Notes: This chapter is going up a day early, as I may be unable to do it tomorrow. Better a day early than a day late, I think! Also, thank you so much to everyone reading, reviewing, favouriting, following, and sharing. I appreciate you all immensely!

27.

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin as the metal rapping of the door knocker sounded through the house, dull and flat. Her book tumbled off her lap forgotten as she grabbed for her wand off the coffee table, from where it lay next to her phone and a glass of pumpkin juice. It had been nearly 7.30pm when she'd last looked at the time. She made her way through to the small front hall foyer, wand clutched tight in her hand and heart racing with adrenaline. It was too late for neighbours or donation collectors to be knocking, and any friends would call or text first – unless they flooed in unexpectedly and scared her half to death.

The threatening flowers were looming in the forefront of her mind as Hermione crept carefully up to the door, running through defensive spells in her head. She unlocked the door, leaving the chain on, and cracked it open, her hands shaking and her breath sounding over-loud in her ears. But no one was there. Not within her eye-line. She saw something lying on the doorstep, but didn't look to see exactly what it was yet; part of her mind shying away. She needed to make sure she was alone, first.

"Hominim revelio," she whispered with a flourish. Nothing. Whoever had knocked at the door was gone. Either run, or apparated, or portkeyed away. Hermione unhooked the chain and opened the door, and then clapped her hand over her mouth as she recoiled back from the thing on the doorstep, wand arm hugging her middle as nausea roiled up. "Oh no," she murmured and tears pricked at her eyes as she took in the small, limp body discarded on the stone steps, her stomach churning.

It was a bedraggled ball of soft-looking sable fur, long legs splayed out from the body, which was headless. It had been a large rabbit – a domestic one, by the look of the fur. The head was nowhere to be seen. Flowers sprouted from the bloody stump of the rabbit's neck instead, driven in by their stems. Hermione edged closer, feeling sick and terrified, sweat sliding cold down her spine. She recognised the five-petalled purple mandrake flowers, and then two other varieties; a dark red-black lily of which there were only three, and many small, delicate white flowers that were like feathery starbursts. There was something green poking out of the belly. She cast a revealing charm; there were no dark spells on the rabbit. It was safe to touch.

Feeling sick she squatted down and poked the rabbit's body gingerly with her wand. It rolled over, exposing a gaping slash down the belly. "Oh my god." The opening had been stuffed with green needles. Cypress? Intestines bulged out around the needles and Hermione gulped down on the urge to vomit, sick rising in the back of her throat. "Oh Merlin." It came out in a stifled moan. She stood and backed into the house and shut the door firmly, latching it and putting the chain back on, feeling shaken to her core, dread and fear cold in her stomach.

Hermione stared at the door for a long, frozen moment, her mind blank, her thoughts swimming muddled and stupid. And then she forced herself into action; shoving her wand in her back jeans pocket and retrieving her phone and then the kitchen tongs, jaw set in determination. A deep breath as she faced the front door and then she made herself open it, skin crawling as she crouched down and took photos of the grisly scene. The flowers blooming from the head. The unzipped belly, entrails pushing the cypress out. The soft sable fur dull now, and streaked with blood and fluids.

She gagged as she used the tongs to roll the stiff carcass over, looking for any sign of a message. Under the front left paw – trapped between it and the doorstep – was a roll of thin parchment. Hermione used the tongs to tug it out, hoping no nosy neighbours were watching her and wondering what the hell she was doing. There was a smear of blood on the paper. Hermione unrolled it.

Mandrake, snakeroot, dragonwort

Horror upon horror until you beg for death

And then you'll burn on a pyre of cypress

This I promise you, bitch

Oh god. Terror struck through her again, a visceral thing that made her breath stick in her throat and her blood curdle, and with a furtive look around Hermione pushed to her feet again and backed into the house once more, locking the door and checking the wards. Casting another hominim revelio, her hand shaking so badly she had to try it twice before it worked. But she was alone. Totally alone. God, she didn't want to be. Fear ran through Hermione like a surging torrent, driving her forward thoughtless and sick, her breath coming in gasping whoops as she stumbled on numb feet through to the garage.

Malfoy. She needed Malfoy; he was her first, blind thought as she scooped up her keys off the table by the stairs and shoved them in her back pocket beside her phone. He was the safety she sought in her panic. Not Ron, or Harry, or her dad. Malfoy. She locked the garage door behind her – outside the wards now – and stood barefoot on the polished concrete as she pictured his front doorstep; the neat low herbs growing alongside the path, and the natural wood door that opened into his wide, minimalist modern foyer. Hermione shut her eyes and envisioned it, trying to focus her shredded thoughts, fists clenched at her sides as she disapparated.

A ripping feeling rushed through her; a stabbing pain low in her left calf, and then she was staggering on the spot on Malfoy's door step, a hot, horrible pain radiating out from just above her ankle. "Shit." She'd obviously splinched herself, her jeans leg showing a spreading blot of dark red. "Oh no." Hermione grimaced, limping a step closer and knocking on Malfoy's door hard. The pain wasn't so bad that she couldn't walk on it, and the fact that she could walk on it probably meant it wasn't too bad. She hoped. The door swung open as she was carefully edging up her jeans to look, breathing in forceful hisses.

"Granger?" Malfoy sounded surprised. And then – "Oh shit, Granger, what in Merlin's name – come here." He slipped an arm around her, and then with a huff of effort had her swung up into his arms, carrying her over the threshold bridal-style and kicking the door shut behind him. Her arms went around his neck automatically, clinging tightly with her wand in one hand and the note still crumpled in her white knuckled grip in the other hand. "What happened?" he asked her tightly, voice full of worry as he carried her through to the kitchen.

"I – I splinched myself," Hermione said dumbly. She thought she might be in shock.

"Well I figured that, Granger," Malfoy said with forced levity as he deposited her gently on the marble-topped kitchen island and slid his wand out of an arm holster as Hermione pulled her phone and keys out of her back pocket. "I'm afraid your jeans are going to have to become cut-offs," he told her, sparing her a quick assessing glance before he muttered "diffindo," neatly severing her jeans leg halfway up her calf. He was in loose grey pyjama trousers covered in purple puffskeins and a plain grey fitted t-shirt, calm and controlled as he leaned over her leg, his hands sure and gentle on her skin, a whispered charm stopping the blood flow and beginning to reverse it. Hermione sniffled, emotions welling up now that she felt safe. A tear trickled down her cheek.

Malfoy stopped again and looked up at her, their eyes meeting. "Should I be more concerned than I already am, Granger?" His voice was very soft as he reached up and brushed his thumb lightly over her cheekbone. "Because you're worrying me." Malfoy's eyes were intent and smoke-grey as he cupped her face in his hands; ran them over her shoulders, her hips, as if he was checking she was still in one piece apart from her leg. "What happened? Do I need to contact the Hit Wizards?"

"No," Hermione began, and then winced as she moved her foot and the pain flared sun-bright. "It's okay. I'm okay. Just – my leg hurts."

Malfoy nodded. "Okay. We'll get that sorted," he said, soothing and sure, as if Hermione were a child. For a moment she saw what he must have been like with Scorpius when he was little; it was a side of him that was alien and comforting at once. "Accio essence of dittany." He flicked his wand and then held out his hand like Thor waiting for his hammer. There was a rattle from the other end of the house. "You've got a hole right through your calf, Granger. A little slimmer than a straw, and it hasn't hit anything except flesh, luckily. Dittany should –" the bottle zipped into his hand "– fix it right up." A few drops of the essence of dittany and the pain began to retreat, dissipating as Malfoy kept his warm hand curled over her skin beside the injury, watching as the wound shrank. "There. That's doing it."

He put his hands on her hips and slid her closer on the bench top, her legs either side of him. His eyes were sharp and worried, and his voice was carefully controlled – a frayed edge hovering behind the calm – as he tucked a lock of loose, wild hair behind her ear. "Now, it's not that I'm not happy to see you, Granger, but I'd very much like to know why you've turned up on my doorstep splinched and distraught, when you're not even supposed to be here according to your rules." His hands settled on her thighs, thumbs rubbing small circles.

"I got more flowers," Hermione said limply, and swapped her wand for her phone and opened the first picture of the rabbit, turning it toward Malfoy. She felt shaken and tired now that her adrenaline had ebbed away, and her leg no longer hurt. Fragile and exhausted.

"What the – is that a rabbit?" Revulsion saturated his voice as he wrapped his hand around her shaky one, steadying the phone.

"Yes." Hermione slid to the next photo – a close up of the belly and the stump of the neck – with her other hand that still clutched the note, and Malfoy made a sound of disgust.

"This – this was on your doorstep?" he asked sharply, taut with anger now. "At your house?" Hermione nodded, and stifled a yawn, and Malfoy cast a critical eye over her. "Come on, Granger. Get off my kitchen bench, and I'll get you a cup of hot, sweet tea. It's good for shock. Especially with a slosh of firewhiskey."

A short while later Malfoy had Hermione cosily ensconced on his couch under a silky-soft rug with her knees up and with a mug of doctored tea in one hand, and she'd told him about the last bouquet she'd received. He was silently displeased she hadn't reported it to the Hit Wizards or Harry after the second bouquet, but listened without interrupting as she went on to explain what had happened this evening. The knock on the door, the poor, mutilated rabbit, stuffed with cypress needles, and –

"There was a note under it." Hermione held the thing out; irreparably crumpled now from her tight grip on it, her fingers uncurling stiffly. Malfoy leaned forward from his position at the other end of the couch and took the ball of parchment, smoothing it over his knee. His features stiffened and turned icy as he read it, his jaw clenching. There was controlled rage in his eyes when he looked up from the note; a deadly kind of cold anger that was hard and sharp, and completely assured. It made Hermione feel shivery.

"Call Potter," he said abruptly, eyes steely and flat.

"What?"

"Call Potter," Malfoy said again, and then softened his voice, adding a belated, "please, Granger?" He tapped the note. "This and the rabbit are a serious escalation from flowers. The rabbit is meant to represent you, and that's – that's what they want to do to you. You can't ignore it anymore. It's a genuine death threat, now." Hermione could see the fear for her on Malfoy's face as he sat there, tense and pale.

"Yeah. I know." And she did. At first Hermione been too horrified by the rabbit to think of reporting it. And then she'd been too preoccupied by the splinching. And now, having a cup of tea and having calmed down a bit, she'd almost begun to wonder if it was worth reporting. But when she picked up her phone it was on a close up of the rabbit – her skin crawled – and she knew she couldn't just keep ignoring the situation and hoping it went away. It didn't seem like it was going to. "I'll call." She bit her lip, thinking through the practicalities. "Should we both go back to my house then? Or, or should I go back by myself? I'm sure it'd be safe enough. Or –"

"Tell him to come here," Malfoy said, stunning Hermione. There was a hint of distaste in the curl of his lip, but the fact that he would even suggest it couldn't be more unexpected. His home was his haven and yet he was opening it up to Harry, for her sake. Even after what James had done to Scorpius. Even in his casual state of undress, exposed without the armour of his elegant suits. It made Hermione's heart ache; an entirely inconvenient time for that kind of feeling. "He can come through the floo network."

"Right, you've got a case number linked to you now. And I'll look into this myself, supervising the Hit Wizards assigned to your case," Harry said, as he waved the last of several sheets of parchment in the air to dry the ink. They sat at Malfoy's dining table; Malfoy at the head of the table, with Hermione to his left and Harry to his right, Harry having just finished taking Hermione's statement. To his credit, Harry hadn't said a word about why Hermione had gone immediately to Malfoy's instead of somewhere like the Burrow, or even Harry's house.

He had given Malfoy's puffskein decorated pyjama trousers an amused look. "Where'd you get the trousers? Lily would love a pair," he'd commented with a smirk, and Malfoy had rolled his eyes.

"They were a gift from my son," he'd said pointedly. "Would you like to bully me for wearing them? Maybe call me a fa–"

"Malfoy!" Hermione had interrupted, seeing where things were going – downhill, inevitably.

"Sorry," Malfoy had said immediately, shooting her an apologetic look and pressing his lips together, and Harry had raised an eyebrow at the dynamic but not commented on it, thank Merlin.

"I'm sorry too," he'd said instead. "About James as well. We didn't raise him to be like that, Malfoy. I don't know why..."

"It's fine, Potter. Let's just focus on why you're here."

And so they'd all sat down at the table, Harry in jeans and a Molly Weasley-knitted jumper with quill in hand, and Hermione had explained the two mysterious and threatening bouquets before the rabbit, and the meanings of the flowers, and then finally the rabbit itself. They'd looked up the meanings of the mandrake, snakeroot, and dragonwort in Malfoy's book; horror, it had said for all three, and sent a chill down Hermione's spine.

Hermione had told Harry her handful of theories on who might be behind it – "My money's on Caritas Usbourne," Malfoy had interrupted, and Harry had hummed thoughtfully under his breath, not disagreeing. Hermione had to admit he seemed like the most obvious choice, and Harry had said he'd go over any communications that Usbourne had with the outside world with a fine-tooth comb.

Now though – "I'll apparate to your place and take the rabbit away," Harry said as he stood, all business, Malfoy matching him. "And I'll have your house and street swept for any traces of magic."

"Thanks, Harry." Hermione shot him a weak and wobbly smile; it was coming up on 9.30 and she felt wrung out and spent, mind blurry and yawns cracking her jaw at regular intervals. Malfoy was watching her closely, and she could almost feel the protectiveness emanating off him as he stood, ready to escort Harry out.

"I wish you'd told me earlier," Harry said.

"I told her that." Malfoy shot her a frown, and Hermione stifled an exhausted laugh – now they were ganging up on her?

"It was just flowers, Harry. It didn't seem like that big a deal," Hermione said snippily. "Anyway, I didn't, so... There's no use in scolding me for it now."

"I s'pose not." Harry scratched the back of his head, shooting her a weird, uncomfortable look. "Look...I don't think you should go home tonight, 'Mione. I'd suggest you say at the Burrow, or with your dad, but I already know you'll say no. So – I didn't think I'd ever be saying this, but I think you should spend the night here. At Malfoy's." The words came out like pulling teeth, and Harry shot Malfoy an openly disgusted look. "We both know he wouldn't mind." His voice was heavy with innuendo.

"Harry –" Hermione censured tiredly. She hated that he'd go away assuming her and Malfoy were having wild sex all night. Not only was she determined to keep to her rules and not do that, but she was exhausted, body and mind. Even if she and Malfoy were legitimately together she wouldn't be having sex tonight, after everything.

"I'll sleep in Scorpius's bed," Malfoy said quickly and unemotionally, though he was glaring at Harry. "You can have my bed, Granger. Or the couch, if you'd rather."

"Whatever," Harry dismissed them both with a flap of his hand, sounding more just mildly revolted than angry on Ron's behalf. "Save the charade. I'm not judging you, 'Mione. Well, maybe your choice of partner, but not what you're doing. It's not like Ron isn't doing it."

Hermione felt a little ill herself now; she knew Ron was sleeping with Chastity, and she could hardly complain considering what she herself had done, but to hear Harry say it so casually was oddly painful.

"We're not sleeping together, Harry," she insisted sharply as she stood so she didn't have to look up at him, aware of how painfully prim she sounded. And how unbelievable it must seem. "We're not doing anything like that until Ron and I have officially separated, if you must know." Harry opened his mouth and Hermione ploughed on, one finger held up in the air to gesture for silence. "I'm only telling you because I don't want you going home and telling Ginny that Malfoy and I are sleeping together. Which I know you'll do. Because then she'll tell Molly, and Molly will tell Ron, and – well, I'm not having it. Especially when it's not even true." She snapped the last words out, angry, and Harry wisely didn't argue.

Instead he shot Malfoy a skeptical, awkward look. Malfoy shrugged, eyes cold, lips hooked in the faintest, wry smile. "Trust me, Potter. I'd prefer it were otherwise, but she's telling the truth." He strode past Harry, in his puffskein pyjamas and bare feet, somehow still perfectly composed as he gestured for the shorter man to follow him, making it clear the conversation was over. "You can apparate from here, rather than flooing. This way."

Harry gave Hermione a hug goodbye while Malfoy stood by holding the front door open, an unreadable expression fixed on his face. "I'll make sure your house is safe, and strengthen and augment the wards. Let me know before you plan on going home by yourself, though. If you need to pick things up, take Malfoy."

"Okay," Hermione said, chin hooked over Harry's shoulder. She smiled weakly as she stepped back from him. "Thanks."

When Malfoy shut the door after Harry had disapparated, he slid an arm around her waist, and she leant into him with a heavy sigh. "I'm so tired," she murmured, and Malfoy rubbed her back.

"Come on then, Granger. Let's get you tucked into bed."

She woke him at 3.24am, creeping into Scorpius's room dressed in a pair of his pyjama trousers – no puffskeins – and one of his t-shirts, and he blinked at her with drowsy-glazed eyes, a sleepy owl who mumbled her name. "Granger? What's wrong?" He pushed up onto one elbow, groping blindly for his wand, frowning in consternation.

"I'm fine. It's okay." Hermione hugged her middle, feet chilly on the wood floor, looking down at him in the half-light coming in through the windows. The curtains were undrawn so the moon shone in, painting Malfoy in silvers and shadows. He'd taken his t-shirt off to sleep and he was pale in the moonlight, drawn in sharp, angular lines of broad shoulders and softly defined musculature; lean and athletic, scars across his torso catching the light. "I just had a horrible dream, and now I can't get back to sleep. Could you – would you come sleep with me?" she asked awkwardly, hastening to add, almost apologetically: "Not to do anything, but –"

"I know, Granger. And yeah. Of course." Malfoy's voice was rough with sleep as he threw back the blanket and sat up, bare feet hitting the floor, rubbing his hands over his face and then standing with a groan. He plucked up his wand and walked to Hermione as she stood there by the end of the bed, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the top of her head. He radiated heat – warm and soft and hard all at once – and Hermione wanted to melt against him. But he let her go all too soon, and led her back through to his room.

When they were both under the covers curled up on their sides, Malfoy hooked her back against him firmly, moulding her to the shape of his body. Oh Merlin, he felt so good. Like safety. "This doesn't seem like something you'd do with your mother," she said sleepily, and he laughed soft and low.

"Mm. And I don't care. Bad dreams override stupid rules. Now go to sleep, Granger."

She did.