Hermione stirred slowly, still tangled in the warmth of his body and the sheets. For a moment, she wasn't sure what had woken her—the light slipping in through the curtains, or the steady rhythm of his breath against the back of her neck.

Draco was still wrapped around her, one arm tucked possessively around her waist, the other resting beneath her pillow. His fingers flexed slightly, as if even in sleep, he was unwilling to let her go.

She exhaled, barely more than a sigh, and shifted just enough to see his face. He looked softer like this—unguarded. His hair was a tousled mess against the pillow, and there was a faint crease between his brows, like he didn't quite trust the peace even in rest.

Her fingers moved without thinking, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. He stirred then, eyes opening slowly, a sleepy, low sound rumbling in his chest as he tightened his grip on her.

"Morning," she whispered.

He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her—really looked—like he wasn't entirely convinced she was still there. Then, finally, his voice came, thick and low. "You let me stay."

Hermione's lips curved. "You didn't exactly give me much choice."

He smirked faintly, but there was something else in his eyes—something soft and serious. "Good," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her—slow and reverent, like he was still anchoring himself in her.

She kissed him back, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, lingering in the warmth of him. But the world, as it always did, came creeping back in. The case. The office. The roles they had to play once they stepped outside these walls.

Reluctantly, Hermione pulled back. "We have to go in."

Draco groaned, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. "Don't remind me."

She laughed softly, and he finally sat up, stretching just enough to reach for where his shirt had landed on the floor. "I need to go home and change," he muttered. Then paused. "Connect your Floo to mine."

She arched an eyebrow. "Bossy."

He smirked and leaned down to kiss her again, slower this time, then murmured against her lips, "Leave it open, Granger. Meet me in ten—we'll go in together."

By the time they stepped out of Draco's flat together, dressed and warded and almost respectable, the morning chill had settled in across the city. Hermione wrapped her scarf a little tighter around her neck, and Draco reached out to adjust it—fingers brushing her collar in a way that was more instinct than thought.

"Your hair's a menace," he said, voice dry.

She arched an eyebrow. "You're one to talk."

But he was smirking as they started walking, falling into step beside her without needing to ask where she was headed. They could have Apparated directly to the office. Should have, really. But instead, Hermione turned the corner and led them toward the little Muggle café on the next block. The one with chipped blue tables out front and a bell over the door that always rang twice.

Draco glanced at the sign and snorted. "This place again."

"You liked the coffee," she reminded him.

"I liked your coffee," he said, but he opened the door for her anyway, the familiar bell chiming overhead. "Still the best thing to come from that argument."

Hermione smiled as they stepped inside, the warmth of the little shop wrapping around them like a familiar spell. The bell above the door gave its usual double chime, and the scent of fresh espresso and cinnamon clung to the air.

The barista gave her a quick wave of recognition from behind the counter, and Hermione stepped up without hesitation, placing their order from memory. She didn't need to ask—she got him the same drink she had when she first offered that olive branch, the one he hadn't admitted to liking until weeks later.

Draco glanced at her, a small flicker of amusement in his eyes. "You remembered."

She handed him his cup with a faint smile. "I remember everything."

They found a small table by the window,

Draco took a sip, then raised an eyebrow. "Still too sweet."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You're welcome."

He studied her over the rim of his cup, something thoughtful passing through his gaze. "You didn't have to do that. Back then."

"I wanted to," she said simply, then added, quieter, "Just like I do now."

The corner of his mouth lifted, almost a smile. And for a moment, the noise of the street and the hum of the shop fell away—just the two of them, paused in the soft hush of morning.

"Move in with me."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She set her cup down a little too carefully, her fingers curling around the paper as if anchoring herself. The warmth of the moment had shifted—no less tender, but suddenly sharp-edged with meaning.

"Draco…" she began, the word catching awkwardly in her throat. "It's… it's too fast."

He didn't flinch. Just leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, watching her with that same quiet intensity she was coming to know too well. "You're not wrong," he said, voice low. "But every single second of this has only made me more certain of what I want."

Hermione froze, her pulse quickening at the intensity in his words. She wanted to say something, to protest, but instead, her mouth went dry.

"I want you," Draco said, his voice barely above a whisper, but there was no doubt in it. No hesitation. He was certain of what he wanted, and for the first time, Hermione didn't question his sincerity.

"I'm not asking you to unpack your life by tomorrow. But I'm not pretending either. I want this. I want you. Every version. The stubborn one. The one who overthinks her coffee. After what happened yesterday... No more doubts"

Hermione exhaled, a breath that sounded half like a laugh and half like surrender.

He sat back then, giving her space, but not stepping away. "You don't have to say yes now," he added. "But don't hide from the question just because it's big."

Silence stretched between them again, this time laced with something tender. And terrifying.

"I'll think about it," she said finally, voice soft.

He nodded, like that was all he'd needed to hear.

Then he stood, brushing invisible crumbs from his coat. "Were late. We should get to work before I decide to drag you back to bed."

Her lips curved despite herself. "You'd like that."

His grin, full this time, was nothing short of wicked. "You have no idea."

By the time they reached the Ministry, the spell between them had shifted—but not broken. They walked side by side, not quite touching, but still in sync. It wasn't the charged silence of before, but something quieter. Steadier.

The lift doors opened with a soft chime, and Hermione caught her reflection in the brass panel—hair wind-tousled, lips a little too pink, the faintest flush on her cheeks. She smoothed her skirt out of reflex, just as Draco stepped in beside her.

"Don't fuss," he said under his breath. "You look like you had a good night."

She shot him a warning glance, and he only smiled—small and secret.

They arrived on their floor with a whoosh of magic and a rush of parchment-scented air. It was already bustling. Papers flew. Boots echoed. Somewhere down the corridor, someone swore at a broken quill.

Miriam looked up from her desk as they passed and arched one perfectly shaped brow. "Morning," she said, far too casually.

Hermione smiled back, too bright. "Morning."

Draco didn't even break stride. "Miriam."

"Malfoy," she returned, clearly amused.

They hadn't even made it to Hermione's desk before Dawlish rounded the corner, file in hand, looking like he hadn't slept—and was determined to make that everyone else's problem.

"You're late," he snapped, the accusation aimed mostly at Draco, laced with thinly veiled disdain.

Draco didn't even blink. "You're loud."

Hermione stifled a cough into her hand, fighting the urge to laugh as she slid into her chair.

Dawlish turned, eyes seething. "What's this? Showing up to work togther now? What is it—National 'Befriend a Death Eater' Month?"

Draco's posture stiffened, his hand drifting toward his wand on instinct. His jaw tightened, lips pressed into a razor-thin line.

Hermione stood quickly, placing a hand on Draco's arm—not to stop him, necessarily, but to remind him he wasn't alone.

"That's enough," she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. "We're not doing this today."

Dawlish snorted. "You think I'm the problem here?"

"I think," Hermione said coolly. "You need to control your temper, and learn to keep your mouth shut."

Dawlish sneered, taking a step closer. "You're both supposed to be working together, not... whatever this is. And don't think we don't see what's going on. You've been cozy for weeks now, and no one's said a word. But I see it. Everyone sees it."

There was a flicker of something in his eyes—resentment, maybe, or something deeper. Draco, still on edge, took a step forward, but Hermione was quicker, her hand on his arm to stop him.

It was Theo who spoke next, appearing from the hallway with Neville beside him. His usual calm demeanor was tinged with something sharper now, his eyes flicking from Dawlish to Draco, then to Hermione.

"Seen it, loved it, encouraged it," he said dryly.

Then, with a theatrical sigh, Theo strode forward and threw an arm around each of them—Draco on one side, Hermione on the other—like they were all off to brunch instead of unraveling dark magic conspiracies.

Draco grimaced as if physically pained by the contact. Hermione closed her eyes, clearly summoning every ounce of patience she had left.

"Frankly," Theo added, utterly unfazed, "it's the healthiest relationship in this department."

Neville nodded beside him, then blinked like he hadn't meant to agree out loud. "Er… yeah."

Dawlish shot them both a glare. "Have you all forgotten about what Malfoy was a part of? The whole bloody reason people still look at him like a threat?"

Theo said, his voice firm, "This isn't the way we do things. Back off."

"You want to fight this out, Theo?" Dawlish challenged, his hand going to his wand. But Theo stood his ground, not moving an inch.

Enough," Hermione repeated, her voice hard. "Everyone needs to cool off and get back to work. We have a mountain of cursed artifacts, a cult with a resurrection complex, and zero time for petty dramatics."

There was a long pause before Dawlish gave a tight, angry nod. "Fine." He turned on his heel and stalked off without another word, boots echoing down the corridor like thunder.

Hermione let out a slow breath. "Well. That went well."

"Oh, my sweet star-crossed war criminals," he said dramatically, clutching them tighter. "You're going to make me cry. Or vomit. Honestly, it's a toss-up."

Hermione sighed, but didn't pull away. Draco, however, looked down at the arm across his shoulder like it was some sort of infectious growth.

"Theo," he warned.

Theo beamed. "Draco."

"Remove your arm."

"But you're so tense, I thought I'd help. You're welcome."

Hermione shook her head, hiding a smile. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet," Theo said, releasing them both with a flourish, "still employed. Imagine that."

Draco turned to Hermione, his expression unreadable. "You didn't have to stop me."

She met his eyes. "I didn't do it for you."

A pause.

Draco's lip quirked. "Liar."

Theo let out a low whistle. "Merlin. He needs a vacation. Or a therapist."

Neville shrugged. "Both."

Theo gave him a finger-gun. "Exactly! That's the spirit, Longbottom!"

Draco glanced at her, mouth twitching with the ghost of a smile. "National Befriend a Death Eater Month. I kind of want a badge."

She rolled her eyes and flipped open a file. "If there's a badge, Dawlish will probably try to set it on fire."

Theo, already halfway to his desk, called over his shoulder: "I'll make you one! Big sparkly letters: 'Reformed Ready to Cuddle'."

Draco didn't even look up."I hate you."

"You say that, but I'm your emotional support extrovert. "Theo said brightly.

Hermione had just finished straightening the last stack of files on her desk when Harry approached.

"Hermione," Harry said, his tone gentle and unguarded, as if he didn't need the formalities. Just her name, soft but weighty.

She looked up, offering him a tired smile. "Hey."

He sat on the edge of her desk, hands slipping into his pockets, eyes scanning her face like he was searching for something she hadn't said. "You alright? After yesterday?"

"I'm fine," she answered, the words more certain than she felt. "Shaken, but fine. Thanks for checking in."

Harry didn't say anything right away. Instead, he closed the space between them and pulled her into a quiet hug, one that spoke more of comfort than conversation. Hermione exhaled into it, letting the familiar scent of aftershave and the faintest hint of broom polish settle around her, grounding her in the quiet of the moment.

Behind Harry, Draco stood by the window, jaw tight as he watched the embrace. His eyes narrowed the smallest fraction—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Hermione to feel it. A flicker of something territorial coiled beneath the surface.

Harry stepped back, completely unaware. "Good," he said. "Just wanted to make sure."

Then, louder, over his shoulder: "Everyone, conference room. Let's get back to it."

Hermione met Draco's gaze as she passed him, offering a small smile—half reassurance, half warning not to start anything. He didn't speak, but his hand brushed the small of her back as they moved into the hall. It was brief, subtle. But there.

The conference room filled with the familiar sounds of chairs scraping and parchment rustling as the team trickled in. The mood was quieter than usual—focused, but carrying a weight from the previous day's incident.

Harry stood at the head of the table, a half-empty mug of tea in one hand. "Alright," he said, clapping the side of his mug gently against the table. "We're a week out from Christmas. I would really, really like it if no one got cursed, nearly killed, or emotionally destabilized between now and then."

A few tired chuckles rolled around the room.

"I know it's been tense," he continued. "But you've all been pushing hard. Let's treat today as a slower pace—sort, catalog, coordinate. We'll rotate in and out for field work as needed."

Callum leaned forward, tapping the edge of his notes. "The ring's contained, but we've made no progress on locating the core of the curse. We're still peeling back the layers. However we've narrowed the anchor points from the mirrors—it's definitely pulling from two locations: south Wales and the Thames."

Neville nodded. "We're still working on the transfer method. Whatever's feeding the curse is deeply bound to the core artifact. But we're close."

"Good," Harry said, nodding toward Miriam and Hermione. "Miriam, I want you and Hermione leading on that—whatever you can dig up on pulling that curse apart, figure out what it does."

Miriam gave a crisp nod, already flipping through her research log.

Before Harry could say another word, Draco's voice cut through the conversation. "I don't think Granger should be near that ring."

Everyone in the room paused. Hermione's brow furrowed as she looked up at him, a mix of surprise and irritation crossing her features.

"Excuse me?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Draco held her gaze, his expression unyielding. "It's too dangerous. You don't know the draw that thing could have on you."

Miriam's eyes flicked between them, sensing the tension, but wisely kept quiet.

Hermione's fingers tightened on her notes, but she kept her voice steady. "I'm perfectly capable of handling myself, Draco. I've been doing this job long enough to know the risks."

"I'm not questioning your ability," he replied, his tone lowering. "But that ring... it's different. You shouldn't be involved."

Before Hermione could respond, Theo's voice joined in, quiet but firm. "I agree with Draco," he said, his gaze meeting Hermione's. "I saw what happened to you last time. That ring... it's not something you should get close to again."

Hermione's heart skipped, the memory of the cursed ring luring her in still fresh in her mind. She bit her lip, frustration rising, but didn't argue.

Ron, arms crossed, looked between Hermione and Draco. "I hate to admit it," he muttered, his voice low, "but they're both right. We still don't know what it's capable of, and after what happened to Hermione… it's too risky."

Hermione's mouth tightened, but she swallowed her retort.

Harry, reading the room, gave a small nod. "You're right. We can't ignore what just happened. If it's pulling her in that strongly, we need to understand why—before we let her anywhere near it again."

Hermione nodded, her shoulders relaxing slightly, but her pride still pricked. "Fine," she said, more to herself than anyone else, "but I'm not sitting out completely. I'll still help however I can."

Theo's gaze softened just a touch, he reached out and placed a hand over her's. "We'll figure this out. Together."

"Alright," Harry said, steering the meeting back on track. "Aurora, Dawlish—you're down at the Thames. If the pull's coming from the waterline, I want it mapped before tonight."

Aurora smirked. "Thames in December. Can't wait."

Dawlish looked considerably less enthusiastic but said nothing, his expression sour as he scribbled down the details in his notebook.

Harry checked his watch, then looked toward Draco and Ron. "You two—you're with me. Kingsley's expecting us in his office in an hour."

Ron groaned quietly, but Draco merely gave a curt nod, clearly unfazed.

"Good," Harry continued, flicking his eyes over to Callum and Neville. "Callum, Neville—you'll stay on the ring and the curse's transfer method. Miriam, you're with Hermione on the research. Hermione—do not go near that ring. Let's keep it tight today."

Miriam nodded. "Understood."

The room murmured in agreement, the weight of the task ahead settling over them like a heavy cloak. With a final glance around the table, Harry gave a short nod and motioned for them to break.

The lift doors slid open with a soft chime, and Harry stepped out first, flanked by Ron and Draco. The three cut an imposing figure as they moved down the corridor—shoulders squared, steps in sync, purpose radiating from every stride.

The Ministry was quieter than usual, the approaching holiday thinning the crowds, but the tension hadn't eased. If anything, it clung heavier in the stillness, like everyone was holding their breath and waiting for something worse.

Kingsley's office door was already open.

"Come in," the Minister said, his voice steady as always, but there was a crease between his brows that hadn't been there last week.

They stepped inside, each of them falling into familiar habits. Ron took the chair to the left, Harry the one directly in front of the desk. Draco stayed standing, arms crossed, leaning slightly against the wall like he had no intention of getting comfortable.

Kingsley gave him a long look but didn't comment.

"I've been reading the report on the Knockturn Alley incident. Along with the notes on the ring," Kingsley said, eyes scanning the folder in front of him. "And I'll be blunt—we're running out of time."

Harry nodded. "We know. Whatever this artifact network is, it's accelerating."

"Two anchor points identified," Kingsley continued, "but no clue yet on how the energy is transferring between them. And now we've got Hermione targeted—pulled into it."

Ron tensed beside him, jaw tight. "She's not going near it again. Not until we know why it responded to her like that."

"She's been pulled into dangerous magic before," Kingsley reminded him. "She's also one of the best at dismantling it."

Draco cut in, voice low but firm. "She's not expendable."

A beat of silence followed. Then Kingsley slowly closed the folder.

"No one is. That's why I called you here," he said, locking eyes with each of them. "I've authorized you to escalate. You have full discretion now—resources, clearance, teams. But I want daily reports. And I want this stopped before Christmas."

Harry blinked. "Escalated to what level?"

"Level Seven. Unrestricted magical countermeasures. Do what you have to—within reason."

Draco's brows lifted slightly. Even Ron let out a low whistle.

"Understood," Harry said, rising from his seat. "We won't let it slip."

Kingsley nodded. "Then go. And be careful—this thing is older than anything we've seen before. And it's not done with us yet."

The soft rustle of parchment and the occasional clink of a teacup were the only sounds in the small research alcove tucked behind Level Two. A low enchantment buzzed at the doorway, keeping out interruptions and giving Hermione and Miriam a pocket of quiet in an otherwise restless building.

Hermione sat cross-legged in her chair, a thick tome spread open in her lap, one hand buried in her curls as she read. Miriam was scribbling rapidly beside her, her notes a messy dance of margins, arrows, and half-translated runes.

"Every layer we pull back," Miriam muttered, "just reveals another complication. This curse is... recursive. Like it's feeding itself in a loop."

Hermione didn't look up. "And yet it still requires external anchor points to stabilize it. It's not self-contained. That's what makes it vulnerable."

Miriam leaned back, stretching. "Assuming we can even get close without it trying to rip someone's magic out again."

Hermione's jaw tightened. "It didn't attack me," she said softly. "It… called to me. Like it recognized something."

Miriam paused, her pen lowering. Her eyes searched Hermione's face, concerned.

"That scar on your hand might say otherwise."

Hermione huffed a quiet breath, somewhere between annoyance and reluctant agreement. "Fine. But if we figure out the resonance pattern, we might be able to rewire its pull. Break the feedback loop."

Miriam gave a sharp nod. "And that's where we start."

She reached for the next book, flipping it open between them. "Let's figure out how this thing is speaking—and how to make it shut the hell up."

The only light came from a single floating orb, its glow dim and flickering as it hovered near the ceiling. It cast long, uncertain shadows across the crates stacked haphazardly along the stone walls. Dust curled in the still air, disturbed only by the soft scrape of boots on worn concrete.

The buyer stood just beyond the reach of the light, gloved hands clasped behind their back. The ring on their finger pulsed faintly—slow and steady, like a second heartbeat.

A figure watched from the shadows, unmoving.

"Well?" the voice was calm, low, patient—but laced with expectation.

The buyer dipped their head. "The ring is secured. Locked deep inside the Ministry. We can't touch it—yet."

A pause. Then: "But?"

"It's still calling to her," the buyer said. "Even through the containment. Stronger than ever."

The figure shifted, just slightly. "And she's responding?"

"She doesn't know it yet," the buyer murmured. "But yes. It's already begun."

A long breath escaped the hooded figure, not relief—satisfaction.

"Good. Let it draw her in. Let them believe they're in control."

He turned from the buyer without a word, dismissing him in silence, gaze already drawn back to the mirror.

Hermione.

She was bent over a tome in the dim light of the Ministry archive, curls tumbling over her shoulder as she and Miriam spoke in quiet, focused tones. Their voices were distorted, but he didn't need sound to see what mattered. The way her fingers hovered over the page, the intensity in her eyes, the sharp pull of concentration in her brow.

He watched her like a devout man might watch a flame.

"So clever," he whispered, stepping closer. "So certain she understands what she's touching."

His hand reached out, brushing against the glass like he might feel her through the spell.

"You were never meant to fight it, Hermione," he murmured. "You were meant to complete it."

She didn't see it. None of them did.

The way her magic hummed just beneath her skin, unshielded when she was focused like this. The way the cursed mark on her hand glimmered faintly in the candlelight, tethered to something older than she could name.

But he did.

He leaned closer, not touching the mirror—just breathing it in, gaze fixed like gravity had locked it in place.

His mouth curled into something too close to a smile.

"They think they can protect you. They think you're theirs to save."

He tilted his head, watching as she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. His eyes followed the motion like a lover's.

"But I see you. I've chosen you."

The image blurred slightly—Miriam moved into frame—and his expression darkened instantly. He raised a hand, and with a whispered command, the mirror pulsed and shifted, cropping Miriam out.

Only Hermione remained.

"Soon," he said softly, almost reverently, "you'll understand. All of this—every step—has been for you."

A beat passed.

"And if I have to be the one to take your last breath to show you that... then so be it."