Hannah had brought a copy of the Daily Prophet back from one of the safehouses, as usual. Hermione had paid it no mind as it basked in the rare morning sun on the windowsill, choosing instead to pour herself a strong cup of Earl Grey. Her research on the Occultation of Ceres had consumed her past three nights, leaving her groggy in the mornings.

Which was why she didn't notice Draco Malfoy staring up at her from the front page until she spilled tea on her sweater, glancing down to assess the damage.

The platinum blonde hair was the first thing that caught the corner of her eye, recognition seizing her instantly even in her disoriented state. Then her eyes trailed down to the looming spires of Malfoy Manor behind him. Then, his haughty stare, his familiar grey eyes.

He was alive.

Hermione dropped her mug and picked up the paper, searching his face for some sign of… of what, she didn't know.

He looked older. His gaze was more sure, more confident, even while his expression remained inscrutable.

Hermione blinked.

The angle of it, the devastating drawl of a glance—there was no question about it: the picture was obscenely rakish, setting him up as some alluring most-eligible-bachelor type.

Draco had always had sharp features, a handsome face. All the students at Hogwarts had known it to be a fact of life, as sure as Crabbe and Goyle flanking his sides. But this—this was impossible to ignore. It was the assertiveness, the enigmatic boldness, that changed him completely, into someone who had reclaimed his worth and then some. Had this really been the man who'd shared a week with her, who'd hid her in his closet, who'd left hickeys on her neck before flying into an unexplainable rage? Had she been seeing the very same man, then?

Shaking her head, Hermione couldn't believe her own thoughts. Why are you dwelling on him? On that night? He'd gone back on his word right after, breaking the trust she never should've placed within a kilometer of him.

In the photograph, Draco moved with a smooth intention, as if the scene had been posed. Walking toward an elegantly dressed woman behind him, he turned around and stopped, with a brief glance at the camera. Then he turned back to the woman. Then back to the camera. Then back to the woman. Watching the photograph on its loop, Hermione didn't move—she just stood, tea stain travelling down her front.

He was holding flowers. A bundle of lavender. Something hard lodged itself in Hermione's throat as she read.

The Malfoy Family's Triumphant Return to the Inner Circle By Rita Skeeter, Editor-in-Chief In an astonishing reversal of fortune, the once disgraced Malfoy family has fought their way back into the favored ranks of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Our sources reveal that son and heir Draco Malfoy has led the way in mending ties with the Dark Lord, catapulting himself and his family back into favor with unprecedented flair. The Malfoys, long-time supporters of the Dark Arts, experienced a mysterious fallout with the Dark Lord, leaving the wizarding world to speculate on the reasons behind their sudden descent. Some sources suggested that their diminishing financial contributions to the regime had displeased the Dark Lord, while some others suggested that there had been more at play. However, recent developments paint a picture of a changed family. Our insider information reveals that the Malfoy heir's exceptional performance in Citizen Enforcement has not only caught the Dark Lord's attention but has earned him an official commendation, a rare and coveted accolade granted only twice in the last year. The Malfoys wasted no time in celebrating their reinstated status as Death Eaters. Their illustrious Wilshire estate, which had been eerily silent for the past two years, roared back to life with an extravagant celebration that rivaled the grandeur of the Dark Lord's own Yule Ball. The who's who of pureblooded society graced the event, eager to witness the family's triumphant return to the fold. Young Draco in particular was the center of attention, parading around in the company of the charming Astoria Greengrass, the youngest daughter of the esteemed Greengrass family. Shown above, we caught the moment he presented her with a beautiful bouquet, leaving the attendees in awe of their budding connection. Narcissa Malfoy, beaming with pride, was quick to share her thoughts on her family's recent fortune. "Our son is our pride and joy and has worked tirelessly to become the Dark Lord's most promising recruit. Astoria has been a guiding light for Draco's remarkable ascent within the Dark Lord's ranks, motivating him to keep striving for more recognition," she shared exclusively with The Daily Prophet. "The Dark Lord will only become stronger with our spirited sons and daughters forming the future of his ranks." The revelation of Astoria's role in Draco's newfound success has sent shockwaves through the high society crowd, leaving many to wonder about the true nature of their relationship and its implications for the future. We will be keeping an eye on this young couple and report on any further mingling between the two prominent families. With Draco as the ambitious heir apparent, the Malfoy family is poised to reclaim their former influence. The Dark Lord rewards those who prove their loyalty, and the Malfoys now stand ready to serve his every purpose. Their future looks bright once more.

Hermione shook her head with her lips pursed tightly, barely able to contain her disgust as she reached the bottom.

So, he'd reclaimed his registration as a Death Eater, throwing ostentatious high society parties already. Her eyes wandered around the photograph, settling on the woman's back, an unplaceable emotion rooting in her mind.

Astoria Greengrass.

She'd seen the mousy girl at Hogwarts, eating with Daphne in the Great Hall. A younger Slytherin, a rich regime-kisser—not someone she'd expect the Draco she knew to parade around with. In fact, the Draco she'd known, the one with the greenhouse, the one with the tortured past she couldn't quite reconcile, wasn't one to parade around with anyone in the upper echelons of wizarding society, at least not mere weeks after lying to the Dark Lord's face.

Hermione's eyes darted between the girl's low-backed gown and the flowers. They matched, both a deep, dreary kind of purple. But that wasn't what she fixated on.

It was the large, gold bow, tied loosely around the stems. It caught the bulb flash of the camera, threads glinting against the gray sky in a metallic wink.

"For you," he'd said. "It's Christmas."

Hermione's legs tensed.

The similar shade of the flowers, with the exact same ribbon he'd given her… there was no coincidence in a message this loud.

He's already wriggled his way back into the inner circle and latched onto a pretty little pureblooded witch… is this his idea of a taunt?

Hermione felt the anger building, curdling the hot tea in her stomach.

"Wotcher, Hermione. You've got something on your shirt."

Tonks strode in, startling her out of her thoughts. Hermione lowered the newspaper as Tonks opened the kitchen cabinets to retrieve her mug. Looking down at her collar, Hermione found that the brown splotch had spread.

"Wotcher, Tonks," Hermione said, clearing her throat. She stood silently for a second, before shaking her head. "What… what happened with the Wolfsbane delivery yesterday? There was a Death Eater waiting for you?"

As she listened to Tonks explain the failed delivery attempt, she folded up The Daily Prophet without looking, transferring it behind her. Tonks didn't notice, waving her wand to brew a cup of black coffee as she griped about the Death Eaters' tighter surveillance.

Crumpling up the paper behind her back, Hermione's hands started to tremble. She couldn't concentrate on what Tonks was saying, her words bouncing off. She let her right fist crush the picture, the edges poking at hand in bitter gratification. She clenched her fist tighter and tighter until her knuckles whitened, squeezing every last crease out of the innocuous bundle of flowers and that traitorous, smoldering stare.

"And the… research?"

Bill's voice was quietly hopeful, like he was expecting Hermione to burst in with a new invention or three, perhaps a Philosopher's Stone to resurrect the original Order of the Phoenix. With all of his division gathered in the living room of Order House Three—Hermione counted twenty-two in total—she was feeling the pressure, more so than usual. Sitting up straighter in the kitchen chair, she tried to project confidence.

"I've confirmed that the next Occultation will work. It's in a month."

Bill let out a barely-audible sigh. "And you're sure the… project will be done and usable by then?"

"Shortly after then, yes. It will be far more flexible and discreet than the Prolixus cages."

"What is zis project? Can we 'ear ze details about zis or iz it still so… so secret?" Fleur's voice cut in, and Hermione's eyes flew up to hers across the room.

"Yeah, I want to know what exactly this project is," Justin's voice chimed in and Hermione's gaze turned to him on her left, catching his searching stare. "You've been working on it for months. We're low on manpower here—why are we working on some… vague intellectual pursuit when we're meant to be prioritizing?"

Hermione suppressed a noise of irritation in her throat.

"It's not a vague intellectual pursuit. There are very real applications—this will replace our use of the cages. Like I've said before, it's very sensitive. And complicated. There is a huge risk of failure if any of the details are compromised," she said, looking Justin directly in the eye, before turning back to Fleur. "That's all I can share."

"But—"

The irritated noise leaked out her nose. "You can ask Bill for clearance on the details, if your work requires you to know. Which I know it doesn't. For both of you."

The two of them visibly bristled, Fleur's eyebrows arching upwards and Justin's head jutting forward. Hermione felt the telltale jerk of Tonks chuckling next to her.

"And how do you know what my work requires?" Justin retorted, narrowing his eyes. "If your work is so secretive, maybe mine is too."

Hermione's eyes nearly rolled out of her head. "This isn't a competition of who has the most secretive assignment, Justin. I will share the project with you all once I've completed it."

Which, the back of her mind reminded her, you don't know how you're going to do, now that you've lost access to the Manor.

The entire project hinged on her being able to return to Malfoy Manor, within the next month. All the work was calibrated on its wards.

But how? Her mind raced through the possibilities, losing track of the conversation. Bill was saying something about the agenda, trying to force the meeting back on track. Fleur was saying something else, there was a need for a schedule, predictable deadlines for all tasks. Tonks was retorting that it was impossible, obviously, some deadlines weren't predictable.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Fleur was saying something about how Tonks needed to be more professional, how she was always so crass, so rude since… since… it was unspoken, but collectively acknowledged. Since the Second Wave. Since she lost her husband and her baby.

Tonks stilled, her body straightening like a board. Hermione's attention jolted back to the present, to Tonks: her hair flashed bright orange and her nose flared with anger, but there was something more raw brimming in her eyes. Hurt.

Before Hermione could think of anything to say, Bill opened his mouth, a grimace wrinkling his forehead. "Look, we don't have much time and we're all under a lot of stress. Let's continue with the agenda. Filius, what's your update? What's the news from Kingsley?"

"Kingsley has requested urgent help from this division," the former professor replied, his voice sounding high with relief that it was finally his turn. "He'll be sending you a correspondence shortly about a shift in high-level strategy, Bill."

"What help does he need?"

"He's requested Nymphadora and Hermione, for the rest of today and tomorrow. It's for a critical mission."

"Today? Tomorrow?" Bill said. His frown deepened. "That's not possible. Tell Kingsley we need more notice than that."

"Oh no, this is an exception. An extremely important exception," Flitwick replied. He turned to Hermione and Tonks. "We need members trained in stealth, and I suggested you two. I'm here so I can substitute for anything that requires your attention immediately."

"Filius, we need them here, even if—"

"Bill." The stocky man's expression became serious, as serious as Hermione had ever seen it. "This mission needs Tonks. It needs Hermione. I will step in here, however I can."

"What are we getting put on?" Tonks asked.

Flitwick's eyes shone with something between agitation and excitement and he took a deep breath, as if preparing to drop a big class announcement.

"You're going to breach Hogwarts."

"A wee thing like that, I bet you've got her screaming all night," Amycus chuckled, his gravelly voice grating on Draco's nerves.

Alecto let out a wheeze-laugh. "Were the slags lining up at your door, after you got your Mark back? Begging to suck you off for a little bit of good fortune?"

Draco's eyebrows raised a fraction of a hair at the obscenity. Actually, it had very nearly been like that, but he didn't answer, instead keeping his eyes on the road.

The oppressive murk of Knockturn Alley wrapped around him as he trudged alongside the unsavory siblings, draped in full regalia. The cobblestones resounded with the menacing clink of their boots, and the pedestrians, mere shadows through his mask, gawked at them with a now-familiar mixture of fear and reverence.

It was just his luck to be put on Apothecary Control alongside the damned Carrows. The Dark Lord's latest decree—requiring all apothecaries to register under the regime—had created a mountain of work for his top officials.

Their order? Catalog the unregistered shop of Larinus Wilthorn, a long-time supporter of the regime. They were to register the shop on his behalf, only taking him into custody if he was uncooperative. That was the Dark Lord's mercy in action on his most loyal subjects.

Filing down an alley between two moldy shacks, they approached the supposed entrance of the apothecary. As Alecto and Amycus continued their jeering in front of him, Draco caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye.

His instincts flared, and with a flick of his wand he erected a shield, covering himself and half of Amycus's backside right as a loud bang nearly deafened him.

Two jets of light connected in front of him. His half-shield wasn't enough to save Amycus—with a groan, the man froze in place, immobilized alongside his sister.

"Wilthorn! We are under instructions not to harm you, but only if you cooperate!" Draco yelled from under his mask, his voice laced with impatience. He shoved past Amycus and Alecto's bodies, frozen in the middle of the alley, and decided on a whim not to re-mobilize them.

"Who the hell are you?" An old, wiry man with disfigured moles peeked out from an open window in the shack ahead.

Draco, wand ready, swiftly pulled off his mask. "I'm here on the Dark Lord's orders. Why haven't you registered your apothecary?"

Wilthorn's eyes seemed to glint with recognition—and something more malicious—as soon as his eyes met Draco's. "You're that—that boy in the paper. The Malfoy whelp."

Draco ignored him, his features hardening. "Why are you unregistered after the Dark Lord's latest decree? I won't ask again."

An ugly sneer contorted Wilthorn's face. "You're just a boy. Thinking you're some bigshot just because the Dark Lord took a liking to you. Back in—"

"We have orders to use force if necessary." This, Draco ground out between his teeth, already annoyed to hell and back with the shopkeeper.

"Who are you, boy, to force me into anything?" Wilthorn's sneer turned even uglier, if that was possible. Draco moved to Stun the man, but he moved as if he'd expected it, disappearing from view into the shop.

For fuck's sake. Chasing down a peevish apothecary owner—that was not part of the plan.

Resisting the urge to blast the entire shack down, Draco disillusioned himself before entering the shop. As he touched the silver doorknob, it widened into a metal jaw with razor-sharp teeth, and Draco nearly lost his left hand as it clamped down with lightning speed.

It was obvious, then, why he didn't register the shop. He was dealing illicit potions if he'd felt the need to booby trap the entire damn store.

Growling in impatience, Draco cast a Revelio inside the dimly lit shack filled with tinted bottles and jars. The entire exposed ceiling lit up, as did the register and a green Christmas ornament hanging by it. The man was hiding somewhere—waiting for Draco to get caught by one of his traps, no doubt.

"Why don't you put in an honest day's work, Wilthorn?" Draco called out, swiveling around, looking for an opening. "Not registering your shop? Not even getting up for a fair duel? It's not very… sporting of you."

Another flash of movement, this time behind him. Draco's shield barely materialized in time as a rusty crowbar came swinging at his head.

A nasally laugh came from behind the register. Draco's eyes flashed, and the blasting curse was out of his mouth on instinct.

Glass shattered all around. Wilthorn stood up from his hiding spot with a shield around him, a ghost of amusement in his eyes, his wand raised with a curse on its tip. Draco didn't even think.

"Avada Kedavra."

The green jet hit the man squarely in the chest, and he slumped down, his head hitting the ornament on its way down. A stream of black, bubbling liquid came gushing out of the sphere, landing on top of the Wilthorn's body, and Draco grimaced.

I probably shouldn't have done that.

Somewhere in the last few weeks, he'd gotten trigger-happy. It barely affected him anymore, the Killing Curse. Most of his targets were doomed to die—the alternative being in a much slower way—and the Dark Lord commended efficiency.

Efficiency, pure efficiency, was what he practiced. That was what he repeated to himself, in the brutality he'd perfected as Voldemort's prized protégé.

There was no time for further reflection, as the shack filled quickly with the unmistakable scent of burning flesh. Pressing his lips together in distaste, Draco backed out of the shack, careful to avoid the doorknob.

"What was that? You killed him?" Alecto's shrill voice cut through the silence.

The two had finally managed to free themselves from their frozen states, which was a pity—he'd intended to leave without them.

"Yes," Draco replied curtly. "You two catalog the goods. I've done more than I've needed to."

"I saw your Avada! The Dark Lord's orders were to imprison, not kill!"

Draco dismissed Alecto's screeches with a shrug. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, it does." Now here was Amycus, storming forward with a nasty gleam in his eyes. "We're reporting this to the Dark Lord. He's playing favorites with you right now, but we saw it with our own eyes—you defied his direct order. You should be punished, like any other servant of his!"

Draco met Amycus in his path, staring down the man with pure vitriol.

"Go ahead, Amycus. And I'll tell him that you and your lovely sister were taken out by a flashbang. Now, does that sound like something the Dark Lord would like? Representing him while unable to perform basic defense?"

Draco didn't miss the blink of fear that came across Alecto's face, even while Amycus remained stubbornly rooted in front of Draco.

Amycus opened his mouth like he had something to say, but then closed it like he'd forgotten what. His sister spoke first, breaking the tense silence.

"Amycus, it's not worth it."

Amycus said nothing, nostrils flaring with heavy breaths. Alecto tried again.

"Wilthorn is a nobody. Why would we bother to report him?"

Draco barked out a laugh, the sound biting the air. "Your sister seems to have come to her senses. You should, too."

Leaving the duo to their task of cataloging the illicit goods in the apothecary, Draco retrieved the body—or rather, what was left of it—and Apparated with it back to the Dark Lord's Hall. He deposited the corpse in the Processing room, leaving behind a concise explanation: uncooperative, self-inflicted death by booby-trap.

He received his next directive on a slip of parchment from the harried elf running Logistics—a summons to interrogate the newly imprisoned Muggleborns. Tomorrow, 9:00 AM, Hogwarts dungeons.