Chapter 3
Draco used the short Floo home to formulate a plan.
"Rosie!"
The elf appeared immediately. Reaching his knees at full height, she wore a simple linen shift embroidered with the Malfoy crest. Her bat-like ears were perked in attention, and her short legs scurried to match his brisk pace.
"Yes, Master Draco?" She sounded breathless.
"We're having a guest for dinner." He gave her a sly, side-eyed look. "It's Miss Hermione."
Rosie levitated for several steps, hands wrung in excitement. "We will prepare all of Miss Hermione's favourites!"
Exactly what he had hoped to hear.
"We're expecting her arrival at half-five. Shall we aim for dinner at six?"
"Yes, Master Draco!" She cracked away without another word.
Step one of his plan thus complete, Draco hurried up the staircase to his room.
Rosie's diligent application of household charms kept the manor spotless. Or most of the manor: Draco's bedroom and the family vault were the two exceptions to this otherwise inviolable rule.
The latter was standard procedure for vast fortunes and private collections of questionable legality. Cobwebs and dust posed less of a threat than the potential mishandling a Dark artefact. The former, however, was borne of distrust: a habit from Draco's teenage years, when unfettered access to his personal quarters would have meant the unchecked collection of intelligence. Even loyal elves were capable of espionage if prompted by the head of house.
Back then, there had been plenty of information to collect.
His half-hearted research on assassination methods, the plans so sloppy he'd practically begged to get caught. His sluggish repair of the Vanishing Cabinet, the solution sitting untouched on his desk for months in vain hope that the war would end by other means before he'd be forced to act. His personal journal, page after page filled with doubts about himself and the path he was on, with daydreams about a future free from fear.
Any one of those would have been justification enough to bring him before Voldemort.
Though the threat had vanished years ago, Rosie still honoured his request. Her respect for his boundaries allowed Draco's habit of privacy to remain unchanged. His standards of cleanliness persisted as well.
Standards that fell far below those of his house-elf.
His bedroom was not a sty. It was not dirty, and it did not stink. But it was untidy. Lived in and—for the last six months, when even the simple task of putting his clothes into the enchanted hamper felt like more effort than it was worth—not representative of his personal brand.
Draco debated making an exception. He spent a full minute assessing the piles of clothes, bunched sheets, and used towels. On the one hand, he wouldn't have to do the work himself. He could use the time to focus on more important things, like his under-eye skin care routine and searching his scalp for signs of follicle damage. On the other hand, he would be pulling Rosie from her dinner preparations.
And this dinner had to be perfect.
It was the first time Hermione had agreed to see him in months. He had forced open the door of reconnection and, instead of slamming it shut in his face, she had widened it a little. She was giving him a chance, however begrudgingly.
All he had to do was not cock it up.
Besides, how difficult could a few standard spick-and-span spells be?
Two hours later, Draco had his answer.
The bay window's glass was streaked, but clear of its rather shocking grime layer. The months' supply of empty potion bottles cluttering his nightstand had been discarded. The bed was made, though the pillows looked lumpy and the white duvet remained stubbornly, suggestively rumpled. His bureau drawers closed, regardless of the state of the clothes they contained. Enough shirts and trousers were hung in his closet to disguise the obscene amount of laundry he'd just sent for washing. And his en suite…
Well, maybe he would have Rosie work her magic in there.
Still, he felt confident: on the fractional chance Hermione visited his bedroom, she would not be horrified by the mess he'd allowed it to become. If she saw any disaster in his life tonight, it would be of the emotional variety only. He would figure out the physical one on his own.
All that spellwork warranted a second shower. Afterwards, he paced his closet, agonising far too long over the colour and style of his shirt. As if there were a better option than a crisp, white Oxford for a date.
By the time he finished, it was quarter past five.
"Shite." Draco left his door open and strode down the hall. "Rosie!"
The elf appeared energised and determined, even though her face was streaked with flour and a piece of arugula hung from one ear.
"How's dinner coming along?"
"We is almost done with it, sir."
"Where are we eating?"
"On the veranda, sir."
"Do you have a moment to—" He cleared his throat. "To clean my en suite?"
Her eyes lit up. "Yes, sir!"
She rushed past him while Draco continued to the veranda. He surveyed it with a critical eye. Though he'd given Rosie no direction, she'd known exactly what to do.
The elf had always taken extra care when it came to Miss Hermione.
An intimate, two-person table sat at the patio's far edge, just where stone met grass. It was set with a draping, cream-colored tablecloth, his mother's nicer china, and soft linen napkins. Long-stemmed crystal wine glasses sparkled against slanted, amber rays beginning to lengthen as the sun dipped closer to the horizon. Full bouquets of orange, yellow, and ruby mums showed the best October had to offer. Even the weather had cooperated; the evening was cool and clear.
Draco cast a gentle warming charm over the space, then hesitated. The scene was objectively perfect: it needed no other adornment, spell, or musical accompaniment.
It was simple.
It was romantic.
But was it enough?
Rosie appeared at his side, wringing her hands. "Miss Hermione is here. She is waiting for Master in the foyer."
"Thank you, Rosie. Excellent work with the table settings."
"Miss Hermione will like it?"
"Very much."
The elf sagged in relief.
"Dinner is on schedule for six?"
"Yes, sir. Rosie has made all of Miss' favourites, with mixed greens, and mahi, and pilaf, and—" The elf's eyes widened. "Broccoli!"
She left with a panicked crack, and Draco enjoyed a laugh as he headed to the foyer. He paused at a hall mirror to check his hair, ensuring it was equal parts healthy-looking and dishevelled, before turning the corner.
Hermione wore a long-sleeved, knee-length dress in dark green—his favourite colour on her. It was creased from her workday at the waist and elbows, clearly worn beneath her professional robes. Even though she hadn't chosen it for him, his heart skipped a beat. How could she make business casual look appealing?
"Hermione."
"Draco."
"You look lovely."
No reaction. Not even the hint of a blush.
He held an arm out for her.
She ignored it.
"You wanted to talk?"
Draco dropped his arm. "Did you come straight from the Ministry?"
"Yes."
"You must be hungry."
She gave him a flat, frustrated look. "I didn't come here to—."
He stepped closer and dropped his voice. "Rosie worked for hours. Don't make me tell her to bin it. Please."
Hermione sighed an exasperated, "Fine," and began walking.
Not the start he'd wanted, but at least she hadn't left. He caught up to her in two steps.
"How was the rest of your day?"
"Fine."
"Any closer to a hiring decision?"
"I can't believe you did that to me." Her glare could have solidified molten iron. "Interviewing with Khumalo without giving me any prior notice… What were you thinking?"
"Khumalo didn't include you in the résumé review process?" He tried to sound casual. Like he hadn't called in an old favour with the head of Human and Being Resources to get his application moved to the top of Khumalo's pile.
"No," Hermione answered, bitter.
"Well, I apologise for the surprise. But all things considered, I think we both showed quite well today."
"You got lucky."
That stung. He was wealthy and intelligent; luck was a superstition meant for lesser mortals.
"Khumalo chose to talk to me, and you didn't give me any other options. You've been avoiding me for months."
"So you opted for entrapment?"
"It worked." Draco shrugged off Hermione's scathing look. "Is it so unreasonable to believe that I'd want to work for Khumalo? She's the biggest name in magical artefacts right now and the best in her field. You must enjoy working with her."
The question hung a beat too long. Draco resisted the urge to fill the silence, instead letting Hermione bear the awkward weight until she cracked.
"It would have been a dream come true," she said, resentment dripping from every word, "except that she doesn't trust me. In fact, I think the only reasons I haven't been sacked are Harry and Ron."
"What've they done?"
"Well, they don't think I'm a murderer, to start."
Draco scoffed. "Khumalo doesn't think that."
"Khumalo doesn't know what she thinks," Hermione snapped. "She's reserving judgement, and I can't blame her. There have been rumours."
Level Nine and its Unspeakables had always been viewed askance by other Ministry employees. Under normal circumstances, Hermione would have been immune to the gossip, shielded by her reputation and irreproachable past. But the circumstances surrounding the former department head's disappearance, and Nott's shortly thereafter, were not normal. And Hermione, Hogwarts' most accomplished know-it-all, hadn't provided a single satisfactory answer.
Because she didn't know—didn't even remember—the half of it.
Draco must have missed a step. Hermione pulled him to a stop and narrowed her eyes.
"What aren't you telling me?"
He was saved from answering by a loud crash and the sound of a breaking mirror.
Finally, there came a deep, thunderous laugh.
Draco and Hermione were supposed to be the only two humans in Malfoy Manor this evening.
"That wasn't Rosie," Hermione said.
"No, it wasn't." They shared a look, then drew their wands. Draco held out a protective arm. "Stay behind me."
Hermione shoved it away. "Oh, please."
Another crash, another stranger's laugh.
Draco tensed.
Mitchell stumbled around the corner, covered in soot and trailing ash. He saw them, paused, then threw his head back and howled. It was a sound of primal liberation and unrestrained joy.
That such a noise came from a man Draco had rarely heard talk above a scold tripped his mind into incomprehension.
"What the hell?" Hermione asked on an exhale.
But the shock of seeing Mitchell—not only in Malfoy Manor after business hours and without prior notification, but in the midst of a psychotic break—had already diminished. Anger took its place.
Draco lowered his wand.
"Mitchell, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
The American's howl trailed off, and he tipped his head to the side. He mouthed something—it looked like his own name—and snapped back into motion, throwing his arms wide.
"Living! Finally living!"
He staggered towards them, weaving a crooked path through the open foyer, as if learning to walk again.
Then, Draco smelled it.
A stifling miasma: the pine-forest scent of cheap gin. He stepped away, pulling Hermione with him.
"Are you drunk?"
The answer was obvious; the question arose more from disbelief than uncertainty. In the seven years they had worked together, Draco could count on one hand the times Mitchell had gotten well and truly soused.
Historically, weekdays had not merited such overindulgence.
"Are you not?" Mitchell caught himself on a side table and turned to Hermione. He looked her up and down, tongue darting out to lick his lips.
"Why, hello." He executed a clumsy, oddly formal bow and grinned up at her, baring too many teeth to look anything but menacing.
She tilted her chin towards Draco, but kept her eyes on Mitchell as he straightened. "I think—"
Fast as a snake, Mitchell caught Hermione's hand and pressed it to his lips.
"Your name, sweet lady," he whispered across her knuckles. "The gift of your name so that I may shout it from the ramparts."
Draco shoved him away, inserting himself between Mitchell and Hermione, body taut with adrenaline. Malfoy Manor didn't even have ramparts. "Sod off, Mitchell. This isn't funny."
He raised his wand once more. The tip glowed with the heat of a chambered jinx, ready to be cast with a single flick.
Mitchell's demeanour shifted, playful to careful, as if only now recognising the severity of the threat. "You dare raise your wand to me?"
"When you're behaving like a bloody lunatic? Yes."
Mitchell's eyes darkened with malice, where all there had ever been before was deference—annoyed, begrudging, but generally good-natured. Now Daco saw rage seethe within him, twisting his lips and contorting his body.
Too late, Draco realised Mitchell's intent. He'd drawn his wand and, with an arm looped around his back, half-hidden by his sleeve, aimed it at Hermione.
At her angle, she couldn't see it.
But Draco could.
A thought stopped him cold.
A spark of the impossible, lit and extinguished so fast the only evidence of its short life was the smoke it left behind. A fading coil and the acrid scent of a possibility too outrageous to entertain.
This was not his assistant.
No.
No, this was Mitchell being a mean drunk. Gin drunk, which was more cruel than the loose-lipped whisky drunk, and far less charming than the stumbling-laughing champagne drunk.
This was a man so far past sober that he'd become a stranger.
They'd all been this way at some point, so beyond themselves that they would wake tomorrow with a pounding hangover and soul-deep shame.
He would make sure Mitchell remembered it. Apologised for it.
Draco took a settling breath. Though Mitchell's wand was still aimed at Hermione, Draco lowered his.
"Go home, Mitchell. Sleep it off. Get some food, and for Merlin's sake have a shower. We'll discuss your continued employment tomorrow. Come on, Hermione."
"Such impertinence! But then…" His eyes flicked to Hermione. A moment of thought, then he lowered his wand and uncurled his twisted stance. "Passion is the gift of youth, is it not? This first indiscretion will be forgiven. But, if you cannot learn to mind your tongue…" He leaned in, baring his teeth. "I will endeavour to teach you."
Mitchell clapped Draco hard on the shoulder as he passed. Draco ignored the cold chill crawling up his spine. The exchange made little sense. Mitchell spoke as if he were significantly older than Draco, when in truth they were peers. And his diction was all wrong: like he'd swallowed a Regency-era novel and mocked a poor impersonation of a British accent.
The idea flickered again. Polyjuice, perhaps? The Imperius Curse?
No.
He had smelled the alcohol seeping through Mitchell's pores, seen the sway in his step, and heard the altered speech pattern.
Hard evidence overruled wild theory, extinguishing it with a breath of sensibility.
"Let's go." Draco put a hand to Hermione's back and hurried her from the foyer.
"That was weird," she whispered. Her wand remained in hand.
"That it was. And it certainly won't reflect well in his next paycheck!"
Draco let his voice carry, but when he glanced over his shoulder, Mitchell gave no indication that he had heard. Instead, he stood transfixed before the Malfoy ancestral tapestry. His finger traced the air, following the lines of Draco's lineage back several centuries if the reach of his arm was anything to judge by.
Mitchell had never cared a whit about Draco's lineage unless it coincided with something he was studying. His interest now made less sense than his intoxication.
"Should we try to help him?"
"No," Draco answered. "There's not much we can do when he's like this."
"Is he like this often?"
"No."
He couldn't hide the sly tendril of worry that tinged his anger. Mitchell's sudden binge drinking and emotional outburst were concerning enough on their own.
But his mere presence had revealed other problems.
After Voldemort's occupation, once Draco took possession of Malfoy Manor from his parents, he'd made some security upgrades. Arriving via Apparition was restricted to the foyer only. Attempting to Apparate anywhere else should have bounced the would-be visitor back to their starting location, likely with a splinched limb for their trouble.
Mitchell had obviously arrived via the manor's public Floo, but the manor's property wards were designed to confine non-family to the Receiving Room until welcomed by a Malfoy or a Malfoy family house-elf.
Had Rosie greeted Mitchell without alerting Draco first?
Or had the magic of the manor's wards failed?
Neither scenario seemed likely. It was standard procedure for Rosie to announce visitors, giving Draco the opportunity to grant or deny them entry. And Hermione had Apparated here mere minutes ago and been stuck in the foyer, waiting for him to receive her.
But here Mitchell was, cavorting around Draco's childhood home like he owned the place.
Something wasn't right.
"What are you going to do?"
It was a good question. One to which he had no answer.
"I'm going to deal with it tomorrow." Draco forced a smile, trying to rekindle his excitement for the evening. Tonight wasn't supposed to be about Mitchell. It was supposed to be about Hermione, and him, and second chances. "For now, let's just enjoy dinner."
Hermione frowned, her consternation lasting until they reached the veranda. Mitchell's scene delayed their arrival, which had allowed Rosie to set dozens of candles hovering around the dinner table. They flickered to life one by one as Hermione watched, like stars appearing in the sunset sky.
The elf had timed it perfectly.
Draco felt a rush of gratitude. It was a shame that Rosie still refused to accept payment or gifts. Maybe he could renovate the kitchen for her; surely she wouldn't balk at a new range.
Arugula salad topped with roasted beets, walnuts, and chèvre rose through the tabletop as soon as they were seated. A chilled bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc followed shortly after. Draco poured with a heavy hand; Hermione drained half her portion in the first sip.
Unsure if that was a good or bad sign, he took a conservative approach to conversation.
"How are Potter and Weasley?"
She looked at him over the rim of her wine glass. "You want to make small talk about Harry and Ron?"
He did not.
Though their post-Hogwarts relationship could be characterised as cordial, Draco doubted he would ever like Hermione's best friends. And Merlin knew they had enough to discuss without those two taking up airspace. However, she'd brought them up first and offered information about them freely, which was more than could be said for anything else he'd asked her. If Potter and Weasley were their segue into more important topics, Draco would gladly suffer through it.
"You mentioned them earlier."
"You don't really care."
"While true, it sounds like they know more about what's going on with you than I do at the moment."
Another swig of wine. "You don't have exclusive rights to my inner world, Draco."
"I don't have any rights there, it seems."
She raised her glass in a mock toast. "On that, we're aligned. So why don't we skip whatever this is supposed to be." She gestured to their salads, which sank into the table untouched; Rosie would be heartbroken. Moments later, artfully arranged dinner plates appeared. The elf had outdone herself tonight. "Get to the point. What do you want to tell me?"
"I don't want to tell you anything. I want to talk to you."
"Are you sure there's nothing specific on your mind?" With all of the charm of a judicial inquisitor, she laced her fingers together and leaned forward. "Nothing you'd like to confess?"
Draco was walking into a trap—Hermione's tone, expression, body language, and general behaviour made that abundantly clear—but he couldn't see the trip wires. What was she trying to get from him? What did she want to know that he hadn't told her?
Lying didn't seem wise at this point, and avoidance hadn't worked. For the second time today, Draco chose honesty.
"I've been miserable since Egypt," he said. "I haven't been sleeping, and when I do, I have these dreams—"
"Don't you talk to me about dreams." Hermione's hands flew apart, smacking the table with such force that the silverware clinked. "I've given you every chance, Draco. Do you want one more?"
Draco's mouth went dry as the trap sprung closed. "Every chance to what?"
"To tell me the truth. To tell me what happened at the Ministry."
Hermione's eyes bore into his. Draco couldn't hold her gaze. He picked up his wine glass and took a sip, a pathetic attempt for time that netted nothing more clever than a return to the refrain that had been hurting them for months.
"You know what happened."
"I know what you told me," she said. "And then I know what I see at night."
Hermione's possession from the force contained within the Sun Disc.
That had to be what she meant; there was nothing else.
Panic tugged at his heart, spawning nervous sweat beneath his shirt. He fought the urge to loosen his collar, which felt like a noose beginning to tighten. "It's not what you think."
"I needed you to tell me what was real and what wasn't. I trusted you, Draco, but you've been lying to me since our Vow."
"No. Hermione, no. I didn't lie. I didn't mean—"
"I asked you. I asked you if it was a dream, and you told me it was."
He went cold.
She was right.
It was after they'd hidden the two halves of the Sun Disc, before they'd made the Unbreakable Vow.
A pleasant day in April, just a few yards from where they currently sat, Hermione had looked into his eyes and asked him for the truth.
And he'd kept it from her.
Draco struggled to keep his voice even, to restrain the wild fear tearing through his veins.
Never had the reality of what he stood to lose been clearer. Here was Hermione, the woman he loved, betrayed and rightfully furious, the seemingly infinite store of her patience for him at last depleted. Here were the dreams he'd harboured of reunion, of a clear path forward, of a future with her, vanishing into the October night like candle smoke.
Everything they'd suffered, everything they'd survived, gone if he couldn't make her understand why.
"I only wanted to protect you." Noble in his head, the excuse sounded pathetic aloud. He cleared his throat. "I wanted to save you from—"
Hermione shot to her feet, tipping her chair. A low, penetrating thrum vibrated the air between them as iron struck concrete.
It felt like the tolling of a funeral bell.
"I don't need your protection! I never have!"
He stood and reached for her. "Hermione, wait, that's not what I—"
"I've dreamt of what happened every night. You were dying, moving into the Veil, and then you weren't. And Theo…" Her voice trembled, her skin paled. "I pushed him through."
Draco pressed a hand to his chest, trying to quell the Vow's burn: the warning that preceded more permanent consequences. "That wasn't you."
"It was." She pressed her hands against her eyes and continued in a broken whisper. "Every night. For six months. I thought I was losing my mind. I thought… I thought it couldn't be real. It had to be some sort of hallucination, some way for my brain to, I don't know, process the trauma. Construct a story I might understand better than what actually happened.
"I went to a Muggle doctor, read everything I could about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I… It didn't fit. None of what I learned fit with what I felt." She lowered her hands, looking at him with tear-filled eyes. "I finally asked myself who I trusted more: you, or me? And I had my answer."
Draco felt the water rushing over his head.
His breath came short, the oxygen around him suddenly thin.
She'd sunk him.
Rather, he'd sunk himself.
Because he'd built this lie, hadn't he?
He'd kept the truth from her when he could have been honest from the start. And in every fantasy he'd imagined between April and now, it was her continued ignorance that gave them a future.
As long as Hermione never learned what had really happened to her, they could be together.
As long as she never realised that he was a liar and a coward, they could move on.
As long as she never felt how thoroughly he could hurt her, they could make it.
Those fantasies were over now.
Hermione knew.
This was their end.
"I'm sorry." It was all he could manage.
"That's not enough."
Hermione left. Only when she was out of sight did Draco think to follow her. It was foolish—there was no salvaging tonight's catastrophe—but some stubborn, sadistic part of his soul needed to be sure. If there was even a shred of hope left, he needed to find it. He needed to find it and hold it, because the alternative…
He refused to consider the alternative.
There had to be hope.
"What do you want me to say?" His yell echoed through the manor's halls, rousing the portraits that lined the route to the Receiving Room.
Hermione spun on her heel. "I want to know why you lied."
"I told you, I wanted to protect—"
She held up her hand. "Even now, you can't manage it? Even when you have nothing else to lose?"
"Why do you think I did it, then? If you think you know, then enlighten me, because I'm at a loss!"
Hermione closed the gap between them.
"You lied to me for the same reason you do everything," she hissed. "To protect yourself. That's why you didn't tell me the truth about the Ministry. That's why you pressured me into taking the Vow. That's why—"
He swatted her accusing finger away. "You chose to take the Vow. You know as well as I do that the spell doesn't work unless both participants are committed to its terms."
"I was committed until I learned the truth!"
"And what does the truth change?" Draco flung his arms wide. "The dead are still dead. The disc is still hidden. We're still alive, and we're not unemployed, under investigation, under arrest, or in Azkaban. We did what we did for the sake of humanity."
"Oh, spare me your attempts at nobility. We did what we did for ourselves. We chose to hide Nott's betrayal, his murder of Ptolomea, what the Ancients were—" Hermione clutched her chest and hissed in pain as the Unbreakable Vow activated. "We intentionally hid the truth," she said between clenched teeth, "and saved ourselves from the consequences."
"You think the world would be a better place knowing that it had barely escaped genocide?"
"I think Todd and Ptolomea's families would be in a better place knowing that justice had been done."
The weight of truth hung between them, dampening the argument's intensity.
"That may be so," Draco admitted, "but we don't have that option anymore."
"Because you took it away."
"Yes, I did. And maybe that choice was selfish, but that doesn't make it wrong. Besides, we can't change it now. What's done is done."
"Do you at least regret it?"
He held her gaze, and that was answer enough. Hermione stepped away from him.
"I understand that we can't change what's happened. I accept that the truth is buried with the disc. What I don't understand, what I can't accept, is that you lied to me about it, and then maintained that lie for six months."
"I did what I thought was right for you. For us."
Hermione shook her head. "Were you ever going to tell me the truth?"
Draco scowled. "I don't know. Would you ever have brought it up if I hadn't forced the issue? Or would this have hung between us for the rest of our lives?"
"Who's saying there's an our after any of this?"
The cold fury in Hermione's eyes stole the breath from his lungs.
Draco staggered a step forward, feeling suddenly light. "What are you saying?"
"What I've been saying all along, and what you have continuously failed to hear: I can't do this with you right now. I need time."
His mind tripped over her words. The immediate hurt they posed, the future hope they promised. It seemed impossible to come back from this, but time stretched long for wizards and witches.
There was no amount he wouldn't wait if it meant being with her at the end of it.
"How much time do you need?"
"I don't know."
"What can I do?"
"Nothing. Please, nothing. Leave me alone, Draco. When I'm ready to talk, I'll let you know. But for now, this needs to end."
The Receiving Room's full-length mirror had been knocked from the wall, its shattered glass scattered beneath the thick frame. Hermione turned to the mantle, but the urn of Floo powder typically stored there had also been knocked over. Hermione sighed. Draco's heart skipped.
Maybe Mitchell's bad behaviour had been good for something.
"I'll have Rosie prepare you a room," he said. "She'll have restocked the Floo powder first thing tomorrow."
"No, I'll Apparate."
"Then let me walk you to the foyer."
"That won't be necessary. I know the way."
"Hermione—"
"Goodbye, Draco."
She walked away. This time, he didn't follow.
Draco waited in the Receiving Room's silence, wishing he'd imagined the harsh crack of her Disapparition. He stared down at the broken urn, its glittering contents spread across the plush carpet, twinkling in the fading light.
His stomach turned.
It reminded him of stars.