clxi. misplaced children

BLACK FAMILY CURSE: IS SIRIUS BLACK A DANGER TO SOCIETY?

Rita Skeeter reports of her harrowing experience encountering Sirius Black, 34, on the streets of Muggle London, the Borough of Islington, last Friday afternoon.

"I approached him to inquire after his welfare," Skeeter tells, "After his acquittal by the Wizengamot. I only meant to ask him a few questions when Mr. Black attacked me with Dark magic, unprovoked!"

Speculations on the Lord to the House of Black's mental state lead many of us to wonder if the Wizengamot acted too quickly in their verdict, and if another investigation should be opened by Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Madam Bones was not available for comment.

Hermione huffed as she read over the article, muttering, "Ridiculous!" under her breath. She flipped to the next page and repeated herself, louder. "Ridiculous!"

Her opinion of Sirius Black was not what Hermione would call…exceptional. It could be difficult to forget first impressions, and her first impression of Elara's father had been of a frantic and rather smelly convict trying to murder a rat. True, he had an excuse for hunting Pettigrew, and, in his own mind, his reasons probably made more sense than they did in Hermione's. However, reading about him assaulting the press, even taking into account Rita Skeeter's blatant sensationalism, did not improve her opinion of him.

Were Harriet and Elara happy living with him? Well, perhaps happy wasn't the opportune word; content was a better choice because Hermione couldn't quite picture Elara and Harriet happy when she had evidence to the contrary in Harriet's letters. Elara's letters were less frequent and more succinct, and always they avoided the proverbial elephant in the room that was her father. Hermione tutted and frowned at the images posted with the article: a picture of Sirius after his trial, and a picture of Elara leaving the same trial with Tonks and Harriet. A shadow crossed the page.

"What up your nose, Granger?"

Hermione jumped, startled, and looked up at the figure hovering over her head. Malfoy hung there, slumped with lazy grace over his broom—his own Nimbus, because he couldn't take the broom from school home. Sniffing, Hermione folded the paper to show the main article and thrust it toward Draco, who took it in one hand and browsed the writing. He snorted.

"That Skeeter woman harasses the old pure-blood families constantly when she's not doing fluff pieces for witches about cosmetic spells or single wizards," he said, handing the paper back. "She snuck into a few of mother and father's Yule celebrations before. Nosy bint. They never figured out exactly how she managed to pass the wards."

"She doesn't have any business harassing people going on with their daily lives!"

"Well, she gets paid to do it, and so long as the public wants to read it, she'll keep getting paid and keep writing." He lowered the broom another foot, the toes of his Quidditch boots brushing the top of the other lounge chair. "Besides, Black has to be mad, so maybe she's not so far off in what she wrote. Half of the people from that side of mother's family were off their heads."

Hermione threw an unimpressed glower in his direction, crossing one leg over the other, and she leaned into the cushioned lawn chair. "He's not mad. He's perfectly civil."

"Half of the old Black Lords ended up in the Janus Thickney Ward at St. Mungo's. Absolutely barmy, the lot of them. The whole family is cursed with Black Madness, and sooner or later, they all fall victim to it."

"You're being an idiot. That's not real."

He gave a high, superior kind of laugh that almost sounded like his father, his legs swaying over the stationary broom. "No, but it doesn't change the fact that most of the Blacks had something wrong with them. Mother's father, Cygnus Black, has the Wasting Syndrome and was knocked off before he was even sixty."

"And? Didn't Abraxas Malfoy die from Dragon Pox? Ailments aren't limited to one family."

Draco was quick with his reply. "But grandfather was well into his seventies, and it was an epidemic. A lot of people died before they invented the inoculations."

Hermione noted he'd called Abraxas "grandfather" but hadn't extended the same courtesy to Cygnus, then quietly acceded his point and lapsed into silence.

The wind kicked up, and the lawn rippled, the blades of grass swaying and catching the light like the water of a shallow pool. The weather had been abysmally hot for the last week or so, and Draco had not been the only one to take advantage of the cool cross-breeze falling over Wiltshire. Hermione had moved her profuse studying efforts to the grounds, and Narcissa was out in the garden, idly toying with her horticultural charms.

As far as Hermione knew, Jamie Ingham was still cloistered in his room, not that she cared. She'd given up trying to socialize with the other Muggle-born, who remained aloof and unwilling to chat with her because he thought she threatened his placement with the Malfoys. His own studying had reached a fevered pitch as he was set to enter his seventh and final year at Hogwarts.

At times, Hermione questioned her own intellectual privilege—if, by virtue of easily remembering and absorbing things she read and heard and saw, she took for granted her placement here. She liked studying, and when she might begin to find it dull or uninspiring, she had Elara and Harriet, who made it fun or always had fascinating questions and projects to research. What would happen when Jamie graduated? Would a new Muggle-born come to live here?

In her distraction, she missed Draco landing, and he picked up one of the books from the ground, where Hermione had stacked her things on a blanket to protect them from the grass. "'Introduction to Household Sprites, Spirits, and Other Entities,'" he read aloud, brow raised. "'Laws and Amendments in Regards to Beings, 1400s.' What are you reading this for?"

"Because it's interesting!" Hermione snapped, more than a bit defensive. Really, she just didn't want Draco to start asking questions that might lead back to the incident with Dobby, who was the reason behind her desire to read those books. If Mr. Malfoy ever found out she was the one who freed the house-elf, Hermione believed he might honestly hex her.

Draco clearly didn't believe her and had a snappy comment to reply with, but he kept whatever he meant to say to himself, instead setting the book back with the others. He'd been acting odd all summer. If Hermione hadn't known better, she would have said he was being nice and friendly. "You know, there are more interesting books to find in the library."

"I know there are more interesting books. I probably know the library better than you by now."

"Oh, really?" Draco raised his nose into the air, a smirk on his lips. "Are you sure about that?"

Something in his eyes caused Hermione to pause, and her suspicions grew the wider his smirk became. "You've been into something you shouldn't be, haven't you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"If you're just going to be a prat, go away."

Draco shrugged and shouldered his broom. "Fine," he said, turning to leave, taking exaggerated steps across the grass, clearly waiting for Hermione to follow. Hermione tried to ignore him—but she cursed her own curiosity and gathered her books and paper, setting off after him, her face set in a scowl.

"If you're doing this to get me in trouble—."

Draco let out a loud and exaggerated sigh, and even Hermione had to admit the notion was silly. They weren't eleven anymore. Mrs. and Mr. Malfoy would be far less impressed with their son for instigating mischief than with Hermione for falling prey to it.

They entered the library, ostensibly for Hermione to return the books she'd borrowed, but then Draco leaned his broom against a wall and led her up onto the balcony she favored, grinning all the while as he approached the bust of one of his less fortunate looking ancestors. He gripped the bust by the earlobes and tugged, almost scaring Hermione half to death when she thought the idiot was about to smash it on the floor, but the tug only caused a mechanism in the shelf to click, the entire bookcase pulling outward and sliding to the side to reveal a second case sequestered behind it.

Hermione rolled her eyes at Draco's superior look.

"Well, it is your house, I suppose. It'd be ridiculous if I knew it better than you did."

"Come off it, Granger. You're impressed."

"Not in the slightest." She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "What's in here, anyway? Not Dark texts, are they? I'm not in the mood to be cursed."

"Just that row there." He pointed to the very top, far out of reach, and now that he had, Hermione could sense the odious, glutinous feel of Dark magic oozing from the texts. An ugly thrill, to be sure. "A few of the family grimoires are in here—but that's not the interesting part I told you about. Mother and father keep books here they don't want others to know about."

He reached around a rather withered history volume for a book hidden behind it. Hermione braced herself to see what terrible secret the Malfoys hid away in their secret storage, but then—."

"That's—that's a Julia Child cookbook," she stuttered, taking it from Draco's hand. "Oh—oh, there are bookmarks in it, too—! Is this your mother's?"

Scoffing, Draco crouched down to shuffle aside other volumes and said, "No, it's my father's."

Of course, Hermione knew many men made for wonderful cooks and chefs, and it wasn't really a feminine pastime—but the sudden image of Lucius Malfoy in his study, drinking elf-wine and perusing the joys of amuse-bouche had her tickled pink. Even men like Mr. Malfoy needed hobbies. "Oh really?"

"Yes. I once caught him making beef Wellington when he sent the elves off with mother on a visit to the Sangforts and thought I'd gone along with her. He swore up and down he was simply doing it for research and gave me such a telling off."

Hermione giggled, trying to stifle the noise in her hand.

"And mother, well…." He pulled out a paperback, tapping the cover. The author was Danielle Steel.

"No! Really?!"

"Really."

Maybe Harriet was right. Maybe Muggles did do fiction better.

The pair laughed over the illicit stash of Muggle literature until the shock and humor wore off, and Hermione studied Draco's profile as he flipped through his father's recipe book. He looked content, his hair gently windswept with a single blade of grass caught in the collar of his robes.

Hermione tried to recall the last time Draco had been…well, Draco. He hadn't spent the summer nagging her, hadn't called her any names, hadn't mocked her hair or her teeth or her heritage—and she couldn't pinpoint the last time he had. Oh, for sure, he still had a go at Harriet or Elara, if feeling particularly brave, but he'd let Hermione alone.

How bizarre.

"Why are you being nice to me?" she asked, voice laced with skepticism. "You're normally insufferable, you know."

A delicate blush came to Draco's pale face. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insisted, shoving the book back into its hiding place. One of the magical books complained about being so rudely shunted aside. "I'm not nice."

"Hmm." Hermione didn't comment.

She helped him re-shelve the mess they'd misplaced, and Draco was just returning the first bookcase to its proper position when Hermione heard a raised voice. The hair on the nape of her neck stood on end as she turned toward the Yellow Room, located on the other side of the library, and the door therein where the sound filtered through. The voice had been male, and decidedly not Mr. Malfoy.

Hermione and Draco shared one meaningful glance before they wordlessly descended the balcony and exited the library, crossing through a gilded hall to the main foyer in the heart of the manor. The house's doors were kept in pristine condition, so the hinges turned without protest when they silently opened, Hermione and Draco peering into the room beyond. Mr. Malfoy was there, as was Mrs. Malfoy, whom Hermione hadn't heard come in from the gardens—and they were not alone. Hermione recognized that dreaded figure right off and shivered.

"M-my Lord—," Mr. Malfoy said, voice breaking in either shock or fear. Hermione couldn't tell. "How unexpected—."

Lucius gasped when Minister Gaunt's hand shot out and ensnared the other wizard's wrist like a snake snagging a rat. He twisted Lucius' left arm and split his sleeve with a word, glaring at the revealed forearm. Then, he hissed something in Parseltongue. Hermione couldn't understand what was said, obviously, but she'd heard Harriet use it enough to recognize the harsh, malicious intonation in the Minister's voice.

"Worthless," Gaunt snarled. "Worthless!"

A sudden, hard burst of invisible magic rocked the foyer, throwing Mr. Malfoy to the stone floor, Narcissa emitting one breathless shriek. Only Hermione's arm braced against the doorway barred Draco from rushing inside.

"Don't," she whispered even as she shook. The magic tasted like copper in her mouth. "Don't."

"Mother—."

"Don't! You know it'll only make it worse!" The voices came again, muffled now, quieter, and Hermione pulled Malfoy away. Draco's eyes never left the door, his breathing high and reedy with worry. "We can't be here…come on…."

Whether or not he listened to her, Hermione didn't know, as they parted once they reached the stairs, and she rushed out of sight.

It was not entirely uncommon for the Minister to visit Malfoy Manor. He did so maybe once or twice a summer while Hermione had resided there, but only ever in brief, transient bursts, and he never once bothered himself with the presence of a Mudblood girl. Hermione would have happily retreated to her room and barricaded herself inside until the Minister departed again—so when she found herself summoned to the dining hall an hour later and saw the wizard still in attendance, she felt her heart sink somewhere into the vicinity of her toes.

Draco was not there, only his parents and a tired, twitchy Jamie Ingham in attendance aside from the Minister and herself. No food had been set on the table.

"Ah, Miss Granger," Gaunt greeted from his seat before the lit hearth, the fire framing his lazy posture, glinting in the glass of his wine goblet. A more cliche scene Hermione had never witnessed before; it was far too bloody warm for a fire of that size, and the usual dining chair had been replaced with a grander armchair from the lounge, one with a high-back fit for casting much of his countenance in deep shadow.

Pedantic ponce, Hermione thought. Harriet was wearing off on her inner vocabulary.

"Hello, Minister."

"Take a seat."

As there were only three chairs at the table, including the pseudo-throne the Minister had taken for himself, Hermione had no choice but to sink into the place next to Ingham. The Malfoys stood off to the side by the hearth, and Hermione noted for the first time how apprehensive they looked, Lucius holding himself as if he'd taken a punishing blow to the ribs.

Sweat gathered on the nape of Hermione's neck. What is happening?

Gaunt swirled the liquid in his glass once more, sipped—then dropped the goblet, only Dipthy's sudden, timely jump saving it from shattering on the marble floor. Hermione couldn't help how rigid her spine went waiting for the impact, and the sudden lack of it dragged down her back like sharp, bloody talons. Jamie looked startled and uneasy as well, and Gaunt just sneered.

For a long while, the Minister only stared at them—at Hermione—with a bitter, irritated look, the man's jaw set like a petulant toddler who hadn't gotten his way. The longer he looked, the more anxious Hermione became, because the Malfoys hadn't said a single word, continuing to stand at attention like frightened house-elves waiting for their master to throw a punishing hand. Her pulse raced in her ears, and Hermione restrained her fidgeting by telling herself he wasn't the Dark Lord, he couldn't be, and she'd withstood Professor Slytherin's disdain for years. She could withstand this as well.

"Have you heard from your friend this summer, Miss Granger?"

"My friend, sir?"

"Miss Potter."

Hermione brushed aside the sheer absurdity of the Minister for Magic asking a teenage girl if she'd kept in contact with her schoolmate, formulating her answer. She knew what he wanted. He wanted Harriet. He might not comprehend the specifics, might not understand why she was special, but Gaunt had enough interest in the young witch to drag her under his thumb, willing or not, and Hermione was not going to help him.

"We're not friends, I'm afraid, sir. Just dormmates."

She saw the barest flicker in the Malfoys' expressions, but neither said anything.

Gaunt's hands tightened on the armrests of his chair, and he leaned forward ever so slightly, letting the firelight gild his edges. To Hermione's eyes, he didn't appear quite solid for half a second, as if an opaque screen upon his face had become transparent, the light leaking under the edges. But, then, she blinked, and the man was as solid and real as ever, something overwhelming burning in his red, terrifying eyes.

Had she answered wrong? What else could she have told him? 'Leave Harriet alone, you awful, awful man?'

"I think it's time for a test," Gaunt finally said, slouching back into his seat. He steepled his fingers and rested the tips against his plush mouth. He had the mien of a bully wanting to take out his temper on someone else. Someone smaller, weaker. "Yes, a test. Yes, yes. Poor, poor Lucius, how have you and your family functioned, overburdened as you've been? Two Muggle-borns wards are too many for one house to host."

The sweat that had so far been limited to Hermione's neck began to drip down her spine and coat her hands. All the light-hearted humor she'd shared in the library with Draco vanished, the warmth of summer like a distant memory.

He's bluffing, she thought, her breathing too loud. He—there's so many other houses hosting more than one Muggle-born, he's—. He's angry I won't give him information—.

"S—sir?" Jamie asked. Gaunt ignored him.

"A test. An educational assessment. That's why you're here, after all. To learn." Gaunt smiled, and for the first time that evening, looked composed, in control. "One test and one of you will remain. The other…will return home."

Hermione felt sick, her stomach twisting into knots. She couldn't breathe. "But sir, I'm—I'm only entering my fourth year." She was quite well-read and knowledgeable, but Ingham was entering his seventh year and was already grinding his nose for his N.E.W.T.s.

"Then you had better do your very best, Miss Granger."

"Sir—," Jamie tried.

"Shut up," Gaunt hissed, suddenly on his feet. His robes fanned out as he balanced his hands on the table, the firelight blazing blood-red through the lining. "What are the three so-called Unforgivable Curses?" Neither Jamie nor Hermione spoke. "Come now, it's a simple question to start you out. Or would you rather not answer…?"

Jamie's hand shot into the air. Betrayal prickled in Hermione's chest—but they weren't friends, had never been friends despite all of Hermione's efforts to the contrary. "The Imperius Curse, the Killing Curse, and the Cruciatus."

"Correct." Hermione choked at Gaunt's word. Reality set in that this was happening, that she needed to act. "How long, approximately, can the Cruciatus Curse be held before the victim succumbs to madness?"

Jamie hesitated, and Hermione jerked her hand upward. She knew this. She knew this because of something Madam Pomfrey had said in their second year, when Harriet had been tortured—.

"Fourteen minutes," she blurted. "But it depends on the—the strength of the caster, on the power they put into the curse. The approximate average, according to studies, is fourteen minutes."

"Hmm. And how long before the body…gives out?"

"Twenty-one minutes."

"Very good, Miss Granger."

The look Jamie gave her could have curdled milk. Gaunt smirked as if he was enjoying himself, and Hermione guessed he was. "What are the fifteen schools of Transfiguration and the four sub-classifications?"

Hermione got that question and the next, but the following four were all upper-level Arithmancy inquiries she hadn't yet learned the equations for. The more Jamie answered, the more frightened Hermione became, until her chest felt tight and she thought she might faint in her seat.

One of you will remain. The otherwill return home.

Flashes of her parents flickered in Hermione's mind, met with a curious mix of regret, love, and distaste. She missed them, but they didn't miss her. No, they missed the confused, downtrodden little girl who'd been branded a strange, bizarre creature by her fellows, and she'd been so miserable, so unsure of herself. Hermione didn't want to go back. She couldn't go back.

"What is Rappaport's Law?"

Hermione and Jamie raised their hands at the same time, but Hermione was slightly faster. Her whole body shook. "An American law introduced in 1790 by Emily Rappaport, segregating Wizarding and Muggle populations in the States."

"And what prompted the Law?"

Again, Hermione answer first. "A Muggle by the name of Batholomew Barebone extorted information from Dorcus Twelvetrees, a witch, that led to a nearly catastrophic raid against the MACUSA headquarters. The MACUSA were humiliated by the I.C.W."

"Yes, just like Muggles," Gaunt said in a snide voice. "Your people are like an embarrassing infestation in the walls; perfectly ignorable until you become unsightly." He tipped his head, red eyes glinting.

"We're not Muggles," Hermione refuted, her tongue braver than it should be. "We're magical. Just as magical as any other witch or wizard."

"We'll have to agree to disagree, Miss Granger. Don't interrupt me again." The Minister scoffed. "What is the VERD index of a spell passing through a human body?"

I should know this, Hermione thought—and yet her brain felt like mush, numbers jumbled about by her anger and frustration and fear. I should know this—!

Jamie answered, "Anything greater than a two-point-six."

"Yes." Gaunt tapped his fingertips against the table. Still, the Malfoys stayed silent, Narcissa gripping Lucius' arm. "The four phases in the creation of the lapis occultus. What are they?"

This was another question aimed toward Ingham, who had taken Alchemy in his sixth year, purposefully meant to throw Hermione out of the running—but Gaunt didn't know Hermione's best friend was a personal confidant of Nicolas Flamel. Gaunt was trying to sabotage her, punish her, but Hermione was cleverer than that.

She rocked out of her seat and didn't bother raising her hand. "The lapis occultus, also known as the Philosopher's Stone, has four known stages in its creation: nigredo, albedo, citrinitas, rubedo—decomposition, the removal of impurities, actualization, and the self-synthesization between the alchemist and the Stone. No magical being aside from Master Nicolas Flamel is known to have passed the citrinitas phase of the Magnum Opus."

Silence stretched as Hermione softly panted. Ingham had his hands balled into fists, gritting his teeth as he demanded, "How did you know that? The Philosopher's Stone theory isn't covered until the final term of seventh-year Alchemy!"

Hermione didn't answer him; she continued to stare at Gaunt, trembling from head to foot. The Minister met her gaze until he became bored, and whatever sadistic enjoyment he'd gotten in leveling this punishment had run its course. His lip curled, and Hermione counted the questions again, knowing she and Jamie had answered a level amount, but would that matter? What would Gaunt do? Who would he choose?

Bile burned and sloshed in her throat, threatening to emerge. Hermione hated the Minister. She hated him as she'd never hated a person before, with a harsh, personal vindictiveness because whatever rash decision the wizard made, Hermione would have to obey. She was helpless. No power existed to which she could report his abuse of power, no agency willing to listen to a poor Muggle-born girl with no familial connections, no power, no voice.

Hermione despised him.

It seemed a lifetime passed before the Minister moved; Hermione had heard of the expression of one's life passing before their eyes in a single instance, and she finally understood the truth of it as Gaunt's hand lifted. She thought of Harriet and Elara and their dormitory beneath the water, the evenings they spent in the library or by the lake, the magic they shared and the things they learned together. She thought of Hogwarts and her professors and her friends; she thought of everything good and bad, everything wonderful and horrid, that had ever happened to her in the walls of that great castle.

Gaunt's hand rose—and then, without his eyes leaving Hermione's face, he held it out toward Jamie. "Your wand."

"W-what?"

"Your wand, you incompetent Muggle fool."

Slowly, Jamie reached into his pocket and retrieved the requested wand, extending it for the Minister to take. Hermione could taste sick in the back of her throat, as Gaunt had yet to look away, even as he set fire to the wand with a whispered word. Jamie shrieked as if his entire world was crumbling before his eyes.

The flames lasted for only a moment. It took one flippant moment to ruin a life.

"I'll send someone for him in the morning," Gaunt said, letting the hot ashes sift through his careless fingers. Hermione watched the mess fall and burn pockmarks in the priceless table. "Until we meet again, Miss Granger."

Hermione sank back into her chair as the Minister left without a word to his hosts. Jamie fled the room screaming, and still Hermione fixed her gaze on the marred wood, the smoldering black marks spreading like a disease as disembodied wails echoed off the walls. As she willed herself not to tear up, she squeezed her hands together in her lap and listened to her heart race.

She didn't feel as if she'd won. No, if anything, she'd lost her dignity when she deigned to play the Minister's sick game. There were no winners and no losers, just scorch marks and screams and lingering disappointment.

"I believe we should skip supper this evening," Narcissa whispered, swallowing.

Hermione agreed.

x X x

She woke in the dead of night to the brush of air on her face.

Hermione pried open tired eyes to see candlelight from the hall spill across her bedroom floor. She was quite certain she'd shut the door before retiring for the evening but nonetheless sat up to close it again. The sheets pooled in her lap, and Hermione sighed.

Why couldn't it have been a nightmare?

Seated on the edge of her bed, Hermione realized someone was standing there with her, and she squeaked in alarm.

"Jamie?" she asked as the older boy moved into the light. His eyes were red-rimmed, his brown hair mussed. A damp sheen painted his puffy, raw cheeks. "Jamie, what are you—?"

Fingers closed around her throat, and Hermione's hands flew to his wrists in shock.

"I haven't come this far to be tossed aside now," he sobbed. Tears fell from his face to Hermione's as his weight bore down upon her, crushing her into the mattress. "I won't let you. I won't, I won't—!"

She couldn't breathe. Hermione scrambled to pull him off of her, but Jamie was so much heavier than her, bigger, stronger. My wand! she thought. My wand, where is—?!

"You don't deserve to stay here!"

She let go of Ingham to reach for the nightstand, for the wand laying just there on the wooden rest. Hermione flailed, struggling, and kicked the nightstand with her foot. The lamp fell to the floor and shattered. Her wand rolled into the dark.

Jamie didn't let go.

"S-stop—!" Hermione tried to say as she clawed at his wrists, and if Jamie heard her, he chose not to react. Blood leaked under her nails. "S-stop!"

"Get off of her!"

Jamie grunted as a body collided with his, yanking him back, and Hermione gasped when his fingers loosened. Jamie threw an elbow into Draco's face, the younger boy yelping, clutching his bloodied nose, and Jamie went back to strangling Hermione. There was a fervent glint in his eyes, perspiration building on his upper lip. Black spots danced in Hermione's vision.

Then, Lucius Malfoy sprinted through the open door.

"Stupefy!"

The spell's red light struck Jamie in the side, and he stiffened in an instant, his hands slackening around Hermione's neck. She sucked in ragged, painful bursts of air and kicked at the boy, wriggling out from under him until she could sit up. Draco held his broken nose as he climbed to his feet, blood splattering his nightshirt. Jamie didn't move.

Hermione's neck throbbed, and as she touched the ache with her shaking fingers, she noticed Narcissa and Lucius standing in the doorway, wearing their dressing gowns, gobsmacked as they took in the devastation Minister Gaunt had wrought upon them.

No one said a word as Hermione started to cry.


A/N: Sorry for the wait!

Draco: "Behold, the secret reading material my father keeps!"

Hermione: "Wait, I don't want to see that—!"

Draco: *reveals cookbook*

Hermione: "Oh thank Merlin. Because I thought—."

Draco: "?"

Hermione: "Err. Never mind what I thought."

There's a Discord server where you can stay up to date on chapter releases and join the CDT community! The link's posted on my author page if you need it. (Case sensitive!)