Both lovers were keeping secrets from each other. But, if one goes by the fallacy of relevance that two wrongs make a right, this aptly describes two people both keeping earth-shattering secrets, deciding not to reveal them at this particular point in time, and just getting on with their happy selves.


Draco managed to locate a pharmacy and balked at the prices they charged for pieces of latex rubber. Whatever that was. He headed to Sainsbury's and prowled up and down the Medicines and Healthcare section, but balked at the thought of asking intimate questions to the nearest staff member, a pimply youth with greasy hair and loose pants that sagged well below his arse. So, back he went to the high-priced pharmacy where a white-coated, bespectacled gentleman helpfully (and discreetly) introduced him to the wonderful world of Muggle contraception.

Those poor bastards, Draco thought mournfully of his non-magic brethren, gazing at his larger-than-expected paper bag of accoutrements. Give me a wand or a potion any day.

Hermione was more amused than amazed by the range of products Draco produced later that evening. Still, they both had a fun time working out what best suited their needs.


"Where do you think your dad is?" Hermione asked Draco out of the blue one evening.

"Huh?" Draco snorted awake from his supine position on the settee where he was missing an episode of Coronation Street.

Hermione turned in his embrace to face him, her face painted in a 'slightly interested' expression. "I was just thinking," she said vaguely. "I wouldn't want him to suddenly spring himself on you without warning because he doesn't seem very nice."

Understatement of the century.

Briefly, he thought of the scrying screens in the Afterlife and their instant access into every nook and cranny of magical and non-magical life. Based on his last look, Lucius seemed to be at least seventy-five per cent dead. The only thing that could revive him was a decisive victory over the other side, and based on the intel gathered when Draco was alive, that wasn't looking like a certain thing.

But of course, a scrying screen was not within reach right now.

"I don't know where he is," he admitted, meaning both 'I don't know if he's alive or dead,' and 'I'm fairly sure that if he's alive, he's at Malfoy Manor, and there is no way I'm telling you that in case you insist on going there and your memories return in the worst possible place.'

He kissed her forehead. "You don't need to worry about him."

"Hmm," was her non-committal reply.


A few minutes later:

"Are you watching this?" Hermione asked.

"Uh… no, not really."

"Want to go to bed?"

"Lead the way."


Gerry, matchmaker supreme, was thrilled to see the singles become a couple. But she wasn't satisfied with them just dating. She wanted Draco firmly ensconced in Hermione's domicile; or vice versa. She wasn't fussy.

Since subtlety was a trait that had given Gerry a wide pass, she asked outright, over the pub's platter of everything they could possibly deep-fry and still keep their food hygiene certificate, when the pair were going to combine their postal addresses.

Hermione blushed into her cider and Draco gave Gerry a cool look. "There's no need to rush, Gerry," he said.

Gerry wasn't put off. "Think of the money you'd save in power bills!"

"We've only just started going out!"

"Yeah, but you've known each other for ages." Gerry had an answer for everything, it seemed.

"Gerry…"

"Oh, all right," she sighed. Chewing thoughtfully on a piece of deep-fried cauliflower masala, she brightened. "I hope you two are practising safe sex?" she boomed in a voice so loud that every diner and drinker in the pub looked their way.

"Gerry!"


But happiness based on fallacies is a brittle, fragile thing.

It started with a phone call.

"Hermione? It's Detective Constable Schiller. The results on the blood sample have come back and I need to talk to you about them. Are you able to come into the City?"


This is it, Hermione thought, on the bus to London. When I get back, I have to tell Draco that his father is or was involved in some seriously sick shit and he was responsible for mutilating most of me.

She bit her lip and stared out of the window. I hope he'll be okay.


It seemed like Hermione and DC Schiller met in the same room as they did when Hermione handed over the blood sample. Kismet, she thought.

DC Schiller was very serious. "The blood sample you gave me was compared to patches of blood obtained from your clothes when you were brought into hospital," she began. "There's a match."

Hermione's heart started thrumming.

"Of course, none of the blood samples match with anyone in our databases, so we're still in the dark about their identity." Schiller looked at Hermione. "But I believe you can help us with that."

"Of course," Hermione vowed. "I don't know where the offender lives. But I'll ask his son again."

Schiller blinked. "The son is the person you got the blood sample from?"

"Yes, but he's not involved."

Schiller looked even worse than serious. "Hermione, the blood sample you gave me matched exactly with some of the blood on your clothes. The person you got the sample from was either there when you were tortured, or participated in the torture."

There was a funny buzzing sound in Hermione's ears and the room was getting too hot. "That's… not true," she whispered.

"I'm afraid it is," Schiller said quietly. "Can you tell me his name and address?"

Now the room was too cold. Hermione swallowed past an enormous lump in her throat. "C – can you give me a few minutes, please?" she whispered.

"Of course." Schiller rose from the table. "I'll be back in fifteen."


Hermione sat at the table, holding a notebook in her lifeless hands. Her mind was steaming away at the speed of light, and she didn't know what stretch of thought to grab and anchor herself to.

How could Draco be so kind and loving towards her if he'd participated in her imprisonment and torture?

What about all those weird things he said? Was he part of some kind of cult that had its own language?

S-so what if he was there? She doesn't have any memories of him torturing her. Of course, she had gaps so large you could run a double-decker through them.

And… and what if he was genuinely remorseful, got away from it all and wanted to change? That might explain his behaviour. But then – why didn't he tell me about his past? About my past? Was he ashamed? Scared?

Tears slid down her face and blurred the words in her notebook.

At best, Draco was phenomenally deceitful.

At worst, he abused and mutilated her body. Along with his father. Gross.

FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WON'T SOMEONE TELL ME WHY?


Schiller guessed Hermione would be upset when she returned to the room, but – wow.

Hermione was sitting on the ground, up against a wall with her knees pulled into her chest. Shreds of paper from a notebook lay around the room. Schiller's detective self made a note that the shreds might be evidence and needed collecting. But more important was the young woman on the floor, sobbing as if her heart had been broken.

Schiller grabbed the permanently-stationed box of tissues and sat next to Hermione, offering meagre items of tissue paper and "there, there's".

Eventually, Hermione pulled herself together and woodenly provided Schiller with Draco's name and address. Schiller paled when she realised he had been living next door to her for months.

"It will take a wee while for us to find you another place to stay," Schiller said. "Have you got somewhere you can stay for tonight?"

"My social worker," Hermione croaked.

"I'll give her a call and put you in a car that will take you straight there," Schiller promised. Then, looking at Hermione's woebegone face, she added "He might have a reasonable explanation for his blood being on your clothes. It happens, sometimes."

Hermione nodded listlessly.

"At the very least, he should be able to fill in some gaps in your memory."

Hermione nodded again. "Yeah."

Schiller left the room feeling unsettled. She'd made a major breakthrough in a case that was threatening to go cold. But instead of the victim feeling relieved, she'd reacted like Schiller had ripped open her chest, pulled out her heart, and dashed it on the ground.