Chapter Text
November 2002, Today
Had someone told her at the beginning of the year that she would find herself in this very situation less than twelve months later, she would have laughed.
Now she is not laughing. Without restraint, she paws, tugs, tears at the dark fabric in an attempt to reach what is hidden beneath.
She should be embarrassed, appalled, horrified by her own urgency, but she is not. There is only want. Greed, even.
"Off," she gasps out.
"Not now, not here," he replies, but doesn't protest when she pushes a hand under the hem of his jumper in search of bare skin.
Cold lips trace her jawline. Warm palms settle on her waist and push her backwards until her back hits something hard.
"Turn around," he demands.
"Excuse me?"
"My arm is injured. I can't lift you up."
That gives her pause.
"God, right. I should—we need to get back to—"
"Just turn around, Granger, I'm begging you."
He begins to unbutton his trousers with one hand, his knuckles repeatedly brushing against her lower belly.
She should object. She should insist that they return to Grimmauld Place immediately, or at least that she heal him herself before they continue. But she doesn't.
She must have lost her mind.
Her knees tremble as she turns away, her ragged breathing clearly visible in the freezing air. Small clouds that first rise and then dissolve into nothingness.
His breath is hot on her neck. It causes the baby hairs that have come loose from her bun to stick to the sensitive skin below her ears.
A shiver runs down her spine.
Her fingers, now with nothing else to do, try unsuccessfully to find purchase on the smooth trunk of a young birch tree. One of her hands slips off and she finds herself pressed against the bark with her right cheek. The scent of the forest fills her nostrils.
"I can't believe what you did for me in there," he says as he yanks down her jeans, not bothering with the button or zip.
Her sharp hip bones offer little resistance.
"Neither can I," she breathes.
She can't believe any of what is happening.
Although she probably should have seen it coming.
11 months earlier, January 2002
As luck would have it, they all arrive at the meeting room, the former dining room of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, at the same time.
"Oh?" Ron asks, raising his fiery red eyebrows. "Kings summoned you both too?"
Hermione frowns.
"I thought the meeting would be about my research," she says.
"I thought it would be about the botched raid in Birmingham," Ron replies.
"And I thought," Harry mutters, "it would be about me not smiling enough when interacting with Order members from other safe houses. Again."
"Don't be so hard on Kings, Harry. You're the Chosen One. A symbol of hope."
Ron's words make Harry roll his eyes and Hermione purse her lips.
Strictly speaking, Harry has not been the Chosen One for a long time. The part of Tom's soul that had once attached itself to him died with Harry in the Forbidden Forest, and his subsequent resurrection severed the connection between the two of them once and for all. The prophecy that was responsible for Harry being declared the Chosen One in the first place was fulfilled on the night of the Battle of Hogwarts, albeit in a way that no one could have anticipated. Since then, Harry has been just a man with a lightning scar, an absurd story and more lives than some cats.
Today, more than four years later, Harry is tired. And Hermione can understand that.
"Shall we?" she asks, pointing to the door.
Both men nod, whereupon she turns the doorknob and enters first.
Her gaze first falls on Kingsley and Remus, who are studying a few parchments spread out in front of them on the circular conference table. Then she notices the third presence in the room and stops dead in her tracks.
He has his back to the door, but that makes no difference. Even if she knew another young man with the same striking hair colour, she would have recognised him by the signet ring flashing at her from his little finger.
Osmium, as its whitish sheen reveals — the most expensive metal in the world. No gemstone. Just the ornate M, which is also part of his family crest. Which, in turn, she knows from the wallpaper with the Blacks' family tree on the first floor.
Inexplicably, her first thought is: Gods, he's tall.
However, she doubts that he has grown since she last saw him. Her impression must have something to do with the fact that he left the Battle of Hogwarts like a beaten dog: shaking, shoulders hunched up to his chin, eyes downcast, clutching his mother's hand tightly.
Because yes, shortly after Harry, unexpectedly alive, jumped out of Hagrid's arms and even before Voldemort could realise that she must have betrayed him, Narcissa Malfoy whisked her family to safety. She promised the Order intelligence, assistance and loyalty, and in exchange secured three places in a luxurious safe house in northern France. And that is where the Malfoys have been staying ever since. Well, until now.
Now the youngest of them is here and no longer has much in common with his former self. He is standing upright, proud, his shoulders squared and his arms relaxed.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Harry murmurs in her ear, sounding more curious than anything else.
On Hermione's other side, Ron draws his wand.
"What's he doing here?" he growls.
Kingsley and Remus look up from the parchments just as Malfoy turns to face Harry, Ron and Hermione.
He doesn't even bat an eyelid when Ron's wand tip finds its target, digging into his sternum. No defensive hand movement towards the wand holster on his thigh, no sneer on his face.
"Weasley," he drawls. "Granger. Potter."
His glances are fleeting, his nods curt, but Hermione can't help noticing that his eyes return to her for a brief moment after he has given Harry the once-over.
"Ron," comes Remus' gentle voice. "Draco is not our enemy."
That's true, and Remus knows it best, since it was his arse that Malfoy saved years ago by throwing a Shield Charm between him and Rabastan's Killing Curse.
Nymphadora and I were surrounded by Death Eaters, Remus recounted shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts. Had Draco not intervened, giving Arthur and John the opportunity to come to our aid in time, we would both be dead.
"Wand down, please," Remus adds.
Ron's face is as red as his hair, but in the end he obeys and pockets his wand, grumbling quietly.
Malfoy, still looking quite unimpressed, saunters over to the table, pulls out one of the countless mismatched chairs and sinks elegantly into it. He props up his elbows on his thighs and clasps his hands together so that his chin can rest on his thumbs, his other fingers covering his mouth and thus most of his facial play.
"True enough, Remus," Harry says hesitantly. "But the question of what he's doing here still remains. He's a security risk. A known former Death Eater, high on Tom and Bellatrix's hit list, easy to identify."
The corners of Malfoy's mouth, just peeking out from behind his index fingers, begin to quirk.
"We're aware," Kingsley says before sitting down as well.
Remus motions for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to take a seat, but none of them react. The surprise is simply too great.
"Draco isn't here to take part in any missions," Remus explains when he realises that none of them are going to accept his invitation to sit at the table. "We don't intend to use him as a guard or send him on any recces."
"Then why am I here?" Ron asks immediately.
That's a fair question, Hermione thinks, because these are exactly the things Ron has specialised in: standing guard, coordinating raids, thwarting or countering attacks. The true work of an Auror, if the profession still existed. He has devoted his body and soul to fighting. In fact, it's all he's been doing since the Battle of Hogwarts.
"We thought it appropriate to inform you three first," Kingsley says. "You are the ones who live at Grimmauld Place permanently, and since we will be accommodating Draco here for the duration of his stay, it is only fair that you are in the loop from the start."
Hermione's heart stutters.
Malfoy is not a threat, she knows that. Over the past few years, he has proven that he has really and truly changed sides. To the delight of the French resistance fighters, he has honed his healing skills to perfection and successfully put them to use countless times. Or at least that's what she's been told.
So no, he is not a threat, quite the opposite in fact, but that doesn't mean she wants him here. They are arch enemies. They can't stand each other. Bumping into him while wearing nothing but her pyjamas or sitting across from him at breakfast are things she can confidently do without.
"Splendid," Ron huffs, clearly having similar thoughts.
The corners of Malfoy's mouth curl up ever so slightly.
"Okay," says Harry, who has gotten into the habit of questioning as few decisions as possible. "I think we can all live with that. We're grown-ups."
Remus gives Harry a grateful wink.
"But what is the purpose of his stay?" Hermione asks, befuddled, speaking up for the first time since they entered the room. "The Order has enough competent healers in Great Britain, and isn't he needed in Lille?"
At these words, Malfoy's eyes snap to her face and his brow furrows.
Hermione wonders if he's surprised that she knows where he's been staying for the past four years. And what he's been doing there.
"Draco is not here in his capacity as a healer," Kingsley replies. "Although he has agreed to step in if it should ever be necessary."
Remus clears his throat.
"As it turns out, Draco has been doing his own research for quite some time," he says. "Off the record, so to speak. There are no results yet, but the information he's gathered so far sounds promising. We believe it complements your work well, Hermione. That's why we'd like you to continue it together."
Silence.
Except for the pounding of her heart, which is so loud that she wouldn't be surprised if the others could hear it.
Next to her, Ron shifts his weight to his other leg.
"Tsk," he scoffs. "That's a great idea you've come up with. Putting those two in a room together for Merlin knows how long? Sorry, Remus, Kings, but that's madness. Neither of them wants that, and it won't be conducive to their work."
"Ron..." Remus begins, but Malfoy cuts him off.
"Actually," he says calmly, "it was all my idea."
Hermione can't help but stare at him, her mouth agape.
She hears Ron's "What the fuck?" and Harry's "That makes sense," but she finds herself unable to tear her gaze away from Malfoy to exchange glances with her friends instead.
Stunned, she watches as Malfoy unclasps his hands and sits up a little straighter in his chair.
"As I'm sure you can imagine, Weasley," he continues, though his eyes never leave Hermione, "I have a personal interest in seeing Granger's efforts crowned with success one day. And until then, I would like to support her. Not only with the knowledge I have acquired, but also with my body."
Hermione's breath catches, because now she understands.
Ron, however, doesn't seem to grasp what Malfoy is getting at, because he lets out an exasperated "Huh?"
"Hermione has often said that she could use someone who bears the Dark Mark," Harry remarks thoughtfully. "To study its magic and understand it better."
Malfoy doesn't congratulate Harry on his quick wit. He merely gestures casually down his body, as if to say, Ta-da.
Kingsley gives Harry an approving nod. Remus smiles faintly. Ron remains silent.
Her throat dry, Hermione returns the challenging gaze from grey eyes.
Well, well, she thinks. Looks like I've finally found a test subject.