Author's Note: I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and I hope you all had fun reading it!

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Endless_Musings

Secrets of the Moon
Chapter 8

"This isn't working," Hermione groaned, shaking her wand, as if to remove every minuscule trace of magic that eluded her.

Though he'd never admit it, Draco agreed with her; three hours into their lesson and Hermione had yet to produce a single spark of magic to show for their efforts. A pink flush crept up her neck and Draco suspected she was the sort of person who didn't often struggle to get something right.

"If you'd just listen to my instructions," Draco said, trying to keep his voice light, but his words held an air of paternal nagging that reminded him of his father and therefore grated his nerves.

"I am listening."

"Well then you're not applying the directions I'm giving. May I?" He walked behind her, and when she nodded her approval, he gripped her wrist, placing his hand over hers. "Your wrist is too straight. You need to loosen up a bit."

"What does that even mean?" Hermione's voice trailed up toward the end, suspiciously close to a whine.

Once his skin made contact with hers, however, his breath stuttered, nerve endings igniting and burning.

Ours. Only ours. Only ours...

They'd been doing this dance all morning, his draw to her personal space, and her reluctant yielding of it. His skin tingling upon contact, her heart fluttering in enticing beats. And as his fingers massaged the tension from her hand, he noticed his nose inching closer to her wild tangle of curls, closer to the delicious scent that emanated from each strand. One more step, and she'd fit perfectly against his chest. It made him wonder what it'd feel like to wrap his hands around more than just her wrist. To further entangle her in his life, bonding her soul to his.

Run with her. Keep her. Mark her.

Too soon, he chastised his inner beast.

But as his eyes followed the curve of her neck, past her chin, all the way to where her lip caught between her teeth, he could barely keep himself from commanding her to stay forever.

Draco demonstrated the charm again, an exaggerated flick with the precision of a waltz, his fingers teaching hers.

"Feel," he said into her ear. "Don't overthink."

He watched her muscles melt under the taut pull of his own. Grudgingly, he pried his fingers from hers; he didn't hide his smile at her sharp exhale.

"Try again."

"Wingardium leviosa," she said, concentration etched into the space between her eyebrows. Despite impeccable form, the feather on his desk remained unmoved.

Hermione groaned, the sound so close to a growl that he imagined her wolf scolding the lack of progress as well. It rattled Draco's confidence.

"Why isn't this working?" Hermione voiced the question that plagued him.

He took another step closer, wanting to place his hand on her shoulder. Soothing himself—his wolf, too—more so than her, he imagined. Each touch held the potential for danger; maybe this time he wouldn't be able to let go. So instead, his hand wavered awkwardly over her before he crossed his arms and leaned against his desk.

"Perhaps you've tried to suppress your magic for so long that it'll take time to be able to channel it properly."

"Perhaps I'm not a witch."

Draco arched his brow. "Perhaps you lack confidence."

"Perhaps I'll only ever be able to use magic when I'm angry."

"I'd rather not test that theory." He absently rubbed his jaw, remembering just how powerful an angry Hermione could be. "We could try—"

A knock at the door interrupted. Hermione reacted to his tight posture, and shot him a panicked glance. A moment later, his study door swung open.

His mother, swathed in emerald robes and sporting all manner of precious gems, walked into his study with measured, elegant steps. Pansy Parkinson and Astoria Greengrass followed closely behind.

Astoria flashed a charming smile; a practiced grin that simpered, meant to dazzle, one with intent beyond pleasantries. He very much wished she wasn't wasting it on him. His wolf commanded his muscles, directing him to take a step in front of Hermione.

Pansy's eyes glimmered, assessing the statistical potential for drama; highly likely, he suspected. It felt like being in the Slytherin common room all over again.

"Draco, darling, I didn't know you had company," Narcissa said.

Draco saw Hermione's nose twitch in response to the rancid scent of his mother's lie, like an apple left to rot.

"Well, don't be rude. Aren't you going to introduce us, Draco?"

"Ms. Granger." Draco kept his feet planted, shielding Hermione from their visitor's direct line of sight. "This is my mother, Narcissa Malfoy. You've already met Ms. Parkinson. And"—his eyes slid to where Astoria still beamed at him, a practiced smile plastered on flawless skin—"And this is Ms. Astoria Greengrass."

Draco smelled Hermione's fear, her adrenaline, which activated his more primal, covetous instincts. But she stepped out from behind him, a bold move punctuated by the lift of her chin and unapologetic eye contact; brave despite her concealed anxiety. He swallowed his wolf's growl.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all. Please, call me Hermione." Her wrist did not bend as she offered her hand, an unintended faux pas, and her firm offering made all three women cringe.

His mother's eyes looked positively dangerous when they met his.

"How is it that you know Draco...Ms."—Narcissa frowned—"Granger was it?" The question searched, then accused, then reached forward and wound around Hermione's show of bravery, an inquiry meant to snare and humiliate. Hermione was on trial, and Draco feared her unprepared for this particular courtroom.

Draco answered before Hermione could cast her hand. "She's our solicitor."

Astoria's shoulders lowered at this new information, her smile growing a touch kinder. Draco tried not to sneer. "We're working on matters related to the land dispute. To what do we owe the honor of your visit, mother?"

"We were just catching up over tea and the topic of our recent home renovations were brought up."

Home renovations. Forced by the family need to remove what had been broken during war, objects or otherwise.

"And you decided to start with my private study?"

"I hear you expanded the gardens." Astoria's voice sparkled, and if he hadn't intimately known what lay underneath her pretty tone, he'd almost be entranced. "Narcissa has been raving about your design skills."

"I didn't do any of the work, merely offered suggestions." His dry tone caused his mother's eye to twitch.

"Oh nonsense, Draco. You're more gifted than you give yourself credit," Narcissa said.

His mother smiled fondly at Astoria, and Draco knew wedding plans brewed in her head. "Draco, darling. Won't you escort Astoria to see the changes you've made?"

"Unfortunately, I'm quite busy—"

Hermione interrupted him, and his mother's eye twitched again. "I can always reschedule, Draco."

She's running again, his wolf warned, triggering his natural response to shift closer to her.

"No." His teeth bared without his consent. "That's hardly necessary."

"Draco," Pansy said, stepping forward. "I don't suspect it'll take you too long to tour the gardens. Why don't I keep Ms. Granger company until you get back? This way you can still finish your meeting if it's so important."

The flash of Pansy's gaze and the flit of her painted lips made him certain she'd somehow planned this in advance.

Hermione opened her mouth to object, but Narcissa spoke first.

"Then it's settled." Narcissa looked Hermione up and down, a victory lap in the form of a glare. "Come along, Draco."

His chest clenched as he forced his wolf to heel, lest he snap at his mother in front of company.

Don't leave her. She's unprotected.

Evidently, it distressed Hermione as well. The pounding of her heart overwhelmed him, called to him; a lone howl tearing through a dark forest. But his cards were spent; disobeying his mother would only emphasize Hermione's importance.

I have no choice.

At the door to the study, Astoria waited for him. Sucking in a deep breath, he took his first unwilling step away from Hermione, then another: a painful exercise in willpower. Slowly he made his way to the door, hands folded; he wouldn't allow Astoria the opportunity to touch him.

Before leaving the room, Draco took one final glance back at Hermione. He hated the look on her face; anxious, and a touch confused. And most of all, abandoned.

"Do you drink, Granger?" Pansy asked, pushing her short hair behind her ear. What Hermione suspected to be real diamonds sparkled against her black strands.

Hermione had still been staring toward the door, toward where Draco had left her. He'd barely put up any fight at all. His mother had spoken and then... She didn't quite understand what happened.

"Not often," Hermione responded, thinking of the last time she had a drink—finely aged wine from the Malfoy cellars as Draco taught her of magic over dinner.

"So you do." Pansy walked toward the bar in the far corner of Draco's study. She was clearly comfortable in this room, had walked it's blood-stained floors and poured herself countless drinks before.

"I couldn't possibly right now. It's not even noon yet—"

"And?"

Not trusting the other woman, Hermione followed her towards the bar, resigned to the fact that Pansy Parkinson—whoever this intimidating, mysterious woman was—did not seem like someone who allowed others to get their way.

"I can pour it myself," Hermione said a touch too fast, words laced with heavy suspicion.

Subtle, her wolf taunted.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "If I wanted to poison you, I wouldn't waste good liquor." She opened one of the bottles, jostling a clear liquid. "Sit, I'll make you a real drink, free of poison."

Reluctantly, she did as Pansy commanded, taking a seat on a nearby sofa, craning her neck to observe her drink being poured.

When Pansy returned, black-painted nails clicking against two martini glass stems, Hermione's stomach lurched. She never could handle straight grain alcohols. Pansy lowered herself into the hideous, ornate chair opposite her.

"Hermione Granger." Pansy tasted the words, then took a sip of her drink to wash them down her throat. "This is the second time I've seen Draco by your side. You'd make a lot of women jealous if they knew."

Hermione sputtered into her drink, cough disturbing the alcohol and sending it spilling over the edge. The drink might have well been poisonous. "What do you mean?"

"Simply, that it's abnormal for Draco to accompany a woman outside of courting, though many would be absolutely thrilled to have the opportunity. Surely even you understand his status makes him quite desired."

But Hermione still struggled to understand Pansy's meaning, and the first few sips of alcohol soaking into her brain weren't helping clarify matters. What did Pansy know of their situation? Of her situation, specifically? Draco trusted Pansy with the Floo connection, but did they speak often? Her wolf cautioned her to tread carefully, and for once, she felt aligned with the advice.

"He's my client." She chose the safest answer, and took a large gulp of her drink, anticipating the liquor's warmth to fight Pansy's frigid tone.

"No need to be coy. I visited Draco a few days ago and found him more a mess than usual." Pansy smirked at whatever she assessed on Hermione's face. Likely shock, closely followed by the beginnings of envy.

Pansy crossed her ankles and tipped her glass toward Hermione in a way that made her wonder how long it took to train such graceful movements, to wield a martini glass as both bait and a weapon. "I must say, I was rather stunned when I learned the person who hurt Draco was you. No one fights with an alpha and wins. I've seen them kill lions, if provoked."

Show her. Show her what you're capable of.

Jealousy felt unnatural to Hermione. Loud in her ears. Hot and prickly and foreign in her chest. It forced her eyes over Pansy's impeccable posture, dainty yet firm. Her soft lips, cruel yet feminine. Her expensive taste, diamonds sparkling against black silk.

Women like Pansy unsettled Hermione, irrationally so. During a week when she already felt tilted, off-balance in her own skin, she was suddenly brought back to her grade school days, comparing her messy curls and unfortunate overbite to the Astorias and Pansys of the world.

Pansy ran a tongue along her teeth from under her lips. "Normal witches wouldn't mind having a former Death Eater, you know. Money is money, and the Malfoy's have loads of it. It's the werewolf part that most scares women outside the pack." She dragged a painted nail along the rim of her glass. "But not you."

Hermione froze. Her wolf took control of her spine, forcing her to sit pin straight. Larger. More intimidating. All a ruse. "I haven't the slightest at what you're implying."

A sly smirk stretched across Pansy's face, like Hermione's very presence existed only for her amusement. "So, how is it that Draco convinced you to take on this case?"

"Due to client confidentiality, I can't say."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "You do know I'm breaking the law for you, right? The least you can do is give me the information Draco won't. He's oddly protective of you."

See, he's protective of us.

A bubble of warmth bloomed in her stomach. Hermione shivered against the unbidden intrusion and prayed Draco would soon return to save her from this hell.

Pansy tutted, forcing her glare upon Hermione. "He deserves more than you, you know."

"Excuse me?" The implication stung more than the insult of Pansy's statement. "He's my client, I'd never—"

"It's not because you're an outsider, " Pansy continued, ignoring her. "Not because you're some sort of quasi-muggle—" Pansy nodded to the beginner charms book and feather on his desk. "Frankly, I've never cared about the politics of the Sacred Twenty Eight, and neither has Draco, despite the show he puts on." She leaned forward, nails scraping against her glass like a blade. "Draco's always deserved more than life's afforded him."

Hermione couldn't stop her harsh exhale that bordered on a laugh. "What else could he possibly need? He has everything."

"You'll be careful never to say that to him. " Pansy quirked her lips and tilted her head, sending her pin straight bob off-kilter. "Or perhaps you should tell him that. I'm sure our meetings would become far less frequent."

"As I said before, our relationship is purely professional."

"I've learned it's best not to fight what Draco wants. He's impossible to reason with once he's made up his mind. But you probably already know that." Pansy took another sip. "Dear Merlin, it seems I'm doomed to have to accept you."

"Since he deserves more?" Hermione snapped.

"He deserves a partner who will kill for him." Pansy swirled the rest of her alcohol in her glass before lifting it to her pout and finishing it in one smooth sip. "Are you willing to be that, Hermione Granger?"

Hermione's nails elongated, and she took a breath to steady her heartbeat, to stop the influx of magic coursing too close to the tips of her fingers.

Pansy frowned. "I'm not blind to Draco's habits. It's not often he's so upset he breaks precious heirlooms and ignores potential suitors of proper breeding. Nor does he go against the wishes of his family. And he certainly doesn't give private lessons to someone raised by muggles, or something. So"—she lifted an artfully crafted eyebrow and asked—"would you?"

Pansy read Hermione's face and cast a wickedly dark glare from beneath thick eyelashes.

Hermione chugged her drink, emptying the glass. She wondered how this conversation had gotten so out of hand, had become so much in such a short period of time.

"He's simply my client. He means nothing to me," Hermione repeated in the face of Pansy's knowing grin. If Draco hadn't already told her female werewolves were rare, she would have been certain Pansy could smell her lies.

The next morning, Hermione recognized the whir of the floo, indicating Draco's arrival at her cottage. She glanced at the clock and sighed. Thirty minutes early. Typical.

"Hermione?" Draco's voice, soft, but deep and promising and comforting, filled her tiny home.

"I'm in here," Hermione called from her kitchen, her own tone soft, but high pitched, and nervous, and remorseful.

Yesterday, once he'd returned from showing Astoria the renovations, Hermione could barely look him in the eye. His button-down shirt smelled of the other woman, sickeningly sweet, like overripe strawberries and powder. She made an excuse about needing to work, and escaped through the floo. Draco didn't hide his disappointment from her behind cool eyes and a stiff face. He'd let her see it, all of it—the furrowed brows and forlorn stare—and his sadness haunted her as she tried to sleep.

But Pansy Parkinson's conversation had brought to light other things that terrified her, perhaps even more so than his disappointment, things she couldn't possibly process around him; not when she'd fought so hard against leaning into his touch. Was her draw to Draco so obvious that a stranger could see? Surely Draco's more abrasive forms of flirting resulted merely from his overactive wolf and tendency toward control. But, where then, did hers originate?

As Draco walked into the kitchen, his broad shoulders nearly grazed both sides of the door frame; he ducked under a low hanging planter.

"Good morning," he said, eyes wary.

"Good morning."

Hermione watched as he inspected her kitchen, which, much like the rest of the house, she considered cozy and tidy despite the clutter; the gadgets, cookbooks, and pots bursting with vibrant plants gave the impression of a full life against the truth of her solitude. Draco's eyes flitted to a silver bucket that sat atop her counter, filled with an assortment of oddly shaped kitchen tools that she couldn't get to fit neatly in drawers.

Draco focused on these tools, lifting each for careful investigation. He picked one up and twisted it only twice before she snatched it from his fingers.

"That's a can opener."

Draco wore a confused, awed expression, and she chuckled. Some of her built-up tension, real and imagined, drained away.

"Do they not have those in the wizarding world, or have you just never had to cook for yourself?"

"Why cook for yourself when someone else can do it for you?" He rolled up his sleeves and walked to the kettle on the stove. "Besides, we have no use for muggle contraptions, it's far easier with magic."

Removing his wand from his pocket he tapped it against the kettle, and steam burst from the spout.

She didn't mean to gasp—really, she should be getting used to this by now—and hoped the noisy whistle drowned out the sound of her shock.

Draco dragged a hand through his hair, smirk ever-present. "Do you cook?"

"I do. Something I learned to ease my stress during law school. I find it calming." Hermione frowned a moment, reaching for glass mugs—neither of which matched—to pour their tea. "I do wonder if there is a difference in quality between magical and muggle preparation."

Draco leaned back against her counter and crossed his arms, eyebrows lifted and head tilted in challenge. "There's only one way to find out. I'm an excellent judge of food."

Hermione tipped her head back and laughed. "I'm sure most wolves are. My senses certainly seem to give me an advantage."

"Then it's decided: You'll cook for me, and I'll be the judge of whether it's better or worse than wizarding food."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You can't just invite yourself to someone's house and demand dinner, you know."

When she looked up, she found Draco's eyes boring into her, scanning her face just as he had searched her kitchen, like she was more uncharted territory to investigate and learn.

"A man can dream." His eyes brightened for only a moment before they faded back to a dull grey. Draco cleared his throat. "What did Pansy say to make you run?"

Her fingers faltered as she scooped dried tea leaves, scattering them over the counter. "I didn't run," she answered quickly. "Is black tea fine?"

"It certainly felt like it."

She ignored him, ignored the tension catching on the odds and ends in her cluttered space, filling and dropping tea balls into the mugs instead. He'd have to settle for black tea. Avoiding his gaze, she handed him his mug.

"Milk or sugar?"

"Honey, if you have it."

How she wished he hadn't said that. She walked past him, opening a cabinet and stared up at the honey three shelves above her. Just out of reach.

Draco set his mug on the counter to steep and crossed the room, his body a picture of animalistic grace. He wet his lips with his tongue.

Your bedroom is that way, her wolf reminded her.

She looked up again at the bottle of honey that taunted her, and then back toward Draco. Normally, she'd climb the counter, but she imagined it didn't look especially graceful.

A dangerous heat seared her skin where his eyes danced over her body. "Please continue. I've never been more intrigued in my life."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You'll have to settle for sugar if you don't get that yourself."

He laughed at her threat, a melodic sound that must have originated deep in his belly, as it shook his shoulders. He stepped closer, reaching over her, around her, his chest to her front, and easily grabbed the bottle. She held her breath.

Keep him, please keep him—

"There's no magic to retrieve things?" She hated how his proximity stole the air from her lungs.

"There is." Draco smirked down at her —three heartbeats, she counted—before handing her the honey.

With their tea finally prepared, she took a sip, eyes momentarily fluttering shut, but she could still sense Draco watching her every motion.

"The full moon is in two days—" He looked hopeful, interrupting himself to take a sip of tea. "I still need to show you around our property lines, and the former Nott property."

"You've provided the maps," she said, too sharp. Noticing the way his shoulders slumped, she took a moment to soften her next words. "I don't know if there is any need for me to physically look, at least for right now."

"Then perhaps we could just meet up for a run?"

Yes. Run with him.

His frown made something in her gut clench, a foreign invader squeezing blood from her heart and air from her lungs.

Hermione refused to meet his eyes, afraid it would cause her guilt to bloom. Silence felt easier, despite the way it thickened the air surrounding them, and forced a cumbersome border around the room.

"Think on it," Draco said, a question or a statement, she couldn't tell, though she had reasonable suspicion that he'd read inbetween the lines of her non-answer, smelled her apprehension, and heard the tightening in her bones.

The silence following his statement stretched on as they sipped at quickly cooling tea. She hated this time of the lunar cycle, when her emotions blended with her wolf's, two halves on the precipice of forming one. How much of her desire was animal, purely physical, and how much was her human need for companionship?

Draco drained his cup and set it beside the sink. He rolled his shoulders back, something warm replacing the tinge of coldness that had entered his eyes during their silence, and he offered her his hand.

"Ready for more magic?"

Hermione's heart betrayed her desire to remain unaffected in his presence. The last thing she heard before taking his fingers between her own was the incessant barking of her wolf: You know I'll get my way.

"I'm—Draco, I didn't mean—"

She'd blown up his great great great aunt's portrait.

Hunched over in laughter, Draco grabbed his desk to stay upright. Tears of humor tickled the corners of his eyes. His cheeks hurt; his ribs hurt. It felt glorious.

"The old hag was a miserable bitch anyway "—Draco gasped through peals of laughter—"screaming about the will of the king, and servitude, and other seventeenth-century nonsense."

He'd been trying to pry about her meeting with Pansy yesterday, and about her reservations transforming around him, and about how she reached things in high places, all of which sent Hermione into a slow-burning ire. The look on her face when she cast the last charm—clearly intending it not to work—only for an enraged jet of sparks to shoot out and decimate his great great great aunt, caused Draco to lose any amount of control he'd had over his amusement.

Draco managed to breathe long enough to say, "Your magic's returned. And to think, all it took was a little anger to open your channels."

The thought stole the edge of his smile, and the skin around his eyes–crinkled from joy–released. Without anger, Hermione hadn't been able to produce a single spark. Not an iota of magic to show for all the power he felt freely flowing underneath her skin. He'd have to search the library tonight, research any instances of magical impotence in adult witches.

"But really, what did Pansy say to make you run."

"I didn't run." Hermione pushed her curls off her forehead with force.

"Has anyone ever told you you're maddening?"

"No."

"Great great great aunt Chantelle would disagree with you if she could."

Hermione tugged at a strand of her hair that kept falling in front of her eye, coiling a curl around her finger, legs fidgeting, mouth pursed. If not for the fact that she drove him mad, she would have looked fucking lovely.

"Pansy alluded to a relationship between—" she trailed off, wincing as though the words physically pained her to verbalize, "—between...us, and I assured her you're just my client." Her fingers continued to tug the ends of her curls, thrusting her scent toward him, a divine sort of torture he allowed himself a moment to savor.

Draco smirked, leaning against his desk to keep from reaching out to her; the piece of furniture was fast becoming an anchor for him. For her sake, he should probably chain himself to it.

"You're lucky she can't detect lies."

"Is it a lie?" Hermione chewed her lip.

"Isn't it?"

"What would you call us then?"

Ours. Mate. Chosen.

Too soon. Still too soon.

"If you're comfortable with the term client, then I'm your client."

Hermione nodded once before turning her eyes toward the floor. Her foot recommenced bouncing.

"Anything else?" He asked.

Even with his heightened sense of hearing, her words sounded nearly silent in the air; "She was very protective over you."

Our chosen is jealous.

A swell of something akin to pride warmed his chest, and he pushed off the desk, unable to stop himself stepping toward her until he could feel her heat penetrate his clothes. He hoped to antagonize her just enough, lay bait and watch his prey squirm. "She's one of my more trustworthy friends. I've known her since we were children."

He watched her face, sifting through curls and freckles to catch her impulse toward emotion before she tucked it out of sight. The corner of her lip twitched downward. Her eyes snapped to his lips, then back to her feet.

Draco sucked his cheeks in to keep from smiling at her obvious discomfort. If only he could tell her.

You're ours.

"You have nothing to worry about."

"That's not"—her nose scrunched up, forming wrinkles around her eyes—"I mean I wasn't…You're my client."

Tell her. Tell her she's ours.

The space between them begged to be closed, begged to be relieved of the tension that pulled, sharp and agonizing, fangs across skin. His hand reached for hers, and this time, he felt no hesitation when her fingers wrapped around his. When they touched, he had no doubt she wielded potential; magnetism powered by some form of undiscovered alchemy pulsing in her blood, a whole world of unexplored magic.

The door swung open without warning; unusual in a household with such respect for privacy.

Draco knew his hand didn't fall from hers in time, nor did he step away fast enough for the sight to be missed by the precise reflexes of Lucius Malfoy.

"Father." Draco hoped his face didn't appear too flushed. "Good morning."

But Lucius Malfoy wasn't staring at him.

"Ms. Granger."

"Mr. Malfoy." She stood at attention, hands clasped behind her back. Even his father's threatening presence did not stop him from noticing the way her stance pushed her breasts out, and accentuated her hips.

Ours. Protect—

"Do you frequently schedule meetings outside of your office?" Lucius asked, his tone taking on a soft, venomous quality reminiscent of the Dark Lord.

Ours. You must stop—

"We—" Her brows furrowed, and she fidgeted under Lucius's gaze.

Save her.

Draco spoke, as strong and clear as he could, "We're meeting pertaining to research." A small lie, perhaps adjacent enough to the truth to sneak past Lucius's nose.

His father walked forward, eyes sweeping over the room and landing on his desk, to where a single feather lay. He frowned. "Funny. It seems this office lacks maps and books and documents related to any necessary research."

"We were discussing…theories."

"Theories?" Lucius repeated before walking around Draco's desk and sitting at his chair, fingers reaching to lift the feather. "I'm quite interested in hearing about these theories, Ms. Granger."

Hermione's cheeks flushed a deep pink, the freckles across her nose disappearing. "They aren't fully formed yet, Mr. Malfoy. I'd rather wait until—"

"Oh, come now, don't be modest on my behalf. If these theories are good enough to share with my son, they are good enough for me."

Draco wished the room could have swallowed them; even then, it might not have been enough to escape his father's inquisition.

Draco held his breath.

Hermione nodded, a determined look crossing her face. "Of course, Mr. Malfoy. After reviewing the land deeds, and referencing the plans submitted by the oil company, it appears their pipeline is supposed to cross right through the graveyard on the Easternmost side of your property. There, Septimus Malfoy, born in 1772, and an influential politician and adviser for the Minister of Magic, is buried. If, perhaps, we could manage to convince the courts that he was a historical figure—"

Lucius lifted his hand to silence her.

She was brilliant. So remarkably, magnificently brilliant.

But brilliance wasn't enough to out-wit his father.

"Thank you for explaining my family history to me, Ms. Granger. Enlightening, really, but I fail to see how this theory will help win our case. Septimus Malfoy was only a politician in the wizarding world, and I will not have you falsifying his connection to muggles."

"I'm still in the process of learning all I can so that I—"

"It's been an entire week."

"You aren't my only client, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione said, the words on the cusp of a threat.

He heard Lucius growl, a noise that sent his own wolf retreating deep into the confines of his mind. Hermione had the good grace to let her shoulders drop.

Lucius remained seated at the desk, his gaze shifting between the feather and Hermione. "Forgive me. With how much time you've been spending at the manor, it was hard not to suspect otherwise." He frowned, and the feather burst into flames. "I think, Ms. Granger, it's past time for you to study your theories in your own office. We do have a meeting early next week. Perhaps by then, you'll be able to tell me about my great grandmother's grave."

Hermione's lips nearly disappeared, pursed tight, fighting to maintain control of her tongue. But his father's commands—the Alpha of the Wiltshire Pack's commands—were too strong to fight, and her feet seemed to move of their own accord toward the hearth. Draco wanted to beg her to look at him. He urged himself to chastise his father. To protect his chosen.

But he couldn't bring the words out of his chest. Couldn't muster the power of his wolf in the face of his father's.

"Oh, and Ms. Granger," Lucius called to her retreating form, eyes darting to the corner of the room—to the pile of ashes and the empty frame—then up to meet Draco's glare. "I won't be so generous the next time I find you've destroyed a precious family heirloom."