Interwoven

Hermione's heels clicked along the atrium floor, the sound drowned out by the sea of pedestrians and workers moving to and fro. It had been far too early in her opinion when an owl had pecked at her hotel window— barely six a.m— requesting her presence at the ministry.

It felt less like a request than a summons, however, when an owl was screeching outside her room before the sun rose. 

Hermione had decided to accept said request/summons without a tantrum despite the overwhelming urge to arrive wand blazing for the genuine rude awakening. She was to meet with the head of the cursebreaking department to discuss her latest mission with the English government, as well as look into a new case due to her continued stay on British soil. Both of which, in her opinion, could've been handled with an owl or Floo call, but alas, here she was stomping her way through a crowd at seven thirty in the morning. 

She had glamoured herself ever so slightly— a slickening charm on her hair to remove the curls and a tweak to her nose in order to reduce the odds of running into any old acquaintances or Merlin-forbid, the press. The last thing she wanted was another article in The Daily Prophet with the image of her spewing her guts out. She simply wasn't in the mood. 

No, her mood had been distinctly sour since her last visit to Malfoy Manor three days ago; she could still feel the impact of her palm across the blond prick's pointy cheekbone. Could still see the snarl painted on his face. Not that her mood could've been described as peppy over the course of the last month, but there had been an increased amount of pissed-off-ness running through her veins since she'd left that crack in the drawing room marble. 

Hermione wasn't sure the rampant emotions were entirely hers either. Since she had opened herself to the bond's connection during her fight with Malfoy, she would feel random heightened feelings throughout the day. Anger and frustration most of all. She had tried to close off her side in the following days since, but no matter what she envisioned— a locked door, scissors cutting the bond, a godforsaken brick wall— occasionally something would slip through to her side. It was as if the floodgates had been opened and she wasn't sure how to go back. 

Was Malfoy feeling her own emotions as well? Did his chest burn with sensations that weren't entirely his own? If so, he wasn't feeling anything new. No, the two of them were simply passing back and forth a well of rage and vexation. 

Sleep had become entirely elusive since their last meeting. The bond howled at night, stronger than before, and she thought it likely due to the physical violence she had enacted upon Malfoy. Her dreams were filled with the two of them, screaming at each other and hurting themselves in the process. She hadn't had another dream, however, no misty vale in which Malfoy awaited to sneer at her. 

All in all, the lack of sleep combined with the mixed and shared bag of emotions had her patients at an all-time low and her irritation at an all-time high. 

Hermione slid into the gilded elevator, mercifully empty. She rested her back against the polished oak wall, letting her eyes slip shut for a moment. She heard the doors begin to slide shut until a jolt had them stopping. She blinked open her eyes to see a lanky mop of curls squeeze through the remaining gap. 

The boy— well, man— straightened once he situated himself within the confines of the elevator, not jolting at the sudden lurch of movement as the metal box began to descend. Hermione swept her gaze over his appearance, familiar yet beyond her memory. The man wore a tailored suit, his navy jacket unbuttoned casually to reveal a brightly coloured purple tie, quite gauche, though he wore it well. He was tall and lean, his frame wiry. His olive-toned skin was smooth and faintly sun-kissed, a warm contrast to the sharp angles of his face—high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and a jawline that looked like it had been carved from marble.

He faced her, eyes dancing across her face before his lips pulled into a wide grin. "Hermione Granger, the resident ghost story."

She furrowed her brows, blinking at the quick recognition. Her glamours were perfect, she knew, despite her exhaustion. She lifted her chin. "I believe you have me mistaken—"

"Oh, no need for playing pretend. You might've straightened your hair and done something unsightly to your nose, but we shared enough classes for me to recognise the angry line between your brow." The man grinned, blue eyes twinkling like the cat who caught the canary. 

Hermione frowned. He did look familiar, but she couldn't quite place him. His grin melted into a smirk as he took in her bumfuzzled expression, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'm not offended you don't remember me. I didn't talk much in school, and your attention was decidedly elsewhere in my friend group. Likely on a particular blond arsehole." 

Something clicked in her mind as she swam through memories. "Theodore Nott." 

There was a vague remembrance of a scrawny boy with wild hair, one who followed behind the likes of Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, and Blaise Zabini. He was bookish, she remembered, near herself in class ranks, especially in charms. Kept his head down like he was afraid someone would cut it off lest he made himself more known. He had never spit vitriol her way like the likes of his companions, yet his father, Tiberius, had been one of Voldemort's most loyal Death Eaters. Tiberius had been found guilty of torture, murder, and rape during the post-war trials and had received the dementor's kiss within days of being shipped off to Azkaban. 

His son, Theodore, had never taken the mark. Nor was he convicted of any crime or crimes by association during the war. She had heard through the grapevine that he had testified against his father, though she hadn't attended that particular trial. No, she had likely been drunk or off a potion that day. 

Theodore gave a mock bow at her utterance of his name, "An honor." He looked her over, clicking his tongue. "Suppose the Prophet was wrong; you don't seem to be bleeding from your orifices."

She gave him a stilted smile. "Don't believe everything you read." 

Theodore studied the buttons on the elevator panel with a quirked smile. "Level two? What brings you to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? Don't tell me the rumours of you being an auror are true; you'd be wasted with that lot."

She snorted, running a hand impatiently through her hair as the elevator continued downwards. "No. Not an auror. I've never liked cops."

"What's a cop—"

"And yourself?" She interrupted, cocking her head as she studied him. He was not at all how she remembered him from school. Where he once seemed more mouse, he now exuded something predatory— outgoing, extroverted, and less Slytherin than she would've thought. She gestured to the panel of buttons, "Level Nine is the Department of Mysteries."

He grinned, running a tongue over his bottom lip, "Ten points to Gryffindor. I work as an assistant in the DoM, mainly to consult over experimentation with time-related artifacts."

Her eyebrows raised, "You're an unspeakable?"

He shrugged, swiping a hand through his messy hair. "Unspeakable adjacent, which is why I can say what I just said without my head popping off. Only the official unspeakables take a Vow of Secrecy."

"Seems a bit risky to let an assistant see what happens in the DoM without a Vow." She said, huffing a laugh. 

His eyes twinkled at the sound. "They've tightened my leash in other ways, Hermione; don't you worry." He purred her name sinfully, enough so that the cord in her chest gave a sharp stab at the direction her thoughts went. 

Hermione gripped her sternum, wrinkling her sea-green satin blouse. Theodore's eyes followed the movement curiously. He opened his mouth— no doubt to probe— when the elevator dinged and slid open to her floor. His gaze slid back up to her face, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. His mouth pulled into a sideways smile, and he held a hand out to ensure the doors did not shut. "It's been a pleasure, Golden Girl. Next time you're here, shoot me an owl, and I'll show you my scary dungeon laboratory." 

She rolled her eyes, stepping past him out of the elevator. "I think that would break about a dozen rules."

The doors made to shut, and he stopped them, pressing them open with both hands. He leaned his head out, giving her a lazy smile. "Something we Slytherins and Gryffindors had in common: we never much cared for the rules."

He slipped back inside the elevator and let the doors shut with a little wave her way. Hermione shook her head, dropping her hand from her breastbone. Slytherins. They always had that smarmy look on their face like they were three steps ahead in a game you were unaware of. Though Theodore seemed to have a seed of chaos in him that she saw little of in other Slytherins. Something more akin to crimson and gold as opposed to emerald and silver. 

She attempted to set the strange encounter aside as she strode through the DLME, noticing that her anger had quelled a bit since stepping on the elevator. She felt less likely to snap and hex the head of the cursebreaking division. The man should send Theodore a fruit basket in thanks. 

Hermione passed rows of desks in a room that reminded her of a bullpen in old police TV shows. Hardly anyone glanced her way as she made her way to a side hallway, leading away from the aurors proper and into the cursebreaking division of the floor. It wasn't long until she was knocking on a mahogany door; Anthony Rubelle- Chief was etched into a gold plate on the door's surface. 

"Come in." A man's voice bellowed from the other side. Hermione opened the door and stepped into the room. The Chief Cursebreaker's office was unnervingly immaculate, even to Hermione's standards. Every object seemed to have been placed with exacting care, as though a single misalignment might disrupt the room's delicate balance. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of polished wood and something earthy, with no trace of dust to be found.

The walls were lined with perfectly arranged shelves of books, each volume uniformly bound in leather and— Hermione looked closer—organised by size and color. The artifacts displayed between them were equally meticulous: a row of crystalline orbs that looked similar to the prophetic crystals found in the Department of Mysteries, a dagger with a flawless jewelled hilt, and an obsidian amulet, each encased in spotless glass domes. Even the positioning of the domes was symmetrical, their bases equidistant from one another.

The desk was a masterpiece of order. A gleaming mahogany— of course it matched the door— devoid of unnecessary clutter, it held only a few carefully chosen items: a single inkpot, a silver quill laid at a perfect angle, and a stack of parchment aligned with the desk's edge. 

Behind the desk, a large map of the world hung in a custom-built frame, its surface gleaming under an enchantment that kept it free of marks or creases. Pins denoting cursed sites were colour-coded and precisely arranged.

Hermione drug her gaze to the wizard sitting at the desk. Anthony Rubelle was a lean wizard, wiry almost. His auburn hair, streaked with silvery grey, was pulled back into a low bun at the nape of his neck, neat and purposeful, with no strands out of place. His face was weathered but refined, with high cheekbones and a strong jaw that gave him a distinguished, almost patrician air. Scars marked him in a few innocuous places she noted: a faint line running across the bridge of his nose, a nick to the left of his bottom lip, and a longer one that curved just below his jawline. It would've been a red flag had a cursebreaker with his experience not been marred in some fashion— scars came with the territory, and Hermione had her own collection. 

She'd never met the chief cursebreaker prior to this, only exchanged owls when she had been invited to search that infernal bog. But she had heard of him— as had anyone in her profession. A man with thirty years of experience, who had claimed the chief title after the last died four years ago in a raid. Rubelle had created the SAG method for cursebreakers—search for traps and/or wards, analyse cursed objects, gather and retrieve. It was some of the first steps she had learned in her mastery program. 

The only issue Hermione had with the man, beyond him waking her at an ungodly hour, was his lack of participation in the war effort. He was a born Brit, but had been out of the country during the entirety of the fight, which rubbed her the wrong way. 

She met his penetrating gaze as she settled in the wingback chair across the desk. Rubelle gave her an attempt at a smile, though it seemed the scar near his mouth caused the left side to pull downwards rather than up. "Miss Granger, a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance in person, though your reputation precedes you."

His voice was low and measured, with a drawl that indicated a Yorkshire upbringing. Hermione inclined her head, "As does yours. You wished for a briefing on the Mallagon Bog expedition?"

Hermione loathed small talk, and though this man was quite famous in their field, she had no desire to chitchat. She needed to be reading at this moment; she was two chapters into Blood Maladies and Enchantments and had high hopes from the text. 

Rubelle smirked, though it was more a flash of teeth at her lack of tact, though Hermione thought she saw a twinkle of amusement in his green eyes. "Yes. I was disappointed to hear that you found nothing. Our sources confirmed the area was soaked in ancient magic."

Hermione didn't let a flicker of deceit flash across her face. "I felt the same upon arrival. The bog was entrenched in magical potency. I found a crumble of ruins three clicks north of the apparation point you gave me. The architecture suggested 15th century, as did the warding, which had begun to seep into the ground itself. I dismantled the trivial hexes along the exterior and found a small circular chamber that suggested some sort of ritualistic nature, though I found no ceremonial artifacts to back that up. I searched the chamber and the surrounding area but found no cursed objects to my dismay."

Rubelle listened intently, leaning back in his chair. Once she had finished, he waved a hand towards the map behind him, and a red pin turned green. She assumed it was the location of the muddy bog. He clicked his tongue, placing his hands together on the desk. "Shame. Well, I apologise for wasting your time with the mission. Of course, you'll be compensated for clearing the area of wards."

He didn't mention sending any additional cursebreakers to the ruins, not a word of why she found footprints in the muddy chamber. Perhaps it had been Malfoy after all. 

Hermione shook her head. "I only accept payment upon completion and removal of an object, so I thank you, but I have to decline."

Rubelle shook his head, eyes piercing. "I insist. Especially since your owl mentioned you came down with Black Cat Flu post-mission."

Her stomach turned at the lie, but she gave a grimace-laced smile. "An unfortunate thing, likely heightened by the change in climate between that mission and my last in Thailand." 

"Yes, that's likely."

Silence descended upon the pair, and Hermione cleared her throat. "Your owl mentioned a second case?"

The chief cursebreaker nodded, swishing his wand to bring a paper up and out of the stack on his desk. It fluttered as it landed directly in front of her. "Some muggles ran across archaeological ruins near Seaham and found themselves with their heads turned backwards; nasty curse. It would be a three-day job likely. We believe there are multiple cursed artifacts throughout the dig site. Old, likely Roman age." 

Hermione read over the parchment as he spoke, excitement building with each word. Roman artifacts were quite rare these days, and remarkably complex with their warding if they were spelled. She had once toured the National Museum in Rome— both the magical and non-magical sections— and found herself awed by the preservation spells cast atop objects. 

She folded the parchment, sliding it into her pocket. "I would be happy to look into it."

Rubelle gave another attempt at a smile, flashing his polished teeth. "Excellent. Hopefully you will find more luck this time."

Hermione gave a forced smile back as she stood and headed towards the door. "I find luck quite useless in this profession."

___•___

The moon loomed high in the sky as the Floo roared to life. Hermione stepped onto the marble, likely leaving muddy boot prints in her wake. The acrid scent of burnt leather clung to her black hide pants and long-sleeve top. The trip had taken her only two days as opposed to the assumed three, but Hermione had always loved beating a deadline. The site had been only a mile from the coast, close enough that she had smelt the North Sea and felt its brutal winds her entire mission. She had recovered ten artifacts, two of which had been so reeked with curses that most of her trip had been spent nullifying those alone. The most interesting find had been a gold laurel wreath spelled to melt the brain of any who dared place it on their head. 

Unfortunately, she hadn't been the only interested party. One side effect of dark magic  is that it usually attracts dark creatures to the area. Sort of a moth-to-flame effect. The site had been crawling with hags and vampires when she arrived and had hidden themselves deep within the ruins. Hermione had cleared most of the infernal brutes within her first day, but occasionally one would pop out right when she would be in the midst of clearing an eyeball-shrinking curse or knotted-intestine hex. 

It had been one of her most exciting missions to date, and Hermione couldn't shake the buzz when she arrived back. No, she needed to do something, needed to satiate the adrenaline still pumping in her veins after returning the artifacts back to Rome. 

Maybe that's why she had Floo'd here instead of her hotel. 

Hermione stepped through the drawing room, wiping lazily at the cut on her cheek from a rogue hag fingernail. She avoided the crack in the marble that was surprisingly unfixed and made her way into the twisting halls. A few hours of light research would do her well, and then she would be able to sleep. Or attempt to sleep— the bond had been distinctly achy with her distance over the five days. The tug had ceased the moment she stepped into the manor, which had nothing at all to do with her reasoning for a late night visit— though relief from the incessant dull throb made her shoulders sag in release. 

Hermione turned a corner, passing the bottom of a large staircase—

"What are you doing?"

The low voice rumbled from above, and Hermione jumped, pointing her wand at the top of the staircase. Malfoy stood at the uppermost step, hair tousled with sleep, wearing only black pajama pants. His chest was bare, and moonlight glinted off the crisscrossing scars that spiderwebbed along his abdomen. Sectumsempra scars, she knew, from sixth year. He looked much too like the Roman statues she had found half-buried in the mud only hours ago. The golden cord in her chest purred at the proximity, satiated at last. She rubbed at her chest with her free arm, desperate to remove the warm sensation.

She looked back up at his face, lowering her wand to her side. He stared at her with more confusion than anger— than that usual ice that laced his grey irises. 

"I'm here to use the library."

"At half past one in the morning." His eyes skated over her body, her mud-soaked clothes and ratted curls. She knew she looked closer to feral cat than woman at the moment. He descends the stairs with pinched brows, "Why do you look as if you just tumbled out of a pigsty?"

She clenched her jaw, lifting her chin as he made it to the bottom step. "Go back to bed; I'm not going to get mud on your precious books."

"Just the floor then." He retorted, voice still thick with sleep. He jerked his chin towards her face before she could retort with something nasty. "You're hurt."

"It's a few scratches." She scoffed, the sound bouncing off the marble. She didn't like the lack of ice in his words, the distinct absence of revilement. It threw her off-kilter.  She forced her gaze to the black stain tattoo on his left forearm. It was faded, the skull and snake in a permanent stasis with the death of their master. "I've had much worse."

His jaw tightened, noticing the direction of her gaze. His fingers twitched at his side, brushing the fabric of his cotton pants. "I don't fancy having my magic affected when you die from sepsis. Go to the library; I'll meet you there."

"I don't need your assistance." She deadpanned, "I'm perfectly capable of tending to myself." 

"The last time you left to tend to yourself, you ended up half-dead in a shitty hotel room, so excuse me if I don't trust your word." He snapped back, sneering as he headed back upstairs. "Go to the library, Granger."

She considered hexing him in the back but didn't fancy the bond's punishment of such a blow. Instead she called him a few choice words, which he ignored as he disappeared into the maze of the second level and stomped to the library. She wasn't listening to the prick; she had planned to go straight to the library anyway. 

She pushed through the double doors, breathing in the scent of old parchment as she stalked to her designated table. Open books were still scattered along the top, and half-empty Red Bulls littered the spaces in between. Hermione perched atop the table, pulling her most recent research read into her lap. Her fingernails were caked with dirt, but Hermione had learned that books only gained intrinsic value with a little scuffing. She had never felt that way until her months camping during the war, when her nail beds bled continuously from her constant biting and picking; blood and dirt had littered the pages of Beetle the Bard, and Hermione had come to appreciate the marring of precious pages. 

She absentmindedly flipped through the pages, mind torn between the adrenaline still pumping through her veins from the mission and unease at the thought of the blond who could walk in at any moment. 

Said blond's footfalls sounded outside of the library, and Hermione sighed, burying her nose deeper in the book as if ignoring him could cause his departure. 

Shoes filled her downward line of vision. "Take this."

She begrudgingly looked up, her displeasure for this entire interaction clear on her face. Malfoy looked similarly vexed. He had slipped a black shirt on during his absence, wrinkled as most of his clothing these days seemed to be. He held a jar of paste in his outstretched hand, long fingers curled tightly around the base. 

She forced a breath through her nose, his helpfulness turning her stomach. It didn't matter if he was doing this simply to ensure he wasn't fucked over with the bond if she grew ill; if his reason was entirely selfish, it was too close to kindness for comfort. She snatched the tincture, bringing it to her nose. She sniffed, catching hints of jasmine, verbena, and the medicinal scent of dittany. It wasn't a usual Wiggenweld paste, nor a bruisewort balm. Homemade, perhaps, if the unlabelled tin was an indication. 

"It's not poison." He sneered, crossing his arms over his chest.

Hermione rolled her eyes, baring her teeth right back at him before dipping her fingers into the mint-coloured cream. She quickly spread the paste along her cheekbone and nicked throat. A soothing tingle lingered wherever she dragged the balm. Malfoy waved his wand at his side as Hermione sat the jar on the table, and she felt a rush of cool wind along her skin. Cleansing charm, removing the vestiges of dirt and muck that had clung like a second skin. 

The bond rang in her chest at the gesture, glowing like a miniature sun deep in her sternum. She shifted uncomfortably on the table, pulling the book back into her lap. "Thank you."

The apology slipped out unbidden, and their gazes snapped together, surprise written across both of their faces. Hermione bit the tip of her tongue, punishing the damned thing for the bond's influence on the muscle. He was part of the family who had assisted in her torture, who fought for the eradication of her people, the boy who had taunted her relentlessly in school— who was the root of her shitty situation that had only grown worse when he'd fucked her against both of their wills. 

Malfoy's shock melted into something cold, something distant. His jaw tightened as he tore his gaze away and stared at the wall above her head. "Do not ever thank me." 

He turned, leaving her alone in his family's library without another word— had he felt her thoughts through the bond? Or had he simply felt the same on his own?

Hermione wasn't sure, nor was she sure— as she stared at the jar of balm beside her spotless hand— why he left the healing paste behind.