Chapter 7
Long silver shadows stretched across the marble floor as the moonlight poured through the enormous windows of our chambers. Softly crackling, the fire in the hearth licked at the corners of the dimly lit room, but it failed to dispel the chill that had enveloped us.
As I stood on the edge of the bed, I peered into the mirror and stared at my reflection. Nighttime revealed my features to be more defined, paler, and ghostly, as if I were only partially present. An appropriate contemplation, in fact.
At the other end of the room, sprawled out on a chair by the fire, Draco fiddled with a glass of firewhisky in an unhurried manner. He refrained from consuming the amber liquid despite its swirling motion, which caught the fading light. Lost in contemplation, he stared into the distance beyond the raging inferno.
No one said a word.
There was an excess of words. Insufficient language.
At long last, he spoke up.
“We need rules.”
With one furrowed brow, I pivoted to confront him. “Rules?”
He studied me with a little cock of his head. “If we’re going to survive this… whatever this is, then we need some boundaries.”
Feeling the burden of the unsaid press down on my ribs, I crossed my arms. Alright then. The first rule?
There was no wit in Draco’s grin. “No murdering each other in our sleep.”
I simply scowled. “Tempting, but I suppose I can agree to that.”
He seemed to be raising his glass in a toast to our unconventional arrangement. “Rule number two—if one of us starts glowing ominously or summoning ancient magic, the other has the right to slap them back to reality.”
Surprising even myself, a brief giggle slipped out of my mouth. “That’s oddly precise, but I suppose it adds a certain charm to our rules.”
His grin softened a bit. “Call it a precaution.”
I gave him some thought before giving the signal to nod. “Very well. Number three rule: we will not be taking anything from your family’s vault that appears to have the power to call upon an eldritch horror.
Without looking up from the edge of his glass, Draco slowly sipped his drink. “No promises, but who knows what secrets the vault may hold.”
There was no awkwardness in the subsequent quiet.
It seemed peculiar. Slightly anxious, but not overly so.
Neither of us was a buddy. None of us was an enemy.
As a group, we were unique.
Our shared history predates both our familial ties and any animosity we may have inherited from one another. We would have to confront the future together, whether it be history, the Ministry, or even the Revenants.
Whatever the case may be.
The embers in the fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering shadows that stretched across the room like invisible hands. The uneasy silence between Draco and me had become almost tolerable, a fragile truce forged out of necessity.
Neither of us had moved from our respective positions—me by the bed, still staring at my reflection in the moonlit glass, and him, sprawled in the chair, swirling firewhisky as if it held all the answers in its amber depths.
But the silence was not restful. It was thick and charged, like the atmosphere before a storm.
And then I felt it.
A slow, creeping sensation curled around the edges of my magic, reminiscent of the energy we felt earlier, when our Eidolons appeared, defying every magic law we knew.
I inhaled sharply and turned toward Draco.
He was already looking at me.
“You feel that too?” I inquired, my voice lower than I intended.
His jaw was tight, and the glass of firewhisky remained in mid-air, forgotten. “Yeah.”
The energy pulsed beneath my skin, like a second, unrelated heartbeat. I took a hesitant step forward, testing the sensation and attempting to determine its source.
Draco stiffened.
I paused. “What?”
“Do that again.”
I frowned, perplexed, but agreed, stepping forward once more. When my foot crossed an invisible threshold, the magic surged—a warmth that coiled in my chest and flickered across my nerves like liquid fire.
Draco hissed through his teeth. His fingers twitched around the glass. “Bloody hell.”
“What is this?” I murmured, intrigued despite myself.
It wasn’t just a magical tether.
The bond between us was not passive. It was not dormant.
It was reacting.
“Try stepping back,” Draco muttered, sitting up straighter now, his silver eyes tracking my every move with keen intensity.
I paused before taking a step backward.
The warmth subsided—not completely, but noticeably. The energy settled beneath my skin, like a sleeping ember.
Draco let out a slow breath. “That’s… unsettling.”
I nodded, my mind already processing the implications. A tether that responded to distance. That pulsed whenever we were too far apart.
This was not a simple resonance. This was something else entirely.
I took a careful look at Draco. His face was unreadable, but there was a tension in his posture that had not been present before.
“It’s like the bond is adjusting to us,” I observed.
Draco exhaled and wiped a hand down his face. “Fantastic. So we now have a built-in magical leash?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Hardly. But it’s clearly alive—or at least connected to our magic in ways we don’t yet understand.”
Draco stood abruptly, lowering his glass with more force than necessary. “And what exactly do you suggest we do about it, Granger?”
I met his gaze straight on. “We test it.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Do you want to provoke this thing? In case you forgot, the last time our magic reacted, our Eidolons ripped through reality and declared themselves to the entire bloody Ministry.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
Silence.
Draco cursed beneath his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Merlin, help me,” he muttered.
I crossed my arms. “If we don’t start testing the limits now, it’s going to catch us off guard when we can least afford it.”
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. What do you propose we do?”
I paused for a moment before moving to the far corner of the room.
Draco watched my movements warily, his entire body coiled tight like a predator waiting for an attack.
I inhaled deeply. “I’m going to suppress my magic to see how it affects our bond.”
Draco blinked. “What?”
“If this bond is magical in nature, then our magic should be able to influence it.”
“Or it could rip through the room and send us both spiraling into oblivion,” the man deadpanned.
I rolled my eyes. “Stop being dramatic.”
“I am a Malfoy. It’s in my nature.
I ignored him and closed my eyes to center myself, reaching inward for the deep well of power that had always flowed beneath my skin. Slowly and deliberately, I began to dampen it, drawing my magic inward and decreasing my resonance.
Initially, there was nothing.
And then—
Draco staggered.
I opened my eyes as he exhaled sharply, gripping the back of his chair for support.
“What the—”
I immediately stopped suppressing my magical abilities.
The moment I did, relief washed over his features, like a drowning man breaking the surface for air.
We met eyes.
Oh.
Oh Merlin.
The consequences of what had just occurred struck me like a tidal wave.
Suppressing my magic had an effect on him. Directly. Physically.
We weren’t simply tied together.
Our magic was now dependent on each other.
Draco appeared to reach the same conclusion, as his expression darkened. “No,” he replied flatly.
I straightened. “No, what?”
“No, we’re not doing this right now,” he exclaimed, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “I can’t deal with this tonight, Granger.” This is—it is a disaster.
I bristled. “It’s a groundbreaking discovery that could change everything for us.”
“It’s a nightmare!” He threw his hands into the air. “You just suppressed your magic, and I felt like someone had cut the air out of my lungs. What happens if one of us is actually hurt? If one of us—” He cut himself off, shaking his head and turning away.
He did not need to finish.
I understood what he was thinking.
If one of us dies, what happens to the other?
The thought made my stomach turn.
I took a slow breath and forced myself to remain calm. “We’ll figure it out.”
Draco turned back to face me and gave a bitter laugh. “That’s your solution to everything, isn’t it?” His voice was quieter and almost tired. “You always think there’s an answer, a plan, a fix. But what if there isn’t this time?”
I lifted my chin. “Because there usually is.”
He stared at me for a long time.
He shook his head and reached for his glass again. “You’re insufferable, Granger. But I suppose that’s what makes you so infuriatingly effective.”
I smirked. “You’ll have to get used to it, husband.”
He groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
However, there was no malice in his tone.
And perhaps—just maybe—that was the beginning of a friendship based on a common goal.