Chapter 1
October 20, 1998
Thunderstorms are a thieve’s best friend.
The pouring rain drills into the cobblestones with a force so insistent it’s a shock that the streets don’t deteriorate under the pressure. The thunder perseveres in a rigorous competition, it's booming echoes rising higher in volume in attempts to best the harsh showering sounds.
This ferocious battle between Mother Nature’s children provides the perfect cover: the rumbles mask a creak of a floorboard, a labored exhale, a tortured scream. The occasional lightning bolt is bright yet brief, perhaps only elongated enough to catch a glimpse of a retreating shadow.
But Hermione Granger, Hogsmeade’s most notorious thief, doesn't need any help.
The veil draped across the town is appreciated, yes, but unnecessary: Hermione Granger’s skills are flawless, her endeavors striking precise and true every time.
A valuable possession could be guarded as heavily as you can imagine: steel doors. Alarms. Guards. Sensors. It doesn't matter how safe you may think it is, Hermione Granger will break through. Hermione Granger will seize your prized goods before you have a moment to blink. Seven years of theft, and not once has she been caught.
You're considered lucky if you can see her as she flees, never for more than a second or two. The stories are all the same: wild, chestnut curls. A black cloth covering her lower face, save for her eyes. Burning and golden, ethereal, a shade that cannot be found in this world. Angelic.
Whispers in the wind call her the Angel of Sin.
She lets the air current carry her, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, and for a few seconds while she's suspended in the air it almost looks like she’s flying. She moves silently, sticking her landings with nothing but faint thumps no louder than a mug being set down on a table. She blends seamlessly with the night, and not even the moonlight can distinguish her from the darkness.
She reaches her desired rooftop, swinging her legs over the edge of the building and ripping her mask off. The entire shore was visible from here, the multitude of boats swaying gently in the gray water. A beat, and sterling silver meets polished gold. Across from her, a figure clad in midnight black crouches on the ledge. He pulls down his mask, sending her a smirk. Hermione scowls, sharpening her glare at him.
Hermione Granger is not unrivaled in her status as the most prominent thief in the small port city of Hogsmeade. He began his career alongside hers, a fierce rivalry since day one.
When she was twelve, her first task was small: to snatch a pack of cigarettes for her boss, Albus Dumbledore. She hid in the air vents of the little store for two hours, emerging once the lights were off and it was well past closing time.
Struggling a bit, she climbed out and got to her feet, only to stand face to face with a boy with platinum hair and quicksilver eyes. Her eyes darted briefly to the pockets of his black jacket, where bags of green grapes bulged out.
“Who are you?” Hermione had asked firmly, drawing her brow together.
His pink lips quirked up at the right corner. He tilted his head, a stray curl falling over his brow.
“Draco Malfoy. And yourself?”
“Hermione Granger.” She hesitated. “Do you work for the Gryffindors too?”
Draco snorted, crossing his arms. “As if. I work for the Slytherins, obviously. Does the name ‘Malfoy’ not ring any bells for you?”
She was flushed, feeling stupid for not remembering: The Malfoy family had run the Slytherin organization for generations, the Gryffindors’ eternal foe in the world of theft. “Oh. Right, of course.”
His grin deepened. “What are you here for?”
Hermione had swallowed, reaching out and quickly taking a pack of cigarettes from the shelf. She held it up in front of him before reaching to stuff it into her pocket. Draco’s cold, thin fingers closed around her wrist, and she startled, meeting his gaze, pointing her eyes slightly downcast to maintain eye contact. Draco swiftly ripped the package open, taking out a cigarette and releasing her from his grasp. She just stared, and in a blink the cigarette was lit and clenched loosely between his teeth. He smiled around the tube. “Thanks, love.”
She scoffed, pressing her lips together. “That's a vile habit. Aren't you too young for that?”
A puff of smoke. “I’ll smoke eventually, might as well start now.”
Hermione raised her brow. “It'll stunt your growth, and you're already shorter than me.”
He then frowned, extracting his cigarette and balancing it between his middle and pointer finger. A silver snake ring gleamed. “I’ll be much taller than you someday. You’ll see.”
She rolled her eyes, turning and propelling her legs back into the air vent. “Goodbye, Malfoy,” she called over her shoulder.
A penetrating ringing attacked her eardrums, and she whirled. Draco stood over a pile of papers, though she didn’t know where they had come from. The papers were blazing in a fire, the cigarette laying central to the sparks. The fire alarm continued to blare.
“What are you doing?” Hermione hissed, coughing against the rising smoke.
Draco simply shrugged, jumping high and landing on the counter. “Marking my conquest.” He slid a ceiling panel out of place, hoisting himself inside. With only his head visible, he screamed, “Thief!” before smiling with a snakelike charm, saluting her and disappearing, and the board slid soundlessly back into place. Hermione cursed, moving to climb out of the vent to douse the fire to keep it from spreading. But footsteps sounded closeby, and she shook her head, securing the air vent and whisking away.
From then on, Draco Malfoy marked every site he stole from with the presence of crisp, blood red flames.
They call him the Demon of Fire.
“Evening, love,” he calls out now, just loud enough to be audible over the downpour.
“Bug off and quit following me, Malfoy,” Hermione sighs, shutting her eyes and tilting her face up to the rain.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Draco replies, cracking his knuckles in time with the thunder.
“You know that this is my spot.”
“On the contrary, this was my spot long before it was yours.”
She inhales deeply, embracing the unique musk of rainfall. “Fine, just be quiet.” She keeps her eyes closed, relishing in the gentle massage of the water on her cheeks.
He stares at her, a grey that matches the storm clouds, letting himself look at her for another second, just one more, maybe two, before deciding to let her have her solitude and vanishing into the twilight.