In Two Minds

Draco left the office on Tuesday evening much like he always did, though this time with a slight heaviness to his step. 

He had promised to pick up a pizza on his way home, something warm and familiar. Daphne hadn’t been eating much —barely anything, if he was honest—and he hoped the promise of something indulgent might coax her into getting something substantial into her stomach. Even if she only managed a slice or two, it would be better than the handfuls of dry crackers and the barely touched cups of broth she’d been living on for past few days.

She’d been anxious when he left that morning. More anxious than usual. Her hands had trembled faintly when she’d clutched the sleeve of his suit before he walked out the door. He remembered the way her eyes had locked onto his with such naked vulnerability, almost pleading with him not to leave.

“You’ll be safe here,” he’d murmured softly. He stroked her hair back from her face, gently untangling her fingers from his sleeve. “I promise. No one knows where you are.”

She hadn’t looked convinced. She’d given a small nod, but he could feel the stiffness in her posture, the tension still thrumming under her skin as she sat curled up on the edge of the couch, her knees drawn to her chest.

He had lingered at the door longer than necessary, just watching her. Wishing he could do more. Wishing he didn’t have to leave her alone.

But she would be fine. She would.

The flat was protected by layer upon layer of wards. He had cast them himself the previous evening. Everything had been in place. Daphne would be safe. She just needed to rest, to let the tension bleed from her shoulders.

And so he’d left, reassuring himself with the promises he’d made to her. That she was secure. That he’d be back before she even noticed he was gone.

Now, as he walked through the quiet evening streets, the faint drizzle dampening the edges of his suit, he found himself glancing at the shop windows more frequently than usual. The small pizza place was a few blocks from the flat—a nondescript corner shop with a flickering neon sign. He squinted through the rain-speckled glass, already picturing Daphne’s tired but grateful smile when he walked through the door with the warm box in hand.

He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, quickening his pace slightly. He didn’t want to be gone too long. She had seemed so fragile that morning, like the slightest gust of wind might shatter her into pieces.

It’ll be fine, Draco told himself firmly, clenching his jaw slightly, trying to suffocate the gnawing unease crawling up the back of his neck. He quickened his pace, the pizza box growing heavier in his hands, though it was almost weightless. He exhaled slowly through his nose, steeling himself. You’ll be home soon. She’s fine. You’ll be home soon.

By the time he reached the narrow, slightly weathered townhouse that housed his flat, a faint wave of relief washed over him. The familiar sight of the worn brick façade and the ivy creeping along the side made his chest loosen just slightly. Still, he knew he couldn’t keep doing this. The thought had been haunting him all day—the gnawing certainty that he couldn’t keep leaving her alone while he went to work. She wasn’t safe. Not really. 

He climbed the steps quickly, taking them two at a time, eager to be inside—to see her. Yet, even as he unlocked the main door, his mind slipped briefly to a different worry. Surely her family will come looking for her soon… The thought had crossed his mind more than once in the last few days. It was impossible to imagine that Marcus Flint of all people would simply let his girlfriend vanish without a trace. He wasn’t exactly the gentle, forgiving type. 

But that was a problem for future Draco. Future Draco would deal with the angry, well-connected boyfriend demanding answers. Future Draco would come up with an explanation.

He made his way upstairs, grateful to avoid Miss Weaver on the way up. She was already far too interested in his affairs. Nosy but harmless. She had made a passing comment to him as he left that morning, clearly fishing for information.

“New lady friend, eh?” she’d said, giving him a sly smile. “Is she to be a permanent guest?” She’d shrugged with exaggerated casualness. “Not that it matters to me, love. I charge rent by the flat, not by the number of occupants.”

He had forced a polite smile, muttered something about an old friend visiting from out of town, and left without making eye contact. The last thing he needed was Miss Weaver’s wandering eyes and prying questions.

Now, he fished the key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. He opened the door and called out lightly, “Daph?” His voice was casual, expectant, already picturing her sitting on the sofa, curled up in one of his old jumpers with a blanket pulled over her legs.

But no reply came.

He waited a beat, listening to the silence pressing against his ears. The flat was unusually still. Too still. His stomach tightened slightly.

“Daph?” he called again, louder this time, already moving further inside.

No answer.

His pulse quickened, and he moved swiftly, searching the flat room by room. The living room was empty, the sofa pillows untouched, the blanket neatly folded over the backrest. The kitchen was clean, almost eerily so—the mug she’d been drinking tea from that morning was gone from the counter, washed and put away. He moved faster now, pulling open the bathroom door. Empty. 

Finally, he stepped into his own bedroom, heart beginning to thud in his chest. And that was when he saw it—the window.

It was open.

The curtains stirred slightly in the faint breeze, fluttering like restless ghosts.

Draco crossed the room in three long strides, already leaning out, scanning the narrow street below. His eyes moved quickly over the pavement, the road, the stoop across the way. Then, just as he was about to pull back inside, his gaze caught on something—a figure, faintly visible, moving swiftly through a small alley across the road.

He barely registered the thought before he disapparated on the spot.

The sudden snap of air was sharp in his ears, and a brief rush of vertigo swept over him. He stumbled slightly as he landed in the shadowed alley, the uneven cobblestones shifting beneath his feet.

He straightened quickly, wand in hand, already scanning the narrow corridor. The alley was mostly empty—damp brick, scattered rubbish, and the faint glimmer of water pooling in the uneven cracks—but further down, he caught a glimpse of movement.

A flash of blonde hair. A hand gripping Daphne’s arm too tightly.

Draco’s breath caught, and without thinking, he surged forward, moving swiftly but carefully, his footsteps muffled by the rain-slick stones. His instincts screamed at him to act, to call out her name, to break into a sprint and tear her away from whoever had her—but he forced himself to hold back. He didn’t know how many there were. Didn’t know if they were armed. If he went in reckless, he’d be no use to her.

He kept his distance, ducking behind the corner of a brick wall, watching as two figures, both wearing ministry-issued Auror robes, marched Daphne further down the alley. Her wrists were bound in front of her with enchanted manacles that glowed faintly with a containment charm. She struggled weakly against them, but her legs were unsteady. Draco could see the slight stumble in her step, the way her head lolled slightly to the side. She was drugged. He could see it in the way her body resisted itself—half fighting, half collapsing.

The Aurors exchanged a few terse words with one another that Draco couldn’t hear, but it didn’t matter. His focus was locked on Daphne. She turned her head slightly, eyes glassy and unfocused, searching for something—for him.

Draco’s knuckles were white around his wand, his grip iron-tight as he stalked silently through the alley, his steps precise and deliberate. He moved like a shadow, keeping low, clinging to the edges where the light didn’t reach. His breath was slow, controlled—years of practice making it automatic. His eyes stayed fixed on the backs of the Aurors marching Daphne forward, tracking every step they took.

He was already calculating his next move, scanning for the best position to strike, when suddenly—

Crack.

The sharp, unmistakable sound of Apparition splintered the stillness.

Draco froze, eyes narrowing. He darted forward instinctively, skidding to a stop at the mouth of the passageway—just in time to see the faint shimmer of magical energy ripple in the air where they had vanished. Gone.

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath, his fingers tightening reflexively around his wand. He glared at the empty space for a heartbeat, feeling a brief, useless surge of rage pulse through him—there one moment, dissipating the next.

But he knew exactly where they were probably taking her.

The Ministry.

Without hesitation, he disapparated.

The sudden snap of magic hit his ears as he landed in the familiar courtyard outside the Ministry entrance.Draco kept his head low, shoulders hunched slightly, hoping to avoid any attention as he made his way to the staff entrance.

As soon as he was inside, he quickened his pace, moving with quiet determination toward the Auror offices. His breath was steady, but his pulse was beginning to pound faster, heavier, like a drumbeat echoing through his veins.

They’ll have apparated straight there, he thought grimly, his jaw clenching. Aurors get special access. No checkpoints. No questions.

He paced the corridor near the Auror wing, lingering in the shadows, scanning the faces of anyone who passed, searching for the men who had taken Daphne. He waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

But no one came.

His hands curled into fists, frustration simmering low in his gut. He stared down the corridor, jaw tightening, realising with a mounting sense of futility that he had already missed them. They were already inside. Already dragging Daphne further into the Ministry’s depths.

And waiting here wouldn’t bring them back.

Exhaling sharply, he made a decision.

He pivoted quickly, glancing around, and slipped into one of the side corridors leading toward the Auror offices. The Ministry was quieter now, the corridors mostly empty, making it easier to move unnoticed. The spell he murmured under his breath dulled the sound of his footsteps, allowing him to move silently over the marble floors.

He kept his wand loosely in his hand, ready but not raised, glancing into the offices he passed. Empty desks. Dimmed lamps. The faint hum of enchanted paperwork filling itself out in the absence of employees. But no sign of Daphne. No sign of the Aurors.

Still, he moved forward.

And then he heard it—a faint shuffle of footsteps coming from around the corner.

He tensed immediately, instincts flaring. Shit.

Without thinking, he ducked into the nearest opening—a small storage alcove, barely large enough to fit him. He pressed his back against the cool stone wall, keeping still, holding his breath.

For a brief, flickering moment, he thought he was safe.

Then—

“Ow!”

The sharp whisper came from somewhere behind him.

Draco’s head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing. His wand was up in a flash, already half-raised before he registered who it was.

Hermione Granger.

She was squashed into the cramped alcove with him, her eyes wide with surprise, hand pressed against the back of her head where she had bumped it against a jutting pipe. Her curls were wild and disheveled, her cheeks faintly flushed from moving quickly, and she shot him an incredulous look, clearly about to say something.

But before she could make a sound, the footsteps outside the alcove halted.

Draco’s eyes flicked sharply toward the corridor. The slow, deliberate tread of boots against stone echoed too close for comfort.

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly, her breathing shallow.

Without hesitation, Draco moved.

He acted on instinct—quick and fluid—reaching for her with one swift motion. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him, pinning her to his chest. Before she could react, he clapped his hand lightly over her mouth.

Her eyes narrowed in alarm, her muscles stiffening briefly in protest—but she quickly stilled, her breath warm against his palm, her heart pounding against his ribs.

“Shhh,” he mouthed silently, his breath fanning softly against the shell of her ear.

They remained perfectly still, pressed against the stone wall in the tiny alcove. Draco felt her chest rise and fall against his, the heat of her breath quick and shallow against his skin. She was tense, but she didn’t pull away.

The footsteps slowed just outside their hiding spot.

He felt her heartbeat quicken against him.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.

The footsteps lingered. Paused.

Draco’s hand flexed slightly against her waist, holding her firm, keeping her in place. His thumb unintentionally brushed against the curve of her hip, and he felt her tense slightly at the brief contact.

The footsteps hovered for another agonising moment—and then, finally, they began to retreat, fading slowly down the corridor.

Neither he nor Hermione moved until the last echo had disappeared.

When it was safe, Draco slowly, cautiously, removed his hand from her mouth, though he didn’t let go of her completely.

Hermione exhaled sharply, tilting her head slightly, turning her face to his, her lips inches from his jaw.

“You—” she began breathlessly, voice low, but she cut herself off, shaking her head slightly. She glared at him in exasperation, though the faintest flicker of relief passed through her eyes.

He let his hand slide from her waist, but he didn’t move back. They were still pressed close, breathing heavily, staring at each other in the narrow space.

Her eyes searched his, flickering with questions he didn’t have the answers to.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, finally, Draco arched a brow and whispered with a wry smirk, “Fancy meeting you here, Granger.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed slightly at his smirk, though there was no real heat behind it—just a sharp flash of exasperation mingled with disbelief. She opened her mouth, clearly about to snap back with some scathing retort, but the sound of retreating footsteps still echoed faintly down the corridor. She snapped it shut again, shooting him a warning glare.

Draco’s smirk only widened. His breath was still slightly uneven, and he could feel the way hers was too, warm and shallow against his throat. They were still standing far too close—her chest barely brushing his with each hurried breath, her curls tickling the side of his jaw.

Neither of them moved.

“Are you going to let me go,” she whispered sharply, her voice barely audible, “or do you make a habit of pinning women to stone walls in dark alcoves?”

Draco arched a brow, leaning just slightly closer, his breath ghosting over her cheek. His voice was low, almost teasing.

“Only when they barge into my hiding spot.”

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t pull back.

He slowly, deliberately, loosened his grip around her waist and took a half-step back, allowing her just enough space to breathe. She exhaled softly, but he didn’t miss the subtle pause before she shifted fully away from him, as though it took her brain a second too long to remind her she was supposed to be annoyed.

Once they were no longer pressed together, the reality of the situation seemed to settle back over them like a cold gust of air. The tension of nearly being caught, the unspoken questions hanging between them—it all lingered.

Hermione ran a hand over her curls, smoothing them down, clearly trying to compose herself. She shot him a quick glare, but he caught the faint pink tinge to her cheeks.

“What the hell are you doing here, Malfoy?” she demanded in a harsh whisper, her brows furrowed. She crossed her arms over her chest, fixing him with a hard stare.

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression flattening. The playful glimmer in his eyes dimmed slightly, the edge of his smirk slipping away. He met her gaze evenly, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

“Following someone,” he muttered vaguely, his voice low but firm.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed further. She crossed her arms tighter, clearly unimpressed.

“Who?” she pressed.

Draco stared at her for half a second, his lips parting slightly—before he caught himself. He didn’t answer.

Instead, he glanced toward the corridor, scanning for any sign of returning footsteps. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. More careful.

“You’re the one sneaking around the Auror offices, Granger,” he deflected coolly, eyes flicking back to hers. He arched a single, pointed brow. “So why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here first?”

Her lips pressed into a firm line, and she stared at him, clearly debating whether or not to tell him anything. She tilted her head slightly, giving him a sharp, appraising look—the one she used back at Hogwarts when she suspected someone of cheating on their homework.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Their ragged breaths were the only sound in the cramped alcove, and the tension shifted—subtly but unmistakably. It was no longer the sharp-edged stillness of fear but something heavier, thrumming faintly beneath the surface, a low, electric crackle of challenge.

Hermione’s chest heaved slightly as she exhaled sharply through her nose, breaking the silence. Her jaw clenched as she visibly wrestled with herself. Then, finally, she shook her head with a small, humourless huff.

“I was just about to leave,” she muttered, her voice low and terse, her gaze flicking away from him, “and I thought I saw…”

She trailed off.

Draco’s breath stilled. His eyes snapped back to hers, narrowing slightly. His stomach gave a sharp, twisting lurch.

“Granger…?” His voice was a murmur, just the barest breath of sound, but the question hung heavy in the air.

She glanced back at him, and that was all it took. She didn’t need to say the name.

His throat tightened.

“Daphne,” he murmured hoarsely under his breath, barely louder than a whisper, but it cut through the space between them.

Hermione’s brow furrowed slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. There was a faint flicker of confusion behind her gaze—mistrust, uncertainty—but mostly, he could see the sharp edge of recognition there.

“Wait…” she said slowly, realization dawning in her voice, her eyes searching his face with growing suspicion. She took a small step forward, lowering her voice further. “That’s who you were following, isn’t it?”

Draco’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t answer. His jaw tightened.

“Which way did they take her?” he asked instead, his voice low and rough, ignoring her question entirely.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed slightly at the deflection. She opened her mouth, about to press him further, but then she paused.

Her expression softened slightly.

“I—I didn’t see,” she admitted reluctantly. Her voice was quiet, and a faint trace of guilt tinged her words. “She slipped away from them for a second. I thought she needed help, but by the time I got anywhere near close, they’d already caught her again. They took her deeper into the department.”

Draco inhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. His knuckles were white.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand roughly through his hair, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.

Hermione took a half-step closer, watching him carefully.

“Why?” she asked softly, a frown tugging at her brow. “What’s going on?”

He glanced at her sharply, his eyes narrowing, his expression closing off instantly.

“Why do you care, Granger?” he snapped, his voice suddenly clipped and cold. His eyes were hard now, guarded. “Just go home and forget you saw anything.”

Her eyes flashed with indignation, but she didn’t back down. She squared her shoulders slightly, tilting her chin upward.

“When did you take charge of this situation?” she shot back coolly, arching a single brow.

“I was supposed to keep her safe!” he growled, his voice rising, almost shouting before he caught himself. His hands were trembling slightly, fists clenching at his sides, the tendons in his arms taut with tension.

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly at the sudden outburst. She stared at him for a beat, lips slightly parted, then she stepped forward again, her voice low but firm.

“Malfoy,” she said evenly, her gaze unwavering, “what is going on?”

Her eyes were sharp, steady, and unyielding, and for a brief moment, he faltered. The protective wall he had slammed up between them wavered just slightly.

He exhaled through his nose, blinking once. Then, his expression hardened again, and he forced out a sharp, humorless laugh.

“Why don’t we start with why you’re here, Granger?” he countered, crossing his arms, his tone edged with suspicion.

She hesitated ever so slightly, but her expression remained defiant.

“I work here,” she replied simply, the words clipped and matter-of-fact.

Draco’s brows lifted slightly in disbelief. He let out a dry, cynical chuckle, shaking his head.

“Since when?” he asked with mock curiosity, the smirk tugging at his lips sharp and biting. “Last I heard of you, you were still writing tragic little articles on elf reform for Lovegood’s mental magazine.”

She scowled at him instantly, her eyes narrowing in irritation, but she recovered quickly.

“Hmm. And it seems what I’ve heard about you since leaving school hasn’t changed either,” she shot back with a saccharine smile.

Draco’s lips curled faintly, a single brow arching.

“Oh?” he drawled lazily. “And what would that be?”

“That you’re still an arse.”

Her voice was sweet and venomous all at once, cutting through the space between them with surgical precision.

For a brief moment, Draco’s smirk widened just slightly—a flash of genuine amusement sparking in his eyes before he masked it with mock indignation. He shook his head with a soft tsk, running his tongue briefly along the inside of his cheek.

“Ah,” he murmured, his tone deliberately light, almost playful. “Good to know some things never change, Granger.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but he caught the faintest twitch of her lips. She was biting back a smile, and for just a fleeting second, he saw the ghost of the sharp, quick-witted girl he used to trade barbs with at Hogwarts—the one who never backed down.

The one who, much to his own annoyance, had always kept him on his toes.

And now she was standing here, flushed and breathless, staring at him like she was trying to solve him, her chest still rising and falling slightly too fast from their narrow escape.

He suddenly became aware of how close they were standing. Of the shallow space that separated them. Of the faint scent of lavender and parchment that clung to her skin.

Her eyes flickered briefly, almost imperceptibly, to his mouth.

Just once.

Then she blinked and turned sharply away, her jaw tightening, her expression hardening again, and whatever had passed between them vanished like a wisp of smoke.

She exhaled slowly, running a hand through her curls in frustration.

“Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on, or do I have to figure it out myself?” she muttered.

Draco’s smirk faltered slightly, his gaze hardening once more.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

The brief flicker of familiarity, the spark of something almost human between them, was snuffed out in an instant, replaced by sharp-edged practicality. Draco’s expression hardened once more, his eyes cool and unreadable, and without another word, he turned sharply away.

“Just follow me,” he muttered briskly over his shoulder, his voice low but firm. His tone was clipped—more command than request. “I’ll get you out of here.”

Without waiting for a response, he reached down and caught her hand, fingers curling around her wrist with a steady, no-nonsense grip. His palm was warm against her skin, his hold firm but not rough, and for a split second, Hermione stiffened in surprise.

But he didn’t give her time to protest.

He slipped out of the alcove first, moving with sharp, practiced precision. Keeping close to the wall, he cast a swift glance in both directions, his sharp eyes scanning for any sign of approaching footsteps. The hallway was empty. For now.

He didn’t hesitate. With a subtle tug, he pulled Hermione after him, his hand still wrapped around hers. She followed without protest, her breath catching slightly as they moved quickly and silently through the dim corridor.

Draco’s pulse hammered in his ears, but he kept his movements controlled, efficient. He guided her through the maze of corridors with a deliberate, practiced ease, taking sharp turns down passageways, sticking close to the shadows.

Her smaller hand remained in his, warm and steady. He was acutely aware of it.

He hated that he noticed.

When they reached the end of the corridor, he slowed slightly, pulling them both to a halt just before the hallway opened up into the main atrium of the Ministry. The vast, sprawling chamber stretched out before them—open, exposed. More dangerous.

He shifted closer to the edge of the corridor, peering around the corner. His eyes were sharp and calculating as he scanned the atrium.

A few stragglers from the evening shift moved in small clusters near the fireplaces, speaking quietly as they prepared to Floo home. The golden statues in the fountain glittered faintly in the low light, casting long, distorted reflections across the polished floor.

His stomach tightened.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, his grip on Hermione’s hand loosening slightly.

“Alright,” he murmured under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. “Stay close. Don’t stop. Don’t talk. Got it?”

Hermione’s gaze flicked up to meet his. Her eyes were sharp, clear, and focused. She nodded once.

Without another word, Draco pulled her with him into the open space of the atrium, moving quickly but calmly. His stride was purposeful—confident, deliberate—but not hurried. Just two Ministry employees heading home after a long day. Nothing suspicious.

The Ministry’s main hall was eerily quiet this late in the evening. The usual bustling crowds were long gone, leaving only the faint murmur of idle conversations near the fireplaces and the occasional echo of footsteps against the marble floor.

Draco’s eyes remained sharp, scanning the room as they walked. He could feel the tension radiating from Hermione—she was still holding her breath slightly, her hand trembling faintly in his grasp.

“Relax,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. “You look like you’re smuggling contraband out of Gringotts.”

Her eyes flashed sharply up at him, and he caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth—just the barest hint of a smirk threatening to break through her tension.

They crossed the atrium without incident, weaving between the few remaining employees, heads slightly bowed, avoiding unnecessary glances.

When they were finally nearing the exit, Draco slowed slightly. He exhaled quietly, glancing over his shoulder one last time.

Still no sign of the Aurors. No Daphne.

His jaw clenched.

He was barely aware of the way his hand tightened briefly around Hermione’s before he abruptly released it.

“Go,” he muttered under his breath, nodding toward the exit. His voice was low but firm. “You can make it from here.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed slightly as she glanced up at him. She didn’t move.

He turned to her fully, lowering his voice further.

“Granger,” he muttered impatiently, his voice tight. “Just go. You’ll be safer out of here.”

But she didn’t move. She stared at him, her eyes searching his face, reading him far too easily.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” she said quietly.

It wasn’t really a question.

His gaze hardened slightly, his mouth pressing into a thin line. He didn’t answer.

“You’re going after her,” she added softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

Her lips parted slightly, and he saw the briefest flicker of hesitation in her eyes—the faintest glimmer of uncertainty.

“Don’t,” she murmured, almost pleading.

Her voice was soft, almost imperceptibly so, but the look in her eyes caught him off guard—open, searching. For one fleeting second, he thought she might actually be worried.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight.

“Go home, Granger,” he muttered roughly, the sharpness in his voice returning.

She hesitated for half a beat longer, and for the briefest of moments, he thought she might argue.

But then, finally, she stepped back. Her jaw clenched slightly, and her expression hardened again, her gaze turning unreadable.

“Fine,” she muttered stiffly. Her voice was clipped, and she didn’t look at him again. She turned sharply and walked toward the exit, her shoulders squared, her pace quick and steady.

Draco watched her go, his eyes lingering on her retreating form longer than he meant to.

Then, as soon as she disappeared from sight, he turned on his heel, his expression darkening.

He moved quickly, cutting back through the corridors, his stride sharp and unyielding.

He would find Daphne.

He just didn’t need to do it with Granger in tow.