Chapter 2

Draco had never been one for dramatics. However, he prepared for this afternoon's performance with all the care of a Shakespearean actor on the eve of his retirement.

Tragically, he was working with material almost as old as the Bard's: his dark grey robes were over one year out of season.

A decade ago, whispers would have burned through the usual social circles like Fiendfyre. The gossip chain would have blazed with rumours of his family's insolvency, thereby diminishing any chance of Draco finding a suitable—that is, attractive, moneyed, and pure-blooded—wife.

To prevent a short-sale on their reputation, Narcissa would have been forced to invest. He imagined the gala she would have had to throw. The glitz, the glamour, the naked expense of it, all to convince their fickle friends that the Malfoy family could still purchase its place in the world and therefore remained worthy of their so-called friendship.

An exhausting rigmarole, when the truth was far simpler:

Draco didn't care about his robes.

They were expertly tailored; he wasn't a monster. And Rosie, the last house-elf in residence at Malfoy Manor, had laundered and pressed them yesterday. She'd even recast an anti-wrinkling charm this morning, the little gem. But the chances of anyone but his mother noticing the width of the cuffs or the modified dart pattern were slim.

Besides, only those within the Ministry would witness his crimes against fashion.

The occasion was not without some import, however. Draco's single indulgence was a new pair of dragon-hide boots: glossy black and square toed with a modest heel. Their scuffless shine showed the careful attention to detail an Unspeakable ought to possess and proved he was a man who knew how to prioritise.

After all, new boots were objectively more useful than a new robe.

His costume's finishing touch was a disarming smile.

Never mind that he didn't feel it. Whoever comprised his interview panel would not see the pretence lurking beneath the expression—he'd practised it in the mirror throughout the previous week. Instead, they would see a dashing, confident young man who could integrate with the department without the need for extensive training. They would believe him to be dedicated and intelligent. Serious without being off-putting. Someone who could add stability to an uncertain situation.

In short, he would look like a good hire.

Even if that perception were categorically untrue.

Funani Khumalo, the new head of the Department of Mysteries, seemed to have bought it. And from what Draco had gleaned from his research, she was not an easy woman to fool.

Her curriculum vitae was extensive enough to have merited four different Chocolate Frog trading cards. Draco had checked his collection and, after discovering he only had three, dispatched Rosie on an emergency Honeydukes mission in an attempt to find the last.

Arguably more notable than her presence in magical confectionery, Khumalo had spent her last thirteen years as the Research Lead for the Department of Cursed, Possessed, and Mysterious Objects at the Magical Ministry for African Nations. Before that, she'd enjoyed two decades of prestige as Africa's premiere archaeologist and anthropologist. Even Mitchell had cited her work, a fact which spoke to her academic range, since Draco's artefact collection had been largely sourced from Europe, Asia, and the Americas. The African continent had been considered too wild and uncivilised for his racist ancestors to brave.

Perhaps most impressive of all was Khumalo's standing invitation as a guest lecturer at Uagadou, her alma mater and one of the world's oldest and most prestigious magical schools.

She was talented, an expert in her field, and downright terrifying to face across an interview table.

She was also quick to return his smiles—Draco's practise had indeed paid off—and nodded encouragingly when he answered her questions regarding his interest in the department. And when Draco delivered the line about understanding himself better through researching the universe's Greater Mysteries, her dark brown eyes warmed.

Hermione, meanwhile, stifled her guffaw in a poorly acted coughing fit.

"Would you like some water, Ms Granger?" Khumalo asked. A cooler sat in the corner of the otherwise nondescript conference room. It gave a helpful glug at the suggestion.

"Apologies." Hermione shook her head and pressed a hand to her chest. "Please continue."

Khumalo waited a beat, as if testing Hermione's composure. When her attention turned back to Draco, Hermione resumed the glower she'd been giving him since the interview's start.

Draco didn't care that she was willing his head to implode or his robes to catch flame. Bodily harm be damned: after months of avoidance and grudging Floo calls, he was just happy to see her in person.

And though Hermione would likely deny it, seeing him appeared to do her some good, too. The surprise of meeting him in the Atrium had lifted exhaustion's yoke from her shoulders. The indignity of having to interview him—and actually take it seriously, or else risk Khumalo's displeasure—lit a fire behind her eyes. Her expressions were lively, her wit incisive, her questions pointed.

For the first time in months, Draco recognized the woman he had once chased across the globe.

"Could you further describe your work with Dark artefacts, Mr Malfoy?" Khumalo asked, recapturing his attention. "Specifically, how do you find them, catalogue them, and ensure you work with them safely?"

"Wonderful question, and I'm glad you asked. As you may know, the Malfoy family is one of the oldest in wizarding Britain. What you may not know is that we actually came to Britain from France as the Malfoi family. My ancestor, Armand Malfoi, was an antiquities collector there. He journeyed to England in 1066 with William the Conqueror, and his association with the king only increased his wealth and status. He used both his money and his name to finance expeditions across the globe. Enough of them proved successful that, eventually, he amassed a fortune in magical artefacts."

"He stole them," Hermione interrupted, deadpan. "He robbed native peoples of their most valued and sacred possessions under the guise of preserving history. Armand didn't care about their culture. He cared about himself."

Draco shot her a challenging look. This was the second time she had tried to wrong-foot him; it wasn't going to work. She'd underestimated how thoroughly he'd prepared for this interview. How much time he'd spent crafting strategic answers to every uncomfortable question they could ask.

How much he wanted to speak to her alone, and the lengths to which he would go to achieve that end.

"Generous of you to credit Armand with operating under the guise of anything so charitable," he replied, much to her obvious displeasure. "We know from Armand's diaries that he was a rapacious scoundrel. He passed his passion for treasure hunting—"

"Grave robbing."

"—On to his son, Nicholas, who integrated it into his business. For generations, my family has added artefact after artefact to an already impossibly large collection, without consideration or credit given to the cultures and peoples to which they originally belonged. The family business is with me now. I intend to change that practice."

Hermione snorted, not even bothering to hide her derision. The beads in Khumalo's braided hair clacked as she cut Hermione a quelling look.

"I have an assistant to help me with the more transactional responsibilities: managing inventory, maintaining proper storage conditions, and conducting historical literary reviews. The basics of archaeological research."

Draco braved a glance at Hermione. She sneered and mouthed the word liar.

It was an accurate accusation: they both knew that Mitchell's responsibilities far exceeded what anyone would call basic.

But Khumalo didn't know that. And since Draco had no true interest in the position, the mistruth hurt no one.

"As for safety, I only begin physically interacting with an artefact after I've completed a thorough literature review. Even then, my initial step is to perform a series of diagnostic spells."

At least, that's what he thought Mitchell did. Long ago, when he'd first hired the American, Draco had asked about his process, more to ensure he had one than from any real curiosity about the details.

It was a mistake he'd only needed to make once. Draco still mourned the afternoon he'd wasted on the lecture.

Khumalo's question, however, begged for elaboration. "Diagnostic spells?"

"Proprietary, I'm afraid." An easy cover for not actually knowing any. "Passed down through my family."

Khumalo's lips pursed, but her eyes remained bright with curiosity. "What have you discovered?"

"Several items that I believe are entirely unique to the magical world. Our most recent article was featured in the Journal of Wizarding Archaeology. Perhaps you've seen it? On the Summoning Horn?"

Khumalo's brows rose. "That was you?"

"Not quite. My assistant quilled the article—he needed practice—but the horn itself is mine. We're scheduled to present at the Magical Artefact Symposium in Belgium next spring."

Mitchell was scheduled to present; Draco was scheduled to attend the after-dinner cocktail party.

"The honour is well deserved," Khumalo said. "I've never seen anything like that horn. Have you determined its source material, what the horn carved from? Many theorise that it's a cockatrice spur, but to have found one as far north as Svalbard would suggest their historic range to be significantly wider than previously thought."

Draco, naturally, had no idea. He replied with spread hands and an enigmatic smile. "You'll have to attend the symposium to find out."

"You are good at keeping secrets, Mr Malfoy."

He was careful not to look at Hermione. "That's part of the job, as I understand it."

At this, Khumalo laughed. "Very true. Do you have any questions, Ms Granger?"

Hermione leaned forward, laced her fingers together, and levelled him with a look so sharp he felt the beginnings of a headache.

Draco schooled his features and fought the urge to bolt. He'd weathered Khumalo's questions; he could survive Hermione's, too.

Hopefully.

As though sensing weakness, she bared her teeth, less a smile than a shark's man-eating grin.

"How do you plan to keep your media empire afloat while working at the Ministry, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco released a breath and donned an easy smile. He leaned forward to counter her posture, relaxed where she remained tense. Preparation separated the expert from the inept, and Draco had prepared for this question specifically.

"I provide funding and ad hoc editorial support for my publications. In general, I try not to interfere with the day-to-day operations." Then, to Khumalo: "I find micromanagement stifles creativity and skews my staff's objectivity. I could hardly claim to run a free and independent press without either, I'm sure you agree." Then, back to Hermione: "Though there may be a small transitional period regarding high level, strategic management, I have no doubt that my media empire, as you so kindly put it, will function fine without me."

"And what about your conflicts of interest?" Hermione's knuckles turned white. "How will you ensure that what you learn in this department will not accidentally make its way into one of your publications? Or into your own research, for that matter?"

"I comport myself with the highest ethical standards, in both business and personal pursuits." Hermione sat back with a disgusted huff. Undeterred, Draco continued with the rote. "Of course, I would abide by the Ministry's code of ethical conduct. If the Ministry feels that, after a certain period, my work as an Unspeakable is influencing my personal endeavours, then I will divest."

After a lengthy discussion with his legal team and irrefutable evidence of the ethical breach.

But Khumalo didn't need to know those specifics.

"My mother is a capable businesswoman," he added, "and my assistant has been working with increased autonomy. If necessary, I would trust either of them to take my place."

"That is a very reasonable solution." Khumalo's tone signalled an end to further interrogation. "We appreciate your flexibility on the matter, but I hope to never put you in a situation where you feel the need to choose between your work and your personal pursuits."

"I appreciate that and also understand the need for assurance. In research, we never know for certain when ethical issues may arise. It's always better to be prepared."

"Quite so!" Khumalo punctuated her declaration with a nod. She stood, smoothed her patterned robes, and offered her hand. "Thank you for your interest in the Department of Mysteries. You have given us much to consider."

Draco rose to meet her. "The pleasure is mine. Please don't hesitate to owl or Floo call if you have any further questions."

"Certainly. Regardless of our decision, you will hear from me directly before the end of October. Hermione, would you please escort Mr Malfoy to the Atrium?"

Hermione gave him a venomous smile and somehow spoke without unclenching her jaw. "Right this way, please."

She gestured him from the warm, well-lit conference room into Level Nine's subterranean hallways. The smooth, black-tiled walls reflected the department's signature torchlight. The blue-white ambiance was eerie, making it feel like they were not only underground, but under water.

Like they were trapped in an ancient cavern and something dreadful lurked nearby.

Sweat prickled on his neck.

Draco made for the lifts.

Hermione had other plans.

As soon as the conference room door closed behind them, melting back into the tile as though it had never existed, Hermione took hold of his arm and backed him up against a wall. She poked a firm finger into his sternum.

"What the hell are you playing at? You are not going to work here!"

"That doesn't seem to be entirely your decision. And could we continue this conversation elsewhere?" He swallowed back his growing panic and glanced at the ceiling, which now seemed incrementally closer to his head. "Somewhere above ground?"

"We're going to continue this conversation here," she snapped. "You want to work on Level Nine, don't you?"

Not particularly.

But a well-honed instinct for self-preservation kept him quiet.

"This is what you'll have to deal with if you do. Which, for the record, I think you don't. You gave up your opportunity to work at the Ministry years ago, remember?"

He did: long, dreary days in the Auror Office, on the fast-track to nowhere. Leaving the Ministry had been the right decision for him, and the wrong decision for them. Nevertheless, Draco did not regret his choice. He preferred managing his own business, working on a schedule he set and on projects that challenged and intrigued him.

The last six months notwithstanding, he was happier atop the corporate ladder than on its bottom rung.

Draco feigned a casual shrug, focusing on her and hoping that would stop the corridor from collapsing around him. "Magical Law Enforcement wasn't a good fit."

"And this is?"

"Well, you can't deny my experience."

Hermione's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "You've broken every rule the department has without even working here. You'd suffocate under the bureaucracy!"

She spun away from him and marched down the hallway. Draco rushed to walk alongside her, grateful for her naturally efficient pace. The lifts were just a little farther on. Soon he would be at ground level, in the sunshine and fresh air, and not below in a crypt of stone and steel.

"It sounds like you have a problem with me working here. Now why would that be?"

"I don't have a problem," she seethed.

"Then why—"

"Draco." Hermione spun again.

He almost ran into her as she came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the hallway.

That's when he felt it.

A cold like that from deep space. A vast emptiness reminiscent of infinity.

His eyes drifted back the way they'd come, to the singular, black door at the corridor's end. It was the entrance to the spinning room of doors, which led to the Department of Mysteries proper.

To the room that housed the tank of omniscient, manipulative Ancients, which had twisted Nott's mind until he'd snapped.

To the Death Chamber, where the Veil sat at the bottom of a collapsed amphitheatre, an eternal stage awaiting its audience.

Hermione was right about this place suffocating him, but wrong about the means.

It wouldn't be the bureaucracy that did him in.

It took all of five minutes for Draco's delay tactics to fail. The anxiety he'd been trying to tame reared like an unhappy Hippogriff.

His vision tunnelled, his goal suddenly singular.

When he began consciously processing his surroundings again, he was at the lift bank.

Hermione touched his arm; he flinched at the contact.

"Are you okay?"

Draco looked down at her. Hermione's fury had faded, replaced by a frown and a furrowed brow. He was touched by her concern, and cognizant of the opportunity it presented.

An opportunity he'd be foolish to ignore.

He considered his options.

His first instinct was to lie. It would have been the ideal choice save for one, inconvenient detail: Hermione had just seen the truth.

Draco's heart pounded. His chest heaved. He must have sprinted down the hallway, away from the Department of Mysteries and the memories it contained. There was no denying the reality of his reaction, no possible justification he could give that wouldn't rekindle her anger and spark a fight.

His second option was honesty. A rare choice, significantly more uncomfortable for all involved, but what other alternative was there?

"No," he said. "I'm not okay. And neither are you."

Fortunately, honesty's infrequent use yielded impressive results. Hermione's cheeks coloured. Denial was an easy read, especially on such a poor liar.

She threw a wary glance over his shoulder. "Not now."

"Then when?"

She shifted her weight, the prelude to a refusal. Before she could find a kind way to disappoint him, Draco took her hands. They were soft, and warm, and something seized within him at the touch of her skin. A tightening in his shoulders, a tensing in his neck and jaw.

Desperation.

He couldn't let her go. Not without an answer.

"The canopic jars we found in Egypt." He was pleased to feel no burn in his chest from the Unbreakable Vow.

She cocked her head. "What?"

"The jars." Draco opened his eyes wide, imploring her to understand. "It's code. The jars we found, the marae we studied in the Cook Islands, the…" He gestured down the hall. Though he'd had a week, he'd been unable to invent a metaphor that fit what they'd experienced in the Death Chamber. "We need to talk about it. You need to talk about it, and I can help."

"Draco, I don't need—"

"You do. We do. We can't keep avoiding each other. We need to figure this out, and you need to tell me when."

She tried to tug her hands from his.

Draco tightened his grip. "Hermione, when?"

Her mouth opened, then closed. Draco held her gaze—stubborn, insistent—only relaxing when the tension in her brow eased to neutral.

Neither acceptance nor pleasure. But not anger, either.

Nothing, in this case, felt like a win.

Her words confirmed it. "Tonight. I'll come over tonight."

He brushed his thumbs across her knuckles. "Thank you."

"I trust you can find your way out from here?"

"Yes." He knew the way: a lift to the Atrium, a Floo to the manor, then blessed sunlight would finally touch his skin. "At the manor? Five-thirty?"

Hermione nodded. Draco squeezed her hands before releasing her. By the time he stepped into the lift and selected the Atrium, she had started her trek back into the bowels of Level Nine, her Ministry-issued Unspeakable robe flaring out behind her.

As he watched her leave, an ache like loss spread deep in his chest.

Evening could not come soon enough.