9 o'clock the next morning had Hermione standing in front of a row of handsome white townhouses. The surrounding street was quiet, save for leaves rustling against one another in a light breeze, and she allowed herself to simply stand there, gazing up at where an elaborate gold sign read Number Three, Royton Avenue. Nerves writhed in her stomach— she had been unable to eat that morning because of them, and she cursed herself for it.

Draco Malfoy's home was nestled in the heart of a Muggle neighbourhood. The irony was not lost on her, but she didn't have time to dwell on it as she gathered her Gryffindor courage and strode up towards the front door. Just as she had lifted a hand to knock, a very pretty, flustered witch came tumbling out in a cloud of amethyst fabric and floral scented perfume.

"That prat is in a foul mood," she spat while smoothing down her dress robes. Hermione could see smudges of last night's make up around her eyes, but quickly averted her gaze. "Good luck, you're going to need it."

The loud crack of her Disapparation sounded like a gunshot in the otherwise quiet avenue. Now feeling thoroughly sick from apprehension, Hermione nudged the slightly ajar door with her shoulder and slipped inside. In passing the threshold— though whatever wards and protective enchantments Malfoy had put in place— it was as though she had stepped through a wall of hot air.

Hermione did not know what she had been expecting of his house. Dark, Victorian style decor like that of Malfoy Manor, perhaps? Whatever the case, she had not been expecting the clean, subtle interior that greeted her. Immediately through the front door was a short flight of stairs, which opened up into a modern, minimalistic living room with little decor save for a baby grand piano in one corner. Malfoy himself was nowhere in sight, so Hermione felt comfortable briefly looking around.

It could have been a Muggle's apartment, she thought with no small amount of surprise. There were no photographs or paintings in the entire room, and the only indication that a wizard lived there at all was a set of small bronze scales that seemed to contain a gas of some kind. Hermione had just prodded it with the tip of her wand when she felt someone enter the room behind her.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Despite herself, she couldn't stop a small sound from escaping her lips as she spun towards the voice. Malfoy was leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded across a plain white dress shirt. His face— the same pale and pointed one Hermione remembered— was twisted into a bad tempered scowl.

"I… sorry," she mumbled, hastily stepping away from the scales. "The door was open, and I think there may be something wrong with your wards…"

"Mother sent an owl, when you visited her yesterday." Stalking forwards, his lips were pursed in such a way that told Hermione she wasn't wholly welcome. "I couldn't exactly have you blasted out on your arse and a Caterwauling Charm waking up the whole street. I'm already on thin fucking ice without having the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad on my doorstep."

Hermione cleared her throat and gestured to the scales, which were beginning to exude a soft chartreuse smoke. "What is it?"

"Evaporated essence of mandragora," Malfoy began reluctantly. "To make it easier for its application in-"

"Most antidotes known to wizardkind," she finished for him, failing to note how his brows arched. "How did you manage to keep it from condensing? Whenever I try-"

"Why are you here, Granger?"

Hermione closed her mouth with an audible click of her teeth. She had almost forgotten, in her academic enthusiasm, that she had arrived with a specific task in mind. All at once the nerves returned, and she swiveled slowly to face her childhood bully.

"The Ministry has need of someone with insider knowledge-"

"I'm not sure if this was obvious, Granger, but my family isn't exactly the most popular-"

"Do not interrupt me." Hermione's voice came out steady and calm, and she watched Malfoy fall silent with a faint sense of satisfaction. "The Ministry has need of someone with insider knowledge on how the Death Eaters operate. You know their patterns, their personalities, and what motivates them."

"As do the children of all Death Eaters." Malfoy's tense posture had not eased— if anything, he seemed even more aloof than when Hermione had first entered. "You must have been expecting the age-old question, Granger: what's in it for me? The Ministry has been of no help to me over the past four years."

Except for sparing you and your parents from Azkaban, Hermione thought snidely. Compared to the rest of Voldemort's followers, the Malfoys had fared extraordinarily well in the years since the War. While their previous allies found themselves with life sentences in Azkaban or forced into hiding, the Malfoys were able to live in their private manor and continue rearing albino peacocks. Aside from their Dark artefacts and half a million Galleons in reparations, they had been permitted to retain all of their assets, as well.

Hermione said none of this, however. Though she would never admit it, and certainly not to Malfoy himself, he was the most valuable fount of knowledge she had in this investigation.

"Would lifting the Prohibemus enchantments tempt you at all?" she asked coolly.

She could see Malfoy's nostrils flare; evidently, mentioning the Ministry-imposed travel restrictions placed on all ex-Death Eaters and their families had struck a nerve. Prohibemus was an invention of Professor Flitwick, put into effect with the help of Mafalda Hopkirk. It worked in a similar fashion to the Trace, except it alerted the Ministry when any marked persons left the country.

Malfoy clenched his jaw a few times, as though chewing on his words. "Would you lift my mother's as well?"

"I would consider it."

"Then I will consider your request. You can leave now, Granger."

So she did.

Traveling back to the Ministry was a much faster journey than the one to Number Three, Royton Avenue. Hermione felt lighter, Apparating as smoothly as an otter through water, and landed in the Atrium with a spring in her step. She had been dreading her conversation with Malfoy, and even leaving without a definitive answer could not damper the relief she felt at being free from his suffocating apartment. Though the wizard had seemed milder in terms of his prejudices, his tone led her to believe that he was just as cold and arrogant as before.

It was only when she was halfway along the length of the Atrium that Hermione realised she was late to Harry's training session. It would have been a quicker, easier path to make directly for the lifts, but they were predictably blocked by a group of reporters. Hermione imagined them as a shoal of piranhas, waiting for an unsuspecting Ministry official to stumble unfortunately into their hunting ground. Determined to avoid them, she darted sideways and into one of the many hallways branching off from the Atrium's main chamber. She had chosen the perfect path; a narrow, winding maintenance corridor that snaked parallel to the Atrium and delivered her directly in front of the lifts.

"Miss Granger!" came the reporters' cries, but by then her lift was already ascending to the second floor.

"Concentrate, Hermione!"

A curse narrowly missed her head as she ducked away, and Hermione guiltily brought her attention back to the present. Her thoughts had absconded in the middle of their duel, finding Dark Marks and murdered Muggleborns to be a more pressing issue than the Protego charm.

"What's happened to you?" Harry called, frustration clear in his voice. "First you walk in late, and now you're not even paying attention. You could get seriously hurt!"

"I'm sorry, Harry." Wand drooping limply at her side, she brought her free hand up to massage a headache blooming in her temple. "I've been thinking about the case, and what I can do to help."

"You can't allow yourself to become distracted," Harry said quietly, his voice having lost its edge. "Carry on, the rest of you!"

Jets of light were being exchanged between trainee-Aurors all around them— the ones that hit their mark resulted in a brief pause while the victor revived their opponent. In between these lulls, Harry and Hermione made their way to a corner of the large hall, where they were shielded by a powerful protective enchantment. Hexes hit the invisible barrier and dissipated into nothing; Hermione focused on the bright spots of colour as Harry continued speaking quietly to her.

"You fought in the Department of Mysteries, and the Battle of Hogwarts. Ron and I wouldn't have survived all those months hunting Horcruxes without you. But you won't be able to help anyone if you're killed because you weren't paying attention in a duel. Get out of your own head, Hermione."

"I know, I know." The ache at her temple throbbed like a steady, painful heartbeat. "This past week, I've been considering making some more coins like I did for the DA."

"Brilliant, I'm sure Robards will approve. Now come on, we've got a quarter of an hour left to practice, and you need it."

She slapped his arm good naturedly, and Harry shot her a mischievous grin. Stepping out from the protective enchantment, Hermione found herself matching him hex for hex, curse for curse. She came close to besting him once or twice, but Harry had always been better at Defence Against the Dark Arts of the two.

"If Malfoy consents to helping the Ministry, will he have to undergo Auror training as well?"

Harry faltered, and failed to block Hermione's stinging hex. He hissed and shook his burned hand, but waved off her attempts to help.

"I'm fine, 'Mione. What's this about Malfoy?"

"It's been weeks, and we're no closer to finding those escaped Death Eaters. So I… I visited him this morning, to see if he would help us."

"They're lying low, but we'll catch them next time they-"

"Next time they what, Harry? Kill more Muggleborns?" Stillness had begun to settle over the hall as duelling pairs turned to watch— but even once a small crowd had amassed, Hermione had eyes only for her friend, who was looking part way between mulish and ashamed. "We need someone who can help us unpick how these people operate."

"You could have picked any Slytherin, and you had to choose Malfoy?"

"He's the only one that took the Mark, and you said so yourself that they've reformed-"

"I said they had appeared to!" Red sparks sputtered from his wand as Harry threw up his hands. "Think about the last time we saw Malfoy, in the Room of Requirement. His mates tried to kill you!" Shame had made way for exasperation and complete incredulity, as though Hermione had lost her wits entirely. "If you think I'm going to work with that git-"

"I will take full responsibility for him. It was my idea, and if it turns out to be a disaster… then I will face the consequences. If you have a better idea, then please, enlighten me."

Harry twirled his wand between his fingers, but did not speak. She could sense his agitation, from the stiff line to his shoulders and the way he held his feet, but those symptoms cleared when Ginny's voice rose from the crowd.

"Hermione knows what she's doing. And if Malfoy steps out of line, you get to hex him, so it's a win-win scenario, really."

Laughter rippled through the crowd, and Hermione had never been more grateful for Ginny's ability to defuse a delicate situation. The witch tipped her a subtle wink, while ambling to Harry's side to loop their arms together. He looked conflicted.

"Fine," said Harry eventually. "He will have to come to training with the rest of us. I'll tell Kingsley and Robards— while Malfoy may be your responsibility, you are mine. So Hermione," The hall was filled with the sounds of people packing up and shuffling towards the exit, so Hermione had to strain to hear him. "Be careful, alright?"

"I'll tell you if he so much as breathes offensively," she assured him as she tucked her wand into the back pocket of her jeans. "If he even consents to helping us, and that is a rather large if."

Harry's lip quirked upwards. Hermione wasn't sure if it was in a smile, or a grimace.

The timepiece on Hermione's desk said it was five in the evening when a purple memo zoomed into her office. It had been a gift from Luna for her twentieth birthday— a miniature pendulum clock, stuck into the sand at the bottom of an empty fish bowl. Although there was no water, on the hour an enchanted goldfish would swim a lap before disappearing in a puff of white smoke.

Hermione placed her quill to one side so as to catch the weakly fluttering memo. Stamped across the top in a neat typewriter font were the words: FORWARDED FROM OWL MAIL. Below, spiky lettering carved out a blunt but not ineloquent letter.

Granger, the letter began. I have a few conditions to our arrangement.

DM.