Chapter 1
I had three rules.
No Aurors.
No Ministry cases.
And absolutely no Gryffindors.
Which is precisely why, at 2:37 in the bloody morning, I was ankle-deep in vampire guts, my wand scorched, and my hair—my hair—singed at the tips because someone (read: Theodorable Nott) thought it would be “hilarious” to light a Molotov cocktail with a Fiendfyre starter rune.
“It's thematic,” he said.
“It’s batshit,” I replied.
And now here I was, trying not to breathe too deeply because burnt vampire smells like smoked haddock left in the sun too long. I didn’t become a freelance magical bounty hunter-slash-paranormal investigator-slash-reluctant hero to clean up Theo’s demon-happy messes. But here we were. Again.
“Oi, Draco,” Theo called from the shadows, his silhouette twitching with what I can only describe as concerning glee. “This one had a tail. Wanna keep it? Could make a nice keychain.”
“I don’t want a tail keychain, you sociopath.”
“Pity. I’m keeping it then.”
I ignored him and flicked my wand, muttering a quick Tergeo. The blood evaporated from my boots in a hiss of steam. I turned to face the remains of the creature we’d just slain—it had fangs, claws, and what I was pretty sure was a second head growing out of its lower back. Delightful.
“Client said it was haunting the old Punch & Wand pub,” Theo said, swinging the severed tail like a lasso. “Turns out, it was the pub.”
He wasn’t wrong. The building had grown teeth.
“Right, we’re invoicing double,” I muttered, already mentally calculating the damage in Galleons. “Structural possession falls under ‘high-risk spectral infestation’. Plus hazard pay. And emotional trauma.”
Theo made a sound that could’ve been a laugh or a demon choking.
We left the pub-turned-monster behind, the street already fogging over like the night wanted to forget what we’d just done. I would’ve loved to forget too. But nooo. I had another problem.
A problem with wild hair, a permanent scowl, and a moral compass so aggressively righteous made my teeth itch.
Hermione Granger.
She'd sent me an owl earlier in the day—polite, formal, and soaked in just enough condescension to make me want to light it on fire.
“Mr Malfoy, your recent activities have attracted interest from the Ministry. We need to talk. Tomorrow. 9 am. Ministry Café. – H. Granger.”
No ‘Dear’. No ‘Regards’. Just straight to the point like a cursed dagger to the spine.
And I was going to show up. Why? Because I’m an idiot. And because part of me wanted to see if the golden girl still wrinkled her nose at me like I was something scraped off her shoe.
Spoiler alert: I did. And she would.
After the war, things with Ron went south—fast. He cheated on her. With Penelope Clearwater, of all people. The fallout was as explosive as it was public. And that was the end of them. Hermione didn’t let herself fall apart, though. Instead, she threw herself into work, and somewhere along the way, she crossed paths with Pansy Parkinson. Funny, right? The same Pansy who once tried to hex her in sixth year. But somehow, they clicked. Pansy didn’t judge her for trying to make sense of the mess Ron left behind. The two of them formed an unlikely but unbreakable bond. From there, Hermione didn’t take long to drift into the Slytherin circle—Theo, Blaise, and even me. But no matter how much we pretended it was normal, nothing about it was. Hermione and I still sparred, verbally, whenever we saw each other. Her moral superiority gritted against my Slytherin pragmatism like sandpaper on skin. It was a dance, and no one was leading.
“Ready for your hot Ministry date?” Theo asked, flopping dramatically into the passenger seat of the old black Jag we used for ‘jobs’. It didn’t drive so much as roar and threaten to eat pedestrians.
“It’s not a date,” I gritted out, starting the engine with my wand. It growled to life like a hungry manticore.
“You think she’ll bring handcuffs?”
“If she does, they won’t be the fun kind.”
Theo cackled. “Kinky.”
I sighed and leaned back against the leather, the car peeling off into the night with the subtlety of a banshee in heat.
I wasn’t worried. Not really. Granger might be the Ministry’s golden girl, Head of the Magical Regulation and Enforcement Division or whatever long-winded nonsense title she had now, but I had leverage. I had connections. And I had charm.
...Okay, mostly I had Theo.
Which was arguably worse, as Theo loved Hermione more than he loved me.
But I’d face her. I’d smirk. She’d scowl. We’d verbally spar like the world’s most dysfunctional duellists. I’d probably call her ‘Granger’ at least twenty-seven times to watch her nostrils flare.
And if she tried to bring me in?
Well.
She’d have to catch me first.
I showed up five minutes late.
Not because I was rude, but because I am dramatic, and Granger hates lateness almost as much as she hates me. I walked into the Ministry Café with a swagger that said I didn’t kill a vampiric pub last night, and my wand was holstered just enough to be threatening but tasteful.
She was already there. Of course she was.
Curled in a booth with a steaming mug and a stack of parchment, dressed like she was on the cover of Boss Witch Monthly. Sleek curls, sharp eyes, and the same ‘you ’re-a-mess’ expression she’s worn every time we’ve met since the war.
“Malfoy,” she said, barely looking up.
“Granger,” I replied, sliding into the seat opposite her. “Still drinking those pretentious Muggle coffees?”
“It’s a mocha.”
“Pretentious.”
She sipped it slowly, maintaining eye contact like she was debating hexing me in the groin. I found it oddly motivating.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked.
“If this is some elaborate seduction, I have to say—odd location, but I’m flattered.”
Her nostrils flared. Victory.
“You’re under investigation.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“You’ve burned down five structures in three months.”
“Correction: Theo burned them down. I merely watched in despair.”
“And the werewolf strip club in Soho?”
“I said it was charity work.”
“Malfoy,” she snapped, pushing the parchment toward me. “Something is going on. A pattern of possession cases—violent ones. Whatever you’re tangled in, it’s bleeding into our world.”
I scanned the reports. She wasn’t wrong. The demon signatures were escalating. The kind that didn’t just haunt—they consumed.
Still. I couldn’t let her know I cared.
“I think you just wanted to see me,” I said with a smirk. “Miss the witty banter? The unresolved sexual tension?”
“I miss silence.”
“Ouch.”
Then my phone buzzed in my coat pocket. Muggle tech and magic don’t usually play nice, but I’d made some, let’s say, questionable enhancements. I glanced down.
Theo:
📍Parked illegally.
Also, there’s a squirrel outside staring at me like it knows what I did. Should I kill it?
Me:
No.
Not again.
I pocketed the phone and leaned back.
“Listen, Granger,” I said. “Whatever this is—demons, possessions, pub monsters—it’s not just my problem. It’s coming for everyone. Even the Ministry.”
“Which is why we need to work together,” she said, staring me down like she expected me to argue.
I blinked. “You want to partner up?”
“Temporarily,” she said quickly. “Not because I trust you. Because I trust you just enough to know you hate being told what to do more than you like chaos.”
“That’s… shockingly accurate.”
She folded her arms, mocha now half-finished. “So? Are you in? Or do I have to drag you in in chains?”
I grinned.
“I prefer rope.”
She choked on her drink.
After she regained her composure, she said, “There's a case open right now. It seems right up your street.”
“Let us go then, darling, I may need to rescue Theo from a rogue squirrel first, though”
Despite her friendship with the man, Granger still looked bewildered.
The house looked like it wanted to eat us.
It loomed at the end of Ashvale Lane like a final boss—Victorian, rotting, with shutters hanging loose like it had tried to blink and given up halfway through. Every window was blacked out. The grass had grown teeth. And the letterbox whispered when the wind hit it just right.
“Lovely,” I muttered, stepping out of the Jag.
Hermione was already halfway up the drive, her coat flaring behind her like she was in a noir film and definitely about to get stabbed by a poltergeist. She paused at the door, wand drawn, professional to a fault.
I caught up, slightly breathless but pretending not to be.
“So what’s the story here?” I asked, checking for signs of obvious hex traps. “Dead aunt? Creepy doll inheritance? Haunted cat?”
“Family of four,” she said, voice low. “All missing. Neighbours reported hearing… chanting. Latin. Screaming. And then silence.”
“Yikes.”
“They were last seen three days ago.”
“And your brilliant idea was to walk right in?”
“Not right in. I was going to use a cloaking charm. And backup.”
“Oh, I’m the backup?” I scoffed. “Granger, I am the drama.”
She ignored me, casting a diagnostic spell that shimmered like dragonfly wings across the door.
“Wards are old,” she murmured. “Faded. But something’s still active.”
I leaned closer, watching her brow furrow in concentration. Her wand glowed blue at the tip—precision work. Controlled. Sexy.
Focus.
“You’ve gotten better,” I said without thinking.
She glanced at me, suspicious. “At what?”
“Everything,” I muttered. “Spellwork. Field work. Wand control.”
“...Thanks?”
I cleared my throat. “Right. On three, then?”
“Wait—what do you mean on three—”
I kicked the door open.
It shrieked like a banshee in labour and slammed against the wall.
Hermione gave me a withering look. “Subtle.”
I shrugged. “You wanted a partner, not a pacifist.”
We entered the house slowly, the air thick with mould and something worse—old magic, the kind that curdles and clings to your teeth. The wallpaper was peeling in strips like it was trying to escape. There were scratch marks along the walls—deep, jagged, human-height.
Or almost human.
“I hate this,” I muttered. “I’m too handsome to die in a haunted house.”
Hermione moved like a soldier, wand raised, sharp eyes scanning every corner. I tried not to watch the way her curls bounced as she moved.
Focus.
We reached the kitchen. It looked normal at first—a little dusty, some dishes in the sink—but then the teapot screamed.
Literally screamed.
It launched itself at Hermione, spewing boiling tea and what I can only assume were curses in ancient Greek.
“Protego!” she snapped, deflecting it mid-air.
I incinerated it with a flick of my wand. The pieces hit the floor with a hiss, twitching like dying insects.
She glanced at me.
“You’ve gotten better too.”
“I was always brilliant,” I said with a wink.
She rolled her eyes—but not as hard as usual. Progress.
Then we heard a low, guttural whisper coming from the walls—not behind them, but inside them.
Hermione spun toward the noise, casting a containment charm, but it fizzled.
“Draco,” she said slowly, “we’re not alone.”
I readied my wand. “Yeah. No shite, Sherlock.”
Suddenly, the lights flickered. A cold wind slammed through the room, and all the cupboard doors burst open simultaneously.
From the hallway, a shadow crawled forward—tall, long-limbed, and wrong. It moved like it was unfolding itself from reality. Its eyes glowed red.
Hermione stepped in front of me.
I stepped beside her.
“Together?” she said.
“Obviously.”
We raised our wands at the same time.