers."

"That we know of," Draco says, watching her eyes narrow. "Longbottom says it's creature venom. I trust his judgement."

"It was a person," Granger growls, though she doesn't resist when Zabini takes her shoulder and gently tugs her away. Her words niggle a long-buried thought in Draco, but when Penelope shuts the door behind them, he does the same with that thought.

4 January 2012 9:16AM

She paces back and forth outside Room 207 for twelve minutes and fifty-five seconds. Blaise had attempted conversation at three minutes and twenty-seven seconds but she shot him a glare that silenced him for the rest of the harrowing minutes. At thirteen minutes and a second, the door finally opens. One look at Malfoy's solemn expression is enough to tell her that Ritchie Coote is dead.

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't," she snaps, and Malfoy's mouth clamps shut. From behind him, Healers Clearwater, Patil, Bones and Creevey emerge from the room, the saamis' of the last three askew. Hermione gives them a stiff nod before zeroing her eyes back on the man who had led the operation. "How did he die?"

Just as Malfoy opens his mouth, a Healer clad in the signature St Mungo's green robes bumps into Hermione. She whips around to curse at the clumsy kid casting fearful looks and bumbling apologies over his shoulder, but Malfoy interrupts her. "Perhaps we should go back to my office?"

As they slice through the traffic of the corridors, Malfoy gradually orders Dennis, Susan and Parvati into different operation rooms based on what he spots and which Healer requests help. Hermione remembers reading about the notorious Death Eater taking up a career in Healing in the Daily Prophet, which had caused an uproar in the British wizarding community. But for all the protests and death threats, St Mungo's refused to fire him without probable cause. Something Hermione completely agreed with, in contrast to Ron. It even led to Nightingale's hospital being built — though due to uneducated and unskilled management and staff, and a significant lack of Ministry approval, the hospital itself ended up being more notorious than Malfoy. She'll admit it: he's made a name for himself, and he's doing some good.

But he also failed to keep Ritchie alive.

Hermione's the last one into Malfoy's pristine office, and she kicks the door shut behind her. Penelope strides over to the window displaying the grey London street below and turns her back on them. Zabini leans on a bookshelf close to Hermione. On the wall adjacent to him, a majestic grandfather clock ticks in the silence beside an ornamental fireplace. Malfoy stands behind his desk, dumping his saamis onto it and flattening his palms against the surface. Her eyes do a quick scour of it, taking note of neatly arranged folders and clean hardback books with gold lettering. One book in particular catches her attention — The History of Hereditary Blood Curses. She'd read about his wife, too.

"It was the same poison that killed Wolfgang Jamestown, Roman Vane and Katie Bell." Hermione glances up. His steely eyes flicker between the book and her. She juts her chin up.

"Neville didn't have enough time, then. Katie lasted three hours."

Nodding grimly, he says, "He sent us the Patronus a few seconds after he passed."

"I want an autopsy report," Hermione orders, narrowing her eyes when Malfoy smirks at her. From behind him, Penelope lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle.

"You're not an Auror, Granger."

She grits her teeth for a few seconds, that damn clock ticking away. "As his former employer," she raises her finger and shakes it aggressively, "I have the right to ask for his autopsy report under the Renaissance of Merlin, and when I ask a St Mungo's employee for the autopsy report of the late Ritchie Coote I expect to get it!" The change in Malfoy's stance is subtle, but she still catches it. His lips twitch ever so slightly downwards, his shoulders tense slightly, his head inching over his shoulder to the direction of the window. She stores this reaction in the back of her mind. Everybody shows different signs when they get nervous. Malfoy hasn't been keeping up with the Ministry's rapidly evolving laws. When Penelope keeps her back turned to him and doesn't say a word, his steely stare is pinned back on her.

"Fine." And judging from his quick submission, he doesn't want to admit it. "One of our experts will have gotten the signal of his passing." Malfoy gances at his watch. "It'll take another twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, for the report to be complete. In the meanwhile, would you like to stay or would you like to go about your day and get an owl?"

She glances at Blaise, who up until now was staring down at his obnoxious shoes. They share a look of understanding — in which he smirks and she purses her lips — that he takes his cue, pushing himself off the bookshelf and strutting to the door. "It was great seeing you again, Malfoy. St Mungo's has been kind to you," he drawls, before the door slams shut. Blaise has always been good as complimentary insults. Malfoy looks like death; but to be fair, Hermione isn't that much better. She can usually tell who's a parent based on shadows under eyes, bloodshot eyes, gaunt and sickly complexions and the general air of a zombie. Usually. She's come across a fair few Mrs. Walkers, too.

"Either of you ladies fancy a drink at nine-thirty in the morning?" Hermione scoffs.

Penelope grunts. "Not when you're working," she says over her shoulder in a disciplinary tone. Malfoy merely smirks down his desk. A drawer opens and shuts, and he lifts a bottle of firewhiskey from behind his desk. Penelope turns around completely, arms crossed, face scowling. "You've impressed me today. Don't ruin it."

"Sobriety potions exist, thanks to the brilliant Dagworth-Granger." He glances at Hermione pointedly, who finds her cheeks flushing. Of course he would find a way to throw her Muggle-born heritage at her. Wizarding racism had to find a way to evolve, after all.

"They also have a time-limit," Penelope retorts.

Malfoy uncorks the bottle, conjuring a glass for himself. His smirk is slowly disappearing. "I'll be honest with you, Penelope. I've never seen a man skinned alive." The former Ravenclaw's arms uncross. She takes a couple steps towards him and places her hand on his shoulder. Hermione suddenly feels as if she's under Harry's invisibility cloak spying on them, so she takes her phone out and starts typing the horrible message she'll have to send to all her employees.

"You'll come across worse, Malfoy." Hermione's thumbs pause. "No more than one glass. Carry those sobriety potions with you all day. I'm going to get people to keep tabs on you." The approaching tapping of her shoes makes Hermione shift away from the door, keeping her eyes on her phone screen.

When the door shuts, Malfoy exhales. He starts humming a tune she can't quite place her finger on. Straining her ears, she catches him murmur something along the lines of: "This could be Heaven or this could be Hell." When she glances at him, Malfoy's eyes lock on hers as he hums. And then it abruptly stops, a look on his face like a kid whose sweets has disappeared. Hermione bites her cheeks and returns her attention to her phone; he hadn't realized he'd been humming the tune aloud. She doesn't look up until he speaks again.

"The old Granger would report my manager and I in a heartbeat." He's smirking again. Hermione's eyes land on his glass.

"You haven't drunk it yet."

"Hmm." He leans back on his chair, still smirking. With a wave of his hand a chair appears opposite his desk. "Take a seat, please."

"I'm quite alright, thank you."

"Oh, I insist."

"Well if you insist." Hermione stalks to the chair, sitting right on the edge of it. Malfoy leans forward, resting his arms against his desk. She watches a few strands of his hair fall into his eyes. They really are curious eyes. Like the waves of a sea: dark but bright; grey but almost blue; dim but glittering. Dangerous eyes. All it takes is the wrong pioneer before a ship is sunken under a false sense of security. Hermione rips her gaze away from them, and fixes her attention on the flashing sticker on his chest.

"Happy anniversary," she says dryly, procuring a smirk of her own as his expression grows startled. Malfoy glances down at the sticker, then, she realises, at the blood curse book, then at the glass of amber liquid. He grabs it and downs it in three seconds. Loathe she is to admit it, but she's rather impressed.

"Going to report us now?"

As he thrusts the glass back on table, Hermione chuckles. "I have better things to do with my time." Malfoy clears his throat slightly. Her eyes narrow suspiciously.

"I hear house elves can have marriage ceremonies now?"

"And here was me thinking you didn't keep up with the news."

"I'm selective," he drawls, an almost haunting echo of his bratty adolescent self.

Hermione hums. "I am honoured to be part of your selection, Malfoy. Really." His smirk rememerges. "Pray tell, what else have you been keeping up with?" It's a dare, and judging from the calculating look he's giving her, he knows it. Jumping into dares has always been a Gryffindor thing. Snakes, they like to test the waters first. She's witnessed Blaise do it countless times.

Malfoy raises his hand, his finger extended; as soon as he pulls it in, Hermione's chair comes skidding forward. She yelps, her back slapping the chair's back, her phone clattering onto the ground, her knees knocking against the front of his desk. Malfoy stands and bends over his desk, his hands flattening and supporting him. Hermione glares up at him, where his nose is mere inches from hers. His lips would taste like apples, firewhiskey and sin. Malfoy's darkening eyes lower onto her own lips, before flickering back up. She's not trapped. All she would have to do is push her chair back.

"That's not an answer," she murmurs, flickering her eyelashes. She knows her lashes are her greatest weapon. Long and thick, they enchant the right people in the right ways. And right now, Malfoy leans an inch closer.

"It is," he whispers, his curious eyes dancing across her face. Hermione exhales. A spark ignites in her. He is not going to win.

Just as abruptly as he startled her, she raises herself so that their noses are brushing and their lips are a hair's breadth away. Malfoy's breath hitches against her lips. Those eyes of his are almost consumed by black. Her blood runs hot. "Never took you as a saint."

"Wouldn't take a man's wife from him," he breathes.

"You know I'm free," she whispers, "so take me." For a brief moment, it actually looks like he might. Hermione's heart hammers in her chest. She can't tell where the game begins and ends. Dangerous eyes, dangerous man. But something flickers over his face, quickly draining his pink cheeks of colour. He leans backwards, smirking. But it's different, somehow. His eyes are dark; grey; dim. A calm sullen sea.

"Never took you as a vixen," he drawls, "more of a bookish, prudish know-it-all. If we knew you were this much fun back at Hogwarts…"

Hermione rolls her eyes, hoping her burning face isn't an indication of a blush. It's all just a game, after all. There's no way Malfoy finds her attractive — never mind her blood status, she's wearing an old jogging suit, her hair's a mess, she smells like cheap perfume barely disguising the fact that she hasn't showered in three days and she's got morning coffee breath. She silently, wandlessly, Accios her phone to her waiting hand as she replies, "Well you guys didn't seem like much fun either since you all had one shared personality." Malfoy pushes the hair out of his eyes, studying her.

"You and Zabini are best buddies now, though, right?"

"Yes, we have loads of fun," she says matter-of-factly. He snickers, crossing his arms.

There's a tapping at the window that draws their attention to it. "The owl delivery age requirement is getting younger by the year."

A sense of dread lowers in Hermione's stomach as she watches the tiny creature flapping its wings frantically to hold up a heavy-looking parchment. "No. It's not. That's just Pig."

"I beg your pardon?" he asks, his face turning to her in her peripheral vision with one of his brows cocked. She ignores him. With a wave of her hand the window flies open, and Pig barrels in. He lands on a heap on top of the blood curse book. Hermione is quick to untie the parchment with the Ministry emblem sealing it from his leg. To her surprise, Malfoy turns his head away towards the window.

Dear Ms Granger,

You have been invited by the Wizengamot for a custody hearing on February 23rd regarding Rose Weasley. Mr. Ronald Bilius Weasley has requested full custody, and has provided sufficient evidence of neglect—

Hermione scrunches the parchment in her hand, stuffing it into her pocket. Her dazed eyes land on Malfoy's firewhiskey bottle. The clink of her nails against the glass and the scrape of it against the mahogany desk draws his eyes back to her; Hermione raises the bottle in a mock gesture of cheers, and takes a long swig out of it. She slams it back down to the desk so violently that the amber liquid sloshes over the rim, dribbling across her hand before she releases the bottle and oozing onto the polished wood. The sound had startled Pig, who is now somehow stumbling in air out of the window. Malfoy does not seem to care about neither the owl nor his desk. Hermione takes a few deep breaths, brown locked on grey.

"You'll have to send me the autopsy results," she says calmly, then Apparates out of his office.

4 January 2012 9:02PM

It's not unusual that at the end of the day, he's locked in his office and alone with his darkest thoughts. Tonight, however, it's not his old friend that's come to pay him a visit. Rather, it's an old enemy.

Big, doe-like eyes framed with beautiful lashes flickering over freckled skin had been knocking at his occlumency walls all day. Her breath against his lips; his skin. They hadn't even touched and his entire body had been on fire. Draco had expected her to back out. That's what the sensible, high pedestaled Head of Magical Creatures would do. That's what the smart, no-nonsense Hermione Granger would do. But her response had reignited a raging crush he had long-buried. Now he will be haunted by the moment that he didn't close the minimal distance between them and capture her lips, just to see how far she was willing to take it. So take me, her sultry voice echoes in his mind, her big brown eyes staring into his soul, and as all his blood rushes south he groans.

Guilt stabs into his stomach, and he wrenches his hand away where it had been creeping to his zipper. How dare he wear his wedding ring while his mind strays to another woman? Even a taste of Granger would be an insult to his wife's memory. Just the thought of being disloyal and dishonourable to Astoria sickens him, and it's enough to push the sinful thoughts behind his occlumency walls. With his mind settled and his heart calming, Draco allows himself to walk to his fireplace and throw the ashes in.

He steps out of the cottage fireplace, his eyes adjusting to the dim candlelight illuminating the room. His mother is sitting on the dining table beside a little boy dressed in green silk pyjamas, who is hunched over a book that's almost his size. Draco frowns as she looks up.

"You're late," she remarks, "Another difficult patient, or paperwork?"

"The latter," he replies crisply, frown deepening when Scorpius doesn't even turn around. "What's that? Something for his age, I hope."

"You were reading the same book when you were younger," she says snippily. So not for his age, then.

"Thank you for your help."

"It's quite alright. But Draco…" He tenses. She rises from her seat. "I am not getting any younger. I am always happy to help my grandson, but some days I find myself in bad… moods…" Draco wishes he couldn't understand what she means. "And let's not forget that any day I could fall ill. So you have two options, my darling: find him a nanny, or get a new wife."

Jaw clenching, he looks pointedly at a seemingly oblivious Scorpius. His mother shakes her head, smiling.

"He's too immersed."

Draco sighs impatiently. "All it takes is one nutter — even a creature — trying to get 'vengeance' on the Malfoys," he hisses. The tightening of his mother's mouth and the glance to her grandson is the only indication that the idea terrifies her. She's brought this up a thousand times and he's voiced his fears a thousand times more. His mother may be optimistic that they're slowly becoming accepted by their society, but Draco refuses to risk being fooled.

"And my latter point?" Draco swallows heavily, and looks away. "Goodnight, Draco," his mother says. He nods, keeping his eyes on his son. Only when he hears the roar of his fireplace does he release his held breath. And his heart is filled with warmth.

"Hey, Little Man," he says softly, ruffling his son's hair. "How was your day?" Scorpius finally turns around, looking up with his big grey eyes. Heartbreakingly, the boy hadn't inherited much from his mother. He is just a miniature copy of a younger Draco. Reserved. Calculating. A bit of a snob. Draco blames Narcissa Malfoy, but he also would trust his mother with his own heart, so there's little to be done. There is one thing Scorpius did inherit from Astoria, though: the shape of his eyes. Big and round, like a gaping sky hiding a galaxy.

"It was good, thank you," he replies primly, his tiny voice contrasting oddly with his brisk tone. "I'm reading The Bloody Breakout of the Goblin Wars." Draco just about manages to save himself from scowling. His mother is still a little medieval in the information she hands to five-year-old children.

"Well," says Draco cheerily, waving his hand so the book flies out of the boy's sight, "that's great to hear. But now, it's time for bed." Scorpius doesn't pout or whine; he doesn't cry or scream. He simply nods, pushing himself off his chair.

"I'll have to wash up first," he pipes up, striding to the bathroom. Draco follows him, and when the boy steps onto the stool, grabs his toothbrush and starts brushing his teeth, he moves to Scorpius' bedroom. Clicking his fingers, the light switches on. An iron sea dozes on the shore beyond the windows. With a flick of his hand, the curtains draw closed. His eyes peruse the bedroom. Toys and toy boxes shunted in corners and gathering dust; a bed which is almost buried in books (he sighs and waves his hands, knowing, as all the books rearrange themselves on the bookshelves, that it will be the same story tomorrow night); a small desk his mother had gotten him for his last birthday, facing Draco. His eyes land on the back of a framed photo. He knows that on the other side, Astoria is smiling cheekily at the camera in a frozen loop of time.

With a click, the bathroom light switches off. Draco leans against the doorframe as Scorpius sidles in.

"Want me to tuck you in?"

"No thank you, Father."

Furrowing his brow as he watches his son climb his bed, Draco quietly sighs. Once Scorpius is snuggled under his duvet, though, he finds himself smiling. Before he clicks his fingers to switch the light back off, he says softly, "Goodnight, Kiddo."