Mad Science
Three December 1st’s later saw the unlikely trio of researchers in France at Malfoy’s Summer Chateau. Hygiene was at an all-time low despite the opulence of their surroundings. The three were coping on Scourgify, Tergeo, and Odoratum Desisto charms.
Hermione had given up on hair care entirely, allowing it to frizz and crackle in its unraveling braid. They all had purple shadows beneath itchy, tired eyes and were eating Muggle Uncrustables from Hermione’s grocery run (since Malfoy had dismissed all the house-evles not wanting his parent’s spying—as he put it—and Hermione was the only one with Muggle cash on hand.)
“Claggy.” Malfoy decried the sandwich before eating three more. Which was higher praise than Theo’s benediction of, “peasant food.” Hermione had politely asked if they’d prefer a cold tin of English Breakfast, to which both stuffed another plastic-wrapped sandwich in their pockets.
Malfoy and Hermione had simplified and cobbled together the spell for the transferal of a curse from one magical item to another, with the whipping boy curse that would make the spell take hold on living flesh. Theo and Hermione were relatively confident they could isolate the curse transferal, and its time restraints by their pilfered research with the time tomb Eon.
All that was left was to test out the spell.
“Test it on me.” Hermione volunteered. It had been her idea, after all.
“I’ll test it on Theo. You can be the redundancy test.” Malfoy glared at the curse they’d written down. So few words to encompass so many layers of research.
“We’ve been over this. You’ll test it on me. You already have a bond with Theo. You share a House. A world view. Blood status. Any one of those could interfere with your intentions. I’m practically an enemy. I’m the better test subject.”
“Oh sure, an enemy.” Theo pulled a pillow over his head, openly done with the two of them.
“We need to use the Floo Granger. And almost all of them have been shut down by the Ministry.”
“I know, Malfoy.”
“We plan to use my bedroom Floo at Malfoy Manner.”
“I know.”
“At my Manner, where both my parents currently reside.”
“It’s not like we’ll be leaving your bedroom, Malfoy. They won’t even know we’ve come and gone.”
A gusty sigh issued beneath the pillow over Theo’s face.
Hermione refused to acknowledge a single innuendo of the argument running rampant through all three of their exhausted minds.
Malfoy clenched his teeth. “Fine.” He stormed through the Floo first.
“Good.” Hermione took a deep, unsettled breath having expected a longer row about it all.
“Mione.” Theo sat up dragging both hands down his face. “Let me.”
“It’s already been decided.” She grimaced. “It’s my stupid idea. I should test it.”
“And have you thought about the optics?” Theo stood to block her path.
“It’s science.”
“Even science has optics. Especially if the Golden Girl winds up whipping boy for the Malfoy heir.”
“It’s going to work. We’ve been over the time restraints.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“I’ve gotten a lot of practice keeping my medical records out of the public eye, Nott. Trust me. I’d take this secret to my grave if we fail.”
He nodded, stepping aside. “It’s your choice. Just . . . be sure.”
She smiled up at him, lifting on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ve got this.”
Theo hugged her, chin resting on her head. “Be wicked, be sly, and don’t you dare let him make you cry. I’ll never hear the end of it from either of you.” He chuckled, turned her about, and shoved her towards the fireplace releasing the safe-to-use Floo Powder pouch into her grip.
Malfoy’s Bedroom
Malfoy’s sulky glower greeted her as she stumbled through the Floo and out his childhood bedroom fireplace.
She had a brief impression of green silk curtains and plush chairs, a modern king-sized bed, deep silver black moldings on the ceiling, a hanging chandelier, and a dust rag in Malfoy’s hand (had he been dusting while he waited?) He sneezed and collapsed dramatically back across the bed, tossing the rag aside.
“Welcome to my bedroom, Granger,” he drawled and sneezed three times.
Hermione winced sympathetically, scurrying forward with the trial potion and accompanying spell.
“Any-achooo! Day-achoo! Now-choo!”
“I still need one of your tears for the potion! It will both tie you and your pain to me.” Hermione half crawled across the bed to get to his face. His arm was thrown over his forehead.
Honestly, he’d barely been suffering for a minute! She’d endured ages of sneezing.
Malfoy covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief and rolled his head towards her, obviously attempting to blink a tear out.
Delicately Hermione brushed beneath his bright eyes. Even sleepless and red, meeting them hurried her heart into a loud thud.
Reciting the spell they’d all memorized from the note paper, she dropped his tear into the potion vile and gave the mixture a swirl. It spat up an ominous hiss and turned from crystal clear to a swirling cloud as black as dementor smoke.
“I think you made a new curse instead of a spell,” Malfoy sneezed. “Don’t drink that. I’ve changed my mind.” He grabbed at her arm.
“Don’t be ridiculous! You’ve been brewing this for days!”
Malfoy ignored her, pouncing at the vile. Hermione shrieked, falling back under him and downing the potion in a desperate gulp. It burned like a cold, oily fire.
Gasping Hermione clutched at her throat. The potion vile rolled away off the bed.
Malfoy grabbed her jaw, forcing her mouth open as if he could stop her from swallowing poison. She bit down on his thumb angrily and felt an answering faint throb in her thumb.
“Idiot.” He jerked, eyes wild, his body pushing her down into the icy sheets.
Coughing, Hermione clutched at her chest as the curse spread, racing through her blood. The veins in her hands crawled from blue to black.
“Merlin-achoo! Granger, your blood!” Malfoy straddled her, leaning up to sneeze into his arm. His face white.
Hermione’s hands fisted over her drumming heart. Tears leaked down her cheeks and into her ears. But it was just pain—a strange raw meeting of their magic.
Malfoy’s hands cradled her face, “look at me! Look at me, Granger.” His wand was out, but magic sputtered from the tip. An aggravated growl escaped him as his magic failed.
Hermione couldn’t speak for a moment, her lungs frozen over. A link tightened between them. Thread by heavy thread lacing her to him. It was a horrible, terrifying bond. His panic bubbled up in her lungs. A sharp jab between her ribs. His thumbs brushed at her cheeks wiping tears.
And then she sneezed. She’d forgotten the awful way sneezing went right to the bridge of her nose.
Distantly she wanted to shake his hand. Their spell was working.
***
“Call a house-elf!” He tipped her head up gently, but her eyes refused to focus. “Darling, darling, I can’t use my magic right now. Please? Please, Hermione. Call a bloody house-elf!”
Instinct told him to Occlude. Think clearly. But he couldn’t even do that. Magic slid from his grasp as though walled off from his reach. One problem at a time.
Frowning, Hermione pushed a finger between his furrowed brows “Who’d be afraid of you?” She sounded fevered.
“Afraid?” Incandescent rage shook Draco. Was that why she’d insisted on testing the potion? To prove she wasn’t afraid of him? Gryffindors and their bloody tests of courage!
“That doesn’t bloody matter to me!” Malfoy snarled. “Godric, you should be afraid!” Bloody swat with her rash, stubborn, ideals.
He felt nauseously well. His headache melted off, the throb in his thumb from her teeth (he wanted it back, it was his), the weariness of too little sleep—gone—all funneled into the witch likely dying in his bed.
Black bled into the white of her eyes, staining her blood. She looked barely conscious between sneezing fits. Panic clouded his thoughts. Godric. She couldn’t die like this.
He searched for her pulse. The wall between him and his magic faded as Hermione sneezed more violently. He slashed his wand and nearly set the bed aflame with a burst of repressed magic.
“Remmy!” Malfoy bellowed at the Floo. He didn’t care if his parents heard him. Didn’t care if Remmy was cooking up a twelve-course meal for the Minister.
The old elf popped into the room and wobbled on one foot. Cake batter decorated his hat as though a mixing whisk had flown out from the bowl.
“Master Draco! You’re home!” His bright smile dimmed at the sight of his master, disheveled and straddling a witch beneath him on the bed. The witch in question shuddered and sneezed and looked stained with black magic.
“Master, is torturing the Granger child?” Remmy queried tremulously. A deep displeasure replaced his welcoming smile.
“Darling, my house-elf’s here, you just need to thank him.” Draco dragged her upright against his chest, pushing hair from her forehead and searching her eyes.
Remmy backed away, frightened. “Shall I get a Healer, Master?”
Hermione sneezed, clutching her head. “T-thank you, Remmy.” She sagged against Draco with a sigh as no more sneezes shook her frame. “There. I’m perfectly fine. Just a little potions experiment.”
“Perfectly fine,” Malfoy hissed in her hair. “Like bloody Muggle hell you are. Your veins are black.”
“Well, that would be the curse. It shouldn’t last more than an hour. And I’m not s-sneezing anymore! I think we could a-a-adjust the s-s-strength though.” Her teeth chattered. “A-a-are you c-c-cold?”
Draco shredded a silk drape from the bed curtain and bundled her in it with savage efficiency until Hermione resembled a caterpillar more than a witch.
“Fetch us tea Remmy, and DON’T inform my parents that I’m home,“ he winced. “At least, give me half an hour before you do . . . please.”
“Of course, Master,” Remmy replied darkly, Appariting away with the quietest, judgiest of pops.
***
Hermione sighed, sipping at the tea Remmy had supplied. Her cocoon of shredded drapery too warm now that the curse had balanced out in her blood. They just needed to wait an hour—not wanting to chance what a trip through the Floo might do to their experiment.
Draco, clearly furious, made his displeasure abundantly loud even as he whispered a hissing rant. He paced and returned to her. He tugged at his hair and collar between checking her pulse—his fingers hot and trembling on her throat.
“This was such a stupid idea.” He muttered. “Why’d I let you talk me into this? Why’d Theo let us do this? Not enough sleep, that’s why. Not enough bloody sleep! And you! Always trying to prove a point. I hope your bloody, Gryffindor pride is pleased!”
“Why are you whispering?” Hermione sipped at the blend of strawberry green tea. All his soft growling stirred up an alarming desire to get her mouth on his. Her hands in that silky hair. She was too distracted to digest his complaints. They all added up to the same sum anyway. He was displeased with her reckless-self-endangerment.
How sweet.
But, well, that was her business.
“Because of my parents, dear!” Draco snarled softly. “Because my Death Eater, Muggle hating, dark arts father is likely home and eating cake in the parlor where great aunt Bella tortured you! That’s why I’m whispering, darling! Because it’s not enough for your screams to bleed into the wood of the dining room floor! No, I make the bloody Golden Girl filthy with black magic in my bed! And what do you suppose my father would do with you in this state? What do you think he could do with this curse we’ve concocted?”
“Calm down, you’ll give me a heart attack. Besides you’ve used a Silencing Charm on this room haven’t you?” Hermione closed her eyes and rubbed the strange spot in her chest where pulses of Malfoy’s angst bellowed at her.
“Calm down? Calm down?” Draco hissed.
Hermione squirmed as that hiss seemed to slither right up her thigh.
Clearing her throat she nodded practically. “The spell worked. And faster than I expected. We could shorten the duration by half, or more. And maybe we could get,” she studied her black stained veins, “a less dramatic effect. Or perhaps a glamor worked in to hide the less savory nature of the spell.”
“It’s a foul, ugly, curse, Granger! You’re trying to ruin me, is that it?” Malfoy’s knee dipped the bed as he leaned over her again, sneering. “Show the world what a Malfoy does to Muggle blood?”
She studied his mouth, the panic of his breath. Fear and self-loathing a crippling snake nipping at her gut. Along with something hotter. Something possessive and wrathful. Did Malfoy actually want her?
“Are you enjoying this—”
“Shut up, Malfoy. I want to try something.” Hermione gripped his hair and smashed her mouth to his. She gasped as all that angst shattered between them leaving heat behind. So much sweeter than the ice of emotion he’d been funneling her way.
He wasn’t kissing her back though. Her fingers tightened. Her panic rose. It had been a decision based on evidence, she reasoned. It felt like he’d dared her, looming over her like that. Hands straddling her hips.
She told her fingers to LET GO as the stunned shock tingled physically between them.
A sound vibrated against her mouth. Had he just growled at her?
Greed scorched through her. A moan filled her lungs, his hands gathered her closer, hard against him. He surged forward. She arched into the covers. Her hands skated down his chest.
“Hermione,” He groaned into her mouth.
And then his hands froze against her jaw, his grip loosened from her hair.
She blinked up at him, dazed. “Draco?”
“Sorry,” he covered his mouth. Guilt oozed between them.
“Don’t,” Hermione clutched at his shirt. “I kissed you.”
He laughed bitterly. “You’re cursed, darling. You don’t know what you’re feeling.”
Hermione caught his jaw, ”look for yourself. What can I say, science turns me on.”
“Science turns—” Draco choked. His eyes narrowed hatefully. “You’re in my bed, Granger. Don’t think I won’t take every scrap you have to offer.” His anger pulsed through her blood as he raised his wand, eyes challenging her. Daring her to take it back.
Hermione’s chin lifted.
Malfoy’s thumb brushed her lip, as he hissed, “Legilimens.”
Angrily, she shoved a jumble of memories in his face. The way his taunting mouth made her want to bite him. The smell of his clothes keeping her up at night. How his recent dishevelment filled her mind with thoughts of messing him up with her hands and mouth. Him waking next to her in the morning instead of across the room.
He shredded through those like the thin, tissue veneer of a crush they were. Because nothing could just be sweet with Malfoy. Flushed with embarrassment, she slapped a greedy fantasy in his face.
The memory of him caging her into her kitchen counter. The silver of his eyes mesmerizing as a snake dance. His head dipped to her throat. Her heart pounded faster.
“Perhaps I should teach you what a real statement piece is.” He murmured against her neck, biting, tongue laving, and kissing the tender skin. Her nails scratched down his back as he lifted her onto the counter. Her legs locked his hips to hers, and she greedily reciprocated. A pounding, needy want for him to be closer, deeper.
Malfoy moaned ripping himself away.
His recoil stunned her. Shattered the fantasy.
She wanted to protest as he Occluded—the heat in his eyes shuttered to cold glass.
A string snapped. A ripping flutter whistled through her head as memories broke open in his mind crowding her with a stinging headache.
Breathless, they watched fragmented pictures of her spill between them like a burst filing system.
A Folder Called Hermione
Draco shuddered, eyes wide, helplessly watching Hermione watch him fall apart.
He’d closed his eyes against her fantasy. She couldn’t want him. He wasn’t what she deserved. She didn’t realize what she offered. Because he wouldn’t just take a kiss, he’d demand everything.
But stuffing this one aching memory—her wanting him—down into the bloated, Occluded folder he’d crafted to keep her at a distance, was one memory too many.
The folder dissolved. A tattered spider web against the tide of her. She burst open inside his carefully compartmentalized thoughts, swamping them both in a deluge of history.
She’d been the first memory he ever Occluded. He hadn’t thought he’d need more than a slim file for a slim girl from school. Hadn’t thought she’d give him a second glance, much less a second chance after she’d slapped him silly for mocking her friend’s pain over Hagrid and his Hippogriff.
Draco hadn’t meant for the creature to die. But he couldn’t say his father was wrong either. So he’d continued to make himself a monster. The result stuck. As did his failures to live up to the mold when Dumbledore held out his hand. Bargaining for Draco’s life—not his own.
He thrust these memories at Hermione.
What was she doing with him anyway?
Young monstrous Draco and his flimsy mental defense against the Dark Lord, trapped at home in a cage of his family’s making. Hers was just one file of many. It had been made to hide any thought of Muggles but Mudblood.
In the folder went small smiles he’d stolen in passing. Hermione, grinning at Harry and Ron. Her pert glares across the classroom. Her dancing at the Yule Ball done up in pink silk and chiffon. How her screams on the dining room floor shredded him. Her steady gaze across the Wizengamot court, and the way her eyes had left him hollowed out.
That was supposed to be the end.
Everything had fit tidily in its place until they went rolling across a pumpkin-splattered shack: Her sharp tongue. Her reckless pursuit of a dangerous game. The way she fought him instead of going still and cold—spattered in pumpkin goo, writhing beneath him, hands in his hair, hips rocking together—heat, the soft strangling clench of her thighs, rolling on the floor.
How he’d like to use those cuffs or have them used on him while her eyes unraveled him and her mouth undid him—the number of times he came to that Occluded memory.
One too many precious, secret, bleeding wants and now she was bleeding out in him. There was no stuffing it all back in.
She had fantasies? Well so did he.
Hermione in that green silky blouse he’d rip open with his teeth to lick the smooth skin beneath. Her hot little mouth—panting, but not just on his chest, burning a hot seal across his heart, up his throat, between his lips, into his mouth, tongues thrusting past each other.
Hermione’s shoes, not tromping through mud and sand and rain, but propped up on his lap. His hands gliding up her legs beneath her skirt.
Filthy thoughts. Filthy wants. Filthy dreams, Occluded one too many times.
Each emotion crossed his face, writing shame and greed and need there.
And she hadn’t slapped him yet.
But she would.
The folder hadn’t finished with him. It was a tattered, dissolving film battling to contain a waterfall. He should have known nothing short of a steel vault would contain Granger, even in his own mind.
He desperately wanted to turn away as thoughts of him thrusting into her played before their eyes.
She still hadn’t slapped him.
She would.
He waited for it. Deserved it. Crowding into her mind over a single curse-drugged kiss.
Her lips brushed his eyelids hot as coals. Her hands cupped his face, imprisoning him.
She was . . .
Kissing him?
Her soft mouth, attentive over his face, lingered at his mouth. Her knees grazed his hips. Her hands teased and soothed and need seared him.
But she was cursed. Rotten magic funneled his pain into her mind, blood and bones. If she bit him, scratched him, clawed through his chest to his heart, and ended him—all he’d feel was the pleasure of her hands on him. All she’d get was pain. And he had pain to spare. Mudblood? If she had mud in her veins, he had tar in his.
“Fuck, Granger, stop.” Draco clutched her wrists, lowered them from his shirt and hair. He slid to his knees beside the bed gasping. His pain was a part of him. He needed it back. Until then, neither of them were okay. “Just, stop.”
A Mother’s Love
Narcissa Malfoy, fresh from The Winter Season’s first greenhouse tea party, and primed by the displeasure of Greengrass’ youngest daughter, (who pressed Narcissa to bring Draco around for tea soon) rapped at her son’s bedroom door with gentle authority.
Remmy, nervous and guilt-riddled, had babbled about her son performing dangerous experimental potions on witches in his bed.
What nonsense.
Draco had an entire potions workroom to utilize from his school days. Not to mention she’d ripped out the old dungeons when they renovated and gifted him a pass-coded lab that even his father couldn’t disturb. Not that Draco ever made use of it. But if he were going to experiment with dark magic, he’d certainly be circumspect about it.
Remmy was, therefore, mistaken.
And if Draco had brought a witch home with him, she expected an introduction.
Who could he have taken an interest in? Remmy had certainly been in error about the witch in question's identity. And Draco spent all his time with goblins and his . . . new landlady.
Narcissa sniffed and rapped at his bedroom door again. Even if he couldn’t be bothered to greet his mother when he stopped by, the least he could do was take home the tin of German confections she’d purchased for said landlady.
(You may note, Narcissa was quite talented at obfuscating the identities of anyone who didn’t fit neatly into the narrative of her reality—and graciously, the universe tended to indulge her worldview.)
Perhaps if Narcissa had known what her intrusion would inspire in the desperate soul of her grown, darling boy, she would have acted more circumspect herself.
Perhaps if Draco had given his mother the grace of a weekly or even bi-weekly tea time—
But brief, estranged letters and messages between a mother and her son will lead even the most refined of ladies to stick one's nose where it is least welcome. And the universe could not always twist itself into a pretzel to please Lady Malfoy.
***
“Right, of course. Sorry.” Hermione covered her mouth. She could still taste Draco’s breath mints.
She’d been rejected. Sure he had an entire wank bank of her in his brain. She was probably some dirty little secret he wanted to keep hidden even from himself.
Astoria’s words splashed over her like cold water. Malfoy men only give their hearts to their wives. For all she knew, he had any number of wank banks for any number of sacred 28 women filed away in that overly organized brain (likely coded to the French rune alphabet.)
That was unfair.
He’d had a mild, fleeting childhood crush on her. And then a recent obsession with getting her clothes off. It was all very human, and normal, and it hardly mattered how many times he’d gotten off to thoughts of her if the reality of her wasn’t wanted.
Reeling with a headache from his shoddy Occlusion practice, and smarting embarrassment of having thrown herself at his mouth—twice—she could just disappear. Disillusion herself, and find some muggle hotel for the night. But casting more magic on herself while cursed could interfere with results. And that meant spending more time with Malfoy. More trials.
Perhaps a short retreat beneath the bed was in order. But Malfoy was in her way, on his knees before her. Practically between her knees.
He looked devastated.
That wasn’t normal.
The pain of his broken Occlusion had harmed him enough her head throbbed. It would be convenient if the curse gave more insight than just pain.
A knock at the door rattled Hermione’s skull adding to her ever-growing migraine, chased by an electric shock of fear.
“Draco?” Narcissa’s voice followed a second rap of knuckles.
“Oh, Godric.” Another reason to hide under the bed. Surely Narcissa Malfoy was above crawling to look for her son’s amorous leftovers.
Of course she might, if Draco didn’t get off his knees!
“Malfoy? Malfoy, you have to pull yourself together.” Hermione couldn’t believe she was giving him a pep-talk while reeling with the sting of rejection.
Draco pressed his forehead to her thigh. His deft long fingers circled her ankle.
Her heart ached. Stinging heat filled her palms. She couldn’t tell who the hurt belonged to.
“You are such a drama queen.” Hermione tugged on his hair. “You have to let me go.”
“Don’t want to.” His eyes remained shut.
“Your mothers at the door.”
“I don’t want to see her.”
“Neither do I.”
His free arm snaked behind her, dragged her closer. His face buried in her thighs.
“Malfoy?” She wanted to burst into tears. Her head and heart hurt. Clearly she was misreading many factors of the past ten, twenty, thirty minutes?
“I’m not myself.” He huffed against her thighs. His breath hot, seeping through her denims.
“I shall be so cross with you if your mother walks in on me—on us—like this.” (By which she really meant, you on your knees as if you wanted me) “I may have kissed you, but I don’t need her readying her knives.”
Draco’s fingers tightened on her ankle before reluctantly releasing her. “Mother would never sully her gloves.”
“With mudblood?”
He winced, and a throbbing ache burned Hermione’s ribs.
“With any blood.” Draco finally looked at her.
Clearly he underestimated his mother’s love. Hermione bit her lower lip.
His face was flushed. Cheeks and ears and eyes . . .
“Merlin, do you have a fever?” She cupped his forehead, then touched her own. Glancing down at her still blackened veins Hermione cleared her throat. Not a fever.
Draco rested his chin on her knee, gazing up at her. “Evidently neither of us is fit to open the door. How do you feel about climbing out the window?”
The window? That did seem slightly more dignified than rolling beneath the bed. Anything was better than being caught by his mother in his sheets, not even as a lover, but as some experimental creature.
Those optics Theo had mentioned were beginning to dawn on her. Besides, they were already seen by too many people in too many places for one day.
“Alright.” Her heart thudded.
Draco’s miserable pout evaporated in a relieved, boyish, grin.
Jumping to his feet, he lifted her off the bed and herded her into his closet.
“What are you doing!” She stumbled backward.
“Much as I’d like to, I can’t simply throw myself out the window.” Draco strode past. (His closet was the size of her bedroom.) He tossed shirts and robes to the floor.
“Where are you?” Draco looked about, hands on lean hips.
Hermione took the opportunity and collapsed. Digging in her purse for an ibuprofen.
At the rattle of pills, he tensed. “You can’t take—”
“It’s a muggle thing.”
His eyes narrowed as she swallowed the pill dry.
“Here we are,” he beamed. “My Nimbus 2001!”
“No.” Hermione blanched. “I can climb down with some . . . sheets.”
“Sure you will, Granger.” He scooped her up, into his arms like a parcel of clinging flowers.
“Malfoy!” She hissed. He cradled her one-handed and strode to the nearest window. Her arms circled his neck, her legs his hips in a way that was both thrilling and miserable.
“Just shut your eyes, darling.” Half tossing her across his shoulder, he unlatched the casement window.
A cool breeze filled the room, and over his shoulder, she was greeted by a dizzying drop to a gravel path four stories down. Her nails bit into his shoulders and she felt the sting along her back.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy! Put that witch down this instant.” Lady Malfoy commanded. Remmy nervously wrung his hands beside the lady—having unlocked the door despite Draco’s charms to keep it shut.
“Mother.” Draco froze beneath her. “I wasn’t expecting you.” She could feel the battle he waged beneath her hands, his muscles tightening and relaxing, all too eager to jump from the ledge.
“In my own home, Draco?” Narcissa’s mouth pinched. “Come down at once. We shall adjourn to the . . . my study. Remmy, tea, please. Miss Granger appears to be unwell. Shall one of the house-elves see her home?”
Hermione released a tense breath, heart drumming. She’d run straight into her past self if a house-elf whisked her off to either of her homes.
“Unfortunately, I can’t entertain you today.” Draco slowly relaxed his hold, hands skimmed her thighs, over her hip bones, to her waist as he let her slip down his shoulder until her legs straddled him on the broom. He tucked her face into his chest, arms around her.
“Comfortable?” He brushed hair from her face.
She grabbed at the back of his shirt and squeezed her eyes shut.
He chuckled, “I knew I’d get you on my broom one day.”
“I insist.” The temperature of Narcissa’s voice slipped into arctic territory.
“I’ll make time this week,” Draco yanked Hermione’s hips closer, steadying the broom with just his legs.
“Your father—“
“Not today, Mother,” Draco snapped.
Hermione tensed. She’d never heard him raise his voice at his mother before. Belatedly she wished she’d crawled beneath the bed. Draco could have supped with his parents, and Theo could have rescued her within the hour.
“If you are in some sort of trouble, I’ll see it’s taken care of.” Narcissa soothed. “Nothing’s been done that cannot be undone. We can see your . . . guest out. She needn’t even remember your name or what you’ve done.”
Draco’s fingers tightened on Hermione’s hips.
“And you wonder why I can’t be around you two anymore.” He snarled and shoved out the window casement.
Weightless and dizzy, organs shoving up against the cage of her ribs, Hermione clutched at Draco and screamed.
Daphne’s Christmas Miracle
Daphne woke to the enchanted silence of a sleeping nursery. Blurry headed she found she’d been dozing for three hours.
Draco, Theo, and surprisingly, Hermione Granger, were fast asleep on the floor by her feet. They looked as though they hadn’t slept in days. Their clothes rumbled and stained, and dark circles beneath their eyes. Hermione was tucked between the two lanky men in a way Daphne had never been included. Or to be fair, would never allow herself to be caught.
It was then Daphne fully registered the silence broken only by the murmur of voices. Standing, she walked to the two-way glass to peer in at the row of cribs.
Not a single baby in the ward sneezed. Breath catching and hands shaking the numb terror that had haunted her steps all week slowly left her.
Healer Strout met her at the door.
“You have decent friends, Healer Greengrass.”
Checking each crib, Daphne found slumbering babies. Little Daisy and Alfie were finally asleep. Parents smiled at her in teary relief.
Daphne let herself out of the room to cry.
Theo roused, one red eye slivered and half asleep, he caught her wrist, dragged her back into the corner where Draco and Hermione still slumbered, their heads together.
“Hush, dove.” Theo encircled her gently as she sank to the floor with them. “Don’t you dare cry.”
“How—“ she hugged him fiercely.
“Draco did most of the work, and you can thank Granger.”
“Granger?” Daphne blew her nose.
Theo smiled fondly. “She’s wickedly smart, Daph.”
“Then I guess I owe her a gift basket.”
Theo winced. “Maybe just a bottle of wine, yeah?”
Daphne slapped his shoulder. “You can have your own wine too.”
Her chin shook as she scrubbed fresh tears away. “When Harry finds this creep, I’m going to lose my Healer status.”
“Need me to bring an unregistered wand?” Theo smiled.
“I’m going to kill them, Theo!” Daphne hissed.
“Good, good,” Theo pet her head sleepily. “Wake me if you need that wand.”
“I’ll clear a room with beds for you three.”
“Floors fine.” Theo waved her off.
Daphne wiped her face, rose, straightened her outfit with a wand flick, and stomped back into the children’s ward.
Theo chuckled, watching Daphne put herself back together. His hand found the Time-Turner wrist watches in his pocket. They had exhausted Malfoy’s summer Chateau and several Muggle hotels. But they’d simplified the spell and potion while Theo distilled house-elf magic. Enough for Draco, Hermione, and him to help every baby in the nursery.
Beneath a blood glamor, their veins would run black for another hour—better than Hermione’s first trial which hadn’t worn off for half a day.
Meanwhile, they had no place left to return which wasn’t occupied by a past version of themselves. Not until December 1st ended.
Thank Merlin, this day could finally be over.
Tucking his head back into Hermione’s side, Theo drifted off to sleep.