TRIGGER WARNING for this chapter: brief mention of suicidal tendencies in a remark about a minor character.
"Would you mind if I practiced this aloud?"
Draco lifted his head at her question.
"It's your office."
And he, again, didn't technically need to be there. He could have just come and gone as he pleased; made copies of the reports he wanted for the day and returned to his own study at home. To the absolute crushing silence of his empty house.
Weeks had slipped by in a haze of established routine, time progressing even if the investigation seemed to stall.
But Draco would not equate "routine" with "boring."
No, "boring" he reserved for the monotonous hours cooped up in his own manor, or making the requisite, dull appearances at charity functions.
Granger's office offered a change of pace, and he concentrated better here, Draco reasoned. He could raise theories in real-time with her.
And he could hear her work, too. She usually dedicated his days with her to the prisoner files, but with Goyle's hearing fast approaching, she let Draco carry on solo while she prepped for court.
Granger paced behind her desk, hands gesturing as she changed inflection to hit different notes of emphasis to an impassioned defence of their former schoolmate.
"… a young man with no family left…"
"… all the bad influences in his life have been excised…"
"… by all accounts a model prisoner…"
"… has publicly renounced his role in the war, minor as it was, I remind the court…"
Draco cut in. "Has he?"
"Has he what?"
"Done that. Renounced his actions as a Death Eater."
"Yes. During his initial trial."
"Doesn't appear to have helped him much."
"Unfortunately not. I'm not sure his representation the first time round was all that concerned, to be honest," she said with a frown.
"You should say 'publicly expressed remorse' instead. It's more emotional phrasing."
"Good point." She bent over her desk and jotted down the note.
Over the course of the afternoon, Granger's rehearsal became less of a monologue and more of a workshop with Draco as an active participant.
Which was very much not the reason Draco was meant to be in Granger's office. But if she didn't want to point that out, then why should he?
And if at the end of the week her soft spoken question about his plans for Goyle's hearing date didn't have anything to do with their investigation, did it really matter?
"Will you be there?"
"I'll keep Pansy calm, if you want."
Pansy had already owled him to ask this favour, as her mother was loath to leave their manor for such a public, and likely press-heavy, event.
"Well I mean… I'd like you there too I suppose," Granger admitted with a blush dusting her cheeks.
She'd once mentioned Weasley never came to watch her. That it had "bored him."
Draco couldn't imagine anything more igniting than watching this woman perform at the top of her game.
"Then I'll be there."
A few days prior, Draco had left a witch confident in her public speaking skills and convinced of her cause.
Today he found a witch frantically wringing her hands and muttering under her breath as she paced a corridor off the courtroom. She could only throw Pansy a terse nod in greeting. Draco suspected Granger felt a rush of pressure to perform today, given her relationship—not quite friendship, yet—with Pansy. And if he knew one thing about Granger, it was that she hated letting any person down.
Pansy shot him a look and darted her eyes towards Granger. Talk to her, you moron, it clearly said.
He shooed her into the courtroom and tentatively approached the fidgeting Granger. He'd gotten so accustomed to seeing the coolly self-possessed version of her, or the fiery warrior, that this iteration of a mousy thing felt wrong.
"All right there?"
"Fine," she insisted. "Just pre-performance jitters."
Did he even have the right to suggest the idea that had entered his brain at half past three this morning? Probably not, but he'd come this far.
"I uh…" Draco stepped closer to ensure they wouldn't be overheard. "I had an idea. If you want to go the slightly theatrical route."
"Oh?" She stared up at him. Open, vulnerable. And willing to be that way in front of him.
"Do you trust me?"
"I do."
Draco stuttered to a halt for a second, not expecting her affirmation to fall so quickly, so easily from her lips. He'd thought he would need to convince her of his reliability.
"Do you still have it?" he murmured and gestured at her covered arm. "Your… your scar?"
"Yes. I keep it Glamoured for events, but not when I'm in long-sleeves."
"Roll up your sleeve as you begin your defence. Stand right next to Goyle."
The emotional trump card they'd need. He couldn't believe neither of them thought of this before.
Her eyes met his and he saw the abrupt shift in their gleam from nervous to defiant.
She shook her hair back. Lifted her chin. This was Granger ready for battle.
Good.
"Hermione, are you ready?" Sterling approached and gave Draco a curt nod.
"Yes. Thank you, Draco. I'll see you after."
It wasn't a question, he noted, as her employer steered her into the courtroom to plead her case to the parole committee of the Wizengamot.
Draco found Pansy in the gallery sitting with her head held high, eyes front, and a noticeable amount of empty space around her. Whether the public gave her a wide berth out of disdain or if her own haughty posture warned them off, Draco couldn't tell.
But when he sat close beside his friend, he felt her shaking a bit. Putting a comforting arm around her would have resulted in either a snappy brush-off or a feeding of the gossip hounds no doubt observing their every move.
Draco had many things he wanted to say to Pansy. Things she probably would hex him for even thinking.
You're braver than me.
You're a better friend than me.
You deserve someone who won't disappoint you.
He said it all silently anyway; by taking her hand in his. She didn't protest or sneer, but instead accepted the gesture for what it was: a recognition of her own vulnerability and an admission that she needed consolation.
She had other tells as the hearing started.
The shallow breaths came when the guards led in Goyle and chained him to a chair.
The painfully tight squeezes to Draco's fingers came when they read out the charges and initial sentencing.
And Granger's first interruption of the court scribe was scored by Pansy huffing out a little gasp.
"—let the record show that Gregory Goyle, should the appeal for parole be granted, will adjourn to his ancestral home in—"
"That's incorrect," piped up Granger. "The Goyle ancestral home is no longer a viable dwelling. Upon his release from Azkaban, Mr. Goyle has listed his new address as the Parkinson Estate in Oxfordshire."
Draco shot a quizzical look at Pansy.
"He's coming to live with you and your mother? Pansy… is there something you want to tell me?"
"No, it's… it's not like that. Not yet anyway. I… we…" She gulped a breath and toyed with the sleeve of her robe. "It's hardly romantic Draco, I'm not one of those desperate women who nabs herself a prison boyfriend via owl. We're friends and he needs a place to stay. We bonded over shared trauma and our shite fathers. And—"
Pansy looked down guiltily at the floor.
"And?" he prompted.
"And being left behind."
By you. She left it off the sentence.
They didn't speak as the hearing played out below. Draco watched as Granger delivered the arguments she'd meticulously crafted and then parroted at him for the better part of the week. While he'd been impressed in her office space at the lively way she could speak, in this setting, with a man's fate on the line, she imbued her gift for rhetorical saviour into every phrase spoken.
Here, she made her words sing.
The only reason to not agree with this woman would be for nefarious, bigoted, political aims. Draco watched her play and pluck the heartstrings of all who witnessed and when she ever-so-deliberately took her stance next to Goyle's chair, Draco leaned forward in his seat.
She pushed up one sleeve of her robe, then the other. She unbuttoned the cuffs of the blouse beneath without even pausing in her speech. As if it were the most natural act in the world, as if the room were a touch too warm today and she required this simple gesture to make herself a bit more comfortable. She pushed up the fabric and rested her arm along the back of Goyle's chair.
Mudblood.
Not as stark and bright red as Draco remembered from the night he'd watched it carved into her arm, but a notable scar nonetheless.
And she wore it like a fucking badge of honour.
Go on, her posture said. Look me full in the face and tell me this doesn't affect you. Tell me the sight of me defending this man doesn't make your pompous heads spin.
Granger's voice rose up from below, and then died away as she wrapped up with a resounding, "We'd do better to improve our citizens, not simply incarcerate them. Mr. Goyle is a prime example of someone with an actual future this court would seek to diminish by upholding a far-too harsh initial sentence. The parole committee would do well to reconcile why it saw fit to punish someone simply because they lacked the right connections or the requisite amount of influential gold in the aftermath of the war. I ask that you carefully review the written statement provided by my client expressing his earnest desire to make the most of life beyond Azkaban. Thank you for your time."
The court members adjourned for deliberation. Pansy let out a slightly hysterical rushing exhale as murmurs broke out around them.
"She's brilliant," Pansy stated.
"I know."
"Don't tell her I said that."
"Of course not."
"You spend a lot of time with her."
"I've been guilted into a cause. It's temporary."
"Do you think your mother will mind?"
"My mother knows I work with Granger."
Pansy gave him an irritating, mischievous smile. "I meant: do you think your mother will mind that you look at her the way you should have looked at Astoria?"
Draco cast a startled look around then followed it up with a Muffliato.
"Don't. You start a whisper like that and people will assume the worst of her break-up with Weasley."
"Ah, so you care about her reputation then, is that it?"
Draco frowned and looked away. He certainly didn't need this mockery, even if it might make Pansy temporarily forget her current anxiety.
His friend surprised him then, by laying a hand on his arm.
"Draco, they've been broken up for a while. If that's your concern."
"And how I look or don't look at Granger is no concern of yours."
"You are an absolute paradox of a person. It's a wonder how you exist."
"You sound like Theo."
"You've always been selfish—"
"Thank you?"
"But with this warped sense of nobility," she concluded her character summary. "Granger's hardly the type that needs protecting."
"It doesn't matter, Pansy, she—"
"Get out of your own way."
Pansy dropped her hand and the subject, surveying the crowd.
Her keen eyes zeroed in on Sterling speaking quietly with Hermione and Goyle.
"Who's the silver fox? That's not Granger's employer, is it?"
"That's Sterling, yes."
"Merlin. I'd throw Weasley over too if I worked with that sort of view every day."
Draco scoffed. "He's married. I think. And too old for her."
Pansy shrugged and smirked. "I think many a witch our age wouldn't care for either of those details."
"Gross."
His disgust was genuine, but privately decided he'd take this Pansy, this usual vibrant, gossipy, annoying Pansy over the morose, anxious and wan version he'd been stuck with for far too long now.
Pieces of his friend slid back into place as they waited for the verdict. She updated Draco on some new robes she'd ordered for her mother. She nattered away about the house elves' cooking and the recent suggestions for improvement she'd given them. She whinged about a recent luncheon with Theo and Blaise during which they "looked pathetically in love and talked of nothing but Blaise's research. It was hopelessly dull, Draco."
When she ran out of things to nervously babble about, Draco observed Goyle for perhaps, one of the only times in his life. He'd always just been there, just existed in Draco's orbit, with a defined purpose. The purpose had not been friendship by any stretch of the imagination. He'd been a burly brute Draco could rely upon to protect him whenever the urge to be a little shite struck. Which had been often. Draco had never considered this other person's aspirations or feelings before.
Today, he saw a young man. A scared, gaunt young man that Draco barely avoided becoming. Goyle's slimmed down face suddenly found Draco in the crowd. His mouth turned down into a puzzled frown, as if he couldn't understand the impetus behind Draco's presence, but was ultimately pleased by it. Then his eyes landed on Pansy.
Everything about Goyle softened.
"And we're not going to talk about the way he looks at you?"
"Fuck off Draco."
It came out acerbic, but then she immediately tensed. The Wizengamot members were now being called upon to vote.
"All those in favour of parole?"
Pansy let out a quiet whimper as more than half of the assembled court raised their hands in the air.
"All those opposed?"
It wasn't enough. Goyle was a free man.
Through the haze of chatter from the public, murmurings from the court, the banging of the gavel, and the sudden flashes of photography, Draco saw Granger, alight in triumph.
She smiled at Goyle. She smiled at Sterling. Then she turned her face his way and fucking beamed.
Pansy was tugging him along down to the court floor, and despite her insistent pace, Draco felt as if he moved through nothing; a pull that drew his body towards Granger with no regard for the crush of people in the surrounding crowd.
As they approached, Pansy released her grip to throw her arms around a startled Granger.
"Thank you," Draco heard the shaky whisper as Pansy then let her arms drop. She stepped back and surveyed Granger from head to toe.
"We'll celebrate at my home. Draco go collect Blaise and Theo," Pansy ordered imperiously. "Granger I suppose you should come along too, even if you are in those drab courtroom robes."
Everyone seemed to exist at varying degrees of awkwardness. Pansy's mother had ordered the elves to prepare far too much food and the impressive display in the massive dining room couldn't possibly be consumed by this gathering of seven people. All doing their best to combat their own private form of discomfort.
Pansy's mother fawned over everyone present (even Granger) and seemed to exist in the time period of entertaining her daughter's school friends as children home on summer break.
Pansy couldn't stop shooting anxious looks at Goyle every few minutes, as if afraid he might keel over right at the table.
To be fair, Goyle seemed several slow blinks away from passing out. Unsure of where to look, the poor man looked simultaneously exhausted and overwhelmed by having to socialise with so many people at once.
Blaise, per his general unflappable nature, attempted to maintain neutral, calm conversation that fell flat more often than not as everyone tried to ignore the odd reason for "celebrating." Their friend was in prison and now, by the grace of a Muggleborn, found himself moving into Pansy's home.
It was hardly a jovial atmosphere nor the merry type of environment of a reunion. How did one reacquaint themselves with an old friend when you knew exactly where they'd been the past few years but felt that probably both you and they would very much like to avoid the topic of his previous accommodations altogether?
Granger fidgeted more than usual in her stiff-backed chair, seated next to Draco. Her perpetual state of bewilderment over her inclusion at this luncheon blared despite her infrequent contributions to spoken conversation. When she wasn't taking perfunctory small bites from her plate, she twisted her napkin in her lap. Her fingers wound and pulled at the fabric.
Anxious fingers that begged to be grabbed. Stilled. Knuckles he could smooth over.
An urge he should quell, a call he should ignore.
But despite this burning compulsion to calm her nerves for the second time today, Theo concerned Draco the most.
Theo looked miserable.
Draco had filed away his observations of his friend to perhaps follow-up with Blaise at a later date, when a confrontation outside the washroom occurred instead.
He stepped into the hall only to almost run smack into Theo.
"Draco, I need to ask you something."
Up close, Theo's appearance concerned Draco even more. The frantic eyes, the shadows beneath them, the gleam to their hue. Too familiar by half.
"What's wrong?"
"You're all right? What I did to you… with the dream… you're fine?"
That was not the question Draco expected.
"Theo, of course I am. That was years ago."
"You're not pursuing Hermione because of it?"
Draco scowled. "I'm not pursuing her at all."
"I should have taken more care with you. You were vulnerable and we were kids but I… I know better now."
"Theo what's wrong? Blaise was worried about you."
"Blaise worries too much. I'm fine now."
"Now? That implies there was a period of time when you were not fine."
"I'm handling it. I've handled it."
"Theo, do you need—?"
The scraping noise of chairs moving from the dining room made Theo jump back. He looked Draco up and down and shook his head.
"Ignore me, then. Just another bout of strangeness from me, you know, the usual," Theo muttered briskly and stepped around Draco, closing the door to the washroom in his face.
Shaking off the odd confrontation, Draco made to rejoin the subdued party when he rounded the corner of the hall and collided with yet another person.
"Oof, sorry!"
"Do you always barrel around corners, Granger?"
His hands steadied her by the shoulders. He hadn't yet released her. She hadn't shrugged him off.
"I was just going to clean up and then make my excuses. I think Greg should probably go rest. The transition back home can be rough."
"Er, I suppose."
He really should remove his hands. Their existence on her body served no actual purpose since Granger was neither an infirm individual nor suffering from a bout of vertigo and could therefore stand just fine on her own.
But she didn't move either. She didn't seem bothered in the least that his large hands spread in full over the curve of her shoulders, the tops of them comically encompassed by the span of his palms and long fingers. Parts of her moulded into him. Or perhaps it was the inverse. He had no way to know in that moment. His Black family signet ring on his left middle finger held court over her right shoulder. The Malfoy signet, his right ring finger, laid claim to her left shoulder.
"Thank you, by the way," she offered abruptly.
"For what?"
"Showing up."
"Awfully low bar you have there, Granger."
"It meant a lot to Pansy."
"She'll never admit to that."
"It meant a lot to me."
"Why?"
She looked up at him with that sharp, quizzical face of hers. She apparently expected him to know the answer but for the life of him, Draco drew a blank.
"It felt like I had someone supporting me."
"Sterling was there."
"He's my boss, and while yes, he's an excellent one, I still feel like I have to perform to high standards under his watch."
"You have flocks of supporters in our world. Many in the gallery today."
She gave a light shake of her head in disagreement. Some of her curls brushed against the tops of his hands, sweeping along his bare skin in a way that should tickle, not sear.
"They came to watch the so-called 'brightest witch.' But you… you don't have lofty expectations of me," she admitted. Her over-large eyes, that screaming gaze of hers, imparted her gratitude for this conclusion regarding his opinion of her. Her incorrect conclusion.
"Wrong, Granger." He finally dropped his hands. "You just always find a way to exceed them."
He left her without uttering another word, foolish or otherwise.
Draco needed to get the fuck out of here before any more of these people ensnared him in uncomfortably enigmatic conversation (fucking Theo) or uncomfortably revealing conversation (Granger. Obviously.)
Alas, he needed to survive one more round of social torture.
"Congratulations," he said to Goyle and shook his hand in farewell.
"Thanks. Bit weird innit?"
"I suppose."
"See you around then, since you're still close with Pansy."
"Right. Look Goyle—"
"I prefer Greg. If it's all the same to you."
"Right, Greg. Sorry."
Silence. Draco had no idea how to enter, sustain, or exit conversation with this man. Someone he'd known since birth.
"We should talk. Sometime. If you're up for it," suggested Draco.
Goyle's face brightened a bit. "Yeah all right mate. Thanks for coming today."
It came out almost perfectly into a division of thirds when Draco and Granger could finally take stock of all their interviews with the prisoners: Men like Flint who seemed unbothered, a contingent who sounded afraid, and the last group who appeared almost wistful when pressed about their time spent in the quarantine wing of Azkaban.
They classified the three groups based on the types of responses to the question of, "How would you describe your time spent in medical lockdown?"
The inmates couldn't account for the presence of personnel, as they just assumed they were visited by either healing staff or guards. Nothing stuck out to them, and certainly nothing involving the Department of Mysteries.
They'd hit a dead end and Draco felt like tearing his hair out.
"This is getting us nowhere Granger, we need a new strategy."
She nodded and resumed her pacing in front of her desk.
"What we know is we have a portion of the prison population who were sequestered for some months with no official accounting as for why. We know that during that time, not a single one was administered Dreamless Sleep despite repeated requests noted on the medical charts. And we saw a correlative uptick in visits by Ministry officials."
"Yes and Potter and Johnson's information has been entirely useless."
She shot him a glare. "They have full time jobs at the Ministry, they can't help much more without arousing suspicion. Not to mention Robards still isn't pleased with Harry for testifying on the programme's behalf. They've got to be careful not to ruffle any feathers."
"Potter's worried about ruffling feathers? Since when?"
"Since his job depends on it. Robards seems to be going for that 'tough on post-war crime' stance. I'm sure it's political and will probably play well if he makes a run for Minister eventually. But it means, for now, Harry and Angelina have to tread carefully if we need more DMLE help down the road."
"Then we need a new avenue." Draco leaned back in his desk chair and absently twirled his quill. A memory struck from his time before his role in life as Granger's co-investigator.
"The warden is a slimy little social climber. He once personally made my mother a cup of tea on a visit to my father."
"And?"
"Well I don't think it would take much digging into his background to find something useful."
She frowned. "You want to blackmail the warden?"
"Not what I said, just apply the right amount of pressure. Or financial incentive."
"That's called a bribe."
She looked disappointed. It screamed at him. The way her mouth turned down, tugged into an expression that hollered for him to do better, to be better.
"I'm trying to help how I can, sorry if that's not good enough for you," he sneered.
Granger rolled her eyes. "Leave your complexes out of this. We're not blackmailing or bribing anyone, least of all the warden. I still think we can crack Flint."
But on their next two visits to that odious man, no amount of rephrasing or verbal sorcery would get Flint to divulge any more information.
"He just keeps bringing up his sleeping habits and trying to get a rise out of you," Granger muttered irritably as they left yet another unsatisfying afternoon at Azkaban.
"He's being a prick because he knows he can. Because whatever happened here doesn't seem to have affected him the way it affected others," reasoned Draco.
Granger lapsed into thoughtful silence as they waited for their Portkey to activate back to her office. Upon return, she rifled through some of the files on Draco's desk.
"What did you think of Ben Sinclair? He still seems downright terrified to even speak. Do you think he was one of the more severe cases of depression we flagged from the psych files?"
"I think he tried to off himself," Draco stated bluntly.
She straightened up suddenly, startled at his morbid observation. "What makes you say that?"
"The only thing that I can talk about with him is quidditch. Anything else and he looks like he wants to vomit. Or cry. Or cry-vomit."
"No need to be crude, I see your point."
"Granger he almost faints every time we ask him about the isolation period."
Draco held in the further observation that he probably knew exactly how Sinclair felt. The kid would crack under harsher questioning for sure, but did Draco really want to be the party responsible for causing a vulnerable person to mentally melt down? He knew Granger wouldn't want that either, even if it might help them solve this silly mystery faster. No, Draco would rather not further disrupt the mental health of an already broken young man.
He'd rather see someone a bit more despicable laid low.
"We need a pressure point for Flint. We can't make him promises or ply him with comforts," pitched Draco.
"You want to intimidate him?"
"Not outright, just suggest that his non-cooperative attitude might not have the best consequence for his general well-being."
"That was a lot of words to describe 'threaten him.'"
He shot her a withering look and she held up a placating hand. "We're supposed to be an advocacy programme, if you recall—"
"Yes, I'm aware, that's why I have to read off those stupid pamphlets at every visit."
"Which is very helpful, by the way."
"Completely unappreciated by those filthy prisoners."
"Probably because you speak about mental health services and community connections in the most demeaning way possible."
"You said I was helping."
"You are, you have more influence than you realise and fortunately for you, not many seem to pick up on your condescending tone."
"I speak how I speak Granger."
"Yes, well, genuine or not, you seem to be accidentally doing some good. The younger ones listen to you, you know. Now, what did you have in mind for Flint?"
She'd agreed to let Draco take the lead on interviewing Flint this time. Because she had confidence in him. Because she trusted him. Held him to some degree of positive regard.
He wondered if she'd still hold that opinion after today.
Because he would need to be his father. A cliche Draco liked to think he'd successfully avoided (the short haircut for example, was a very conscious decision) but he'd unfortunately need to dip his toe in that persona for a bit.
"Flint," he greeted coolly. The other man stared at his own nails, bored of their presence and waiting for either Draco or Granger to run through their standard routine so he could interject with ludicrous requests for things like firewhisky or sex workers.
Draco didn't bother with any other pleasantries or even the usual programme questions.
"How's the wand-wood trade these days?"
Flint's head jerked up at the abrupt question.
"Thinking of investing in my family's business?"
"No, I can spot a failure when I see one."
"Funny, I've never thought that to be a particular skill of yours."
"Oh I assure you, I'm quite adept at predicting which industries seem to be on their way out."
"Wands are always in demand."
Draco continued as if Flint hadn't spoken. "Some businesses fail gracefully, fold quietly. They cut their losses and move on to more lucrative ventures. While some less," Draco leaned back in his uncomfortable, yet chain-free metal chair and looked down his nose at Flint, "reputable shall we say, try every desperate trick in the book to keep things afloat."
Draco let his loaded statement hang in the air. He could hear Granger's soft, quiet breathing beside him and wondered if she'd be able to tamp down her urge to chime in.
Flint's eyes flashed, but not in curiosity. He recognised the subtext of Draco's statement.
"Certain woods are so pricey," continued Draco. "Particularly the more specialised ones. Acacia, for example."
Flint stared back, challenging Draco to persevere in this meandering monologue with the implicit threat simmering just beneath the surface.
"You know, it would be an awful shame if certain wandmakers were to become aware of some falsified reports of demand for quite a rare wand type that may or may not have briefly inflated the price and padded the pockets of a certain supplier. My, my, what would the Prophet make of such documents?"
"Except that would never happen as it's not relevant to our mission here, right Draco?" broke in Granger. An unfortunate interruption uttered in a high-pitched, breathy warning.
"Oh, I'm not so certain of that Granger," asserted Draco, calmly attempting to take back the reins. "Isn't it our duty as concerned citizens to report unethical business practices to the proper authorities?"
"I knew your father would keep some sort of blackmail file," Flint finally burst out.
Draco cocked his head to the side in mock thought. "I don't recall mentioning my father, how odd that you would jump to him."
The study of the late Lucius Malfoy was a literal treasure trove of extortion material on every single family of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Draco hadn't searched very hard to find the leverage he'd need over Flint for today. His father had everything alphabetised by family name and then within a family's file, categorised by type of offense.
Such useful leverage too. Or it would have been if Granger weren't so hellbent on self-righteous sabotage.
"Like father, like son," spat Flint. "Our families have a long history of cooperation and yet it seems you'd sink so low as to spurn that, even as only one of us actually suffers for his crimes. You really think you can intimidate me like this?"
"No, of course not," Granger jumped in again. "But um, what Draco is trying to say is if maybe you, um, could tell us something, maybe about the quarantine period? We'd be most grateful if you can recall anything suspicious from that time."
Flint's mood immediately flipped. His indignation crumbled away and a smirk curled his mouth into an unsettling expression. Granger had given the game away.
"The only thing suspicious is this whole advocacy charade. You two are in over your heads and I don't much fancy the threatening turn in this conversation."
"We promise we're not threatening you," she pleaded.
"Let me handle this, Granger."
"Yes, put your pet on a leash, Malfoy," jeered Flint.
"Disrespect her again and I'll see your family's livelihood ruined you fucking prick."
"Draco!"
"You know, I don't feel up to these visits anymore. I think I'd like to withdraw from this little programme," said Flint and called for the guard.
Draco watched helplessly as their one and only lead was taken back to his cell.
He turned furiously towards the reason for their failure that day. She merely lifted a challenging brow and strode past him.
Neither said a word as they stalked through the depressing halls of Azkaban. Silence ruled the air as they signed out at the entrance and had their wands examined.
Their gazes were equally furious as they stared at one another and waited for the Portkey to activate. Two brewing rages forced to co-exist in close proximity as they awaited that tug behind their navels, each holding the end of a shoelace.
The second the Portkey landed them back in her office Draco rounded on her.
"What the fuck did you do that for?"
"Do not raise your voice at me! You said you wouldn't threaten him!"
"And I didn't. I merely suggested I had a bit of power over his financial prospects."
"Which is a threat! Is that the Malfoy way of doing things? Is that who you want to be Draco?"
Draco's head snapped back as if she'd slapped him. "You think I wanted to do that? You think I wanted to act like my father? This bloody case has left us no choice!"
"It most certainly has! I told you at the outset we have to be better than men like Flint. Stooping to his level will get us nowhere."
"Gods, you can be so naive."
She opened her mouth to argue back but Draco waved a dismissive hand in her face. "Actually, do you know what your problem is, Granger? You're too much. Too loud, too open, too—too everything! How do you expect us to get to the bottom of anything with you stomping in there like a damned Erumpent and basically screaming our true intentions for all the world to hear?"
"Oh I'm sorry Malfoy, but sometimes one needs to improvise! Which is what I was doing! I was trying to help!"
"We should have stuck to our agreed-upon plan. My plan, if you recall."
"Not everything always goes according to plan. You of all people should know that by now."
"Exactly, so is it too much to ask that this one simple thing go my way? Just once? Because nothing else has!"
"Draco, what are you—?"
Fuck not this again. Gods, she always did this; prodded and poked at the constant bruise of his fucked up life that never seemed to heal properly.
"Can you understand that? Can your freakishly brilliant mind comprehend that? Every time, every fucking time, I commit to a plan, my life decides to implode in a spectacularly awful way. Do you think I planned to have this hideous brand on my skin? Do you think I planned to have that… that monster invade my home and wreck my family? Do you think I fucking planned to be thrust into any of that? Into any of this? Again, I had a fucking plan and my arrogant, foolish father had to go and ruin it!"
His breathing was too fast, his heartrate too elevated, and Granger was taking up too much space in his head, this room, fucking everywhere. Louder and louder and yet he was the one still verbally unravelling.
"I was supposed to welcome my father home and continue on with our quiet life, away from it all. I was supposedto let him and Mother run the Manor and deal with all the responsibilities that entails. I was supposed to finally be free to live my fucking life. But no, he just had to be murdered and now I'm stuck in this mission with you and Potter and I didn't fucking plan for any of it!"
He whirled away from her and took a few calming breaths. He really had to stop doing this, unleashing all the pent-up frustration on her and forcing her to bear the brunt of his dissatisfying existence.
When he'd collected himself, Draco turned around, expecting an expression of hurt, an apology on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he found the provoked warrior.
Granger marched right up to him and poked him in the chest.
"Oh you think you're so special? Think you're so misunderstood don't you? 'Poor Malfoy, his life didn't pan out the way he wanted.' Welcome to everyone else's experience you conceited prat! Do you think I planned to be born into magic? Do you think I planned to have to fight in a bloody war for a world that would rather I die? Do you think I planned to have my relationship with Ron blow up in my face? No one plans for their life to fall apart, but for Merlin's sake Draco, get it together! You're not the only one who's had to readjust everything because life refused to go according to your precious plan!"
Draco thought he'd sufficiently calmed down but the anger flared right back to life.
She stood too close, she said things that hit too close. And gods he was so furious but he wanted her closer.
But with that realisation, the anger took its leave of him. Gone like the space between their bodies.
"Well," he murmured. "Aren't we the perfect pair of hapless control freaks?"
It came out soft-spoken and self-deprecating and served as the right tool for slicing the tension. As it had seeped out of his voice, the ire left her expression too.
She laughed. Her breath puffed against his chin. "If that isn't the most accurate thing you've ever said."
"So what do we do now? Since things around us seem to never go," his gaze flicked from her eyes to her mouth and back up again, "to plan."
Like now. Working with Granger on this project was not part of the plan. Noticing the shape of her lips and the way they seemed so near was not part of the plan.
Enjoying her company, helping her mission, letting her draw him in, wanting her attention, approval, and her touch was never part of the fucking plan.
"We keep going," Granger finally answered. "We regroup and we think our way through because giving up is never an option. Not for either of us."
"And where does that leave us? All this regrouping and thinking and not giving up. What does that make us?"
She let out a determined exhale and stepped back from him.
"Unstoppable."
A/N: Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be on June 29. You can find me on tumblr: heyjude19-writing.