Indigo
"Draco, stop being ridiculous."
Draco Malfoy ignored the weary sigh behind him as he pulled a sleeping bag from the depths of Hermione’s beaded bag—apparently deemed essential enough to be packed—and unrolled it with deliberate care.
His movements were slow and focused as he smoothed it over the floor—as if he hadn’t heard her at all.
Which, of course, was impossible.
Because Hermione was staring at him from where she was sitting cross-legged on the bed with a frown. Arms crossed, her expression was etched with both equal parts of exasperation and exhaustion, her skin noticeably pale once again.
He didn’t look at her as he kneeled briefly to press down the corners as though securing an invisible crease.
The thick material unfurled smoothly, enchanted to be impossibly soft, with built-in warming and cushioning charms that rivaled the comfort of any high-end wizarding mattress. It was, objectively, one of the finest sleeping bags a wizard could own.
And yet, it was still on the floor.
But alas, that is where he had decided to sleep.
Hermione’s frown deepened.
“You’re not seriously planning to sleep on that thing.” She said, eyeing the sleeping bag as if it had done her a great disservice and appears to be already regretting ever packing it in the first place.
Draco, still on his knees, arched a single brow but didn’t glance up.
“You were unconscious for half the day.” He told her as he casually adjusted the small pillow that came with it. The lumpy thing immediately softened under his touch like fresh dough. “I’m not taking any chances.”
“That’s stupid.” She said, irritation clear in her voice.
Draco sighed, rolling his shoulders before sinking into the soft cushion and gazing up at her.
“Hardly,” he muttered, dragging his fingers through his damp hair, the short strands slipping too easily through his fingers.
It was still an unfamiliar sensation—having nothing to tuck behind his ear, nothing brushing past his shoulders.
A length maintained by tradition.
It's one of the few customs of the old Malfoy practice he had willingly embraced, where the men of the family let their hair grow past a short length as a quiet, unspoken sign of devotion to the one they intended to stand beside for life.
His father had done the same, as had his father before him.
And yet, now, in this borrowed skin, that quiet declaration—that choice—had been stripped from him.
His fingers stilled for a brief moment before he let them drop back down with a quiet sigh.
“I’d call it being considerate,”
Hermione’s brows lifted, unimpressed.
“Considerate? You’re about to sleep on the floor.”
Draco exhaled through his nose.
“Observant as ever, Granger.”
She scowled.
“You’re being impossible.” She grumbled under her breath.
The argument had begun the moment they returned from their meeting with the Minister and Arthur Weasley.
They had been escorted back to their assigned room—a plain, sparsely furnished space tucked away within Auror Headquarters. It was small, impersonal, and sterile, a stark contrast to the warmth of home.
Not that they had a proper home here.
And unfortunately, that was the situation they found themselves in—trapped in a space that was not theirs, with nowhere else to go. Their only solace was the numerous privacy and protection wards they had placed around the room the moment they returned, ensuring that no one could enter uninvited, eavesdrop, or otherwise intrude upon what little sense of security they could carve out for themselves.
And now, instead of resting, Draco was settling in on the damn floor like it was perfectly normal.
Hermione dragged a hand down her face, exasperation bleeding into something softer.
“The bed is big enough for both of us. It’s not a big deal.”
Draco scoffed, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeping bag before tucking in.
“It is a big deal,” he countered, gesturing vaguely. “There’s one bed. You take it.”
Hermione gave him a flat look.
“Draco,” she said slowly, as if trying to reason with a particularly stubborn child. “You do realize this is barely any different from all those times we shared a bed before, right?”
Draco leaned back onto his elbows, gaze flicking up to meet hers with practiced indifference.
“I’m aware.”
Hermione exhaled through her nose.
“And yet?”
Draco smirked lazily.
“You should know by now, Granger, I enjoy suffering.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You enjoy dramatics.”
He hummed noncommittally, turning his attention to the ceiling.
“Well, forgive me for maintaining what little chivalry I have left.”
“Chivalry would be admitting you’re just being stubborn.” She snapped back.
He chose not to dignify that with a response.
Because he already knew that she knew that he knew she was right.
But she didn’t need to hear that.
Instead, he simply lay down on the sleeping bag, shifting slightly as the cushioning charms adjusted beneath him.
The clock on the wall read just past seven in the morning, but with no windows in the room, he could only imagine the sun already shining outside.
He had caught a glimpse of it earlier through the Minister’s office window—the soft golden hues of dawn creeping over the horizon—before they were escorted back to their room and decided to freshen up before finally calling it a day.
Sensing a pair of eyes burning into him, he turned his head to find Hermione still watching him from the bed, looking rather crossed.
She has changed into a plain white shirt and fluffy pink pyjama bottoms—ones Draco recognized instantly.
As he should as he's the one who bought them for her.
On a whim.
From a shop in Vienna during a spontaneous summer trip after their very eventful fifth year with only the two of them—much to her dad’s barely concealed horror ("They’re underage!") and his father’s outright disapproval when he heard of it.
Their mothers, however, had reacted quite differently.
Helen had laughed, thoroughly amused, and even chimed in with a few suggestions for the best places to visit in Muggle Austria, fully encouraging the spontaneity of their trip.
His own mother, though composed as ever, had instead given Draco a pointed lecture—delivered in front of Hermione and the other parents (save for his fatherdearest, who had refused to acknowledge both the trip nor his relationship with Hermione entirely)—on respecting Hermione’s boundaries, ensuring her safety, and, most mortifying of all, the importance of obtaining her consent at every step—much to his embarrassment to Richard's delight.
And yet, not long after, she had then casually requested that he bring her back a vial of Edelweiss Elixir from Schatzkammer Arcana, a well-regarded wizarding apothecary in Vienna known for its rare botanical brews. Apparently, the elixir—distilled from the magically enhanced Edelweiss flowers that grew in the Austrian Alps—was excellent for maintaining one’s complexion, a fact she had mentioned with the same effortless grace she used when discussing high society events, as if the request were merely an afterthought.
Though Draco strongly suspected she simply wanted a souvenir.
As for the sleepwear, it had all started when he wandered off while Hermione was preoccupied with locating a certain bookstore, his curiosity leading him into a Muggle clothing store—of all places. Some brand he could no longer recall, though he distinctly remembered the absurdly polished floors and the near-reverent way the staff curated the displays.
There, he had been utterly fascinated by how absurdly soft the fabric was, running his hands over it with the kind of intense concentration usually reserved for examining rare potions ingredients.
She had rolled her eyes back then when she finally tracked him down after losing sight of him—only to find him standing in the checkout line, clutching a ridiculously expensive, fluffy pyjama set with the solemnity of someone making a life-altering decision.
She had muttered about unnecessary expenses but hadn’t protested when he wordlessly handed them over at the counter along with a set of unfamiliar-looking bills. And now, despite her usual complaints about his impractical purchases, she wore them often enough that he strongly suspected she liked them more than she let on—seeing that she brought it with her.
He, in turn, was dressed in the matching navy-blue pajama set that came with hers, paired with a black shirt that now hung too loosely around his frame.
Draco sighed to himself, mournfully adjusting the hem of his shirt under the blanket as it rode up his—or not really his—abdomen.
The body he was in felt wrong, unfamiliar in ways that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
It lacked the muscle he had built and acquired over years of Quidditch training. His limbs were thinner, his shoulders narrower, and his grip—he flexed his fingers slightly, watching the faint tremor in his hand—was unsteady in a way that sent a prickle of unease down his spine.
All in all, this reality’s Draco Malfoy's body felt scrawny, underwhelming, and entirely foreign—like it had never seen a day of hard physical training, belonging instead to someone who had spent their life simply trying to stay upright.
But seeing that they just came from war—on the wrong side regardless—the physical state of his body is understandable.
Draco could only imagine.
And yet, that wasn’t even the worst part.
The worst part was his witch still watching him like he was some kind of idiot.
After a few more quiet moments, she sighed.
But before she could say anything else, Draco spoke again.
His voice was softer this time.
“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He told her, his gaze flickering towards the Dark Mark on his arm—not really his arm—now exposed because of the clothes he's changed into.
For a moment, Draco heard nothing.
No more sighs of exasperation. No more arguments. Not even the sound of shifting fabric.
Just silence.
And then—
A leg shoved its way into his sleeping bag.
Draco jerked, instinctively trying to pull back, but his most beloved intruder was relentless, pushing down with sheer determination.
He turned sharply—only to find her already halfway in, her expression set with steely resolve as she continued squeezing herself into the impossibly small space next to him.
Merlin, she was really quiet on her feet, and he only has his mother to blame for that.
“What in Salazar's name are you doing?” Draco demanded, baffled, as he tried to reclaim what little space he had left.
But it was a futile effort.
Because apparently, being best friends for almost seven years and her boyfriend for four had somehow not prepared him enough for just how stubborn Hermione Granger could be as she successfully wedged herself in, all while muttering furiously under her breath.
And she did not look remotely apologetic about it.
Now, she was glaring at him, her limbs wrapped around him like a vice, locking him in place with all the determination of someone who had already decided this was happening.
And it was, apparently.
Because there was no space left between them.
“I’ve spent two weeks going mad watchingyourbodywalk around—possessed, remember? By someone who’s not you?”
Draco scowled, torn between horror and begrudging amusement.
“Granger—”
“I don’t care whatever body you’re in, Draco Lucius Malfoy!” She plowed right over his protest, her voice muffled against his chest as she adjusted her grip, her fingers gripping tightly onto his shirt as if daring him to move. “If you somehow possessed Ronald instead, or even that Goyle, who stomps around like a bloody troll—or even Umbridge! I’d still choose to sleep next to you, you overgrown, high-maintenanced peacock!”
Draco sputtered.
Merlin, she's really cranky.
He wanted to argue. He really, really do.
But by the time his brain caught up, she was already settled in, completely unbothered—her arms wrapped securely around his waist, legs tangled with his, and her entire weight pressing down on him as if the sleeping bag barely existed beneath them.
Her face rested comfortably against his chest, and her breathing, though slightly irritated, was already evening out.
Draco stared at the ceiling, utterly defeated.
The sleeping bag had been charmed to adjust its size, expanding to accommodate whoever needed it and even allowing for shared space when necessary. But now, for some reason, it remained stubbornly fixed in its current dimensions—narrow, restrictive, and barely enough for one person, let alone two.
But Hermione apparently had decided to ignore this minor inconvenience entirely by making him her personal velvet.
Draco sighed.
His arm, acting entirely on its own, curled instinctively around her.
There really was no winning against this witch.
There never was.
And honestly?
He wasn’t even sure why he even bothered trying in the first place.
Draco glanced down back at her, her face still stubbornly mushed against the front of his shirt, her angry frown gradually softening as her breathing evened out.
She had fallen asleep—just like that.
Her grip on him, however, remained unrelenting.
Draco exhaled quietly, shifting slightly as he raised his free hand, brushing away a few stray curls that had fallen over her face.
The dim glow of the glass globe cast soft shadows over her features, illuminating the faint creases in her brow that had yet to fully smooth out.
Merlin, he can't even bring himself to be mad at her—not even in the past because she just looks so unjustifyingly adorable.
Like a grumpy kitten.
With another sigh, he pulled her closer, finally giving in as he wrapped his other arm around her.
His hold was instinctive, effortless.
Familiar.
He then pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering for just a moment before tucking her face beneath his chin, letting her warmth settle against him. He could feel her magic thrumming softly against his own—a steady, content hum, so unlike the restless, chaotic energy that had surrounded her earlier when he was watching over her while she was asleep.
Then, in a voice so quiet it barely left the space between them, he murmured,
“Rest well, love.”
And finally, he closed his eyes.
Draco felt like he had only closed his eyes when something shifted in the wards.
The sensation was subtle yet insistent, a ripple of magic brushing against his consciousness like a whisper against his skin.
His awareness sharpened instantly, instincts flaring to life even as he remained still.
The wards they had set—woven carefully into the existing Ministry protections—kept whispering their warning, pulsing like a silent alarm.
Multiple people.
Approaching. Purposefully.
And they were coming straight for their door.
He didn’t move right away, his first instinct not to the door but to Hermione.
She was still curled against him, completely undisturbed by the subtle warning of the magic surrounding them.
It didn’t surprise him.
Because she knew.
She always did.
Wherever he was, she was safe.
She had always slept soundly when he was near, as if her subconscious understood—had always understood—that he would never let anything happen to her.
She trusted him that much.
And Merlin help whoever is on the other side of that door if they're going to bring any kind of trouble.
Draco tilted his head slightly, squinting at the lone clock decorating the wall.
8:23 AM.
Barely over an hour since he had drifted off.
His grip on her loosened just enough as he carefully sat up, shifting her weight gently as he moved.
She made a small noise of protest, her fingers twitching, absently reaching—as if searching for him in her sleep.
Draco exhaled softly, but didn’t pause.
Instead, he gently laid her down on the bed she had forsaken just to snuggle up on top of him, and adjusted the blankets around her with practiced ease.
Her brow creased slightly, but she did not stir beyond that.
He let out a breath, then turned away, his wand instantly slipping into his hand.
With a simple flick, the black satin morning robe he had found in the beaded bag that Hermione had packed for him as part of his essentials flew toward him from where he had left it neatly folded on the chair.
The fabric went into his waiting hand, smooth and weightless as he pulled it on and wrapped it around himself in one swift motion.
He then turned to face the door.
He listened.
Not just with his ears, but through the wards—through the magic that pressed against the barriers they had placed.
Six.
No. Seven.
Draco’s expression darkened.
He could feel the footsteps now, could sense the presence just outside.
There was one standing further back, observing.
And another one standing right in front of the door.
The moment he felt them pause, raised a hand—
He didn’t hesitate.
The day had already been too long.
And it wasn’t even mid-morning yet.
Auror Callum Graves had been there from the very start.
He was one of the Aurors assigned to escort and stand guard at the trial of the Malfoy family, to ensure that the proceedings ran smoothly.
Back then, it had seemed all normal.
Another post-war case.
Another name on the list of those who had sided with You-Know-Who.
Another arrogant, privileged purebloods who thought they could talk their way out of justice.
Or so he had believed.
Until the trial had taken a turn so utterly incomprehensible that even now, standing outside the room assigned to the Vesperis—as he and some of his fellow Aurors had taken up calling them—he still couldn’t fully wrap his head around it.
The name had started as a quiet murmur among the Aurors, a way to refer to them without drawing unnecessary attention.
Vesperis or vesper, the twilight, the in-between, suspended between light and dark.
It seemed fitting—after all, the young Lord Malfoy and Lady Granger were anomalies, two individuals caught between realities, wavering in the middle of truth and impossibility, existing in the space between being known and unknown.
They were neither prisoners nor free, neither fully trusted nor truly condemned, lingering in the indigo haze of uncertainty, much like the sky shifting from dusk and night.
Some Aurors muttered about omens and fate, others about secrecy and power. But whatever the reason, the name had simply stuck.
He still remember it, how he had stood with the others, prepared for a standard sentencing which has become a regular occurrence since the end of the second war.
Again, it was just another regular day.
Until she arrived.
And that was when everything had begun to spiral.
She had walked in—not as an observer, nor just a witness, but as someone who had come with the full force of the Department of Mysteries behind her.
A woman wearing the very same face as the brightest heroine of the Second Wizarding War.
Only, she was not Granger.
She was something else entirely that no one—not even the most hardened Aurors—had ever been prepared for.
And then, the revelations came.
Hard and fast.
Other realities existed.
And in her reality, Draco Malfoy—the one standing trial, the one they had been guarding for two weeks, the one he himself had restrained more than once, mocked, laughed at—was not actually Draco Malfoy.
He had been possessed.
That instead of a war criminal, they had unknowingly imprisoned a young lord from another world.
A young lord, who had usurped his father’s power, took control of his House, and turned his back on the very same prejudices that had shaped the Malfoy's family name in their world.
And worst of all?
He seems to remember him well.
Graves swallowed.
Even now, the memory of those infamous, sharp cold Malfoy eyes landing on him when he accidentally disrupted what seemed to be a simple breakfast between the young lord and lady—with his eggs, of all things—still haunts him.
And worse, he remembered how the young woman had reacted in exactly the same frigidness.
Like they had already assessed him.
Like he was just another piece on the board.
And now?
Now, he had been assigned—by some cruel twist of fate—to escort them both to the Weasley home, as per orders from the Department of Mysteries.
Which is why he was here.
And by sheer bad luck, he had been the one who stepped forward to knock.
His hand was only a few inches away from the door when it opened, leaving his fist suspended in midair.
And there stood the young Malfoy, clad in a black satin robe, wand in hand.
Despite the early hour, he looked effortlessly regal—composed, refined, and entirely unruffled, as if he had been expecting them all along. His posture was still, poised with an air of quiet authority that made it impossible to forget exactly who he was—yet somehow made it all too easy for him to forget himself—not as an elder, nor as a decorated Auror with years of service, but simply as someone standing before the lord of an ancient legacy, a figure who carried the weight of history as effortlessly as he did his own name.
Backlit by the dim glow of the room behind him, he seemed almost statuesque—his sharp features cast in soft shadows, silver eyes glinting cold and unreadable.
There was no alarm. No hesitation.
Nothing but an icy, practiced patience.
For a long, tense second, no one moved.
Graves didn’t even realize he had straightened his spine until the young Malfoy finally spoke.
His voice was quiet. Smooth.
And entirely unimpressed.
“Can I help you?” Draco drawled, barely resisting the urge to sneer.
Instead, he simply tilted his head, his expression perfectly neutral as he let his gaze sweep over the assembled Aurors.
He arched a brow, his eyes flicking lazily from one man to the next, noting the stiff postures and the uneasy way some of them shifted under his scrutiny.
Understandable.
But still, annoying.
At least they had the decency to look uncomfortable.
He let the silence stretch.
A second.
Then two.
“Well?” He asked, tone bordering on boredom and edged with dry amusement, his grip on his wand casual but firm on his side. “Surely you lot didn’t come all this way just to loiter?”
The Auror in front of him stiffened just a fraction, jaw tightening ever so slightly.
For a fleeting moment, Draco thought he might actually say something.
But then, before the man could so much as open his mouth, a voice cut through the quiet.
A feminine voice.
From behind the cluster of Aurors, the one who had remained standing back—watching, observing—finally stepped forward.
A tall woman with stern features, sharp calculating eyes, and a stance that immediately reminded him of his dear (annoying) cousin—straight-forward, no-nonsense, and utterly unimpressed with the world around her.
All that’s missing is for her to trip on her own feet and Draco will ask if she’s somehow possessed by Nymphadora from his reality too.
Though, she's way too tall compared to her.
The others immediately shifted as she moved, as if instinctively making space for her.
Her gaze met his head-on, unwavering and assessing—not in challenge, but in the way of someone who had long learned to measure their surroundings in mere seconds.
When she spoke, it was with the crisp efficiency of someone who wasted no time.
“Forgive us for the early disturbance, Lord Malfoy,” she said evenly, her voice carrying no hint of apology despite the words. “But Unspeakable Draven has given orders to escort you and Lady Granger to the Weasley residence.”
Draco’s bored expression did not change.
But internally?
He sighed.
Because of course they had.
Of course he and Hermione weren’t even allowed the luxury of a few more bloody hours of sleep before being shuffled around like pieces on a chessboard.
And of course, they were expected to fall in line, to be shuffled around at the whim of the Department.
Perfect.
His expression remained impassive, gaze unreadable as he considered the woman in front of him before offering a polite, and utterly insincere smile.
“Ah,” he drawled, his voice carrying a lazy sort of sarcasm though his eyes remained cold and assessing. “My sincerest apologies. Had I known we were to be unceremoniously carted off at dawn, I would have prepared a grander welcome. Do forgive me for not rolling out the red carpet.”
The woman—because, really, she was the only one worth addressing in this collection of Ministry lapdogs—did not react.
Interesting.
“However, Auror—” he paused, as if only now noticing her lack of introduction, though they both knew it was deliberate.
The woman’s brows barely twitched.
“Auror Harrington.” She supplied smoothly.
Draco gave a slight incline of his head.
“Auror Harrington,” he repeated, drawling the name just enough to make it clear he was filing it away for later. “As much as I appreciate your diligence, I’m afraid Lady Granger is still resting. And given that she collapsed yesterday—after an undoubtedly long and eventful trial—I’d say waking her now would be a touch… inconsiderate. I assume your orders didn’t include dragging an unconscious woman out of bed?”
The unspoken your Ministry’s incompetence to fucking listen is the reason she collapsed in the first place hung thick between them, but Harrington didn’t so much as blink.
Instead, her expression remained unshaken, calculated, and entirely unimpressed.
"We have been made aware of Lady Granger’s condition by Unspeakable Vane," she stated crisply. "And per her advisement, we have been instructed to avoid magical transportation—Apparition and Portkeys, in particular—as they may be unsafe due to the lingering instability of her magic."
Draco arched a brow, his impassive expression now replaced with mild interest.
“Have she?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, how very thoughtful.”
Harrington ignored the comment.
“As such,” she continued as if she did not hear him at all, “the Ministry has arranged for a non-magical transport. And for security reasons, we must leave before higher activity begins in the city. A car has been provided—”
“A car?” Draco said flatly, cutting her off with a frown.
One of the Aurors—a younger one compared to the others, cleared his throat and opened his mouth, clearly preparing to explain.
But he barely got a word out as Draco’s head immediately snapped toward him.
“I know what a car is.” He sneered.
The words were clipped.
Precise.
And laced with the faintest edge of irritation.
“I have a license.”
Because Richard Granger had made damn sure of that.
Draco barely suppressed a shiver as his mind wandered back to the summer after sixth year, when he and his mother had arrived in Berkshire for a visit—an official one, not the usual sneak-in-at-odd-hours one.
He had barely set foot onto the Granger estate when Richard Granger had seized him by the collar and unceremoniously dragged him toward a sleek Muggle car.
There had been no preamble. No explanation. No warning.
Just a strong grip on the back of his expensive, custom-tailored summer robes and the sudden, alarming realization that he was being hauled away like a misbehaving Kneazle.
Draco, who had already spent six years navigating Hermione's absurd levels of stubbornness, knew immediately that something was amiss.
He had thrown a bewildered glance toward Hermione—his so-called dearest, most belovedwitch—only to find her standing off to the side, arms crossed, smirking.
He had then whipped around toward his mother—his last hope for salvation—only to find her entirely unfazed, chatting idly with Helen and trading cheek kisses like they had been doing this for years, as if her only son wasn’t currently being kidnapped into an impromptu driving lesson.
She didn’t even look at him.
Didn’t so much as acknowledge his silent plea for help.
Which meant she knew.
Draco had never felt more betrayed.
He had, however, been raised to never back down from a challenge.
Even when said challenge was a Muggle contraption with far too many buttons and levers and absolutely zero regard for young wizards who had been taught from birth that the only acceptable modes of transport involved magic.
And that’s how it started.
For the next two hours, Richard had sat in the passenger seat, issuing commands like a battle-hardened general—one that he had often used when Draco got waytoo close to Hermione a bit too much for his liking—as Draco navigated the vast grounds of the Granger estate.
There had been no discussion, no questions, no acknowledgment of Draco’s bewilderment.
Only instructions, direct and absolute.
"Turn here."
"Ease up on the brake."
"You're not bloody racing, Malfoy.”
And then—
“Not bad, son.”
Draco had nearly slammed the brakes then and there.
Because that had been it.
Just those three. simple. words.
And yet, Draco had felt like he had just been knighted.
The license came shortly after as soon as he reached seventeen.
Because, of course, Richard Granger, ever the overprotective father, had made damn sure that if Draco Malfoy was going to be around his daughter, he would be capable of keeping her safe anywhere.
And his mother, despite all outward appearances of propriety, had somehow pulled the necessary strings to ensure the process went smoothly.
Because of course she had.
And for the first and only time in his life, Draco Malfoy’s accomplishment had not come from Malfoy ambition, meticulous planning, or sheer cunning.
It had come from Richard Granger waking up one morning and choosing violence.
Returning back to the present, Draco did not miss the way several of the Aurors blinked at him, their expressions varying degrees of confusion and disbelief.
He exhaled, already regretting being awake for this.
With all the grace of a man subjected to the world’s most excruciatingly stupid conversation, he pinched the bridge of his nose before shifting his exhausted gaze back to Harrington.
“Now that we’ve established I am more than capable of sitting inside a Muggle vehicle without needing my hand held—” Draco shot Harrington a pointed look, “—perhaps we can move along?”
His annoyance must have flickered across his face because, for the first time, the woman’s sharp eyes narrowed, just slightly.
“Of course,” she said curtly. “But as I’ve already stated, we must leave promptly for security reasons, Lord Malfoy.”
Her tone remained measured, but there was a weight behind the words—one that did not need further explanation.
Security reasons.
Right.
Because, despite the secrecy oaths placed upon everyone involved, there were still loose ends.
Rogue Death Eaters.
Loyalists lurking in the shadows.
People who wouldn’t hesitate to take Hermione—or him, for that matter—if given the chance.
And while the Secrecy Vow ensured no one could speak the truth, it didn’t stop people from looking too closely—noticing strange movements, odd disappearances, and individuals vanishing into Ministry custody without explanation.
The Ministry won't take any chances.
Draco arched a skeptical brow, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.
“Of course,” he drawled, stretching the words. “Because nothing screams ‘subtle’ quite like traveling in a government-issued vehicle with a full escort.”
Harrington, to her credit, did not falter. If anything, she seemed to have anticipated his reaction.
“I assure you, Lord Malfoy,” she said evenly, her tone firm but professional. “The Unspeakables have placed extensive enchantments on the transport—modified concealment and protection spells. Not only will it keep us undetectable, but it will also ensure a faster, uninterrupted journey to our destination.”
Draco tilted his head slightly, watching her.
Not quite the Fidelius Charm—those required a Secret-Keeper and wouldn’t work for moving objects. But something close enough.
Still, it wasn’t the Muggle vehicle that concerned him.
It was the fact that he and Hermione were being moved at all.
Especially with Hermione still in a vulnerable state and him trapped in a foreign body that, for some reason, was restricting his magic.
That unpredictability was precisely the problem.
He had already noticed it earlier.
When he had attempted to transfigure the cushion on the bed into something more comfortable for Hermione using her wand, it hadn’t worked as it should have.
Draco wasn’t as proficient in Transfiguration as Hermione—that was her specialty—but he was second-best in their year, better and more advanced than most.
He had never struggled with transformations before.
Even with her wand.
Yet somehow, all he had managed was to make the cushion softer instead of fully altering its shape.
It was subtle.
Almost negligible.
But he felt it.
A resistance.
Like something in this body was fighting against the magic in ways he didn’t understand.
Even summoning his wand with one of Hermione’s nonverbal retrieval spells had taken effort.
And that was unacceptable.
Because the moment they stepped out of the Ministry’s controlled environment, they became variables.
Vulnerable.
Even with all their supposed protections, it didn’t sit right with him.
Not one bloody bit.
But he supposed if it came to it—if something went wrong—he would get himself and Hermione out of there.
The rules be damned.
Draco clicked his tongue, gaze flicking briefly to the door behind him.
Where Hermione was still fast asleep.
He exhaled slowly.
Then, turning back to Harrington, he tipped his head slightly, voice silk-smooth.
“Well. Since it seems we have no choice but to humor your Ministry’s… generosity—” He smiled, slow and sharp. “—give me ten minutes.”
Harrington nodded once, crisp and efficient.
But Draco didn’t move.
Instead, his gaze flickered to the other six Aurors standing behind her—all of whom were men.
He studied them in silence, silver eyes gleaming with thinly veiled distaste.
“Dismiss them.”
A ripple of tension passed through the group.
The six men bristled.
Some exchanged glances. Others, like Graves, stiffened outright while a few shifted uneasily, glancing at Harrington for guidance.
And just as expected, the woman did not waver.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Lord Malfoy.” Her tone remained neutral, though there was a distinct firmness to it. “These men were assigned to be your escort. They’re the same Aurors who brought you and Lady Granger back from the courtroom last night, and they will continue to do so until you’re safely inside the car.”
Draco’s gaze flicked back to her.
His expression betrayed nothing.
“And here I thought that, as a woman, you would understand.”
His voice dropped—quiet, cold, razor-sharp.
Silence.
Though spoken softly, the words carried lethal weight.
Harrington’s lips pressed into a thin line.
For the first time since their conversation began, her composure wavered.
Just slightly.
Her gaze flickered past him, to the closed door at his back—before returning to his face.
A beat passed.
Then, she exhaled through her nose and gave a small, subtle nod.
“Graves.” Her voice was measured, but there was an underlying finality to it.
The Auror with the deep scar—the one who had nearly knocked before Draco beat him to it—immediately straightened.
“Ma’am.”
“Call Aurors Cole, Davison, Reed, and Morris,” she instructed, her eyes not leaving him. “Have them take over your station.”
Graves’ jaw ticked.
But he didn’t argue.
With a curt nod, he turned sharply on his heel and left, the remaining Aurors following suit, though not without a few uncertain glances cast over their shoulders.
Draco did not watch them go.
His focus remained solely on Harrington—on the subtle tension in her shoulders, on the way she remained firmly in place, even as her men left her behind.
He gave her a single, approving nod.
Then, without another word, he stepped back into the room, closing the door behind him without another glance.
Once the door clicked shut behind him, Draco let out a quiet breath, his posture relaxing—just a fraction.
His gaze immediately drifted to the bed.
To her.
Hermione was exactly where he had left her—curled beneath the blankets, the soft glow of the glass globe casting gentle light over her sleeping form.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
Watching.
Assessing.
Then, with deliberate care, he moved.
His steps were slow, measured—his magic stretching out instinctively, brushing against hers.
Because he didn’t know how she would react.
Didn’t know if her magic would recognize him—in this body—as safe after he left her magical orbit earlier in favor of getting up and opening the damn door.
And just as he expected, the moment he neared, a soft, invisible ripple of magic pulsed outward.
It brushed against his skin like a whisper.
Tasting his presence.
At first, her magic shudders—a flicker of something defensive, coiling in warning. Then, as if exhaling, it shifts—recognizing him. Accepting him.
It hummed, warm and slow, stirring faintly at his proximity.
Draco let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Even in sleep, her magic responded to him.
With great caution, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, his gaze tracing over the peaceful features of the witch beside him.
The soft light cast gentle shadows over her face—illuminating the delicate lines of her brow, the curve of her cheek, the way her lips were slightly parted in sleep.
She looked—Merlin, she looked exhausted.
Still pale.
Still too still.
Slowly, he reached out, smoothing a stray curl away from her face.
His touch lingered, tracing a light path down the side of her face, his thumb brushing feather-soft strokes against her cheek.
“Hermione,” he murmured, voice low, quiet—coaxing. “Love, we have to get up.”
Nothing.
Not so much as a flicker of awareness.
The only movement she made was the way her head unconsciously turned toward him, instinctively seeking his warmth.
Draco exhaled quietly.
Then, with one more slow stroke of his thumb against her cheekbone, he leaned in a fraction closer.
“Hermione.” He tried again, voice dipping softer, smoothing over the syllables like silk.
Still, nothing.
Draco huffed a quiet, amused breath, shaking his head as he watched her.
Because of course his stubborn, brilliant, impossibly infuriating witch had decided, in this very moment, to sleep like she had consumed an ungodly amount of the Draught of Living Death.
A fond smile curled at the corner of his lips—almost a smirk, but something warmer, softer.
It was ridiculous, really.
She could sleep through an inter-reality crisis, a high-stakes trial, and a room full of Aurors armed to the teeth with paranoia—but the moment he so much as sneezed back in their world, she’d jolt awake and accuse him of scheming.
Her magic curled around him, still frayed at the edges but pulsing with warmth, steady and ever-thrumming with blissful contentment whenever his fingers brushed against her skin.
As much as he should wake her—as much as he should get them moving—he hesitated.
Because she looked completely at peace.
Unlike when he had watched over her after she collapsed in that wretched courtroom.
Draco sighed through his nose, his smirk fading into something softer.
“Alright, love. You win. Five more minutes.”
And for just a moment, he considered telling the Aurors outside to go to hell.
Let them wait.
Let them knock.
It wasn’t as if they could come in.
He entertained the idea for a mere few seconds but then exhaled, resigned as reality settled back into place.
With one final stroke of his thumb against her temple, he pulled back, standing carefully so as not to disturb her.
If they had to leave, then he’d get them ready.
And later, when the time came—he’d simply carry her himself.
Because, really—what was one more thing to shoulder at this point?
Draco then moved around the room, his motions precise and deliberate as he began packing up.
With a flick of his wand, the sleeping bag folded itself in a graceful manner, compacting into a fraction of its original size.
It hung suspended in midair, as if awaiting further instruction.
Draco didn’t spare it another glance.
Instead, he retrieved Hermione’s beaded bag from where it had been hidden.
His fingers closed around it easily—its protective enchantments allowing only him and Hermione to find it.
She had reapplied the spells as soon as they returned, ensuring it remained undetectable to everyone else.
Loosening the drawstrings, he sifted through the neatly packed contents, searching for a change of clothes.
His fingers brushed against familiar fabrics, the careful arrangement unmistakably Hermione’s.
Then, his gaze drifted back to the bed.
To her.
Still unmoving.
Still utterly lost in sleep.
And, with that, the full weight of his earlier actions settled in his chest like a stone.
For the past two weeks, Draco had been under relentless scrutiny—trapped in a world not his own, accused of crimes he didn’t commit, treated as a threat despite his innocence.
And now?
Now, he was expected to trust the very people who had been ready to send him to Azkaban without a second thought.
His upbringing as a Malfoy had trained him for this—for scrutiny, for pressure.
It had honed his instincts into something sharp, unyielding, coiling tight beneath the surface, ready to strike before anyone else could.
Even now, his first instinct as soon as he was cleared was to intimidate. To command.
To assert control over the situation, no matter how little control he truly had.
And he had succeeded.
The Aurors had tensed under his gaze.
Had bristled at his words.
Had listened.
But in doing so, he had made an error.
He had let himself forget that he and Hermione were, ultimately, at their mercy.
Because no matter how deeply he distrusted the Ministry, no matter how much he resented being shuffled around like a pawn.
The truth was this—if something happened on the road, the Aurors were the only ones standing between them and whatever threat might come.
And he had just made himself their least favorite person in the room.
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening.
For the first time in a long time, he would have to do something he loathed.
He would have to play nice.
But before he could fully resign himself to that miserable reality, his hand—still buried elbow-deep in the beaded bag—suddenly brushed against something soft.
He stilled.
Frowning, he grasped the fabric and pulled it free, only to find himself staring down at a familiar, worn black hooded sweatshirt, its King’s College London emblem slightly faded but still legible.
Draco blinked.
Recognition struck instantly.
Richard Granger’s hoodie.
The very same one Hermione’s father had reluctantly handed over, muttering about Draco looking like a damn aristocrat in his expensive, ash-covered button-down before tossing him the sweatshirt—after an incident involving a barbecue gone wrong, in which both he and Richard had somehow managed to set Helen’s outdoor grill on fire.
An incident that had been followed, of course, by the simultaneous exasperation and amusement of the Granger women, who had wasted no time immortalizing the moment with a photograph of the two of them—brooding, smoke-streaked, and begrudgingly united in their shared failure.
Draco had meant to return the sweatshirt.
Truly.
But after discovering just how absurdly comfortable it was—and the quiet satisfaction of striding through the halls of Malfoy Manor draped in it like a bloody House robe whenever Lucius particularly displeased him—he decided to keep it.
If only to watch his father’s expression tighten ever so slightly in barely concealed displeasure whenever Draco strolled past him or casually took his place at the head of the table—the very seat Lucius once occupied with effortless grace back when he was still the master of the house.
Draco huffed quietly at the memory, shaking his head.
Then, an idea formed.
His fingers curled around the hoodie, feeling the familiar fabric beneath his hands, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold, calculated thoughts now forming in his mind.
It was all about perception.
He glanced back at his witch.
She was still fast asleep, her magic humming faintly in contentment.
His gaze flicked to the closed door.
To the Aurors standing on the other side.
Watching.
Waiting.
And just like that, the last piece fell into place.
Placing the hoodie aside, he reached back into the bag, searching with newfound purpose.
His fingers brushed past books, fabric, a few familiar trinkets—until they found what he was looking for.
Another hooded sweatshirt.
This one is smaller, softer, and relatively new.
It was Hermione’s.
A gift from her mother—one Helen had commissioned specifically, embroidered with the likeness of that beast she called a cat.
Crookshanks, eyes narrowed and fur a riot of chaos, stared back at him in threadwork.
Draco smirked.
Still holding Hermione’s sweatshirt, he glanced back toward the bed, where she remained blissfully unaware of the world around her, cocooned beneath the blankets in her expensive, fluffy pink pajamas.
Perfect.
Auror Harrington stood rigidly in front of the door, her arms crossed neatly behind her back and her stance unwavering despite the subtle hum of protective wards pressing against her skin.
The magic woven into the space was faint—deliberate in its restraint, subtle enough that it would slip past anyone untrained in sensing such things.
But she was trained.
Years of Auror service, of tracking dark artifacts and unregistered wards had honed her senses to detect even the most well-crafted spells.
And this?
This was masterful work.
The wards didn’t just exist; they breathed—adjusting, shifting, reacting to every flicker of movement near the threshold. A passive defense, not meant to alarm, but to warn and repel.
Clever.
Not standard Ministry-issue.
Not the work of an amateur, either.
Harrington exhaled quietly, keeping her expression unreadable as she waited.
She had been standing there for precisely seven minutes and twenty-two seconds since Graves left with the others.
The young Lord Malfoy had asked for ten minutes.
She would give him exactly that.
Nothing more.
Her gaze flicked to the periphery as the Aurors Graves had summoned—three seasoned and highly competent women—took their positions at a respectful distance, standing guard without intruding, as the young lord had requested to have her dismiss her men.
And yet, for all his defiance, for all his barbed words and carefully wielded arrogance…
He had been entirely within his rights when the trial had proven his innocence.
And yet, it changed nothing.
She knows better than to let her guard down around him—especially hiswitch.
But the Ministry had given orders, and as a dignified public servant, it was not her place to question them.
However, she can never dismiss what she had seen in his eyes when he stood at that doorway earlier.
Cold. Calculating. Assessing.
There was no fear, no uncertainty—only deliberate, precise control.
And hostility.
The kind that was measured, restrained—but present all the same.
It had been subtle. A flicker of tension in his posture. A moment’s pause in his breath. The barest tightening of his grip on his wand.
But Harrington had caught it.
The young Malfoy had made it very clear that he does not trust them.
Not that she blamed him.
If their positions were reversed, she wouldn’t trust them either.
But that did not mean she had patience for his games.
So, as the final seconds of his ten-minute allowance ticked by, she lifted her fist, ready to knock once—firmly, sharply—to remind him of their schedule.
Only for the door to open before she could make contact.
Again.
For the second time that day.
Harrington’s expression didn’t shift, but inwardly, she narrowed her eyes.
Because the first time could have been a coincidence.
But twice?
No.
That was deliberate.
The wards, as she suspected, were not just protective but receptive—attuned to those inside, responding to intent rather than simple proximity.
Her hand lowered as her sharp gaze lifted, fully expecting to meet the same veiled hostility as before.
But the moment her eyes found Malfoy’s, she paused.
This time, he was no longer in his tailored satin robe.
He was dressed casually.
In Muggle clothing nonetheless.
And for the first time, there was something else in his gaze, something she had never expected to see in a Malfoy.
Uncertainty.
It was not obvious.
No, nothing about this young lord was ever obvious.
It was not in his stance—nor in his expression which until now remained carefully schooled.
But it was there.
It was in the quick, fleeting glance he cast over her shoulder, the brief flicker of his gaze toward the Aurors standing behind her. It was in the slight shift of his weight, the way he stood, though seemingly relaxed, held the barest trace of hesitation.
And the most telling of all was the way he held the young woman in his arms, appearing to be dead to the world.
Her gaze flicked downward, noting the way his grip on the sleeping witch subtly tightened, as if grounding himself. His fingers curled around the fabric of the young Lady's sweatshirt, white-knuckled, like a man bracing for something inevitable. His body angled just so, deliberate, shielding her from view.
As if, given the chance, he would fold himself around her completely.
As if he already wished he could.
Something in Harrington’s gut twisted, though she wasn’t quite sure
She had faced men like him before.
Nobles.
Dignitaries.
Powerful figures who wielded their influence like a blade, sharp and precise.
Now, before them stood… not the young lord to an ancient family. Not the cold, untouchable noble who had met her gaze with veiled contempt mere minutes ago.
He’s just a boy. Holding onto the only thing he had in this world.
Harrington swallowed.
She had spent years training herself to see through deception, to pick apart truth from manipulation, to recognize a lie the moment it left someone’s lips.
But this?
This couldn't be a lie.
And that was what unsettled her most of all.
She exhaled slowly.
The young Malfoy shifted his weight under her gaze once more.
She had not been prepared for this.
Still, she straightened, keeping her voice level, professional—though, perhaps, just the faintest bit gentler than before.
“Are you ready to go, Lord Malfoy?”
She expected his usual sarcasm. Some dry, biting remark to remind her that he was not someone to be coddled, not someone to be pitied.
But he said nothing.
Instead, he gave a single, wordless nod.
And for some reason, that silence felt heavier than any remark he could have made.
Harrington hesitated. Just for a moment. And then, carefully, she turned to her fellow Aurors, inclining her head ever so slightly.
No words were spoken. None were needed.
They moved without hesitation, falling into formation and closing in around the two young people in a protective circle.
No one spoke.
But as the group began moving forward, Harrington caught it—the fleeting softness in their expressions, the way her fellow Aurors glanced, for just a moment, at their two young charges before returning their focus ahead.
And as they started walking, moving in synchrony through the dimly lit corridor, a sound disturbed the tense silence.
Soft and small.
A whimper.
Harrington stilled, barely stopping herself from turning her head outright.
And it seems like she's not alone as the other Aurors appear to have heard it too.
But they did not slow their pace, did not react outright, but in the corner of their eyes, they watched.
Watched as Lady Granger’s face scrunched up slightly, her brows knitting together like a child disturbed from sleep.
Watched as her fingers twitched weakly against the fabric of the young Malfoy’s shirt before curling inward, retreating, her entire form burrowing further into the arms that held her as if seeking refuge from something unseen
Watched as, without missing a beat, how Draco Malfoy adjusted his hold on her, his arms wrapping more securely around her frame.
Another sound soon followed afterwards.
Gentle and steady.
“…Shh, love. It’s alright.”
It was so soft. So quiet that it was nearly lost beneath the shuffle of boots against stone.
But they heard it.
And Harrington, for all her years of training, for all her efforts to remain detached, professional, composed, found her resolve weakening.
The Aurors did not speak.
Did not exchange glances.
But somehow, the circle tightened further.
Inwardly, Draco smirked.
It worked.
He had played his part well.
Draco Malfoy had never shied away from manipulation when the situation called for it.
Because as much as he loathed relying on others for protection, he was pragmatic enough to know when to manipulate a situation to his advantage.
To tilt the board in his favor.
He and Hermione were technically of age by Wizarding standards, but in the eyes of the Aurors, they were younger—just two teenagers—displaced, vulnerable, caught in the aftermath of something far bigger than themselves.
They were outsiders in this world.
From a reality where there had been no war.
A reality untouched by destruction, bloodshed, and the scars that this world bore.
And so, it was instinctive for the Aurors to assume—to believe—that they had no idea what awaited them outside these walls.
That they were unprepared.
Naïve.
And Draco would let them keep thinking that.
Because if the Aurors saw them as fighters, as threats, then they would treat them as threats.
They would be wary.
Watchful.
Detached.
And they would fear them.
Which had already happened.
Hermione had faced off against the Wizengamot with unshaken resolve, while Draco had made no effort to hide his contempt—offering the Aurors little more than cold indifference and biting sarcasm.
But if the Aurors saw them as fragile, harmless, their instincts would compel them to protect.
The same instincts that made people hesitate when faced with helplessness.
The same instincts that pushed them to protect rather than feel threatened.
And considering Hermione’s current state—pale, exhausted, and completely dead to the world—Draco hardly needed to exaggerate the image.
It was simple.
Appear weak.
Invite their protection.
Ensure that when the time came, they would shield him and Hermione without question.
Because at the end of the day, Draco Malfoy was many things.
A strategist.
A selfish man.
A conniving snake.
A Slytherin.
But he meant what he said when he had stood before the Wizengamot, defending his innocence, and declaring that he would not commit the crimes of this world’s Draco Malfoy.
Because he was not someone who would ever bow to orders, nor someone who would stand idly by while innocents suffered simply because it was expected of him.
Not if the choice was his to make.
But if it came down to it, if it was between those people and Hermione, if it meant keeping her safe…
Then let them burn.
Draco’s grip tightened unconsciously around his witch.
Because this world had already tried to take too much from him when they refused to listen.
And he wasn’t going to let whatever threat this world has—take her, too.
Let the Aurors think they were just two defenseless teenagers.
By the time they realized otherwise, it would be far too late.
So he kept walking like a good, unassuming boy. His steps steady, measured—never hurried, never hesitant. He moved in perfect sync with the Aurors, as if he belonged within their formation. As if he had not just spent the past two weeks treating them with thinly veiled disdain.
He had most certainly not missed the shift in their postures.
The stiffness was still there, the training, the ever-present alertness of seasoned Aurors. But now, beneath it, there was something else.
Every so often, one of them would glance over their shoulders, eyes flickering toward him—not in suspicion, not in scrutiny, but something quieter. As if to check that he and Hermione were still alright.
They had taken the bait.
His smirk was carefully hidden behind an impassive mask.
But then, his witch shifted.
Draco’s grip tightened instinctively.
He felt it before he even registered her motion.
Magic.
Her magic.
It pulsed beneath her skin, flickering like a candle caught in a draft, coiling at the edges like something half-awake, half-aware.
She was sensing it.
The foreign magic around them.
Hermione stirred, just barely—a faint twitch of her fingers, the subtle tension in her shoulders as her magic curled around him, clinging—not desperate, but instinctive, as if seeking him out like second nature.
A tether.
An anchor.
Him.
Draco inhaled through his nose, his grip shifting just enough to let her magic know he was here.
That she was safe.
Because he knew that if she woke up—if she realized she was surrounded by foreign magic before she realized he was there, before she understood that the magic pressing in around them wasn’t a threat…
There would be no stopping her instincts.
The rest of the walk through Auror Headquarters was silent.
Boots scuffed against stone, measured and steady, the only real sound in the vast, dimly lit corridors. The air was thick with a quiet tension—not from fear, not exactly, but something quieter. Unspoken.
Draco felt their gaze before he even saw them when they stepped into the vast, enclosed enclave—a space designated for high-risk transfers.
The ones he had dismissed.
They lingered a calculated distance away, stationed along the walls, their stances disciplined yet unmistakably observant. Some leaned casually against the reinforced stone, arms crossed, unreadable. Others stood in strict formation, silent sentinels, watching.
They weren’t interfering.
But they weren’t leaving either.
The Aurors were trained to be watchful, to remain present even when they were dismissed, especially in matters as unprecedented as this.
And from the way their eyes narrowed at the sight of him, unbelieving, it was clear they had not expected to see him like this.
Good.
Their scrutiny, however, did not bother him.
Let them watch. Let them hesitate.
It only served to confirm what he had already suspected.
Their perception of him was fracturing.
And Draco had no intention of letting them piece it back together.
He adjusted his grip on Hermione just slightly as the cold draft swept through the enclave, carrying with it the distant echoes of conversations happening beyond the heavy stone walls.
The space itself was warehouse-like, vast and imposing, its high ceilings lined with beams reinforced by protective enchantments. Overhead fixtures cast pools of dim, sterile light, illuminating the battle scars left behind by recent conflict—scorch marks from spellfire, jagged cracks snaking along the walls, containment wards etched faintly into the stone.
It was clear that this place had seen war.
Had held prisoners.
Draco hated it.
Hated the remnants of spells still humming faintly in the air, the magic woven into the walls like phantom echoes of those who had been here before.
Two weeks.
That was how long it had been since the so-called war in this reality ended.
And yet, this place still held its ghosts.
Had held people who never made it out.
He could feel it.
Humming beneath his skin, lingering in the cracks of the stone, clinging to the very air around them.
The very thought made his grip tighten unconsciously around Hermione.
They didn’t belong here.
His gaze flicked forward—toward the black car waiting at the center of the enclave.
It was sleek. Government-issued.
Not the kind meant for comfort, but necessity.
A Ministry transport vehicle, reinforced with enchantments designed for secrecy and containment.
Standard protocol for high-value individuals.
Not prisoners.
But not for free men, either.
One of the Auror women stepped forward, her movements crisp and efficient as she reached for the handle and pulled the door open in a single, fluid motion.
Draco did not pause.
He stepped forward, shifting Hermione’s weight in his arms slightly to ensure she remained undisturbed.
And then, carefully, he lowered her into the seat first, one arm bracing behind her head, the other supporting her back to keep her from brushing against the edges of the vehicle.
His hand, however, moved automatically on its own like second nature as he adjusted the fabric of her sweatshirt, ensuring it wasn’t caught nor twisted.
It was practiced.
Unthinking.
Because he had done this before.
Tucked her in when she fell asleep in the library.
Carried her when she stubbornly stayed up too long working on something she couldn’t set down.
And they all saw it.
Because they were staring.
Not just at him—but at the way he moved,the way he ensured her comfort first.
The way he kept her from harm instinctively, as if there was no world in which he would allow otherwise.
And Draco in turn, saw it all. Caught it in the flicker of their gazes but he gave them no acknowledgement—nor even sparing them a glance.
Instead, he simply adjusted the way he sat beside her, ensuring there was no space left between them, ensuring that the moment she woke, she would feel him first.
Ensuring that the illusion—or rather—the exaggerated effect remained unbroken.
Without looking up, Draco closed the door.
As soon as he was settled, Harrington climbed in the passenger seat and with a firm nod at the nervous-looking wizard sitting behind the wheel, the car rumbled forward, pulling away from the enclave and into the darkened passage beyond.
Draco barely moved, but his gaze flickered to the window, watching as the twisted corridors of rock and stone swallowed them whole.
Shadows stretched long against the dimly lit walls, curling like spectral fingers along the edges of their route, shifting as if alive and bending the path into something near-impossible to trace.
It was dark and cavelike. The air itself felt thick with enchantments, layered upon one another with a singular purpose: disorient, mislead, entrap.
If anyone were foolish enough to break in—or, worse, attempt an escape, Draco had no doubt they would be swallowed whole by this place, condemned to wander the twisting paths until madness took them.
A perfect prison disguised as a secure fortress.
The drive was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional shift of tires over uneven ground. Time blurred, the monotony of the passage disorienting and warping his sense of direction.
He didn’t bother keeping track. It wasn’t worth the effort.
Then, at last, after what felt like an eternity in darkness, the tunnel opened up—light spilling in, sudden and jarring, as they emerged from the labyrinth’s depths into the open.
The morning sky stretched vast and pale overhead, the kind of muted grey that swallowed any hint of warmth the sun might have offered. Clouds hung thick, sluggish in the sky, and beneath them, the city pulsed with life.
Traffic droned in the distance, bustling cars and red double-decker buses weaving through congested streets with a rhythm that was chaotic yet practiced. Pedestrians moving briskly around the pavements, heads down and steps hurried. The scent of petrol and damp concrete, mingling with the faintest traces of something sweet—a bakery, just beginning to open for the day.
Muggle London.
Draco exhaled slowly, his breath misting faintly against the glass.
The sight pulled at something in his memory, and without meaning to, he found himself reaching back—years ago, in another time and another world—to the first time he had ever set foot there.
It had been the summer after third year when Hermione had hesitantly asked if he wanted to go, carefully measuring each word as if bracing for him to refuse. Their relationship was still new and uncertain back then, both of them still learning how to navigate whatever they have between them.
And he hadn’t hesitated.
He said yes.
But the moment they arrived, he had been struck silent.
The noise, the movement, the unnatural speed at which everything operated. Draco could still remember the way he had clutched Hermione’s hand like a lifeline, knuckles white, his entire body coiled with the effort of pretending he wasn’t overwhelmed.
He remembered the dizzying blur of movement, the deafening noise, the sheer expanse of it all.
How different it had been from Diagon Alley, from Wiltshire—from anything he had ever known.
And that had been the moment he first had a true understanding of what she must have felt, all those years ago when she stepped into the wizarding world for the first time, in a place where magic was real—where everything she was taught as a child was impossible, was possible.
Understood the quiet kind of courage it took to stand in a world that didn't exist before but thrived to make it her own.
The realization had been a deep, quiet, and very humbling thing.
He had always admired her, had always held her in higher regard than most, but that day had given him yet another reason to.
His lips twitched at the fond memory.
Beside him, Hermione still slept—her breathing steady and slow, the dim morning light casting a soft glow over her features. When the car hit a bump, she unconsciously curled closer, as if she somehow knew what he was thinking.
Draco exhaled again, slower this time. He let his head rest back against the seat, closing his eyes just for a moment while keeping an arm around her.
The car kept moving.
For all his preparations, the journey had been smooth—almost too smooth. The road stretched ahead, uninterrupted, with no sudden stops nor unwanted surprises
Still, his wand remained gripped tightly in his left hand inside his pocket, and Hermione’s was placed where she could easily reach it—not that they would really need them when things went wrong and desperation took over .
Her beaded bag, shrunk to the same toothpaste-cap size as when it was first returned to her possession, was tucked securely within the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt. A precaution because if something did happen along the way, if for some reason he was compromised—not that he would let it come to that but if it had to be one of them, he'd rather it be him—she would have everything she needed.
She didn’t fully trust the Ministry back in their reality, what more in this one?
He knew better than to leave her unprepared.
An hour passed. The city’s towering buildings and crowded streets had long since faded, replaced by open fields and stretches of countryside. The air felt different here, quieter and untouched by the city’s hum.
The change in scenery should have been a relief, a sign they were getting closer.
But now came the real challenge.
With Hermione still deep asleep, he had no buffer. No voice of reason. No sharp look to rein him in when his mouth ran faster than his self-preservation.
He’d have to watch himself.
And his tongue.
Twice.