The summer of 1995 had been a glorious one at the Malfoy Manor. Draco, freshly turned fourteen, pranced around his family's estate with a newfound pride that, naturally, he believed, could only come from being of superior birth, purer blood, and an elite social standing.
This skyrocketed confidence was not merely the product of teenage arrogance; mostly that of course, but it was cemented into the foundations of his mind one evening by a few overheard sentences, a fearless, promising exchange between his parents.
" New times are coming, my love. Better ones. This is what we've waited for."
"We cannot be so sure. The prophecy–"
"It's not a question of if. It is of when. And when, we will be admired. When the world is as it should be, we will be at his side, where we belong. Adored and honoured."
Draco held onto Lucius' words like the exact promise they were. They accompanied him through his Fifth year, and his poison riddled belief that in a world with no Muggleborns and no other shameful creatures, their family, their name, would be at the top. Alongside the Dark Lord's, revered and admired like they deserved.
As was his birthright.
He took the Dark Mark with those exact words echoing in his hollow mind. He repeated them into his mother's hair when she came to his room late that night. Pale, translucent skin, shaking with fear and trembling fingers tracing the features of his face as she stared at him wide eyed, as if to retain the way he looked right there, right then, forever. With a fresh Mark burning hot on his arm, raw and sensitive, eyes stinging with lingering pain and clammy fingers reaching for the comfort of a mother.
But he had to find it within himself, in the empty cavity of his chest, and he pulled the words from that stolen memory; he regurgitated his imprisoned father's words right back to Narcissa, who had already heard them years ago.
"I will restore our family's honour and standing, mother. I will stop at nothing."
Draco never quite knew if she'd actually believed him.
These jumbled, grotesquely contorted memories of his youth were a popular contender for nightmares. Draco had tallied them once, in a blur of months in Collobrières, and found that he dreamed of the night he took the Dark Mark at least once a week.
Yet his mind could not leave said memory where it was; it was taken apart at the seams and knitted back together with other haunting moments of terror. And the result was gargled scenes of horror; where the Dark Lord burst in during that most private moment between a mother and son, firing one deadly curse after the other at them. Much like the time he killed every person, every creature in his vicinity, after learning of Potter's break-in of his aunt's vault.
For the first time he could remember, Draco dreamed of this last moment of peace, one last resort in his mother's warm embrace, in full clarity. There was no fiendfyre, no screams and cries and curses, no dead bodies. Just the beginning of the end, a goodbye to everything he knew, that he didn't know he was saying.
Draco woke to a clear Norwegian morning with the sun shining through a gap in the curtains right onto his face. And suddenly, he was not 16 anymore, hugging his mother as he twisted his right underarm away so his blistering Mark wouldn't brush up against her cloak.
He woke with that same faded Mark now, and when he turned his head, Granger was curled into a ball beside him. She'd migrated away from the edge of her side closer to the middle, facing him, and her wild curls fanned on the pillows, strands of it obscuring her face. The sun did not quite reach her yet, and Draco felt inexplicably glad for it. She looked peaceful in her sleep, undisturbed by all their worries.
A sole curl hanging in front of her parted lips moved slightly with her every breath, and Draco watched it, blearily, waiting for his mind to wake up.
And all of yesterday's events came back rushing. Why he was in a bed with Granger in the first place, where they were, and how. And he felt utterly exhausted again.
He'd spent three years in a cottage in the French woods. Draco did not possess the emotional capacity required to deal with this kind of stress. He wasn't that person by nature, he could not be, or he would have never gone to France in the first place. In Collobrières, all he had to deal with were insurmountable losses.
Just one moment stood out to him, in the evening he'd spent seething on the bed and pretending to read while Granger did a stupid puzzle with Anette. Wanting to hurl something at her bushy head and scream, this is all your fault, if you weren't so bloody fucking perfect they would have come later and now Anette's in danger, and she's the only fucking person who matters –
When the doubts of ever allowing Granger to tag along ate away at him – even though he never had a choice, but more and more now, he felt like there could have been a way to flee, get rid of her, and find a way around her swotty existence – she reminded him once again, why it was not such a horrible idea to keep her around.
That small moment, when she asked Anette where she wanted to sleep. Something Draco hadn't even considered. And then he saw her hesitance, the shame that pushed the young girl's face to the ground, in admitting what she actually wanted. Granger had lured it out of her, and respected her choice.
Something Draco would have never thought to ask. And yet, it was clearly important. Because as she'd so tactfully reminded him; he needed to build a close bond with Anette.
And how could he ever achieve that if he couldn't even bother to ask the poor girl about her basic needs?
Maybe it was a sort of motherly feeling she possessed. A feminine bond with Anette, something he could never dream to achieve. And with a poof, his anger disappeared. It even took some of the inhumane stress with it.
Granger left his head swirling. She'd been doing so for more than a week now, and Draco found himself less angry at it every day. The realization left him exhausted, squinting at her slumbering form in the glowing dawn, so ignorant to the turmoil in his mind.
The bed was absolutely grotesquely fucking hot. Granger could just as well have been a bloody radiator. The warmth had been comfortable in his post sleep haze, but the more he woke, the more insufferable it became. He slipped out of the covers and crossed the room towards the curtains, lifting them slightly to look out.
It was a morning like any other; snow tipped mountains, a frosty sea, and a fresh layer of white adorning the road. It could not have been any later than nine in the morning.
Draco looked back towards Granger. She had already relocated to the middle of the bed with her limbs sprawled out. At least she hadn't hogged the bloody blankets.
The house was quiet. Theo might still be asleep; and as long as he didn't lift the Undetecting charms from their rooms, it would be hazardous to leave.
He considered waking her, just so he didn't have to spend his time alone until she woke by herself. The idea was thrown away soon, not wanting to risk her in a bad mood. Maybe she deserved the rest, after all.
Instead, he reread Francoise Mélier's diary – the only reading material he took from his suitcase that Theo made him leave in the car, as well as Granger's purse, since the Undetectable Extension Charms on both items would disturb the Undetecting charms. Draco was sprawled on the cushiony carpet, holding the book close to his eyes to fight the darkness, and maybe, find something he hadn't found in his first few dozen reads. There was nothing, of course.
Draco harked to Granger's shifting and breathing every few minutes. The only mark for passage of time in the dim room, piles of books towering around him and leaning in close as if to listen to his thoughts.
Because the Ministry should have come long ago. Last evening already. There was no earthly reason for them to be followed, somehow far too easily lose the man – he could Apparate, unlike them – and then have enough time to find shelter at Theo's.
They should have showed up the night before. Otherwise, there was no point in following them. Draco tossed the thoughts back and forth, much the same he'd already done with Granger the night before; but as expected, he couldn't come to a conclusion on his own, either.
The kitchen downstairs breathed with the subdued noises of a kettle and radio being turned on. Draco sat up, waiting for Theo's steps to move up the stairs. They traipsed around downstairs, around the kitchen and the living room, and then finally, a first creak of the steps –
There was a crack outside. A noise Draco recognized instantly, and he flipped on his feet in seconds.
Moving the curtain with the tip of his wand, he caught sight of a cloaked figure standing in the glowing bright snow. The Ministry's golden emblem glowed adorned on their chest. The front door opened and Draco could not make out the words being spoken; the anti-detection spells were too strong, repelling all noises from outside the house.
Draco was transfixed as the Ministry employee removed their hood. He didn't recognize the person; someone of his parents' generation, a man with proud greying hair and a strong handshake. The top of Theo's head appeared in his restricted view for a second, beckoning the man in, and then they disappeared out of sight, into the house.
Just then, Draco remembered bloody Granger. He glanced back at her. She was, somehow, still dead asleep, not a stir in her still form.
He made the decision quickly now. She'd be bloody insufferable if he let her sleep through this.
With featherlight steps, he moved towards the bed and leaned over her, one knee sinking into the mattress and dipping her towards him. Bloody stupid fucking hair –
He picked away curls obscuring her face, heart pounding in cadence with the dulled pair of footsteps moving around downstairs. He moved the palm of his hand over her mouth carefully, thumb pushing into the soft skin of her jaw to make his hold tight, and began to shake her shoulder.
She stirred within seconds; just a tranquil blink at first, a stutter in the rhythm of her breath pushing at his palm, and then suddenly, she was wide awake, panicked eyes pushing at him with a choke he suffocated.
"The Ministry is here," he whispered, and as she recognized him through the dark, the instinctive, wild fear in her eyes calmed into a wide-eyed shock. She lifted her hand to grip his arm, moving it away from her mouth and she sat, pulling herself up with shaking limbs, and they listened to the dull murmuring floating through the residence underneath. He caught her gaze, and they stared at each other wide-eyed as the steps moved closer. Up the stairs.
Theo's voice carried through the house, loud and booming. A single warning.
"Of course I can show you the upstairs!"
They barely had time to scramble down to the floor, pressed up against the side of the bed, when the voices became startlingly clear. Granger's breath was chasing after his own, her hand still curled around his arm in an iron grip; it felt grounding, almost, and then he felt the tip of her wand tap against his cheek.
The horrid sensation of an egg cracking over his head made him shudder. It helped him realise what she'd done, still cringing, and returned the Disillusonment Charm before she could cast it on her own.
And then the room flooded with light, and the voices rung loud and clear.
"Completely, unplottable, you say?"
"Yes, quite. I conducted a few experiments with a transformation potion and my pet duck a few years ago. The last time I tried to go in, I lost the tip of my finger as I touched the door handle."
The bed obscured their view but judging from the short silence, Theo probably showed said finger to the Ministry employee.
Granger was gone, perfectly melted into their surroundings, but her nails were ever present, digging crescent moons through his long sleeves. He could not fault her, despite the stinging pain. He wondered if his heart could be beating loud enough for the man to hear. His breath came quick and panicked, chased out of his lungs past his pounding heart and Draco fought to keep his chest moving evenly, a dull pain spreading there.
"Lots of books you have here. You get lots of visitors?"
The man finally moved into Draco's view. Worry lines drew his face but sharp, quick eyes scanned his surroundings. His jaw clamped shut, a choke on air stuck in his throat, and he thought Granger's fingers were wrapped so tight around his arm, nails digging so deep, she might have drawn blood.
The man gestured toward the undone bed, freshly slept in by the both of them. Draco could just make out the top of Theo's head, dark hair bobbing up and down, and he shifted, stretching his neck to see his face. Theo's eyes were scanning the bed, and, Draco thought, lingered on him for a second or two.
"Had an old schoolmate stay over for a few weeks. He left before Granger and Malfoy came, kept forgetting to make the bed."
He followed that with a friendly chuckle, and the man joined in. Draco could just barely make out a low squeak at the mention of their names, and fought the urge to press his hand over her mouth again. If he did, the man could notice his hand, resembling the rusty brown of the carpet, hovering on the beige duvet hanging over the bed.
"And you're sure Miss Granger told you nothing else when she gave you the letter for us?"
"Nothing. I was confused that Malfoy wasn't with her, but they didn't seem too chummy the entire time anyway, always ignoring each other when I came around–"
The voices faded again, the light swept away by the shadows, and then the room was empty. Their steps faded, into one of the other rooms off the hallway.
"Are you trying to rip a piece out of me?" he hissed, and she produced a choking sound. With the adrenaline simmering out, her vice-like grip on arm became more prominent with every second.
"It was either you or my wand!"
Draco scoffed, and her cramped fingers curled out of his shirt and the scratched skin underneath, and he tried to calm the scathing pinpoints of pain with the flat of his palm. It was ironic, really, that she'd gripped him right over his Mark.
"That was Quentins, senior Auror. They've never sent him on one of these check-ups before," she began to mumble quickly.
"This isn't a normal check-up, Granger. You're their star employee, remember?" Draco murmured with thinly veiled distaste lacing his words. He moved away from her, standing up to cross towards the window again. The voices had disappeared, to the front porch, and he peeked out in between the curtains again.
"I couldn't have known–"
"Maybe, but I could have."
Draco didn't spare her a glance. Just watched the silent exchange outside with a muted expression. He could have known, he'd realized then; people like Granger, adored and beloved, never knew how much they mattered to everyone. It was a privilege not to have to think about what she meant to others, not be forced to question where she stood in societal hierarchy. The Wizarding World had changed after the war, since their school days, into something Draco could not, nor would he bother, to recognize. He'd once been like her, and she'd once been like him, now. Ironic, really.
Granger had gotten up and moved beside him, a shift in vision, a humanoid shape wrapped in the beige colour of the bed's duvet hovering in the air where she flickered in front of him. They watched as the men waved goodbye, and with a crack, Quentins disappeared, and reappeared down at the shore, on the front steps of their house. He disappeared inside.
Granger gave a curious hum.
"What?" Draco asked, and the curtain shifted as the stretched impressions of the bed adorning her leaned back.
"Quentins is taller than you."
Draco gaped. Spluttering in offense.
"What in Salazar's name–"
"It wasn't him who followed us yesterday. That man was your height. I thought–"
Draco's mouth snapped shut as he followed her train of thought. If Quentins hadn't followed them, where was the man who did?
Their thoughts died down as two things happened in quick succession; a large snowy owl with a letter fixed to its leg flew overhead and descended upon the closed window, cawing and fluttering its large wings. At the same time, the front door slammed shut and steps pounded up the stairs.
Granger opened the window just as the bedroom door flew open and Theo flicked on the lights with a slight pant, leaning in the doorway, holding onto the frame with buckling knees.
"Merlin's left ballsack, fuck that was close!"
"It's from Harry," Granger said. Draco was pretty sure she was frowning; she still looked like ugly beige duvet. He waved his wand to remove the Disillusionment Charm.
"What about Anette?" Draco asked, and Theo squinted in his direction. Granger hadn't removed the spell from him yet, and he nudged her.
"She's – I put Muffliato and Silencio spells on her room. Told him it was unplottable. She hasn't moved yet," he replied, and as Granger removed the spell with a mutter, Theo's eyes found Draco where he stood.
"What did he ask about?" Granger asked, back at full attention and folding the parchment back together after flying across it for a mere few seconds.
"Just how you acted the last time I saw you, what I know of Draco's disappearance, and if I'd noticed anything else peculiar."
Granger nodded slowly.
"He's one of the best. They sent him for a reason. If he deems no foul play, they won't come back for sure."
"And you're sure about the Tracking spells?" Draco asked, for what felt like the hundredth time in the past few days. She rolled her eyes.
"Like I've said a thousand times already, there's no earthly reason for him to use it here, I told Harry that I've gone to Poland, my department never used this spell outside of detecting Obscurials–"
" Our department, not yours–"
" No one's department, we both quit!"
"I didn't even officially quit–"
"Just – stop, I need to go brush my teeth!"
With a frustrated huff, she pushed past him and practically barreled through Theo, who jumped out of the way, and she stomped into the hallway. Theo raised both eyebrows at Draco.
"Trouble in paradise?"
Draco glowered at the bang of a door in the hallway, presumably the bathroom. She was so bloody unpleasant, so bossy, such a wrench in his plans at every turn, but somehow, also the grease to make everything work.
Because she was right. If Quentins did not find anything in their house – which he wouldn't – they would officially be out of the deep water. Every single plan of hers had worked out perfectly. Maybe they could even begin the ritual today.
And he didn't know whether to shove her down the stairs or kiss her for it.