Chapter Text
Hermione Granger’s office, tucked in the far corner of the Auror Department, was a quiet testament to her need for order amidst chaos. Just outside her door, the low hum of murmured voices blended seamlessly into the rhythmic shuffle of hurried footsteps, creating a constant buzz that reflected a hive of activity. But within her four walls, everything was calm and controlled.
Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with rows of books and tomes on Magical Law, Ancient Ruins, The Detection of Dark Artefacts, and, of course, Hogwarts: A History. The thick spines were worn from frequent use, their dragonhide bindings cracked and faded from being pulled from the shelves time and time again over the years. The occasional scrap of parchment peeked out from between the pages, placed with care to mark passages Hermione planned to return to when she found the time.
On the far wall of her office hung a large corkboard, a meticulously arranged system of enchanted notes, maps, and photographs. Each piece was pinned with precision, connected by threads of soft, glowing light that pulsed faintly as if alive. The board was charmed to adapt to her investigations, subtly rearranging itself as new information was added, ensuring the most crucial details always remained in focus.
Photographs moved gently within their frames, the faces of suspects shifting slightly as though caught mid-thought. Maps were enchanted to highlight locations of interest, glowing faintly where magical traces had been detected. Notes in Hermione’s tidy script appeared to organise themselves into neat rows, their ink shimmering faintly in response to her touch.
Her desk was no less meticulous. Ministry files sat stacked in neat piles, each labelled in her precise handwriting and ordered alphabetically for efficiency. Her quills, painstakingly arranged by length, sat in a gleaming brass stand. A magical clock hovered slightly above the surface of her desk, emanating a soft, steady glow. Its enchanted hands marking not only the hours but the progress of her ongoing cases, subtly shifting to reflect deadlines and priorities. Occasionally, it chimed softly. A gentle reminder of approaching appointments or tasks that required her undivided attention. This space wasn’t just organised – it was purposeful, every detailed designed to aid her in untangling the complexities of her work. It was a sanctuary of focus. Of control.
Today, however, her sanctuary felt stifling.
At the centre of her desk lay the cause of her unease; a crisp Ministry file, its label scrawled in Harry’s unmistakeably rushed handwriting:
“Draco Malfoy: Artefact Smuggling Investigation.”
Hermione had been staring at the manilla folder for over an hour, her fingers drumming lightly on the polished wood of her desk. She had flipped through the file several times already that morning, and while the folder held nothing particularly damning – yet – her discomfort hadn’t eased. With a sigh, she opened it again, scanning the familiar lines.
Draco Malfoy had been linked – allegedly – to a series of illegal and unlicensed dark artefact sales across Europe. The Ministry, eager to crack down on the lingering remnants of Voldemort’s networks, had flagged Malfoy as a “person of interest.”
“Person of interest,” Hermione thought wryly. She suspected the frame was simply Ministry-speak for convenient scapegoat. Malfoy’s name carried enough weight to stir attention, a magnet for controversy that guaranteed headlines and political leverage. In the years since the war, scrutiny of former Death Eaters had evolved into something of a public spectacle, a political sport that both reassured the fearful and satisfied the vengeful.
For many, justice no longer meant uncovering the truth but punishing the ghosts of the past, even if it meant chasing shadows. And few names evoked as much ire – or dark fascination – as the Malfoys. They were the living embodiment of privilege, a family whose wealth and power had shielded them in the aftermath of the war. To the public, Malfoy was a symbol of what Voldemort had left behind, and to the Ministry, he was an easy target in an endless game of accountability.
Hermione sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Malfoy,” she muttered under her breath. “Of all people.”
A knock at the door broke her concentration.
“Still stewing over that file?”
Harry leaned casually against the doorframe, a steaming mug of tea in hand. He looked every bit the dishevelled student she remembered from Hogwarts—his robes were slightly rumpled, and a few biscuit crumbs clung stubbornly to the front. His perpetually untidy hair, as unruly as ever, seemed immune to any effort at taming, and his easy grin softened the weight of his title. At that moment, he looked far less like the esteemed Head of the Auror Office and more like the familiar, carefree friend she had known for years.
Hermione glanced up, her eyebrow arching. “You knew about this assignment, didn’t you?”
Harry raised his eyebrows in mock innocence. “I might have heard something.”
“And you didn’t think to warn me?” she said, her tone edged with irritation.
Harry shrugged, taking a sip of tea. “Didn’t want to ruin your morning. Besides, it’s not that bad. You’ve dealt with worse.”
“Worse, yes,” Hermione said, folding her arms. “But he’s utterly insufferable.”
Harry chucked, his laughter warm and unbothered. “Come on, I know that he lacks tact, but I wouldn’t describe him as insufferable.”
Hermione shot him a pointed look. “Do you remember what he was like during the war? Or how he almost got us killed?”
“Of course I do,” Harry said, his tone softening. “But people change, Hermione. Even Malfoy.”
She let out a humourless laugh. “I’m not sure he’s capable of it.”
Harry tilted his head, studying her carefully. “You know, you sound a lot like Ron when you talk about him. Only Ron’s usually shouting.”
Despite herself, Hermione’s lips quirked upward. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re the best dark artefact specialise we’ve got,” Harry stated, stepping forward and setting his mug on her desk. “Look, I know it’s not ideal. But the Ministry’s cracking down hard on smuggling, and Malfoy’s name keeps coming up. If he’s innocent, great. If not…” He shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll handle it.”
Hermione started at the file again, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine,” she muttered. “But you owe me.”
Harry grinned. “Deal. I’ll even buy you dinner when you’re done.” He picked up his mug and started toward the door, pausing to add with a sly grin “Oh, and please try not to hex him on sight.”
“I’m not promising anything,” she said dryly as he left.
Hermione apparated just beyond the gates of Malfoy Manor with a sharp crack, the sound quickly swallowed by the stillness of the winter air. For a moment, she stood motionless, the sudden shift from the bustling Ministry to the eerie quiet of the manor grounds leaving her slightly disorientated. The cold hit her immediately, sharp and biting, as if the air itself were trying to drive her away. She adjusted her cloak, her breath visible in the icy December chill, and turned to face the imposing estate.
The manor loomed ahead, its stone façade untouched by time, its sharp angles stark against the pale grey sky. Snow dusted the gravel path and the bare branches of trees that lined the long drive twisted upward.
The wrought iron gates, twisted into intricate serpentine designs, swung open smoothly as she approached, their motion eerily graceful. Instead of the expected groan of protest, they moved with an almost welcoming ease, as though the manor itself acknowledged her arrival. The warmth of the gesture felt unsettling, like a note played out of tune. The silence of the grounds pressed in around her, broken only by the faint crunch of her boots on frost-covered gravel. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather prickled along her spine, the quiet wrongness of the greeting lingering at the edges of her thoughts.
She paused before the grand oak doors, her breath misting in the frigid air. The place hadn’t changed since she’d been unwillingly held hostage here during seventh year. And yet, as much as the manor felt suffocating, its walls heavy with secrets and shadows, there was something else – a faint, inexplicable flicker of familiarity. It unsettled her, this strange contrast of unease and a peculiar sense of something almost… comforting. Hermione drew a steading breath, pushing the thought aside. But the feeling lingered, an echo of something she couldn’t quite grasp, leaving her certain that whatever it was, it didn’t belong.
The doors opened before she could knock.
Malfoy stood in the doorway, framed by the dim light spilling from within.
He leaned lazily against the doorframe, his posture casual but deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world and nothing to prove. The rolled-up sleeves of his crisp black shirt contrasted the alabaster skin of his muscular forearms, and there, half-hidden in the shadows of the dim light, was the ghostly outline of the Dark Mark. It was faded but unmistakable. A chilling reminder of his past.
Without realising, Hermione’s fingers brushed against her own forearm, where the faint scar from Bellatrix’s blade lay hidden beneath her robes. The word carved there – Mudblood – was long since healed, but the memory of the ordeal was seared into her mind. Her hand clenched into a fist, and she let it fall to her side, tucking it into her cloak as though she could bury the instinctive reaction. She doubted Malfoy even noticed, though the faintest flicker of something unreadable passed through his piercing grey eyes.
His platinum blonde hair, once slicked back with precision, now fell loosely against his forehead, softening the razor-sharp features of his face. High cheekbones, a strong, chiselled jawline, and a mouth that curled with faint amusement, as though perpetually on the verge of delivering a cutting remark.
But it was his eyes that held her attention. The icy grey of his youth had matured into something colder. There was a weight to them now – an exhaustion that hollowed their sharpness but didn’t dull their intensity. They assessed her with quiet calculation, as though weighing her worth and finding her lacking.
Draco Malfoy was dangerously handsome, the kind of beauty that felt almost otherworldly, like a fallen angel cast down to earth.
“Granger,” he drawled, his voice low and smooth. “What an unexpected delight.”
“Auror Granger,” she corrected, her tone brisk. “I’m here on Ministry business.”
Draco’s smirk deepened as he stepped aside with an exaggerated flourish. “Of course you are. Do come in.”
The entrance hall was vast, echoing with the faint click of Hermione’s boots on polished marble. The lofty ceilings stretched high above her, supported by sweeping arches that seemed almost excessive in their grandeur. How very Malfoy. A massive chandelier hung overhead, its crystal pendants shimmering faintly with traces of lingering magic. The light it cast was soft but cold, illuminating the space in a pale glow that only emphasised the starkness of the black-and-white marble floor.
The walls were lined with portraits of Malfoy ancestors, their painted faces frozen in expressions of superiority. Their gazes were sharp and disdainful, an expression that Malfoy had mirrored perfectly throughout their years together at Hogwarts. Their eyes tracked her every movement as those they were silently passing judgement.
“Still clinging to your family’s flair for dramatics, I see,” Hermione remarked, her eyes flicking to a particularly stern-looking portrait
Draco shut the door behind her with deliberate slowness, the sound of it closing echoing through the cavernous space. “And yet you still couldn’t resist making an entrance,” he said, his smirk sharp as he leaned lightly against the doorframe. “Tell me, Granger, what exactly are you hoping to find here? A secret passage labelled Villainy This Way perhaps?”
“I don’t expect anything,” Hermione replied evenly, though her tone was laced with a subtle bite. “That’s the point of an investigation.”
“Ah,” Draco said, his voice dripping with mock thoughtfulness. He began to stroll past her, his polished shoes clicking softly against the marble. “So, the Ministry’s grand strategy is to send the brightest witch of our age to play house inspector. How very innovative.”
Her movements were precise, her expression unbothered, but her eyes took in every detail of the room as she spoke. “The Ministry has reason to believe dark artefacts are being smuggled through former Death Eater networks,” she said, her voice steady. “Your name has come up.”
Draco stopped in front of a tall, narrow window that framed the snow-covered grounds outside. His reflection was a distorted silhouette in the rippling glass. “Naturally,” he said, his smirk widening into something sharper, more deliberate. “Nothing draws attention from the Ministry quite like being a Malfoy.
“Perhaps you’d like to clear your name, then,” Hermione replied, folding her arms and fixing him with a pointed stare. Her tone was calm, but there was a challenge in her words, one she knew he wouldn’t let pass without comment.
Draco turned back to face her, his grey eyes catching the faint glow of the chandelier. His expression flickered – just for a moment, a shadow of something almost unguarded crossed his face – before he settled back into his practiced indifference. “And give you the pleasure of tearing apart centuries of Malfoy history for your next Ministry victory lap? Tempting.”
“You can cooperate,” Hermione said, her gaze steady, “or I can return with a warrant. Your choice.”
Draco tilted his head slightly, as though considering her words. Finally, he gestured lazily toward the hall, his smirk returning. “Oh, by all means, Granger. Do your worst.”
He stepped aside, motioning her forward with a half-mocking flourish. “Let’s see if you can turn up something worth the interruption.”
As Hermione moved past him, the chill in the room seemed to deepen. Whether it came from the manor or the man himself, she couldn’t quite say. With each step the very walls felt more familiar, stirring echoes of something long forgotten.