Chapter Two:

Hermione's knee bounced uncontrollably beneath the table of Meeting Room 4. She couldn't stop the nervous tick; her energy wound tightly as she waited for Draco to show up.

It still surprised her he even agreed to the meeting. Her letter had been formal and to the point, but vague. And she signed it with her name.

She supposed Draco wasn't all bad. He'd served six months in Azkaban awaiting his trial—which Hermione, Harry, and Ron had been present at—and was pardoned of all crimes. Hermione still remembered how defeated he looked as he stood before the Wizengamot, hair long and matted, face scruffy and unshaved. And skinny, even skinnier than he'd been during sixth year.

It had been years till Hermione saw him again at Harry and Blaise's wedding.

How time had changed him. Where his looks had been sharp and angular as a child, they softened to refined aristocratic features that made him striking to look at. And no one seemed to care that he was once a Death Eater, at least not the women. He had girls draped over him everywhere he went, and the Potter's wedding was no different.

That was nearly two years ago now, and she hadn't seen him since. Made it an absolute point to avoid him at all costs. Not that she hated him anymore, it was just... easier. Easier to avoid than having to face him.

And now, here she was about to speak to him alone.

Glancing at the metal clock on the wall for the tenth time that minute, Hermione frowned. There were still ten minutes until their scheduled meeting.

"Why do I always insist on being so early," Hermione muttered to herself. She pulled out the contract and checked it over again—that only killed another minute. "Bugger it." She stood from the chair and walked to the door, intent on grabbing a glass of water.

As she opened it, she walked face-first into a firm chest. Hermione's eyes glanced up to the amused face of Draco Malfoy, a smirk curling his lips.

"Hello, Granger. Am I late?"

She stumbled two steps back, thankful she decided to wear flats today instead of heels. Draco brushed off the front of his all-black suit—how typical—like she dirtied his clothes.

"N-no," Hermione cleared her throat and straightened her back. "No. You're early."

Draco stepped into the room, his tall frame instantly filling the space. "Too bad. I hoped to make you wait a little."

Hermione felt her cheeks heat as Draco stared at her, his grey eyes boring into hers. They crinkled in the corners with obvious amusement, and Hermione reigned in every fibre of her being that screamed, just hex the git already.

Ignoring his comment completely, Hermione rounded the table and returned to her original spot. "Let's just get started. I have important things to do."

She rifled through the papers as Draco sat across from her, his wide shoulders and broad chest overtaking the small chairs. "Odd, isn't it? I think this is the first time we've ever been alone."

"Best not to make it a habit," Hermione bit as she slid the papers in front of him. "Before we can discuss anything further, I'll need you to sign this non-disclosure agreement. It's magically binding and—"

"A non-disclosure agreement? My interest is piqued." Draco interrupted and grabbed the quill. "But I won't sign my name to just anything, Granger. What's it worth to you?"

Hermione bristled, "What do you mean?"

Draco's grey eyes flashed, his lips curling into a smirk that made Hermione feel as if she were about to make a deal with the devil. "What will you give me in exchange for my signature? Perhaps a secret?"

"A secret? What possible use could you have for something like that?"

Draco chuckled and set the quill gently to the wooden table. "Secrets are more valuable than money. Even you should know that. I won't sign until you tell me something no one else knows. Not even Weaselbee."

"He has no claim to my private life anymore." The words tumbled from Hermione's lips before she could stop them. The reply was automatic—a trained response to anyone who had asked about her and Ron over the years.

"Ah, right." Draco's forefinger skimmed across his bottom lip, elbow leant on the arm of his chair as he looked at her. Hermione felt like trapped prey. "I nearly forgot he fell in love with a werewolf. Tell me, how is Lavender nowadays? Still taking her steaks rare, or does she prefer them to be mooing?"

Irritation flooded every fibre of Hermione's being. This was why she refused to be in Draco's presence. He knew exactly what got under her skin.

Draco quirked a brow at her scowl. "You have important things to do, remember? Let's just get on with it."

The urge to have him escorted out of the Ministry by a pair of Aurors overwhelmed Hermione. But she needed a Malfoy. And that only fueled her anger. She wracked her brain for a silly lie, something that wouldn't matter much. But Hermione didn't have many secrets, aside from a handful. One of them she would take to her grave, but the other she supposed he could know.

"I like to read adult books."

"Adult? What does it not have any pictures?"

"Adult books." Hermione could feel her face heat at Draco's blank look. Her anger continued to rise. "Adult, Malfoy! Oh, for Merlin's sake, they have sexual scenarios!"

A beat of silence passed, and then Draco barked out a startled laugh. "Only you could make something dirty sound so academic. Sexual scenarios, Granger? Are you studying them or reading them?"

Hermione picked up the quill on the table and shoved it into his hand, keeping her eyes glued to the parchment, hoping he didn't notice her red cheeks. "Just sign."

"I suppose you did keep up your end of the bargain." Draco's sly grin returned as he put ink to paper, elegantly scrawling his name at the bottom. "Though I did not expect that's what your secret would be."

Hermione sniffed haughtily and collected the contract. "If you have no questions, I'd like to tell you why you're here and then get as far from you as possible."

Draco sat back in the chair, arms crossed and a smirk still playing on his lips. He stayed silent, and Hermione took that as her cue to continue.

She explained to him all that had happened, what she had seen and discovered in the Veil. Draco's smirk fell as she talked, his arms uncrossing and resting on the table. A signet ring on his right middle finger tapped in a metallic rhythm against the wood.

"So you mean to tell me the Ministry wants my blood? To bring back Sirius Black?"

Hermione nodded. "There are only four people currently alive that can do it, and two of them are ineligible. Unless your mother would rather stand in your place, you're the only one that can do it."

"No."

The word rang clear through the room, Draco's tone deep and final.

"Excuse me?" Hermione stared at him, sure she'd heard wrong. "What do you mean, no?"

Draco's hands balled into fists. "I won't just give my blood willingly. Not after everything the Ministry took from me."

Hermione pursed her lips. She knew this was coming, knew Draco would be reluctant to help. His father had been given a life sentence, half his fortune taken. Hell, Draco himself had been in Azkaban for six months awaiting his trial. She didn't blame him for not wanting to be part of it.

"What if I could give you a way to take from the Ministry." Hermione leant forward, fingers sliding together as she levelled Draco with a hardened stare.

Draco sat back. "And how would you do that, Granger?"

"I can get your Wizengamot seat back."

Now she had his attention. Draco sat up straight, his eyes rounded and hopeful. "All twenty-seven?"

Hermione shook her head, "No—one."

Draco deflated instantly, his back thudding against the chair. "Twenty."

"This isn't up for negotiation, Malfoy." Hermione rolled her eyes as she mimicked Malfoy's chair etiquette. "One, take it or leave it."

Kingsley had given her special instruction to use whatever means necessary to get Sirius back. Which included offering Draco whatever he wanted—within reason. But that didn't mean she would just hand him all his seats back on a silver platter.

"Every family on the Wizengamot has multiple seats. One is the same as none." Draco stared her down, his grey eyes burning into her. His hand rested atop the table again, the signet ring resuming its rhythmic clacking.

"I don't think you have much room to deny me, Granger," Draco said, breaking the tense silence. "You said yourself, I'm the only one who can do it. My mother would never agree to it, and the only other two are a sickly woman and a child."

He had her. He knew he did. Hermione needed him, and Draco knew it.

Hermione glared into his gaze. "Five."

"Fifteen, final offer."

"Fine." Hermione clenched her jaw. She hated losing. "Fifteen."

The smile on Draco's face made Hermione want to reach out and punch him like she had third-year. "And I want to help you make the potion."

Hermione's glare changed to a look of confusion. "What? Absolutely not! All I need is your blood at certain points while making the potion." She collected the contract and stood. "I'll send you an owl the day of, I don't need you to help me—"

"Granger. You have no room to negotiate, remember?" Draco stood too, his prominent figure blocking her path to the door. "So yes, I will come once a week, because I'm not sure I could stand you for more than that, and help you."

"You don't even know the ingredients I need or the potion and spellwork required—"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Then tell me. I was second to you in school, or have you forgot? I'm not a moron. I know my way around a cauldron just as well as you, if not better."

As much as she was loath to admit it, Draco had a point. He was well-versed in potions, and even with the Ministries help, she was sure he had connections to find some of the rarer ingredients.

"Fine." Hermione agreed with a sigh. "I'll send you a copy of the potion."

"Great. I'll see you Friday." Draco smirked and slid from the room, his tall frame and wide back gliding across the busy Ministry Atrium. Hermione watched as some of the more gossip-inclined employees whispered, glancing between her and Malfoy.

She hoped this week would drag.

It hadn't.

Hermione had poured herself into her research, into collecting the ingredients needed for the potion. Most of them were common—rose oil, unicorn hair, jobberknoll feathers, rue—but there were a select few that Hermione would need help acquiring.

As much as it pained her to do so, Hermione included a note with the potion recipe when she sent it to Draco. She knew he would have connections, or at least the money, to get them. And he had said himself he wanted to help. She only hoped when he arrived today he would bring something of substance—aside from his blood.

Hermione checked the clock, nine-o-clock. She'd already been here for two hours, checked the Veil—which had done nothing since that first time—and gone over her research notes. She didn't know when Draco would arrive, but with nothing else to do, she supposed she should start the potion.

A cauldron sat on a table at the side of her office, and Hermione lit the burner beneath. She filled it with water that she had collected from a lake near the Weasley's—as per the instructions, it had to be water from a natural source. As the cauldron heated, Hermione measured out the ingredients she had.

Fifty-nine millilitres of rose oil. Twelve millilitres of powdered rue. Three strands of unicorn hair. Two jobberknoll feathers.

But she still needed fairy wings—freshly collected—and haliwinkles, which were one of the hardest to find and most expensive to obtain. The ingredient Hermione worried most about was the borage flower. They were common enough in the Mediterranean and would have been easy to acquire, except for the fact the potion listed it had to be pink instead of the usual blue, and collected from the Pyrenees mountains.

Hermione rubbed the back of her neck and looked up at the ceiling to stretch out the muscles. It excited her for the possibilities of what could happen if this worked, but knowing that she needed Draco's help to do it put quite a damper on the whole thing.

"Already started without me, I see."

Hermione snapped her head down to find Draco stood in her doorway, dressed in another expensive all-black suit with his hair in its usual perfect coif.

"I was just measuring everything," Hermione said dumbly. Why she felt the need to justify herself, she didn't know.

Draco tucked his hand into his trousers and strode into the room. His demeanour made Hermione feel as if she were invading his office—instead of the other way around. A canvas pouch hung from the other hand, and he set it down on the table in front of her.

"The items you asked for," he said nonchalantly as if they hadn't cost more than Hermione made in half a year. "The borage will take a few days."

Hermione nodded and pulled the vials from the bag, "Thank you." The words felt odd on her tongue. She never thought she'd be thanking Draco Malfoy.

Draco ignored her thanks and perched on the nearby stool. Hermione uncorked the vial containing the fairy wings and dropped them on her cutting board. The blue of the reflective wings shimmered against the light in her office like painted glass.

"That'll come at a cost, Granger," Draco said, resting his elbow on the table and leaning closer to her. A smirk played at his lips as Hermione stiffened.

"I don't have any more secrets."

Draco chuckled, "I highly doubt that. But I already have something in mind." He paused and watched her with his grey eyes. "These adult books you read. Which is your favourite?"

A flush covered Hermione's cheeks, and she bristled. "I don't—I'm not going to talk about that!"

"Shame. I'll have to call off the search for the borage then." He shrugged. "I had to pay quite a number of galleons. I wonder how long it'll take the Ministry to get approval for those kinds of funds. Will the potion last that long?"

Hermione's fingers clenched around the paring knife in her hand. The potion certainly wouldn't last long enough for her to await approval and for someone else to find the borage. And Draco knew it.

"The Duke and I by Julia Quinn." Hermione snapped. "And I'm done being your plaything, Malfoy."

Draco grinned, flashing his brilliant, straight teeth. It annoyed her how perfect they were; if her parents still had their memories, they'd be in a tizzy over them.

"That was all I wanted to know," Draco replied.

Hermione pursed her lips at his amused tone, angrily chopping the fairy wings into small pieces. The potion recipe ran through her mind, already memorised. She'd need to add half the rose oil, the powdered rue, one strand of unicorn hair, and two chopped fairy wings first. Stir counter-clockwise six times, clockwise six times, then back and forth twice.

Then she'd have to take Draco's blood and add it immediately to the liquid.

Glancing up, she felt her face heat as she found Draco's eyes on her, watching as she hovered over the cauldron. Her eyes darted back to the clear liquid, the bubbling water sloshing as she added in the ingredients and stirred.

The silver ladle clanked loudly against the table when she set it down, and Hermione took a deep breath to settle her nerves. "I need your blood now."

Draco nodded and rolled up his sleeve—the right one, thankfully. Hermione wasn't sure if she could stomach the sight of the Dark Mark right now. She grabbed a sanitised knife and a small bowl.

"I'll have to make a small cut at your wrist and allow the blood to drip into the bowl."

Draco held out his arm to her, and Hermione took his hand in hers. It was the first time she'd ever touched him, aside from when she punched him as children. His skin was warm beneath hers, the veins easy to see beneath his pale complexion. It should have been simple and quick, just one minor cut on the outside of his wrist. But her hand shook as Hermione stared at his arm, the knife wavering in the air.

Draco's left hand encased hers, the knife hovering in the air. "You're shaking, Granger. I'd rather not die today from you cutting too deeply."

Hermione's stomach flipped when she realised both of their hands were tangled together. She pulled her hands from Draco's and set the knife down on the table. "I just—don't like the sight of blood."

That was a blatant lie, but it was better than admit her heart hammered in her chest from holding his hands.

Draco grabbed the knife. "Didn't think you'd be the nervous type. But that's alright; I'll cut myself." He pressed the sharp tip to his skin, and bright crimson welled beneath the blade. His blood formed into a drop, falling into the bowl below. Draco returned the knife to its spot on the table and held his arm out as blood continued to fall.

Hermione watched him silently. He'd given his blood so easily. Although she did have to agree to some terms, still, Draco had barely put up a fight. She wondered how teenage Draco would have handled it. Probably spat at her shoes and made some comment about her being a mudblood. But this Draco was different. He was still an arse, still got under her skin, but not quite in the same way he used to. It felt more like... friendly teasing, rather than bullying and bigotry. Hermione wondered when that had changed for him.

After a few silent minutes, Draco's blood had filled the bowl to the brim. Hermione handed him a cloth and bottle of dittany. The blood shifted slightly as she picked up the bowl, carefully pouring it into the cauldron and stirring.

"Does Potter know what you're doing?" Draco's question cut through the silence.

Hermione shook her head. "I can't tell him. Firstly, because he's not an Unspeakable, or under a magical contract, and secondly..." She trailed off and sighed. "I don't want to give him false hope."

"You think there's a chance it may not work?"

The potion turned colours as Hermione finished stirring; it looked like molten silver. "Possibly? It's only ever been done once before. There's no telling what will happen."

Draco put the dittany on his cut, and the skin sealed shut immediately. Hermione handed him a blood-replenishing potion, and he sniffed it once before downing the contents.

"May I borrow the book you found? The one written by the Unspeakable?"

Hermione cocked her head in curiosity at Draco. "Why? I don't need you to do much more than provide your blood at the right moments and be there when I perform the final spell. Why do you want to be so involved?"

"Chalk it up to boredom, Granger." Draco shrugged. "I think I have a right to know what my blood will be used for exactly."

"It's property of the Department of Mysteries. I can't just let anyone take it—"

Draco sat forward, his arms crossed as he leant on the table closer to her. "And who's gonna know? Unless you're still that prissy tattle-tale from school."

That familiar irritation crashed over Hermione like a tidal wave. She stalked forward and grabbed the book from her desk, shoving it into Draco's chest. "Fine. Return it on Sunday."

"Sunday?"

Hermione returned to the potion to ensure the colour stayed even. "I need blood once every other day. So yes, Sunday, you'll come back at the same time."

She watched as Draco looked over the book, then checked his expensive-looking wristwatch. "Fine. Sunday at ten." He stood and walked towards the door, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Oh, and Granger?"

Hermione arched a brow in question.

"Don't be surprised if you see an article in the Prophet tomorrow speculating why I was here. I saw the vultures hovering as soon as I stepped into the Atrium."

Then he left in a breeze of cologne and black cloth. Her office door shut with a gentle click, and Hermione plopped into the stool Draco had previously occupied. She set her elbows on the table and raked her hands into her curls.

It had only been one day, and Draco Malfoy was already making her life hell.