Archive of Our Own

Hello Dramione friends!! It is so good to be back. If we haven’t met, I’m Galfoy, otherwise known as Angie. I am a longtime Dramione writer – and when I say longtime, Y’ALL, my first fic was published back in 2011 - my old fics are teenagers now.

Since 2011, I’ve gotten married to a total babe, had two kids, adopted a number of animals, acquired approximately 14 new tattoos, gotten a bit better at writing, and found myself a Serious Career. A whole lifetime has passed. I’m sharing that info at least partly to explain why I don’t really have time to write multi-chapter epics anymore. One-shots are the name of the game for now. I think I only managed to finish this fic because I got snowed in and then immediately got double pneumonia. Hah!

I mostly wrote this story in stolen moments of time on my lunch breaks. As it’s been over a decade since I used my old Tumblr account regularly, I made a new Reddit account so I can interact a bit more on there in the Dramione subs. I love making friends in the fandom, so don’t be shy (I’ve even been lucky enough to meet some of you in real life!)

I’m grateful for this fandom, really the GOAT of all fandoms, for keeping my mental health in check while I studiously avoid the news. I really believe that fan fiction saves lives. On va y arriver. It’s funny, I’ve been catching up on Dramione fics lately and I see that all the old OG stories I used to read in real time are now… Vintage. Vintage is cool, vintage is good, but it did make me laugh.

The idea for this fic came from a little house with a red door that I pass every day while I walk my dog. It has a sensor so that light clicks on when I pass. I love it.

I listened to See Her Out (That’s Just Life) by Francis and the Lights a lot while writing this.

Looking forward to catching up. Hugs, friends.

The first time the little house appeared, Draco didn’t notice in the least. He was busy trying to survive the day.

Two people were tailing him, and he was zig-zagging through the streets of Muggle London trying to throw them off, studiously ignoring the stitch in his side, the mild burn in his lungs, the mix of anxiety and elation that comes with a near escape. Heavy mist clung to every surface, making the sidewalks slick and unreliable. One wrong step and he’d break his neck. It was not a risk he could afford, not with the package he had in his overcoat, a delivery he was obliged to complete.

If only he could move faster.

His elbow clipped a passing Muggle, and he swore, straining every muscle in his body to make up the second or two he had lost trying a keep his balance. This would not be the day he was caught. He refused to let this be the day.

Sometimes, when Draco was evading capture, he imagined he was running through the fields surrounding the Manor. As a 7-year-old, he was unstoppable. Fast as a bloody spell, his father used to say. He would run through the fields, and nobody, not even the House Elves, could catch him.

This is what he imagined now. It couldn’t be a more different surrounding – dingy London, oily and dark – but he could still run like the wind.

With a quick shoulder check, he could see the space between him and the shadowy figures had widened ever so slightly. He grinned. Finally, a stroke of luck. “Not today, bastards!” he panted, and ducked into an alley before apparating away with a loud CRACK. It was such a close thing, but he had managed it again. The delivery would happen as scheduled. He hadn’t failed.

This was life now. Always a splinter away from chaos, always walking the line in worn-down dragon’s hide boots. Always with a new package to deliver. It’s no wonder he didn’t see the little townhouse with the red door, with a light that flickered on a few seconds before he passed it. Almost like a wave in the dark.

Now lost to the mist.

***

The second time the little house appeared, Draco was getting the tar beaten out of him on the sidewalk. This time, he had failed. The dark underbelly of Wizarding London was as alive as ever, as if it had been necromanced awake. Draco had become known as a delivery boy, working for the Courier. Never mind that nobody knew the true business of the Courier – it was still easy gossip. Tempting for those with very little. A carrot on the stick.

And Draco? His face was a little too familiar. It made him vulnerable.

Today, he wasn’t fast enough, realizing too late that he had run into a trap. If he survived, he would be furious that there was a mark on his perfect record. For now, however, his fury was directed at the thugs who managed to intercept his delivery.

A blow to the head knocked his nose to the side, red blood colouring his pale hair as he hit the ground.

“Finally time to see what these little packages are, Master Draco,” sneered a wizard with metal-tipped boots. “Thought you could keep it all to yourself? Everyone wants to know.”

The three wizards laughed uproariously. The shortest of the three gave Draco a final kick to the ribs, resulting in a crunching sound. Quiet rage and indignation shot through him, but as ever, he was determined to survive. He shut his mouth.

“Open it up, will ya?” said the one who must have been the leader. He was the loudest of the three, chest puffed out, oblivious to the true nature of his prize.

The short one grabbed the package out from Draco’s hand with a grin that smelled of decay.

“No prob, boss. Not wrapped all that well for something so precious. Makes you wonder if this so-called Courier even knows what he’s doing.” More laughter. More jeering.

Draco lay on the ground, blood lazily running from his ruined nose into a sizable puddle, watching, seething. His fucking record. Ruined. What would his boss say? Draco knew his speed was the reason the Courier wanted him in the first place. He never missed a delivery. He was unmatched.

Now though, he watched the miscreants towering over him. They assumed he was carrying jewels or gold, assuming the Courier dealt in treasure and not nightmares. Absolute simpletons.

He shouldn’t be surprised, though. Times were desperate. Lord Voldemort fell at the final battle and then somehow things got worse. Nobody understood it, least of all Draco. Lord Voldemort fell, and London went darker than ever. Harry bloody Potter vanished. His sidekicks disappeared. Now everyone was wading through the ink.

It even had a name now, this stupid nightmare. The Darkening. How did a dead wizard manage to snuff out all the hope in Britain? Nobody seemed to know. Everyone was too scared to find out. Most of Wizarding London was in hiding. The ones who remained were isolated.

It was the perfect storm for dark forces to take over. Perhaps that was the idea from the beginning. Bit by bit, it was happening.

The short one ripped the package at the top, pulling the brown paper back. Draco watched with interest.

Draco didn’t know what the Courier had him deliver, and that was the truth. He delivered because he had to. The warehouse was accessible to him, and only him, as far as he could tell. A lone employee. He picked up packages and dropped them off.  Every single day, from early morning until late at night, he delivered. There seemed to be no logic to the routes, but he knew better. Bad things were happening all around him. He was in the machinery, somehow greasing the wheels. The magical world was under a blanket of darkness. It felt like there was no reprieve.

“It’s empty!”

“The fuck you mean it’s empty?”

Draco kept very still, his breath rattling in his chest. Perhaps if he could come up with a good excuse, the Courier would leave his mother alone. Perhaps the damage could be limited to him. Yes, he would try for that.

A black vapour floated out of the empty space in the packaging. The men began to scream.

As the screaming continued, Draco saw a light click on out of the corner of his eye. A small townhouse with a cheerful red door, its front light blinking brightly despite the fact that it was mid-afternoon. How odd. He hadn’t noticed it before, but then, the current situation was rather distracting.

The screams eventually stopped, the men’s bodies inexplicably gone. Draco moaned as he stretched out his arm to grab the remains of the package, mournfully considering the torn paper shell. There were runes scratched into the paper, normally hidden. Interesting, perhaps, but not something he could dwell on.

After all, he would be punished for this.

The red door remained until he left, and then vanished into the afternoon din.

***

The third time the little house appeared, Draco paused in front of it. Again with the red door and the cheerful little light. But this was not the same area as before. Same house, different neighbourhood. House number 79, not at all in line with the numbers around it.

Cocking his head, he considered the situation.

The day’s delivery was already complete, which was a blessing, as Draco had been walking with a limp since he went back to his boss empty-handed. He’d had to get very crafty in order to escape those who followed him around. It was much harder to imagine running through the fields of Malfoy Manor with a debilitating pain in your leg and a clicking sound in your knee.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the red door. While it seemed perfectly inconspicuous, nothing after the Darkening was what it seemed. He could open the door and lose a limb to some sort of dark beast. He could open the door and be sucked into nothingness. Gods knew people were vanishing every day. Did this house follow people around and then eat them? It was possible. It was all possible now.

But it just didn’t feel like an ominous thing.

“Are you following me around, little house?” he asked, his voice coming out broken. He didn’t really speak with anyone anymore. Perhaps his voice would vanish from disuse. Thing was, nobody would even notice. The thought depressed him.

He used to be someone, you know.

The front door creaked and opened ever so slightly, a sliver of promise on a foggy afternoon. All on its own. An invitation.

This could go quite badly, he reasoned.

The thing was, in this nightmare of a life, death wasn’t the threat it should be. Draco regarded the door again. It was the same house as before, he was sure. Why was it following him? And did he really have anything to lose by looking inside? Draco thought of his mother, and prayed she wouldn’t suffer if this turned out to be the wrong choice. She was really all he had left.

Curiosity won. He limped through the doorway.

***

It was a simple, partial room. A cramped kitchenette. A small couch. A little table. But the room was warm, glowing from the fire in the fireplace, crackling happily at the far end of the space. Two doors, one to a small loo, one to a coat closet.

And that was it.

Well, nearly it. Draco saw a staircase that ended abruptly at the top with a door that looked out of place. Crooked. Borrowed. He was willing to bet it would not open for him. He could spot a magical splice when he saw one.

That, and there were two cups of tea on the counter. Steaming.

“Darjeeling,” he said to himself, recognizing the scent. His favourite. Everything looked so inviting. But he wasn’t an amateur. He hadn’t survived this long in the Darkening by drinking mystery cups of tea presented to him by a mystery house.

“What’s your deal then?” he said into the empty space. “Luring me in to do something wicked?”

The room didn’t respond.

“I’m not falling for it,” he announced. The tea continued to steam, and he suppressed a groan. He didn’t have time for tea anymore. Everything was about survival. Still, it was bloody tempting. A sip of tea in a sea of misery.

Draco forced himself to stop staring at the cups. Forced himself not to wonder why there were two. Forced himself to ignore the comfortable-looking couch with the worn quilt, the kind of couch you could have a good nap on.

Forced himself to step back over the threshold, back into the chill and damp of Darkened London. A place where comfort came to die.

Forced himself back into the mire.

He was long gone by the time the door at the top of the stairs was thrown open, and a voice screamed, “I’m here! I’m here! Where did you go?”

He was long gone by the time the voice broke down into sobs.

***

It was impossible to ignore now.

Running from undesirables, the house would pop into view.

Trying to make a difficult delivery, a red door would materialize out of nowhere.

Finishing the day and bone tired, deciding where to sleep for the night. Red door.

Draco resented it. Now that he knew how comfortable it was, how welcoming, it grated on him to know that he shouldn’t go back inside. Like everything else after the Darkening, it was a reminder of another nice thing he couldn’t have.

“Piss off,” he would whisper at it as he walked past, purposefully not going in.

In the end, it was one especially bad day that brought him back to the door with the cheerful light. Draco had slept poorly, was chased out of where he was staying, missed his meals and had nearly gotten caught delivering his package. He swayed with exhaustion as he glared at the door. This stupid house was possibly the only thing in London that was ever happy to see him.

“Satisfied?” he spat. “Apparently it takes energy to resist you.” With that, he opened to door and stomped inside.

It was almost exactly the same as it was before, except next to the steaming cups of tea, there was also a bowl of stew. It was a relief nobody else was around to hear the noise of absolute desperation that came out of his mouth.

Draco ate it ravenously, barely pausing to breathe as he inhaled the food. He didn’t care if it was bloody poisoned – it was fucking delicious – and it was damn worth the risk. After he finished, he sat on the little couch and drank both cups of tea, hands shaking with adrenaline. It was quite likely he would be captured now, he thought. This house had to have an ulterior motive. In this fucked-up new reality, there was a zero percent chance that he would get to enjoy the moment. He would just have to wait for his fate to meet him.

Time passed, and Draco sat, his eyelids getting heavier. What a strange little room. It was clearly magical, what with all the appearing and disappearing, but there were also Muggle newspapers in a pile next to the table with pictures that didn’t move. There was a bookcase along one wall that had a mix of magical and Muggle books. There were plugs in the kitchenette that were meant to carry electricity, one of the few things Draco retained from his useless Muggle Studies class.

So this house belonged to a Muggle at some point, but had since been repurposed into whatever this was? A building that followed him around like a bloody cat, for one.

Nothing had happened. It had been a while now, ten minutes a least, and not a damn thing had happened. Other than show up for his deliveries the following morning, Draco had nothing left to do. His package was already dropped off for the day.

The couch was comfortable, and the fire crackled happily in the grate. Would it be so bad? Would it be so bad to close his eyes for a moment? To have a moment of peace?

Sleep took him, deep and dark, until he heard the door slam.

***

The sound of the door slamming propelled Draco from slumber into immediate panic, and his fingers wrapped around his wand before he had even fully registered what was happening. The threat of danger made his nervous system clang loudly against his bones.

The front door was still closed, which left only one option.

A voice rang out, rapid steps bringing someone down the stairs from the crooked spliced door above.

“I’m here!” the voice screamed. “I’m back! Don’t leave like before, I finally found you – “

Draco already had his wand raised, and had only a split second to realize who was bounding into view. She had changed over the past year – she was skinnier and wild looking, but there was no mistaking the brown tangle of hair and the Muggle denims. Hermione fucking Granger. HERMIONE FUCKING GRANGER. Draco felt something ugly inside of him surge up, spilling over, flooding, melting any chance of a measured response. Hermione fucking Granger. She was alive. He had wondered, but here she was, alive.

The hex was utilitarian and brutal in strength. Draco knew how to survive, and it wasn’t by letting someone like Hermione get close enough to do damage. A wordless stunner sailed towards her.

Thing was, it all happened so quickly.

The spell hit her square in the chest, at the same time as her face fell from a brilliant smile to a look of shock. The look of shock happened at the same time as the house, the sweet little house that had been following Draco around for these long weeks, reacted.

The house was not happy.

As Hermione fell, stunned, hitting the floor with a slap, Draco observed the very walls of the house caving in towards him. Picture frames simply folded in on themselves. The floor rose to meet him. It was like watching bread dough, shifting with alarming speed towards the centre of the room, exactly where he stood.

Odd, he thought as he uselessly covered his face with his arms, rage forgotten as quickly as it came. He had wandered into a carnivorous building after all.

Everything went black.

***

“How?” whispered a voice. “How is this possible?”

A moan escaped Draco’s lips. He was tied to a chair, and Hermione was pacing in front of him. A painful-looking lump rose from her cheekbone, and Draco realized she must have hit the ground quite hard when he stunned her.

Remembering the surge of blinding anger he felt only moments earlier, Draco now looked at her injury with a sliver of uneasiness. It had been a long time since he had let his emotions blind him like that. He searched inside for some kind of calm, some balance. He would need his wits about him to get out of here unscathed.

Still, seeing someone from his school days – someone from the so-called Golden Trio, even – left him completely off-kilter. What had he walked into?

Hermione was pacing so angrily she looked like she was about to burn up. Her yellow knit jumper (gods, the thing was ugly) was a blur of hideous sunshine as she picked up speed. The thing was nearly a rag, the cuffs picked to pieces so that they trailed behind her like tiny streamers. She really did look wild, like one of those forest witches from the old stories. He even spotted a twig in her curls.

Well, into the breach.

“Evening, Granger,” Draco said, clearing his throat. He really needed to talk to more people. He sounded like he had one foot in the grave.

Perhaps he did. She certainly looked angry enough to stab him in the neck with her wand, magic be damned.

She whirled on him, eyes wide with fury. “YOU!” she screamed. “How did you do it?”

“The door was unlocked, and I entered,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s hardly the Fidelius.” He tried not to focus on the twig in her hair. Now that he had seen it, it pulled his focus from her face like a beacon.

She walked up to him so quickly he winced, their noses bumping. She looked like she was ready to set him on fire. At least he wasn’t the only one with a rage problem.

“That’s not what I meant and you bloody well know it!”

“Has it occurred to you that I might not actually know what you mean?” he volleyed back. “How did I do what, you absolute cunt?”

“HOW DID YOU GET THE HOUSE TO LET YOU IN?!” she shrieked, and he worried suddenly that she might actually start crying, her chest was heaving and her eyes were shiny. “DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG…. HOW LONG IT TOOK FOR ME TO GET THE SPELL RIGHT?”

She broke off with a sob and he looked at the ground, resolutely not in the mood to watch the Golden Girl have a cry in front of him.

“Excuse you,” he said, more quietly than he wanted to. “Your stupid little house has been STALKING ME for weeks. It pops up like a blister at least three times a day. Curiosity eventually got the better of me, okay? But don’t act like I planned this. It’s your house that’s been bothering me.”

She stared at him like he had sprouted wings.

“The house was following…. Following you?” she whispered.

“Did I fucking stutter?” Draco snapped, wriggling in his chair. His arms hurt. His head hurt. His little experiment had gone terribly wrong, and now he wanted to leave. The stew was not worth the risk, as it turned out. Now that the nerves and the rage had subsided, he was just tired. “What was it supposed to be doing before it went rogue?”

She sat down heavily on a chair, her head in her hands.

“It was supposed to find Harry and Ron.”

Draco didn’t even take a full breath before he guffawed laughing. “Seriously? Really, Granger? I know they called you the brightest witch of your age, but if your spell picked me up instead of the dynamic duo then you might want to step away from magic for a while.” He continued to laugh until his cheeks hurt. Merlin, it felt good to laugh again. When was the last time he had laughed? Truly, he couldn’t remember.

Hermione seemed less amused. She stood up and crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at him, a look of suspicion on her face.

“Have you been in contact with Harry and Ron?”

“Of course I haven’t been in contact with them,” he snorted. “I assumed they were dead. World’s gone mad, if you haven’t noticed.”

She jumped slightly at his words, and then resumed pacing.

“They aren’t dead, or at least I don’t think they are,” she said, picking up speed. “I calibrated the house to lock onto their magical signatures. It took months. It’s not exactly beginner magic, Malfoy. Whatever’s happening out there doesn’t allow people to find each other easily.”

“Well, you obviously failed, and now your house wants to eat me. Accept it and move on.”

She gave a weak chuckle. “It wants to eat you because you tried to hurt me. I got to you before it could smother you, don’t worry.”

Draco’s smile fell off his face. “Smother me?”

“The house will protect me from threats, Malfoy. Mastered that spell just fine. Brightest witch of my age and all that.” She had the nerve – the nerve! – to wink. With the twig in her hair and her ratty yellow jumper, not to mention the welt on her cheekbone, it just came off as frightening. Talk about hanging by a thread.

It was encouraging to know, at least, that even Hermione Granger couldn’t contend with the Darkening. If she couldn’t figure it out, then everyone was fucked.

“Fine,” he said. “You’re brilliant, your magic works fine, there’s nothing wrong with this situation, nothing strange happening at all, now please let me go.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, and did nothing.

A sudden bout of nervousness bubbled in his stomach. Hexing her might have been a miscalculation, now that she was recovered and clearly pissed off. There was really no reason for her to do anything she didn’t want to do. All he had done was anger her further.

But if he didn’t get back to the warehouse for his next delivery, he was as good as dead.

He cleared his throat. “Please.”

That caught her attention. “What will happen if I don’t let you go?”

“Uh, well, kind of you to ask, I’ll be murdered by the Courier who will then likely murder my mother and the Darkening will continue to spiral around us all.”

She deflated slightly. Fingers moved to pick at the remains of the cuff of her jumper before she purposefully wrenched her hand away.

“Lucky for you, I have no reason to keep you, Malfoy.” Rifling through the kitchen drawers, she pulled out a rather sharp knife. Draco looked on in alarm. “You’re not going to hurt me now that you know what the house will do. You’re not going to bring anyone else back here because the house won’t let them in.” She cut the ropes holding him to the chair with a grunt.

It’s not like he had anyone to bring to the little house, but he decided not to share how pathetically alone he was. Shaking out his wrists, he glared at her. “Was the knife necessary? Are you not a bloody witch? Use your wand!”

She smirked, much to his displeasure, and said matter-of-factly, “Some things are worth it just to see your reaction.” Gods, this version of the Golden Girl was truly unsettling. Draco didn’t like it one bit.

Turning, she headed for the stairs. “See you next time, Malfoy.”

“Next time? Come again?” he said, looking cagily at the room. Was it looking back at him? He wasn’t sure. “I doubt your house will welcome me back with open arms.” With a conspiratorial whisper, he added, “I think it noticed that I attacked you.”

Hermione sighed and turned back towards him. “Yes, well, I’m afraid that as long as you’re behaving, it will probably let you back. For whatever reason, the house picked you. Incorrectly, and maddeningly, but it picked you. I guess….I guess I didn’t get the spell right after all.” Her voice broke slightly, but she recovered, clearing her throat. “It will continue to try and offer you shelter for the foreseeable future, providing you don’t try to harm me again. That’s just how the magic works.”

Draco watched her walk up the stairs, open the door that didn’t quite fit the space, and leave. No ceremony at all. He looked around the room once more. It seemed perfectly normal now. No wobbly walls, no carnivorous suggestion.

“No hard feelings,” he said, standing up slowly with his hands in the air. “Right? If I come visit again, you won’t eat me?”

The room was silent.

“I was just caught off guard is all,” he said, starting to feel quite stupid. “I only ever see people who are trying off me. I won’t hex her again, I promise.”

The room appeared to ignore him.

“I assumed she was dead, you know. I haven’t really seen anyone in a while, since the Final Battle really…”

Silence.

“Not entirely sure why I’m still talking,” he mumbled. Nodded to nobody.

When he let himself out, he assumed it would be for the last time.

***

The next morning, Draco bit down on an apple and chewed thoughtfully, package under his cloak.

“Morning sunshine,” he said, crunching noisily. His mother would be so ashamed to see how his decorum had slipped, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The little light blinked at him. The red door looked especially shiny. The day had barely begun, but here it was: the only thing in London that wanted him around. Waiting in a completely different neighbourhood from the day before, naturally.

“I thought of you as a cat before, but you’re really more like a dog, aren’t you?”

The house said nothing.

“I guess that means you aren’t mad at me.” Usually, he would leave from wherever he was sleeping, steal a bite to eat and start his day. Perhaps he had an alternative now.

Curious, Draco let himself in.

There was a steaming cup of tea – only one this time, interesting, the house was adapting – and a plate of toast with jam. “I bloody love you,” he murmured. For perhaps the only time in his life, Draco was glad to be confused with Potter and his lap dog. If it meant he would be regularly fed, it was worth the sacrifice.

He finished the meal, and waved his dishes over to the sink. He supposed he should say something. Should he?

“Uh, thank you for the meal. Must go now. Packages to deliver.”

Why was he engaging in a conversation with a sentient house? Was this his life now? Merlin knew, but frankly, he didn’t care. This was the only good thing that had happened to him all year.

The door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Draco looked up to see Hermione’s face poking out, a full glare on display.

“Stupid faulty spell,” he heard her mutter, “Took me all bloody year and all I got was Malfoy,” and then she closed the door, leaving him alone. Anticlimactic, but he was grateful not to start the day with a duel.

Frankly, if they could co-exist here without attacking each other, then he had regular access to food and shelter again. Even Hermione Granger’s furious company was manageable under such circumstances.

And the truth was, perhaps it would be alright to have a bit of company, even if the company hated him.

He let himself out, hoping for the first time that the little house would find him again soon.

***

When he returned to the house that evening, Hermione was waiting at the table with her arms crossed. It was set for dinner.

She looked displeased.

“I can’t tell the house to stop trying to feed you,” she said, the annoyance clear in her voice. “The magic will do it regardless. And this is usually where I eat, so I’m afraid we will have to put up with one another for the time being.”

Draco blinked and then shrugged, removing his outer cloak and hanging it on the wall.

“Given my day job, I have to contend with a great many horrors more terrifying than you, Granger.”

The meal looked good. Better than good. Some sort of roast with veg, infinitely better than what he would have eaten on his own.

“I resent the implication that I am not sufficiently terrifying,” she mumbled, tucking in to her meal.

“Oh you are, please don’t misunderstand,” he said around a mouthful of food, “but it’s more due to your jumper than anything else.”

That earned him a heated look. “Believe it or not, having Wizarding Britain enveloped in dark magic has limited my shopping opportunities.”

“That’s one explanation,” he said, conjuring himself a glass of water. Then he conjured one for his swotty tablemate. His pureblood manners hadn’t completely left him. “The other explanation is that you have the style of a forest hag.”

Hermione had just taken a sip of water, and proceeded to choke on it, taken over by a coughing fit.

“There there Granger. No need to expire on my account. Unless you insist, of course.” He wondered if he should pat her on the back, but decided against it, lest the house try to eat him again.

“A forest hag!” she croaked.

“You have a literal twig in your hair, Granger.”

She pulled it out, angrily. “Fine comment from someone who looks practically undead.”

“You wound me,” he smirked.

“It is my fervent wish.” She chewed aggressively, which was not something he had previously considered to be possible.

“In case you are curious as to why I look ‘undead’, as you put it, I run all day, eat very little, and spend much of my time being attacked. Does wonders for the physique.” Draco sipped his water. Honestly, he was rather enjoying himself. It felt nice to converse again.

“Oh,” Hermione said, looking uncomfortable. “Well.”

“Well indeed.”

They finished their meals in silence. When they were done, Hermione levitated their dishes over to the sink while Draco did a quick tidying charm on the table. There was an awkward moment where Draco wondered if he should just back away and slip out the door, but Hermione saved them both by wishing him a frosty good night and disappearing up the stairs.

Draco looked around the room, wondering if it would be presumptuous to just… Stay.

The little couch was much too short for his tall frame. One could have a quick upright nap, certainly, but he could never lie down. Unless… Unless the house was truly compelled to take care of him.

He sat down, drumming his fingers on his knees.

“Mind if I sleep here?” he asked the room, feeling only a little silly.

The couch lengthened. Draco smiled.

Gods, he could get used to this.

***

He learned quickly that Hermione didn’t come down for breakfast, but that dinner was a shared meal. And with the house allowing him to sleep on the couch, he suddenly had a ‘home’ of sorts. With books to read. An actual loo with a shower. Regular food.

It was almost enough to make him forget that they were living in some kind of dystopian magical apocalypse. Almost.

Dinner conversation evolved. It was not always comfortable, and it was not always friendly, but it allowed Draco to discover a number of things about Hermione Granger:

1. If he kept her hydrated via regular water refill, she was less likely to try and hex him mid-meal.
2. If he complimented her house, even something benign like enjoying the shade of cream on the walls, it pleased her enough to resist calling him a ‘condescending death eating nepo-baby’, whatever that was.
3. If he asked her something, anything about her life over the past year, she would answer, but then she would also Not. Stop. Talking.
4. Hermione was as starved for company as Draco was.

These rules were simple enough to allow Draco to adapt. In today’s example, he asked a simple, “Where are you spending your time when you’re not here?”

That was one hour ago. Hermione had been talking since then.

“Anyway, I’ve ended up near the Yorkshire Dales,” she said in between bites. “That’s where the other half of the house is. For whatever reason, magic is working somewhat normally there. Patronuses work, owls don’t get lost, almost like regular life, you know? It’s a funny pocket that the dark magic forgot. But for the rest of the country, well, it’s hard to know what’s happened to everyone. I’ve bumped into a couple of people entirely by chance – you remember Neville Longbottom? – but finding people on purpose is out of the question. So many friends have gone missing, nasty attacks. The floo network is corrupted. There are dangerous beasts roaming in public areas. The Ministry is essentially non-existent in the sense that they can’t even get into the building half the time. Just chaos.”

“And that’s why you’re looking for…”

“Harry and Ron, yes. From the information I received, although it was admittedly spotty, they had some sort of lead on what’s causing all this. We were split up after the Final Battle though, and I’ve been just piecing together scraps since then. I’m sure you’ve noticed that whatever this magic is, it makes it almost impossible to reach people. Completely isolating. I can’t get messages to either of them. In turn, they can’t find me.”

Draco refilled her water, considering.

“So what do you think is going on, Granger? Seems to me you were the brains of that operation.”

Hermione shrugged, a very slight blush on her cheeks. She was wearing a different sweater today. It was the colour of oatmeal. Still hideous, but no longer falling to pieces.

Draco wondered if he should have resisted calling her a forest hag. Perhaps that was… Uncharitable.

“I think Voldemort set up a fail-safe,” she said, finally. “I think he had a backup plan in case the battle didn’t go the way he wanted. But I don’t think he counted on how much society would fall apart. Without a leader, and with everything suppressed by dark magic, it’s just different factions fighting for space. Not some grand vision of the kind of society he wanted.”

A fail-safe.

Truth was, he could see it. It would explain the nightmare of Darkened London, and the rest of Britain at that. Just Voldemort making everyone miserable and scared, posthumously.

The thought made Draco hate the wizard even more.

Hermione appeared to have run out of things to talk about, so Draco said, “what are those books on the end table about?”

It bought him an extra hour of pretending life was normal.

***

Draco ran his deliveries as usual during the day. Evading capture was even more fun now that he wasn’t famished all the time. He got so quick the Courier added extra deliveries to his routes. Normally, he would feel proud of performing well, but London only seemed to get sicker and more depressing the more he worked. Twice now he was chased by mythical beasts that were meant to be extinct. It was oppressively dreary out. He was practically stalked on every route. And people were more aggressive, too. He’d been hexed three times; thankfully his protego had been up, but Merlin knew it was a close thing.

As time went on, finishing his last delivery became a significant motivator. The last delivery of the day meant he could go home. Well, as home as possible, given that he was sharing space with a know-it-all bookworm who has spliced her house in two in a fit of absolute madness.

Still. Home. A place where he got to converse with another human, even if that human was… Well… Granger.

“I’m not sure I understand how you came to be working for this Courier person, Malfoy.”

Hermione was unsuccessfully twirling pasta around her fork. Draco watched, fascinated by how someone so clever could repeatedly fail at something so simple. It was fucking spaghetti.

It was making him grouchy.

He snatched up her fork and twirled the pasta himself, handing it back to her with a scowl.

“Are you trying to drive me insane? It’s like eating with an animal.”

Annoyingly, she laughed, her nose crinkling with pleasure before taking a bite.

“And to answer your question, once Voldemort fell at the Final Battle, I felt myself…. Vanish.”

She stopped chewing, and stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I vanished, and reappeared in a warehouse. I met the Courier. He’s a real brute, gods, looks like he’s built out of several other brutes. Anyway, not someone to be trifled with, which I can say with some authority having shared my home with the Dark Lord. He informed me that I was working for him now, that it was all prearranged, that he had my mother locked away in the Manor. If I did the job well, she would remain unharmed. Showed me a signed contract. My father’s signature, mind you. Charming discovery. And that was that.”

Draco swallowed around the lump in his throat, trying to look unaffected. That was not his best day. Might have been one of his worst.

“That was that? That’s utter bollocks!” Hermione looked outraged, two spots of colour high on her cheeks. It was amusing, actually, seeing her so worked up on his behalf. “You’re not some commodity to be traded!”

Draco shrugged. “Precedence would disagree with you. I don’t know what was going through my father’s head all those years ago, but my continued indentured servitude appears to have been a feature.”

“So you have to pay for your father’s mistakes? For his shortsighted promises? How is that fair? The work is dangerous! You’ve been walking with a limp since you came here. People attack you!”

“The limp is nothing compared to being trained by Bellatrix,” he smirked. “At least I can run away in this job.”

“Well, it’s ridiculous.” Hermione had started unsuccessfully twirling her pasta around her fork again, her expression stormy. “The whole situation is unacceptable.”

Failed twirl. Failed twirl again. Draco watched the noodles revolt on her plate, completely perplexed.

“And this Courier person is keeping your mother against her will? It’s just… Just… Just bollocks! If it weren’t so hard to organize people, if we could just communicate normally, this would never be happening…”

Failed. Twirl.

“Then we could free her, and find the Courier, and end this farce of an employment agreement, which is abusive, plain and simple, don’t even get me started on employment law, a bloody contract without your knowledge…”

Draco felt his patience evaporate.

“You are utterly hopeless,” he snapped, grabbing her fork and twirling the noodles until it was overloaded. “How are you so terrible at this? You can cut your house in half and have it find people in an unfindable city, you can defeat the Dark Lord, you can make your house eat your enemies, but you can’t control your bloody noodles? It’s utterly maddening, Granger! Use that big fucking brain of yours! Fork. Spaghetti. TWIRL.”

He handed her fork back with more emotion than he intended, his pulse hammering in his neck.

Hermione froze, and then blinked, and then smiled, her whole face lighting up. She laughed. Taking the fork from his hand, she kept laughing, the tension from the conversation leaving her body, tears escaping from the corners of her eyes. “Your face!” she giggled, wiping her cheeks ineffectively. “Twirl!” She laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Her laugh echoed in the corners of the room, hanging in the air like an enchanted ceiling. Musical and carefree. The antithesis of the heavy despair of the Darkening.

Draco had no idea what to do. He had gotten used to her endless chatter, but laughing was not part of their current tenuous agreement. As he watched her react to his outburst with genuine delight, he felt a strange constriction in his chest.

Hermione Granger’s laugh should not make him feel… Feel…

Tingly. And short of breath.

Angrily, Draco pushed the feeling down as far as he could and glared at her.

“Stop laughing! I just want you to use your utensils like an adult!”

This did not stop the laughing. It made it worse. She was gasping for breath.

“Merlin Granger, forgive me for trying to keep you fed,” he groused.

She calmed, smiling happily at him. The contented sigh she made might actually have been worse than the laughing. He felt something slip, deep inside of him, like a lost footing.

He pushed it down, panicked. Waited for her to run out of remaining giggles, mercifully, at last. Helped clear up after the meal. Said goodnight.

Later, after she left, he shot daggers at the room, hands clenched.

“It’s not fucking funny,” he hissed. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but the next time you serve us spaghetti I’m going to mash it into soup.”

The room, naturally, said nothing.

But if we’re being honest, it probably didn’t believe him.

***

Having such a strong track record was a bit too tempting for fate, as it turned out.

Finally, while out for delivery, Draco was hit by something square in the back, and he went down hard. His package bounced away from him, landing in a puddle as he hit the cobblestone.

Burning. Immediate burning. It must have been actual fire – that was the only possible explanation for the searing pain he felt. He could hear himself screaming. The pain was spreading across his back, towards his torso. Normally, Draco was hard-wired for survival, and could think his way through pain to get to safety. Today was no such day. Draco realized quickly that he was going to die here. It was going to happen fast, too.

A small snick of sound, an opening door, and Draco felt himself being roughly pulled inside.

“Fuck sakes Malfoy, what have you done?”

He couldn’t speak, he was still screaming, but he felt cool hands wrap under his chin and tip his mouth upwards. A grassy liquid slid down his throat. The pain began to subside, but his body was wracked with tremors. The damage was real. He could smell it.

Draco had been pulled into the entryway of the house. Hermione hovered over him, working faster than he had ever seen her work.

A potion for pain.

A spell to stop the progression.

Levitating him onto a sheet.

Vanishing his shirt.

And then a jar of something, a balm, and she was dipping her hands in and spreading them across the burn.

“You’re going to be fine,” she said, her voice calm in a way that was scaring him. He’d never heard her sound like this. It must be bad. “I got to you in time.”

Draco shook and shook, but Hermione’s hands worked quickly, spreading the balm across the burn – left side ribs, left side stomach, most of his back and shoulder. Once she had one layer on, she started on the second. Slowly, calmly, all the while saying “It’s going to be fine, Draco, it’s going to be just fine. Did you know I was on the run with Harry and Ron for nearly a year? Those two get injured a lot – I had plenty of practice.”

He shook and shook.

“Did I tell you that I made this balm just in case I ever had to deal with this particular curse? Mmhmm. It was popular with Snatchers, so I knew I had to be prepared. Neville Longbottom grew the herbs for it. He’s staying out in the Dales with me, we have to stick together when we’re lucky enough to find someone, you know. His cottage is in the same town as mine. Neville is more or less unmatched in herbology, actually. And I’m quite good with potions and healing. So you’ll be fine, Draco. Just fine.”

Third layer, and he was starting to shake less. Her hands smoothed the balm on like a meditation. Soft circles. Gentle swoops. He felt her fingers trail over his ribs. He felt her thumbs rub carefully across his chest. She hummed while she worked.

“You know one of the key ingredients in this? St. John’s Wort. Remember that one from class? Muggles use it too. Such a handy plant. Neville grows it in giant gardens. Quite beautiful to see it in the light, catches the sun just so. I’ll have to take you someday. When all this is over. I’ll show you around. It’s lovely up there. You’ll be fine, Draco. Everything is fine. I got to you in time.”

At this point he knew she was just trying to keep him calm, which suited him, because it was working. But as the panic from the injury was receding, a different kind of panic was replacing it.

The feeling of her hands on his body. Merlin, this bloody feeling. It was intoxicating. It was terrifying. It felt like a dangerous kind of magic. Draco tried to tamp it down, but it was like trying to juggle water. That slipping feeling from earlier? It was back. His footing was completely gone. He was in freefall under her hands.

Not only that, but hearing her use his first name felt like being under a different kind of spell.

Gods, he was right fucked, wasn’t he.

After four layers, she levitated him to the couch and sat down on the ground, her face right beside his face as she talked, letting the medicine do its job, keeping him still. She told him about her childhood, about the dishes her father used to cook, about the flowers her mother used to grow. She talked about her favourite teachers, her pet gerbil, a potted plant that kept trying to die on her – she named it Cheese, which made him realize she might be funnier than he had given her credit for.

She talked about her favourite books, the ones she read when she was lonely, both as a child and now as an adult.

“I never expected adulthood to be lonely,” she said in a whisper. “But even when I’m with friends, I’m still alone. I know I’m loved, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a funny thing. I can’t explain it.”

Draco didn’t feel completely in his own head, but he mumbled, “do you feel lonely now?”

Hermione smiled at him, a delicate thing, her eyes glassy. “Oddly no. You are better company than I would have expected. I think you need to work on your branding, Draco. Hiding your light under a bushel and all that.”

A warm feeling gathered in his chest. “Come down for breakfast?” he asked, his eyelids drooping.

“Of course,” she said.

He slept heavily, and woke up in the morning surprised to find Hermione sleeping on the floor, the rug transfigured into a small mattress. She had stayed, curled up like a snail, bare feet, wild hair. Less like a forest hag, and more like a wood sprite. He smiled at the sight, feeling like a complete fool. Look what he’d gone and done. A rooky mistake. Thrown himself right off a cliff without realizing.

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

Of all the possible outcomes in Darkened London, of all the possible futures he saw for himself, he couldn’t think of one more different than this. The burns on his chest were gone, the balm had done its work.

But within his chest? Something much more dangerous had happened instead.

***

The following week was one of the hardest Draco could remember, but not because of dark magic, or being followed, or being sent on risky missions. This week, Draco had to pretend that Hermione hadn’t altered his brain chemistry by putting her hands all over his body. He had to pretend that her laughter didn’t make him lightheaded.

He had to pretend that nothing had changed.

It was fucking torture.

She joined him for breakfast every morning now, which was lovely, but also impossible, because he would stretch the length of the meal to keep the conversation going, and then he would rush his deliveries to get back home. And a plan started brewing in his mind, a plan so stupid he forbade himself to dwell on it, which made him dwell on it more, which made him unbelievably grouchy.

“What on earth has gotten into you?” Hermione tutted over dinner. “You’re as snappy as a turtle.”

“That’s not even an expression!” Draco wailed, and Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“I am being perfectly reasonable, I simply request that you not invent asinine expressions – “

“Draco.”

And that made him stop, because apparently he was so primitive, so stupid that hearing Hermione use his name cancelled out all his thought processes. His brain just ceased its activity, no more thinking, just a paramecium floating on a rock. She must have noticed. She must be doing it on purpose. Mustn’t she?

A plate was pushed towards him. He stared at her hands. He had become fond of those hands. “Eat. You’re finally looking less like the undead. Don’t stand in the way of progress, Draco.”

Draco scowled. “Is that a compliment, Granger?”

“Naturally,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth.

Draco felt his final nerve snap.

That was it. He couldn’t take any more. He decided in that moment to enact his terrible plan.

***

Draco stood in front of the red door, oddly nervous. This was such a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea, yet here he was.

Would she see right through it? He wasn’t sure. But he couldn’t keep pretending. He had to do something. Anything. Now that he knew what it felt like to have her full attention on him, her bloody hands on him, he needed it again. Merlin help him, he was pathetic.

It was a fast hex, so fast he couldn’t second guess himself, just a quick slash up his arm to his shoulder. Enough of an injury that it was serious without risking his life. The pain bloomed and he gasped, leaning heavily on the door and then stumbling in. Hermione had been at the counter, brewing something, and she jumped at the sight of the blood, yelling his name. Draco felt himself being lowered onto a chair while she accio’d medical supplies, a string of profanity from her lips.  

“I’m going to murder this Courier person myself, you know that?” she snapped, vanishing his new shirt and disinfecting the wound. “To be so cavalier with your body, like you don’t matter. Absolute tosh! Look at the length of this cut!”

Draco smiled and relaxed into the feeling of her hands. It was a stupid idea, and his ancestors were rolling in their graves, but it was his stupid idea, and in this moment, he didn’t give a fig. He was exactly where he wanted to be.

“I guess I just got unlucky,” he lied. In fact, he was the most lucky wizard in Darkened London.

After stitching him up, she pulled out a different balm – a balm! – and his heart sang. Hermione started massaging the medicine into the injury, angrily cursing his employer.

“How many was it this time?” she asked. “You said you’re followed by all types, right?”

He hummed in the affirmative. He’d say anything she wanted just to keep her hands exactly where they were.

“Sometimes it’s gangs, sometimes beasts, but often it’s just one or two people. Hard to know who was responsible today though. Didn’t get a good look.”

Hermione gasped, very suddenly, her elbow jolting out and knocking into the jar of balm. It hit the floor and smashed.

Draco heard her breathing become ragged.

“Granger?”

Her face was frozen, her mouth open in shock as she stared ahead, unseeing.

“Hermione? Fuck, let’s get you sitting down, you’re not well.”

“Say that again,” she whispered.

“You’re not well, just let me – “

“No, before.”

Draco thought back, mind racing. “Uh, sometimes beasts? That? Gangs?”

“And sometimes two people,” she said. Tears were running down her face now, dripping off her chin as she sat frozen.

Draco realized then what had happened.

“Sometimes two people,” he repeated. His heart sank.

Everything was about to change.

“How often?” she asked. “How often is it two people?”

He saw another twig in her hair and reached up to gently remove it. Did she sleep in the fucking woods? He supposed it didn’t matter now. “Fairly often, I guess. I rarely see the faces. But I can tell when it’s two.”

Hermione reached out and curled her fingers around the hand holding the twig. The wood bit into his skin.

“I didn’t get the spell wrong,” she said. “I understand now. The house let you in because it was supposed to. It… It could read their magical signatures on you. They’ve been tracking you this whole time.”

Draco shrugged. It made sense. “Seems unlike you to get a spell wrong. I probably should have realized sooner. That was a fairly big oversight on my part. I’m sorry, Granger.”

She smiled, roughly wiping her tears away. She’d been picking at her cuffs again, the bottoms in ribbons. The jumper made her look like an oatmeal-coloured string of festival bunting.

Somehow she still looked beautiful.

“Draco,” she whispered, leaning close to him. “I know you’re not supposed to get caught. I know that’s the whole point. But… Would you consider letting them catch up to you?”

He thought it was interesting that she hadn’t realized the obvious. If she asked, he would do it. Even if it meant the end of him.

Later that night, after Hermione had gone upstairs, Draco stared at the ceiling of the little room he called home.

“I want you to know that despite the rough start, you were my favourite,” he said to the house. The Manor was a good home when he was a child, but after the Dark Lord moved in... Well. And Hogwarts was a good home at first, but even that went away fairly quickly. But this tiny house had felt like a real home. He loved it here. It wanted nothing from him other than a bit of good company.

Pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, Draco looked out into the dark and let himself grieve for everything he was about to lose. It was significant, he realized, the amount of meaning he had stuffed into a few short months in this place.

“I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but there’s a strong chance I won’t be able to come back again. I’ll be surprised if I last the day. So I… I just wanted to say thanks.”

The room was quiet. The fireplace crackled. Draco slept, and slept surprisingly well, knowing that at very least, the house would keep Hermione safe long after he was gone.

***

In the morning, he snuck out. It was cowardly, and it made him a bit sick to do it, but Draco knew himself well enough to realize that he would ruin everything if he saw her again. The truth would come out. He’d stumble over his words and frighten her away. He’d probably even tell her he liked her jumper.

It was better like this.

Instead of going to the warehouse, he started walking. If Harry and Ron were tracking him, if that really was the case, they would find him soon enough. Morning had just broken, and most of Wizarding London was asleep. It was a perfect time for the wonder duo to get a clean run at him.

It only took ten minutes before he realized he was being followed. A quick shoulder check confirmed that there were two people hanging back, maybe one block away. Draco stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, turned towards them, and beckoned them forward.

Slowly, making sure they could see, he turned into an alley.

He waited with his hands over his head, wand in his pocket. It was stupidly risky, every cell in his body screaming at him to arm himself. Anyone could turn that corner and avada him right now. And yet, here he was.

For a witch.

When they came into view, Draco yelled the only thing he could think of.

“Hermione told me to let you catch up. I’m trusting her, you arseholes! Wands down!”

“Hermione said WHAT?!”

Ah, Weasely. Well, that confirmed things at least.

“Hermione has been trying to find you,” he called out, watching with interest as the glamours on Harry and Ron’s faces lifted. They looked older than he remembered, but he probably looked older too. Time had passed, after all. Ron looked like he was about to curse Draco down to a crisp, his wand out and aimed directly at Draco’s chest.

Harry though, Harry was lowering his wand, confusion on his face.

“Like you’d know a fucking thing about Hermione – “

“Stop, Ron,” said Harry. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

“Thank you Potter,” Draco said, glaring at Ron. “And yes, Granger has gone to insane lengths to find you both. She asked me to let you catch up. She thinks you have a plan. So here I am. At your service.” Draco bowed with a flourish and a smirk.

Harry dropped his wand hand fully.

“How is she?”

That question caught him off guard, and Draco began to completely reevaluate his opinion of Harry Potter. Inquiring about Hermione’s well-being before jumping into business and trying to save the world? Perhaps there was a reason Hermione was so attached to her bespectacled friend.

“She’s good. Great. Spends a lot of time being worried about you both, though.”

“What do you mean she’s great?!” Ron said, his wand arm shaking. “How would you bloody know?”

“Because I live with her, Weasel,” Draco sneered, his composure slipping. He didn’t even know why he said it. While it was technically true, it was also suggestive. It had a certain… Connotation. A connotation that they were romantically engaged. That the feelings weren’t one-sided.

It was misleading, but it was satisfying to say, so Draco didn’t correct himself. It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To live with her that way.

Fucking Weasley. Let him think what he wanted.

Harry reached over and lowered Ron’s wand. “It’s been a year,” Draco heard him whisper. “We don’t know what she’s gone through. He’s put his wand away. Why would he lie about this? You need to stay calm – for her sake, you need to stay calm.”

Harry turned back to Draco. “Ok Malfoy. Thanks for listening to Hermione, and yeah, she’s right, we do have a plan. We think your boss might be behind all this mess. You seem to be the only one who can get in and out of the warehouse, which we know definitively because we’ve been trying to break in for months now. We have to be let in by someone with access.”

Harry took a breath. “We need you to side-along us into the warehouse. We need to take down the Courier.”

Draco blinked at them.

“You think he’s behind the Darkening? Potter, he runs an unorthodox courier business. I was chased by a fucking chimera the other day. I doubt the two are related.”

Harry and Ron exchanged a look. Harry looked apologetic. “Not sure if you’ve ever had a look in those packages you deliver mate, but he’s having you strengthen an enchantment every time you make a delivery. The more you deliver, the stronger the magic gets. It’s just a big web of magic all over Britain, but London is the key.”

“We assume Voldemort cast the original enchantment. Your boss was meant to keep it healthy. And he has. Big fucking success. Can’t even move without being caught up in something dark. Can’t fight back at all.”

Draco felt dizzy. If that was true, then this whole thing was… His doing. The track record he was so proud of. It was making things worse.

“And no, it’s not your fault,” said Harry. “Took us a bloody long time to work it out. If we hadn’t been separated from Hermione, it would have only taken days, I’m sure. You know how she is.”

Draco felt himself huff a laugh, despite feeling resolutely awful, and scrubbed his hand over his face.

“That big brain of hers,” he said, not missing the twitch from Ron, which he ignored. “Yeah, I know what she’s like. I can get you in, but he’s got me under contract – I won’t try to damage anything once I’m inside in case it triggers something. But if I get you in, you’re going to do what? Apparate in and…?”

“Blow the whole operation sky high,” said Harry, smiling. “Destroy the enchantment. Restore London, Britain, whatever else is caught up in this.”

Draco appreciated the gleam in Harry’s eyes as he described blowing up a building. Perhaps they could manage to get along after all.

“You in, Malfoy?”

Draco sighed, looking around the dingy alley. One thing was sure: he would love to see the sun again. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing I would miss, does it?”

***

In the end, it took almost no time to bring the warehouse to the ground. Not even a full second after apparating, Ron was razing the assembly station into nothing, blowing up everything in his path with a zeal that was, frankly, alarming. Harry took only about a minute to locate and incapacitate the Courier. He did it like he was nothing. He did it like it was fun. The man was grinning.

Draco had to admit that he might have underestimated the abilities of the two Gryffindors. He watched, slightly stunned, as his surroundings were reduced to ash around him, fuelled by coordinated enthusiasm. Sure, Draco had gotten good at a vicious sort of survival. He could fight. He had been trained by the best, or if not the best, then certainly the most ruthless.

But he could see the appeal of fighting with real backup. With a friend.

Those two made it look enjoyable.

At one point, Harry smashed open a window and shot a flare out the opening. Within moments, Order members were arriving, burning down what was left of the warehouse and guarding the Courier’s bound form. Remus Lupin waved at him. The bonds were weakening quickly if people were able to apparate in.

Draco felt a little curl of hope in his chest.

The bonds were weakening. The enchantment would break.

And so far, he was still alive.

By the time Draco walked away from the wreck, the fog was starting to lift. By the time he reached the Manor, the sun had come out from behind a cloud. And while the Malfoys weren’t typically a family that showed much emotion, Draco hugged his mother for a very long time before telling her everything that had happened since the Final Battle.

***

The whole thing didn’t even take a full day. Draco had left the little house at the break of dawn, expecting never to return, and here he was again, waiting outside, just in time for dinner. Not even a full day, but everything had changed. He desperately wanted to go inside, but he was in purgatory at the front door, listening.

An argument was taking place.

“I don’t understand why you’re angry!” came Hermione’s voice. “I’ve spent the entire year trying to find you both. I bespelled my bloody house to reach you. I’m elated to have you back. What exactly is the problem here?”

“He says you live together, Hermione! Excuse me for being a little surprised!”

“Ron, come off it,” yawned Harry. He sounded content, like he was ready to curl up and have a nap. “It’s finally over. Do you see what we did today? It’s not the end of the world if Hermione is living with Malfoy. She seems happy.”

“Well maybe she doesn’t know what she wants, Harry!”

“Could you be any more condescending?” Hermione seethed. “Do I not seem fully in control of my faculties?”

Draco felt himself flinch. Earlier, his white lie seemed fairly harmless. It was wishful thinking. A heat of the moment comment.

Really, the idea of living with Hermione – in the way he truly wanted – was a daydream that he was never going to see realized. He had been a house guest, not a lover. And now that the Darkening was over, perhaps he wasn’t even a house guest anymore. They had yet to have that conversation.

“I question your faculties if you truly have Malfoy living with you, Hermione.”

Rude. Gods, Weasley was rude to her. It made him want to break a few knuckles into Ron’s face. But instead Draco waited, resigned, for her to correct her friend. To tell him it wasn’t like that. Never had been. To tell him that Draco slept on the couch, actually, and regularly poked fun at her clothes. That the house had picked him because of an error, and that they spent so much time together because they had no other option. That she didn’t think of him that way.

“What does it matter if he lives with me, Ronald?”

Draco paused. That wasn’t exactly a rebuttal.

“Because he’s sodding Malfoy, Hermione!”

He could almost hear her drawing herself up, pulling all her fury together through her teeth.

“I don’t. Bloody. Care. I don’t care if he’s Malfoy. He has been good to me. He listens. He is consistent. He makes me feel less alone. I like having him here. He likes being here. And it is none of your business how I have spent this god-awful year.”

A small snick of sound, and Draco looked down to see a potted plant by his foot. Purple. Striped. Curious, he picked it up.

“You’re not even denying it? You’re seriously with the ferret?”

“Ronald Weasley!” Hermione shrieked, loud to Draco’s ears even from outside the door. “Understand this now and forever: you are my friend, and I adore you, but I am not a child and you have no say in who I choose to love.”

Draco felt the breath leave him in one big push. Holy fuck.

He had been wrong. Wonderfully wrong. He had told a lie based on wishful thinking, never imagining that Hermione had made the same wish.

“Fine,” he heard Ron mumble. “Yeah, ok. You’re right. But if he’s so amazing, where is he now? You think he’ll still prioritize you now that all this is over? What if he’s run back to his little Death Eater buddies?”

“It’s dinner time, I’m sure… I’m sure he’s on his way.”

Draco opened the door, plant in hand, unable to completely hide his smile. Life was good, wasn’t it? Life was so good.

“Gods Hermione, you would not believe the day I just had. Oh, Potter, Weasley, what are you doing here? Come to see the house?”

***

Harry and Ron didn’t stay long, much to the chagrin of the house, which had been working overtime to create enough dinner for everyone. It was a veritable feast, and Ron looked longingly at the spread while Harry ushered him out.

“Got to go, we are expected at the Burrow, aren’t we Ron?”

Ron looked conflicted. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess we are. See you Hermione, Malfoy.”

And then they were alone, staring at a mountain of food and the cheery new plant (which Hermione had called Crackers, to Draco’s amusement).

The weight of the conversation to come was palpable.

Draco opened the bottle of wine thoughtfully provided with the meal. “Alright Granger. We need to celebrate. You solved it. As if there was any doubt.”

Hermione blushed heavily, taking the glass. “Hardly! I only barely pieced together that Harry and Ron were tracking you. I didn’t clue in that your job was at the centre of things. Imagine how much faster it would have been if I had paid closer attention. I completely bollocksed it up.”

“You did nothing of the sort. We’d still be muddling around in the dark if it weren’t for you. Just take the compliment.”

Hermione harrumphed and sipped the wine.

There was a minute of silence.

“Did you say it to bother Ron?”

Draco coughed on his wine. “Come again?”

“Did you say it to bother Ron? Or did you say it because you wanted it?”

“Bold of you to think I can’t choose both,” Draco mumbled into his glass. Perhaps they were going to talk about this after all. Right here.

Hermione snorted. “Ok. Is it both then? Or just one? It would be… Helpful. For me to know.”

Setting down his glass, Draco stood up and walked around the small table, crouching in front of Hermione. If he was going to say it, he wanted to say it directly. No army-sized feast in the way.

“Pissing Weasley off was a complete bonus, and it brought me immense joy, but I said it because I wanted it to be true.” Her eyes widened. “Look, if you asked me to continue sleeping on the couch, I would do it. Just to stay in your life. I like what we have right now. But if you asked me to be something more, I need you to know how real this is for me. If you want more, I will be your more. As long as you want.”

Hermione gaped at him, so he kept going.

“You are terrifyingly smart, Hermione. And caring. It drives me mental, actually. Totally exhausting to care that much about everything. Completely inefficient. You should really pare it down. And I’m not sure how you manage to still be so gorgeous in those terrible jumpers – “

“Hey!”

“But you do, and if you asked me to, I would unravel them bit by bit with my teeth. Just to show my dedication.”

“Hey.” Her tone had changed. She was looking at him differently now.

There was heat in that gaze.

“I admit I’m surprised,” she grinned, cheeks flushed. “But it’s a good kind of surprise. I do want more. It’s shocking how much I enjoy your company, frankly, considering how hard you work to make yourself seem unlikable...”

“Hey!”

“And along those lines, it occurs to me that you’ve never seen the upstairs.” The sweetness in her voice was deceptive. “Care for a tour?”

She pulled him gently to his feet by the collar of his shirt, smirking.

“That was… Extremely hot,” Draco choked out.

She went on her tip toes to whisper in his ear. “Upstairs. Now.”

Draco moaned as she brushed her lips along the shell of his ear. “Of course you’re bossy about this. Gods, I am so fucked. So completely fucked.”

“That’s the idea,” she whispered. And then he wasn’t able to speak again for quite some time.

***

Draco woke up spooning Hermione in a cramped little bed, her wild curls smothering his face. Something was poking at his eye.

“Another goddamn twig,” he mumbled, fighting with it a bit before extricating it and throwing it across the room.

“I put it in there for you to find,” she yawned. “Like an Easter egg.”

Draco snorted. “When I find your little stash of twigs, we shall have a bonfire.”

“You’ll never find them,” she whispered, turning towards him. “They literally grow on trees.”

She smiled at him. Draco observed her, rumpled and sleepy and delicious. Imagine, starting every morning with this view.

“Point of clarification, if I may,” he said, pulling her closer. “I’m starting to think you wear those awful jumpers just to hide the absolute vixen underneath. You had me for three rounds last night, Granger.”

Her chuckle was muffled against his neck. “Oh, you caught on, did you?”

“I’ll keep your secret,” he murmured. “Not exactly something I wish to advertise. Ideally, nobody will ever need to know but me.”

“Mmmm. Promise?”

A sound made them both startle, but then Hermione broke out in a fit of laughter once the source of the disturbance became obvious.

The cramped little bed had suddenly tripled in size.  

“I think the house likes me,” Draco whispered, delighted as Hermione began snaking her limbs around him.

“Mmm. Stop talking and test out the new bed, will you?”