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Chapter Text

A soft, rhythmic noise came from behind her, stirring her consciousness. Hermione shot up in bed. “What’s that? What time is it?” She looked around wildly, but her Muggle alarm clock was not in its regular spot on the nightstand. Without the sharp yellow electric numbers proclaiming the time, her bedroom was pitch black.

“That’s odd. I don’t remember moving the clock.” But come to think of it, she didn’t even remember how she got home from Neville’s wedding. “I knew I shouldn’t have let Ginny talk me into that cocktail.”

She scoured her memories of last night. The wedding ceremony was fine, albeit a little pompous, but that was no surprise considering the identity of the bride. The reception was not as bad as she expected, despite all the noise. The food was delicious, the guests admirably civil to each other. Surprising, once again, when considering the identities of the newlyweds.

All was as well as could be, at least based on what she saw, although she had to admit that she didn’t exactly pay attention to most of the goings-on around her. There must have been a first dance of the happy couple, and possibly an irritating wedding game or two, but she missed most of that due to the last-minute addendum she urgently had to incorporate into the new draft of the legislation on magical creatures.

Once she finished that (it only took two and a half hours, there was really no point for Ginny to be that angry with her), she finally ate her slice of the wedding cake and stood up from the table.

The ballroom was noticeably emptier than the last time she looked up, and yet the noise level was the same, if not higher. Only about half the guests were still there, including a loud group of Slytherins and the tall dark-haired man Hermione spotted earlier playing the keyboard in the orchestra. Most of the remaining guests were quite worse for the wear, especially Draco Malfoy who passed out face-down on a table, clutching a bottle of firewhiskey like a lifeline. Hermione felt a pang of worry. Why did he get so drunk? Was he still harboring some feelings for Pansy?

“Come on, have a drink with me,” Ginny giggled, laying an arm around Hermione’s shoulder and pushing a blue cocktail into her hand. Then Harry and Ron pulled her onto the dance floor, and the three of them twirled around a bit to the music, and Hermione felt laughter bubbling up in her stomach. But then she remembered that she had to adjust the centaur section of her draft to match the wording of the vampire addendum, and she quickly made her way to her neatly organized parchments.

And that was the last thing she remembered. “I’m never drinking again,” she muttered, even though she had none of the usual symptoms she associated with a hangover. No headache, no nausea, no parched mouth. Then again, she hasn’t had one in a long time. Did hangovers change with age? Who knows. Maybe I’ll ask Malfoy the next time I see him, she thought with a smirk. That man is bound to have a bad one this morning.

Reaching toward her nightstand, Hermione’s hand thudded into something solid. Extending her fingers, she let them run over a smooth, polished vertical surface. Like a cupboard. She frowned. There was no cupboard next to her bed.

Her heartbeat picked up, sending a rush of adrenaline through her veins. Where am I? She patted around on the bed for her wand, but her fingers only encountered soft, velvety bedclothes before coming up against a cool, hard surface. The wall.

Did she go home with someone after the wedding? Maybe Harry and Ginny took her home with them, or possibly Ron and Luna. But no, that can’t be: Harry and Ginny’s guest room had a large window with no curtains, so she wouldn’t be in complete darkness now. And Ron and Luna didn’t have a guest room at all, so she’d be sleeping on the sofa in the living room. And this was most definitely not their living room.

“Hello?” she asked softly, unease rising in her. But nobody replied; whoever took her home must be asleep. But who could it be? And where was she?

“Lumos,” she said. Wandless magic was not her forte, but she still managed to conjure a weak ball of light in her palm. Giving it a little upwards nudge, she levitated the ball to the ceiling and looked around the room.

Her earlier suspicions were right: a tall wooden cupboard stood to her left. The wall behind her was whitewashed, sporting a gilded frame where the portrait of an old woman was slumbering on an ornate chair, her head slumped on her shoulder. As Hermione examined the scene, she could even hear the soft snores coming from the painting.

“That’s what woke me,” she muttered. The old lady stirred in her sleep but didn’t wake. A small wave of relief washed over Hermione. If all else fails, I’ll just wake the old lady and ask her where I am, she thought.

Turning back toward the room, she clocked a half-empty bookcase on the wall opposite the bed, the books haphazardly thrown on the brown shelves without any sense of organization whatsoever. A desk stood beside the bookcase, its gleaming surface empty.

Blue velvet curtains hung on the far wall, pooling on the floor. Hermione’s unease returned in full force as an uncomfortable realization hit her.

There was no door.

Don’t be stupid. There has to be a door, she admonished herself. Perhaps behind the curtains. She stood up, her feet sinking into a plush carpet displaying a varied geometric pattern. Padding to the curtains, she grabbed the soft velvet and yanked it aside.

The curtains moved with an ear-splitting screech. Hermione winced. But no door was behind them, only a narrow window looking out at utter darkness. Running her hand along the frame, her fingers found no handle. This window couldn’t be opened.

Panic rose in Hermione’s stomach so fast that she stumbled backwards. “Hello?” she cried as loudly as she could, all consideration for her unknown hosts gone. Because who would take a blackout drunk woman away from her friend’s wedding and place her in a room without a door? Nobody with good intentions.

Blood thundered in her veins, beating a rising staccato on her eardrums. Her breath came in rapid, shallow bursts, and spots of color began to dance around the edges of her vision.

She looked down at herself. Did they hurt her? She was still wearing the blue dress she put on for the wedding, and although it was quite wrinkled, it didn’t seem to have come to any further harm. She ran her hands up and down her body, searching for injuries. There was none, unless she counted the sore spot on her head where one of the last butterfly hairpins dug into her scalp.

That was a relief. They hadn’t hurt her. Yet.

“Help!” she cried again, holding her breath to listen for any sounds. But the only thing she could hear was soft rustling as the old lady in the picture shifted into a more comfortable sleeping position. Hermione ran back to the painting.

“Hello? Wake up, please!”

The lady kept snoring. As Hermione’s eyes flitted over the painting, she noticed a small, curled funnel resting in the woman’s lap. An old-fashioned hearing aid.

“Shit,” Hermione muttered, even though she rarely swore. The only other sentient being in this room was apparently hard of hearing.

Turning around, Hermione’s gaze skated across the room again. Wall, cupboard, desk, curtains, window, carpet, bed. There must be a way out. How did she get in?

A spot of color caught her eye on the polished, light brown surface of the desk. She stepped closer and noticed a small yellow square of paper. A Muggle sticky note.

The paper came unstuck with a soft thwack. Hermione squinted in the weak light of her Lumos ball to better see the letters drawn on the note in an elegant black script.

'ea fe.Rax.u loYse

“What the actual…” Hermione trailed off. What language was that? Or was it a code?

Two dots, an apostrophe, two capital letters. It was a scrambled message! Her breathing calmed as her brain finally found something to focus on.

A minute passed, then two, and Hermione’s eyes widened as one after the other, she slotted the letters into place.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she spat, and anger dampened the fear in her stomach. Because the message read:

Relax. You’re safe.

Chapter Text

Twelve hours earlier

“Hermione.”

It wasn’t her name that alerted her to Ginny’s presence. No, it was the staggering amount of reproach stuffed into those four syllables that cut through her concentration. Pressing her lips together, Hermione looked up. “What?”

All at once, the noise that she successfully ignored so far came crashing down around her. Boisterous laughter from the table next to her, where two men Neville apparently worked with recounted a tale of him falling into a pit of bouncing bulbs. The clinking of glass as drink after drink was poured at the bar. Tapping feet and clacking heels from the dance floor, occasionally peppered by the shrieks of Daphne Greengrass whose toes were probably being trampled by Blaise Zabini’s enthusiastic twirling.

Stifling a shudder, Hermione repeated her question. “What?”

Ginny sighed. “You promised.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Are you?” Ginny eyed the pile of parchments stacked neatly in front of Hermione. “Really?”

Hermione huffed, reaching for her inkpot. “I just need to finish this quickly. The deadline is on Monday.”

Ginny’s eyebrows shot up so high they threatened to unseat her elaborate updo. Somewhere behind them, the orchestra finished the song, and the dancers erupted into cheers.

“Do you seriously expect me to believe that you left a task that’s due on Monday unfinished up to the Saturday before?”

Hermione knitted her brows. “Of course I didn’t.” She did her part months ago. “This is a last-minute addition. The vampires had an addendum, and it needs to be inserted into the final version before we can submit the draft.”

 “The vampires? But you’re not even in charge of…”

Shuffling feet interrupted Ginny’s words, and something hot landed on Hermione’s back. She straightened her spine to get away, but an arm snaked around her shoulders. The scent of tobacco, firewhiskey and expensive cologne joined the assault on Hermione’s senses.

“Who’s my favorite witch?” Blaise Zabini’s deep voice blurted, way too close to Hermione’s eardrums.

“Whoever you’re talking to at any given moment,” she replied.

Blaise burst into laughter. “You know me too well.” He planted a wet kiss on Hermione’s cheek. “Thank you for saving my ass, Hermi. I totally forgot about this stupid addendum.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.”

The orchestra launched into a new song, this time a slow waltz. The mournful notes of a cello sliced into the air, and Hermione stole a glance toward the orchestra, spotting the silver hair of Luna Lovegood bobbing in time to the music. Hannah Abbot was playing the violin, and a dark-haired man Hermione didn’t know let long, elegant fingers run up and down a portable keyboard charmed to sound like a concert piano.

Blaise straightened, letting his gaze travel over Ginny’s body appreciatively. “Red. Can I have this dance?”

“If you value your feet, you’ll say no to that question,” Hermione remarked.

“Hey!” Blaise clutched at his heart in mock-hurt. “Be nice to me, Granger, or next time I won’t let you work on my addendum.” With a suggestive wink, he disappeared into the crowd of dancers. Hermione shook her head, turning back to the parchments.

Ginny narrowed her eyes. “Are you telling me that you’re working on Blaise Zabini’s neglected task at Neville’s wedding?”

Hermione sighed. “It’s not like I have a choice. He obviously won’t do it.”

Ginny stared at her, astonished. “So what? Let Markham yell at him on Monday.”

“Yeah, and then what?” Hermione hissed. “We’ll miss the deadline and the entire draft will be delayed because of one man’s laziness.”

Ginny sighed. “So what? Then it will be delayed.”

Hermione raked a hand through her curls, uprooting the delicate half updo she wrestled her hair into earlier. A decorative hairpin depicting a butterfly cluttered to the table and landed on the silk green runner with a thud. “You don’t understand. We need this legislation to be in effect as soon as possible! The werewolves are already grumbling, and don’t even get me started on the centaurs, but…”

“Hermione.” Ginny plunked down in the empty chair next to her, abandoned by Harry, or possibly Ron, in favor of the dance floor. Or the bar. Or wherever people went at weddings.

“Just a few more minutes,” Hermione grumbled, reaching for the next parchment in her stack.

“This is Neville’s wedding,” Ginny said softly. “And you’re missing it.”

“I’m right here,” Hermione said, rapidly scratching out words on the parchment and replacing them with others.

Ginny sighed, inspecting Hermione’s glass. “You don’t even have a proper drink.”

“It’s water.”

“Exactly.”

“Actually, water is the only proper drink.” Hermione turned her parchment around. “All the hydration, none of the bad stuff, like empty calories.”

Ginny huffed. “Since when do you care about calories?”

“I don’t.” With the tip of her quill, Hermione pointed toward her plate where a large slice of red-and-green frosted wedding cake squatted, waiting for her attention. “I’m going to eat all that once I’m done with this.”

“Neville is so disappointed.” Ginny’s tone turned sly. “It’s his big day, and you’re abandoning him.”

Pursing her lips, Hermione looked at Ginny. “Really? Emotional blackmail?”

Ginny grinned. “Whatever works.”

Hermione scanned the crowd, spotting Neville smiling widely as Pansy Parkinson fed him a bite of their wedding cake. “He’s clearly in tears over my horrific abandonment.”

“Hermione. Please. Just leave this stuff and come have a drink with me,” Ginny pleaded. “Let’s have some fun.”

“Fun?” A derisive snort came from behind them. “I don’t think Granger knows the meaning of that word.”

Suppressing the urge to groan, Hermione turned around in her chair to find Draco Malfoy standing behind them. A tall glass of champagne in his hand, Malfoy was leaning on the edge of the neighboring table. His striking blond hair was tousled, his eyes bloodshot and his tie slightly askew, but the sneer on his face was perfectly in place.

“Granger knows the meaning of every word,” Theodore Nott said, materializing beside Malfoy in an instant.

Malfoy drained his glass. “Seeing it in a dictionary doesn’t mean she knows how to have it.” The words came out soft, their edges slightly slurred in his mouth. He placed his empty glass on the table. “How to have fun, I mean.”

Hermione leaned back in her chair. “And you don’t seem to know how to do anything else.”

Theo snorted. “Touché.”

“What’s the point of anything else?” Malfoy muttered, snatching a full glass of sparkling blue liquid from a tray that floated by.

“Draco,” Theo said warily. “You don’t even like Merjuice cocktails.”

Malfoy sniggered. “At this point of the evening, I like any type of booze.”

Ginny shook her head. “You got to that point much faster than the rest of us.”

Malfoy shrugged, slurping his new drink. “Can’t always wait for you tossers.”

“Slow down, man, or you’ll find yourself at the point of puking all over your shoes.” Theo’s voice was laced with an edge of concern.

Alarmed, Hermione shoved her parchments out of harm’s way. “As much as I enjoy this riveting exchange, can you please move it somewhere else? I’m trying to work here.”

Ginny and Theo exchanged a glance as Malfoy gave her a mock salute. “Whatever the lady wishes.” Swaying slightly, he turned around and made his way to the dance floor, Theo on his heels.

Ginny stood up. “I’m going to find Harry.”

But Hermione already pulled the next parchment from the pile, her brows furrowed in concentration.

Chapter Text

“Wait up, Draco,” Theo hissed.

Steadying himself on the back of a chair, Draco came to a halt. The room was swaying pleasantly, his thoughts floated around in a fuzzy warmth, and not even Theo’s incessant fussing could put a damper on his good mood.

“Did you see the look on her face?” Draco grinned. “You don’t seem to know how to have anything else,” he said, his face squeezed into an imitation of Granger’s stern expression. “I forgot how much fun it is to rile up Granger.” He took a sip of his cocktail. “You know, Merjuice cocktails are not so bad after all.”

“I wonder if you’ll say the same thing tomorrow,” Theo muttered.

“Tomorrow is tomorrow,” Draco replied, putting his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “And today is Pansy’s wedding, who, for whatever reason, decided to marry Longbottom!” Raising his drink in the general direction of the newlyweds’ table, he drained his glass.

“That reason is being in love,” Theo said, a small smile playing around his lips as he surveyed the orchestra.

Draco snorted. “Being in love is code for wanting to fuck.” Speaking of that, where was that delicious cousin of Pansy’s she introduced to him earlier this evening?

Theo regarded his friend. “No, Draco. It’s more than that.”

“Yeah, right.” Holding up his hand, Draco scouted the ballroom for another floating tray of drinks. He wasn’t drunk enough for this conversation.

“Draco…”

“Don’t Draco me!” The fuzzy warmth started retreating from around his brain, and Draco was not ready for that.

“Life is much more than drinking and fucking.”

Draco groaned. “Here we go.”

“We’re worried about you,” Theo said quietly. “You seem to be stuck. It’s been years and all you do is…”

“Will you just shut up?” Draco roared.

Glass clinked and the steady murmur of chatter ceased as the people nearby swiveled around to gape at them. Even the music seemed to ebb, as if the orchestra decided to listen in on their conversation. Just great. More witnesses, that’s just what he needed.

An old lady inspected them through a raised monocle. “What is that young man shouting about?” She asked loudly, leaning toward the woman sitting next to her.

Draco swallowed hard. “Mind your own business.”

With a sharp intake of breath, the old lady’s monocle dropped to the table. “Such impertinence!”

Her companion, who Draco belatedly realized was actually Pansy’s hot cousin, shook her head in dismay. “Never mind, Auntie Thesmalda.”

With practiced ease, Theo stepped in front of Draco. “I apologize; this is just a misunderstanding. Carry on, folks, there’s nothing to see here,” he said, the strained smile audible in his voice.

Face flaring an angry red, Draco shuffled backwards. Nothing to see here, other than the last of the magnificent Malfoy bloodline being an absolute bloody disgrace. And what if he was? Who cared?

Shoving a chair aside, Draco made his way to the bar. “Firewhiskey. Make it a double,” he croaked at the bartender.

“Nice,” a dark voice remarked, and Draco turned to the side to find Blaise lounging beside him. “Haven’t seen Old Biddy Thesmalda that ruffled since a house elf mixed up her morning frock with her afternoon frock in 1986.”

Draco sniggered. “Glad to be of service.”

His drink arrived, and he took a large gulp. A sigh left his lips; soon the fuzzy warmth will be back.

“What did Theo do?” Blaise asked, raising his own glass to his lips.

Draco shuddered. “Started his regular ‘What is happening to you, Draco’ speech.”

Blaise nodded. “Smooth. I figured he’d give you a break from that, considering the occasion.”

“No such luck,” Draco replied darkly, but the anger has drained from his voice. He sipped his drink, its warmth slowly dispersing through his veins.

“Have you thought about my idea?” Blaise asked, his gaze carefully directed toward the middle of the ballroom. “You know, the new broomstick design?”

“Sure,” Draco said absently. “How is the design coming along?”

“Very good,” Blaise replied, turning toward Draco. “I had some time on my hands lately and I’m almost finished with the prototype.”

“Some time?” Draco asked. “Didn’t you have that boring ass vampire addendum to deal with?”

Blaise grinned. “I delegated that.”

“To whom?”

Blaise nodded toward the other side of the ballroom. “Granger.”

Draco snorted. “Very good, man. You got your boss to do your work for you?”

“She’s not my boss.”

“She’s everyone’s boss.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind her bossing me around in certain scenarios, if you know what I mean.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Whatever gets you rolling, man.” Although he had to admit, Granger did look quite nice in that little blue dress today. At some point during the ceremony, Draco found his eyes tracing the delicious curve of her neck, visible thanks to those tiny butterflies holding some of her hair up. For a second, he could even visualize himself teasing them out of her hair and burying his fingers in those wild curls. But then he remembered who he was and that put an end to his little fantasy.

Blaise cleared his throat. “Anyway, are you in?”

“What?” Draco asked. His glass was empty, and the room was beginning to spin in earnest. He gestured for a refill.

“You know. Start a business with me. For my new broomstick.”

“I don’t know, man,” Draco said. “I know nothing about broomsticks.”

“You know as much as I do.” Blaise shoved him lightly in the shoulder, causing Draco to stumble sideways. “We both used to play for Slytherin, didn’t we?”

“That was a long time ago,” Draco muttered as Blaise steadied him.

“Still, we know what we want from a broomstick, right?”

Grabbing his refill from the bar, Draco took a fortifying sip. “Sure. I’ll think about it.” Then, to cut off any further questions, he stumbled toward the dance floor. Where was that cousin of Pansy’s?

Chapter Text

Present

“Relax? I’m safe?” Hermione shrieked, the sticky note crumbling in her palm as she curled her fingers into a fist. “How do you expect me to relax here? This is not my definition of safe!”

She looked around again, panting. “Who are you and what do you want from me?” she yelled into the room, but other than a soft rustling from the painting, she received no reply.

“For fuck’s sake! Let me out!”

She ran to the window, and extinguishing her Lumos spell, pressed her nose to the black glass. A strip of faint rose light on the horizon broke the monotone darkness outside, and some of the fear eased from Hermione’s stomach. Morning was approaching.

Squinting against the feeble dawn, Hermione could make out treetops below her. Far below her. I must be very high up, she thought. Not that she could’ve climbed out the window anyway, it was way too narrow to fit her body.

Relax. You’re safe. What a ridiculous message. How could she be safe when she had no idea where she was, or who took her and why? She didn’t even know what time it was! Or what day… A new hint of panic hit her stomach. Could it already be Monday? But then she had to get to work!

“Let me out!” She yelled again, but the next second, her brain clicked on and her panic subsided. It couldn’t be Monday yet, she wasn’t hungry or thirsty enough for a whole day to have passed since the wedding.

Although now that she thought about it, she did need to pee.

“I have to use the restroom. Can you let me out, please?” Hermione asked loudly. Surely whoever took her didn’t expect her to pee in the corner?

Or did they?

“Lumos.” Looking around wildly in the weak light of her newly lit ball, her eyes landed on the cupboard. Maybe it held a key? Or at least an explanation? Or, she realized with a sinking feeling in her stomach, the final draft of the proposed legislation on magical creatures? It can’t be lost!

She strode to the dark brown cupboard and yanked the door open. The heavy wooden slab swung out on rusted hinges, revealing shelves and drawers of various sizes. A few stray items of clothing occupied the shelves, and Hermione shoved them aside with growing impatience.

No parchments of draft legislation, no keys, and no explanations whatsoever.

The large bottom drawer, however, revealed a rusty bucket.

Hermione snorted in derision. “You can’t be serious!” She had her fair share of peeing in buckets, bushes, thickets and other unimaginable places during the war. She had no intention of re-starting that experience anytime soon.

She threw the bucket down with a clang. Something clattered; a sharp metallic sound as if a smaller object was sliding around the bottom. Hermione peered inside: the bucket was empty, yet the sound kept coming.

“What on Earth…” Hermione muttered as she crouched down and reached into the bucket. It must have been red at some point, but now the paint was peeling in large sections, revealing rust and decay below.

The bottom of the bucket was wobbly. Hermione pressed down on one side, and the opposite end rose slightly with a soft screech. “A false bottom!” Doubling the pressure, Hermione managed to hook one finger between the bottom and the wall of the bucket, and she pulled the loose bit upward.

A small metallic cuboid sat in the bucket. It was roughly the size and shape of a Muggle mobile phone, complete with a small screen and six square buttons, but they were blank. She tried pressing one smooth white button at random, and reared back when the screen lit up. Six question marks danced onto the screen in fast succession, wriggling and twirling to a tune only they could hear.

“Very funny,” Hermione muttered, squinting at the useless device. But then something stirred in the vault of her memory. She’d seen a gadget like this before. Where was it? And the scrambled message, the false bottom…

Realization dawned on her, pulling a triumphant smile on her face. “This is an escape room!”

About two years ago, a department head at the Ministry came up with the brilliant idea to force a series of team building exercises on all employees. All kinds of activities followed, including quidditch matches, baking sessions, a wine tasting trip (that one was quite popular) and a magical trash picking session in Hyde Park (that one less so).

One afternoon, random groups of Ministry workers and volunteers were locked into a room and had to solve a succession of puzzles and clues to get out. The goal was to work together, but of course, Hermione had to rely on herself while her teammates grumbled and joked around, being lazy and useless as expected. It didn’t matter in the end; Hermione solved the majority of the clues by herself and got her freeriding team out of the room.

And now, someone wanted her to do it again. But who? And why? What is the point of kidnapping someone and forcing her to solve clues to get out of a doorless room?

If it turned out to be just another stupid team building exercise, she decided to have some choice words with Ministry HR on Monday. But that couldn’t be it: where was the team?

No matter. Focus, Hermione. Make a plan. You can deal with all that later. Now, the most important thing is to get out.

“I did it then, I can do it again,” Hermione said to herself. After all, solving clues was one of her strengths.

Just then, her bladder began to press in earnest, and to make matters worse, her tongue prickled. She was thirsty. OK, slight amendment to her plan. The most important thing right now was to find water. And possibly, hopefully, a toilet.

Her captor could probably expect her to pee in the bucket, but what about food and water? Unless they wanted her to die (so much for ‘Relax. You’re safe.’), they surely hid some nourishment in the room.

“All right.” Straightening from the floor, Hermione once again let her gaze travel across the room, albeit this time with complete control over her faculties. She’s going to get out of here right now, or at least in time to get to work on Monday.

Chapter Text

“Ugh.” Hermione sat back on her heels, frustration beading like sweat on her forehead. Sunshine was peeking through the window, the dawn in full force now.

She methodically emptied the cupboard and organized its contents on the carpet. So far she came across a number of quidditch figurines, nine little paper squares with images of feet pointing in various directions, a half-complete wizarding chess set with only the white pieces available, as well as assorted clothing items (she already changed into jeans and a T-shirt, much more comfortable than her wrinkled blue dress).

She also checked the drawers for any false bottoms and was rewarded with a wooden board sporting nine squares lined up in a 3x3 fashion. She tried arranging the images of feet on them in various sequences, but so far, nothing has happened.

And the toilet situation was becoming serious. She shifted uncomfortably to ease the pressure on her bladder, giving herself ten more minutes before she resorted to using the bucket.

“Think, Hermione.” Surely, her captors had to anticipate this problem. Which meant that the riddle leading to the restroom (and potentially, food) should be in plain sight.

Hermione’s gaze landed on the carpet. It was pale blue, very plush, and was decorated with geometric patterns. Unfinished triangles were scattered across the soft surface, chasing each other like angry stork beaks. Hermione let her fingers trace the patterns. Some were widely open, and others so narrow that they barely resembled a triangle at all.

And they were all jumbled together with no organization whatsoever.

Hermione sat up straighter. Could this be a puzzle?

She scanned the stork beaks (Angles! They’re angles, she thought) and selected the smallest one. The angle was so tiny that the two lines barely separated from each other. Then she placed her hand on the image and murmured, “Wingardium Leviosa.”

The angle rose a few centimeters into the air. Biting her tongue in concentration, Hermione slowly moved the angle to the very top of the carpet. Then she selected the second smallest angle and repeated the process. Bladder pressing, stomach growling, throat prickling, she shoved an errant curl behind her ear and moved to the next one.

A bright beam of sunlight hit the edge of the carpet by the time she placed the largest angle to the very end of the pattern. Sweat trickled down her back, and her hands were shaking slightly; wandless magic took a lot more concentration and energy.

“You could’ve left me my wand,” she said to the room at large. But then it would’ve been too easy. She could’ve just Bombardad her way out.

The last angle in place, Hermione looked up expectantly. For a second, nothing happened. The air in the room was frozen; only the soft snores of the old lady disturbed the silence.

“Come on!” she croaked, her bladder giving her a painful pang. “Don’t tell me it was all for nothing!”

But then the carpet glowed, the pale blue flashing a brilliant violet as a screech sounded from the end of the room. Flinching, Hermione looked up just in time to see the cupboard beginning to move. It slid slightly to the right, away from the bed, and came to a halt in the corner.

A narrow white door stood in its original place.

“Yes!” Hermione yelled, jumping to her feet. She hurried to the door and yanked it open.

A tiny bathroom greeted her, complete with sink, shower, towel rack, a white wooden cupboard, and the most glorious sight in the world: a toilet.

“At last.”

Bladder finally empty and thus her most urgent problem solved, Hermione allowed herself two minutes to just sit and bask in her victory. Not only did she discover a toilet, she also proved that this was indeed an escape room, which meant that she was on the right path to getting out of here.

After washing her hands in the sink, she leaned down to the tap and drank. The cool liquid raced down to her stomach, easing the dryness in her throat and chasing the beginnings of a headache right out of her head. Just in time; she didn’t think she could’ve handled this situation with a migraine in place.

Water sloshing in her stomach, she straightened and came face to face with a mirror.

“Ugh,” she murmured. Unsurprisingly, her hair had freed itself from the hurried half-updo she created for the wedding. Curls stuck out in all directions, a few butterfly pins still hanging on for dear life. Her face was pale, with traces of makeup running around her eyes in widening circles, making her look like a member of the Weird Sisters.

She wet her fingers and smoothed down her hair as much as possible, liberating the pins in the process. She put a few of them back to keep the hair away from her face.

Reaching for a towel, she washed away the remnants of her wedding makeup, until she looked less like a racoon and more like a human. A very tired and somewhat irritated human.

“All right.” Her stomach growled, reminding her of the next most urgent problem on her list. She needed food.

Stepping to the cupboard, she yanked its door open. “Yes!” Three shelves were inside, hosting neatly organized Muggle snacks: bags of crisps, biscuits, a bucket of popcorn, jellybeans, a few chocolate bars, and even a bag of marshmallows.

“Who’s in charge of the food? A ten-year-old?” Hermione snorted, shaking her head. But her stomach didn’t care; growling enthusiastically, it forced Hermione to reach for a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. A small smile spread on her face as she put the first crisp in her mouth; she couldn’t remember the last time she tasted junk food.

A campfire came to mind, her mother handing her a bag of crisps as her father tuned his guitar. “What song should we sing first?”

Crunching on crisps, the smile was still on her face when she spotted something shiny behind a packet of biscuits. Her eyebrows shot up as she pulled a small bottle of firewhiskey from the shelf.

“Not a ten-year-old, then.”

Just what did her captor expect her to do here? Throw a dorm room party all by herself?

Hermione shook her head. Toilet, food and water sorted, it was time to get back to the main issue: getting out of here.

Putting the liquor back on the shelf, she grabbed a packet of biscuits and headed back to the main room.

A sharp intake of breath greeted her. “And what do you think you’re doing here?”

Hermione yelped and dropped her biscuits on the floor.

“What’s that?” the haughty voice continued. “Biscuits? Don’t you dare get crumbs on the floor!”

Looking around for the source of the voice, Hermione’s eyes came to rest on the painting. The old lady has woken up and sat straight-backed on her chair, inspecting her through narrowed, beady eyes.

“Hello!” Hermione said, elation coursing through her body as she rushed to the painting. Maybe she didn’t need to solve any more riddles to get home. “Where am I? How do I get out?”

“Don’t mumble, child, speak up!” The lady commanded.

“I said how do I get out of here?” Hermione shouted.

The old lady pointed to the fallen biscuits. “Clean up your mess.”

Hermione groaned, glaring at the woman. “If I clean it up, will you tell me where I am and how I can get out?”

“Oh. Wait a minute.” The old lady seemed to have remembered her hearing aid. Hermione rolled her eyes impatiently as she waited for the lady to locate the funnel in her lap and place it in her ear. In the ensuing silence, the sound of soft snores still emanated from the painting.

“What did you say?” The lady asked, leaning slightly forward with the funnel pressed tightly to her ear.

But Hermione ignored her. Because if the lady was awake, then who was snoring?

Kneeling on the bed, Hermione reached up and yanked the gilded frame from the wall. A small window became visible.

“How dare you! Young lady, put me right back!” The old woman screeched, but Hermione ignored her as she slid the painting to the bed.

“Such impertinence!” The haughty tone was somewhat muffled by the duvet.

Hermione pressed her nose to the glass. On the other side was a room similar to hers with a cupboard, desk, carpet, curtains and on the opposite side of the room, a single bed.

And on the bed lay Draco Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Searing pain sliced into his skull, and Draco groaned. The sharp stench of ammonia and vomit snaked up his nose, intensifying the churning in his stomach.

“Fuck,” he muttered, squeezing his eye shut. He must have forgotten to take his anti-hangover potion before he fell into bed.

“Lissy. Potion,” he breathed, but he passed out again before his house-elf could materialize with the blessed vial.

The next time he woke up to being violently sick off the side of his bed.

“Potion,” he croaked, but Lissy ignored him. That fucking house-elf. Not only was he forced to pay her for her services, thanks to Miss Goody-Two-Shoes Granger and her incessant Ministry campaigns about creature rights, but the damned little elf was now apparently allowed to ignore him at her leisure.

Draco tapped a hand around on his bed in search of his wand. “Where the fuck did I put it?” He wracked his flaming brain, but it didn’t come as a surprise to him that he had absolutely no idea what he did when he got home. In fact, he didn’t even know what he did before. Anything after talking to Blaise at the bar was a blur.

What was that Muggle saying? Making memories? Well, Draco measured the success of his evenings by the lack of memories he retained. Based on that philosophy, Pansy’s wedding must have been a raging success.

The wand was nowhere near his hand, but something else registered in Draco’s addled brain as well. The bedclothes were rough under his finger, and his hand met the cool, soothing surface of the wall without him having to straighten his arm at all. A feat virtually impossible in his king-sized bed. Which led him to the only obvious conclusion: this was not his bed.

The notion was enough to make him crack an eyelid open. He was in a very small room, facing the dark glass of a window. He risked lifting his head a bit and was rewarded with a sharp slice of pain in his skull, along with the sight of an ugly, large cupboard. He groaned and let his head fall back on the pillow.

“Potion,” he croaked again, but halfway through the word he realized the futility of it. Lissy couldn’t come to him, because she wasn’t here.

But where was he? Did one of his friends take him home? Or did he manage to hook up with someone? He occasionally passed out in Theo or Blaise’s guest rooms, but those rooms looked very different to this one. And he hated to admit it, but the state of him last night made the potential of a hookup very unlikely.

Perhaps somebody took pity on him and gave him a bed for the night. But other than Theo, Pansy or Blaise, he didn’t know anyone capable of such a good deed. Correction: there was one such person: Miss Perfect Granger, the Golden Girl herself, the saver of miserable creatures far and wide. He chuckled darkly at the thought of somehow meriting that level of attention from Granger. As if he could ever compete with centaurs and house-elves.

A muffled, grating noise pulled his attention from his musings. Wood sliding on wood, like someone pulling out drawers nearby. “Hello?” he croaked as loudly as possible, which was probably not very loud, considering his parched throat.

Anger rose in his stomach. Why was he lying here uselessly, unable to move, unable to even call for the assistance of any servants? How dare anyone put him in this pitiful situation?

Then he must have dozed off, because he suddenly woke to the shrill sound of someone calling his name.

“Malfoy! Wake up!”

He jerked his head from the pillow, immediately regretting the movement as searing pain bit into his brain. His stomach turned violently, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he fought against the strong wave of nausea rolling over him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, taking small, measured breaths. Then slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes.

Across the room was Hermione Granger.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he rasped as a smirk rose on his face. “Miss Goody-Two-Shoes has indeed rescued me last night.”

“Malfoy, you need to speak up. I can’t hear you through the glass.”

“Then come here,” he replied, but the sentence barely left his mouth before a wave of self-consciousness squeezed his chest tight. Judging by the unpleasant smells wafting around him, he was in no state to receive visitors, especially not Granger.

“What did you say? I can’t hear you!” Granger said.

Risking another glance at his savior, Draco noticed that Granger was indeed behind the window he saw earlier. Relief flooded his chest; the glass blocked smell. Which meant that he had to get himself in order before Granger ventured onto this side of the glass.

“Where did you put my wand?” he asked, forcing his parched throat to function despite the pain. He should Vanish the disgusting flecks from the bed and his own person as quickly as possible. And also conjure a glass of ice-cold water.

“What?” Granger replied, perplexed.

Draco groaned. “My wand. Where did you put it?”

“Why would I have put it anywhere?”

“When you brought me home. Where is it?” Draco bit into each word, the force stoking the churning in his stomach.

“Oh!” Granger’s voice was filled with some kind of realization. “I see what you mean. I didn’t bring you home. I don’t know where we are.”

“What?” The outrageousness of that statement had Draco shoot up in bed, a move he immediately regretted when his stomach lurched upwards and emptied itself onto the floor.

“Oh. Shit,” Granger exclaimed.

Wiping his mouth, Draco leaned back against the wall. “What the fuck is going on?” he asked, fixing dry, aching eyes on Granger. And his gaze remained on her as she proceeded to tell him the most atrocious story he ever heard.

“That is total bullcrap, Granger,” he said.

“I agree, but it’s true. And I need to get out. So can we please quickly move past the stages where you insult my intelligence, my busybody attitude, and my person in general, so that we can focus on how to get out?”

Draco groaned. “I need a hangover potion before I can do any of that.”

That seemed to energize Granger. “Of course! You need to solve the carpet!”

“I need to what the what?”

“Solve the carpet! That’s where my clue was to take care of my most urgent need.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “What was your most urgent need?”

“That doesn’t matter!” Granger said impatiently. “What do you see on the carpet?”

Slowly peeling himself off the wall, Draco risked a glance at the carpet. “Quidditch balls.”

Hermione scoffed. “Of course. I have to organize sixteen damned angles by size, and all you need to do is sort four stupid Quidditch balls.”

Draco’s brain was about ten minutes behind the entire conversation. “What are you talking about?”

“Sort the stupid balls according to their points value. Then you’ll get your potion.”

“Sort them how? They’re drawn on the carpet.”

“Levitate the pictures, Malfoy! Do I have to do everything around here?”

Shooting an angry glare at Granger, Draco moved himself off the bed and crawled to the floor. Carefully avoiding a puddle of vomit, he mumbled the levitation charm and sorted the balls. There were only four, but even so, by the time he was finished, his headache had levelled up to near unbearable levels.

He was fully prepared to curse Granger into the next century for this futile exercise, but once the Snitch landed in place, the whole carpet glowed and the cupboard slid aside. He flinched at the noise.

“There. You should find your potion behind that door.”

“Thank fuck,” Draco exhaled as he forced himself to his feet and staggered toward the door.

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, Granger was right. A ridiculous room awaited him on the other side of the door, a mixture between a bathroom and a kitchen. There was a shower cubicle, a sink and a toilet, and right beside them, completely disregarding every rule of hygiene, stood an oven and a shiny red kitchen cabinet.

But Draco had no time or energy to ponder this, because on top of the oven was a small vial holding a transparent liquid.

Hangover potion.

In two quick steps, Draco covered the distance, uncorked the vial and downed the tasteless potion. Then he collapsed on the floor and waited for the blessed stuff to take effect.

Five minutes later, he was a changed man. Headache vanished, nausea gone, he curled his upper body to the sink, opened the faucet and greedily gulped down the most glorious drink he ever tasted in his life.

Casting a wandless Scourgify, he quickly cleaned his body and clothing as much as he could before venturing back into the bedroom.

“Well?” Granger asked from the window.

Holding up a finger to silence her, Draco’s face pulled into a grimace as the stench of the room hit him at full force. He repeated the Scourgify and topped the effort with a quick incantation of Abiete, a charm he personally developed to spread the sharp, fresh scent of a pine forest.

“Ahh,” he exhaled happily. “Much better.”

Turning to Granger, he let his eyes roam over her body. With the hangover banished, he could fully appreciate the sight in front of him. Wedding updo gone, Granger’s hair was once again all over the place, although a few of those butterfly pins were making a commendable effort to keep the curls out of her face. She apparently changed out of her blue dress (a pity, really) and was wearing a nondescript purple shirt with sleeves so long that they almost covered her fingers.

Fingers that were tapping impatiently on the windowsill.

“All done?” she asked, her clipped tone a perfect imitation of McGonagall at her heyday.

 “Yes, I’m feeling much better, thank you for your compassion.” Draco raised an eyebrow.

Granger huffed, condescension dripping from her words. “Please. You did this to yourself. Why would you deserve any compassion?”

“So you don’t try to save all pitiful creatures anymore? What amazing character growth, Granger.”

“Again, your pitiful state was your very own doing.”

“Didn’t you help Potter and Weasley out in many situations that were their very own doing?”

Granger opened her mouth to respond, then closed it without a sound. Draco chuckled. “I love rendering you speechless.”

“I did solve the carpet puzzle for you.” Granger’s tone was more defiant than condescending now.

Draco snorted. “And what a difficult puzzle that was.”

“Why didn’t you solve it by yourself then?”

 “I would’ve if I had more time.” And more functioning brain cells. Draco had to admit that in the state he was in, it would’ve taken him hours to figure out what was happening, let alone realize that the carpet was a puzzle. Granger’s help considerably accelerated the process. “All right. So tell me again what’s going on.”

Granger groaned. “We’re wasting time! It must already be midday and we’re still stuck here.”

Draco’s stomach growled in agreement. “You’re right. It’s lunchtime. Who do we call to get food?”

“What?” Granger gaped at him.

“So you haven’t figured everything out yet,” Draco said smugly.

“Malfoy! Don’t you understand? We can’t call anybody! Nobody is coming! We have to solve the room’s puzzles to get out!”

“Uh-huh. And is there a lunch puzzle?”

Granger huffed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And I’d say you’re hungry, but then again, you’re always like this.”

“I’m not hungry. I just had a snack.”

Draco perked up. “You have food in there?”

“Yes. And I’m sure you do too.”

“Where?”

Granger narrowed her eyes. “If I tell you where your food is, will you start taking this seriously?”

Draco started to nod, but then his brain caught up. “You know what? I don’t need your help. I’ll make an educated guess that my food is in the kitchen.”

With that, he turned back to the kitchen/bathroom, Granger’s astonished cry following him through the door. “You have a kitchen?”

Grinning to himself, Draco sauntered into the kitchen. He wondered what kind of magic the room used. Probably like the dining tables at Hogwarts, where the food prepared by house-elves materialized in front of them. Maybe it was even possible to actually order what he wanted? Hmm. A juicy steak wouldn’t be bad right about now, with fried potatoes and mashed peas…

The grin slid off his face as he opened the kitchen cabinet. Two weirdly shaped grey boxes were stacked next to a basket full of vegetables. Upon inspection, the boxes revealed to be holding eggs. There was a tall bottle with some pale yellow liquid, and smaller glass containers of salt and pepper. Two shiny plastic bags lounged on the middle shelf, and Draco sneered in distaste as he discovered that they held pre-sliced bread.

The last shelf housed various pots and pans, along with plates, glasses, cutlery and various long prongs and forks that wouldn’t have been out of place in Aunt Bellatrix’s overnight torture bag.

The bottom cabinet could be opened separately and was surprisingly cold. He found slabs of meat and cheese there, along with a dish of butter and jam.

“What the actual fuck?” Draco exclaimed. They surely didn’t expect him to … cook?

He wandered back to the main room, stunned. “Granger, we have to get out of here,” he said.

With her back to him, Granger was kneeling in front of a tall bookcase, organizing books into three different columns. “Finally! What made you realize?”

“The kitchen cupboard.”

Granger stood up, folding her hands across her chest. “Interesting. I thought you’d like the endless supply of snacks and whiskey.”

Draco’s jaw dropped. “What?”

Granger narrowed her eyes. “Did you get something different?”

Draco rubbed his jaw, the beginnings of a light stubble scratching his palm. “I got a whole bunch of raw ingredients and cooking torture instruments. Are you telling me you got snacks and booze?”

“Bloody hell,” Granger exclaimed, raking a hand through her curls.

“I want to switch rooms with you!” Draco whined.

“And I want to get out of here!”

Chapter Text

Malfoy was slouched on his bed, munching on bread and cheese with a murderous expression on his face. Under different circumstances, Hermione would’ve found it highly amusing. In the here and now, however, it just annoyed her tremendously.

“Ugh! This is getting me nowhere!” She glared at the books in front of her. She organized them according to genre and leafed through each one of them, looking for clues. But there weren’t any letters underlined, no worlds circled, all the page numbers were aligned, and no loose messages were hidden within the covers.

“And here I thought only I could be on the receiving end of a famous Granger glare.” Malfoy’s voice was muffled by distance and glass.

Hermione ignored him.

“Seriously, Granger, what did those books ever do to you?”

Hermione looked up. Finished with his makeshift lunch, Malfoy shook the crumbs of his crumpled dress shirt and sauntered closer to their shared window.

“They don’t hold any clues,” Hermione said. “There must be something I’m missing.”

She picked up the first one again and started running the pages through her fingers. Paper rustled against her skin; a pleasant shiver ran over her spine.

“What if they’re just books?” Malfoy asked.

Hermione glared at him.

Malfoy smirked. “There’s my glare!”

“We’re in an escape room, Malfoy. These books were placed here as clues.”

“They could also be red herrings.”

Red herrings. Hermione cursed under her breath, her pulse rising. Malfoy was right. The books could be red herrings, their sole purpose to fool her into wasting her time.

A look outside the window confirmed that the sun was well past its zenith. Which meant that she only had a few hours to get out, collect her draft legislation from Neville’s wedding venue and prepare it for submission.

Panic swelled in Hermione’s stomach. She had so much to do, so much to prepare before Monday morning, and here she was, locked in a room, leafing through useless books. This wasn’t happening, this couldn’t be happening to her!

Malfoy snorted. “The last time I saw you that worked up was when you stormed out of Divination back in third year.”

Hands rising to her head, Hermione buried her fingers in her hair and pulled at the roots. No, no, no, this wasn’t happening!

“Seriously, Granger, don’t get your knickers in a twist. You’ll figure it out. At some point. Soon.” He snickered. “Hopefully before I die of hunger here.”

Anger burst in her chest in a powerful wave, obliterating her panic. Hermione let go of her hair and raised her gaze to Malfoy’s. His cool grey eyes widened a fraction, and he took a small step back from the window.

“Whoa, what did I do to get the death glare?”

“What did you do?” Hermione spat. “Glad you asked. Nothing! Absolutely nothing. You’re just lounging on your bed, lamenting your bad fortune that you drank yourself unconscious, were kidnapped, and now you’re being tortured by having to cook for yourself, and still expect me to do all the work!”

 Malfoy held up his hands. “Hey, you’re not exactly an innocent lamb in this situation either! And you ended up with all the good stuff. Do you think I’d even make an effort if I had snacks and booze in with me?

Hermione scoffed. “Is this you making an effort?”

“How did you end up here, anyway?” Malfoy asked. “Passed out from too much water at the wedding?”

Hermione seethed. “One cocktail! I had one damned cocktail, and apparently it completely knocked me out.”

“Must have been one hell of a cocktail.”

“It was one of those blue things. You had one earlier in the evening.”

Malfoy gaped at her. “Merjuice cocktail?” Then he threw back his head and laughed. Really laughed. It came from deep in his chest, carefree and joyful, and it was such a beautiful sound that for a second, Hermione forgot that he was essentially laughing at her.

But just for a second. “What’s so funny?”

“Man, Granger, you’re a lightweight. There’s less alcohol in a Merjuice cocktail than in butterbeer.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. Malfoy was right; she barely felt the taste of alcohol in the cocktail. And when she woke up, she wasn’t hungover at all.

“But then… how?” she asked, her brain racing. So focused on solving the puzzles, she barely paid any attention to who could be behind this whole thing. She theorized that someone at the wedding, probably even one of her so-called friends, saw her pass out from drink and decided to play a prank on her.

Relax. You’re safe. That was the first message after all.

But if she didn’t get blackout drunk, that means that the kidnapping was premeditated. Somebody wanted her out of the way, and either put something in her drink, or Stunned her to render her unconscious.

“Granger.” Malfoy’s voice lost all its teasing edge. “What’s going on?”

But why? Why did someone go to all this trouble? Put together this room, kidnap her from the wedding, and lock her in with pointless puzzles? When she had actual real-life puzzles to solve?

All the blood drained from her face. “Shit,” she muttered.

“Granger, talk to me.”

Hermione’s hands started shaking. This was about her work, wasn’t it? Somebody wanted to stop her from submitting the creature legislation. Or to present her essay on merpeople’s rights at the conference on Tuesday? Or to stop her campaign for funding a refuge for runaway house-elves?

Somebody wanted to make sure that she didn’t make it to work on Monday.

“I’m going to die here! No, worse, I’ll be fired!” Her breath coming in shallow bursts, Hermione threw herself at the pile of books. Cold sweat broke out on her temples. There has to be a clue here. Or if not here, maybe on the bed? A keeling pierced her eardrums, getting louder and louder, obliterating every other sound.

Hands shaking uncontrollably, Hermione tore into the bedclothes. Fabric ripped under her fingers as she yanked the duvet from its cover. Maybe there was a note inside? Or was the clue in the pattern of the cover?

“Hermione!”

Urgent thuds accompanied her name, a hand slapping on glass. Startled, Hermione looked up to see Malfoy glaring down at her, grey eyes filled with panic.

“What?” she breathed. The keeling stopped, and Hermione’s throat prickled.

“Look at me.” Malfoy’s voice was deep, commanding. He must have dropped to his knees, because he was at perfect eye-level. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

“No, you don’t understand, I have to get out, I…”

“Stop it.”

Hermione’s mouth clamped shut. Her breath came in short, shallow puffs, but her eyes were locked on Malfoy’s. They were the brightest of grey, almost hypnotic as he gazed at her.

“I want you to go over to that pile of books.”

“Why? You said earlier…”

“Stop thinking. Just do as I say.” Authority radiated from Malfoy’s voice. Hermione found her limbs obeying. She lowered herself from the bed and scooted over to the books.

“Very good. Now pick up the first one and read the title.”

“The Count of Monte Christo.”

“Great. Now the next one.”

Heartbeat slowing down, Hermione concentrated on the task at hand. “Treasure Island.”

“You’re doing great. Next.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

On and on, Malfoy commanded her to go through all the books at hand. When she was done, her breathing was back to normal and her hands stopped shaking. She sat back on her heels and turned to face Malfoy.

“All better?” His gaze was wary but not unkind.

“Yes.” Hermione nodded, straightening her hair. “Thank you.”

Malfoy fiddled with his collar. “No worries. Saving damsels is my middle name.”

Hermione scoffed, but the sound was weaker than usual. “I’m not a damsel. And your middle name is Lucius.”

Malfoy took a step back from the window. “Whatever, Granger. Go have a drink of water.”

Chapter Text

When Hermione came back from the bathroom, Malfoy was standing with his back to her, inspecting the bookcase in his room. “Typical,” he muttered under his breath.

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

“Not only did you get the good food, but you also ended up with the best books.”

Taking a deep breath, Hermione swallowed down the lecture on what constituted good food. “What are you talking about? My books are completely useless.”

Malfoy gaped at her in mock outrage. “How dare you call Sherlock Holmes useless!”

“Well, will he get me out of here?”

“No idea. Probably not, but he’ll keep you entertained while you’re in here.”

Hermione stomped her foot. “I don’t want to be entertained! I want to get out. I have so much work to do!”

“Of course you do. You’re so important.”

“No, Malfoy, I’m not important. But what I do is.”

Malfoy turned around, the heavy tome in his hands temporarily forgotten as he inspected her. “I hate to break it to you, Granger, but you’re a low-level Ministry employee. The Earth will not stop turning without you.”

“Ugh.” She had this discussion so many times. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, even Seamus and Dean repeatedly cornered her about working too much. But they didn’t understand. She needed to work, because if she didn’t, what would be the point of it all?

“What books did you get?” she asked to change the subject.

Malfoy scoffed. “Well, this lovely tome here is Brunilda Mafald’s Charms in the Household. Then I’ve got the fourth book in the Potion Mastery series, a real nail-biter, that one, and let me introduce this gem here, Charming the Uncharmable.”

Hermione snorted. “What’s that? A romance?”

Malfoy smirked. “I wish! No, it’s an advanced book on charms.” Turning back to his bookcase, Malfoy let long, elegant fingers run along the spines of neatly organized books. “Textbooks, essay collections, more textbooks.” He made a disgusted sound.

Hermione sighed. “You got the better end of the deal. Normal food, a real kitchen, interesting books.”

“Yeah, I’m in swot paradise.”

“And I’m in a bachelor hellhole!”

They glared at each other. Then Malfoy’s eyes went wide. “Granger! If you were abducted straight from the wedding, how come you’re not wearing that cute blue dress?”

Hermione’s heart gave a little lurch. Did he think her dress was cute?

Malfoy went on, excitement shining on his face. “That’s a clue, isn’t it? I mean, you probably made it home first, after all. Are you sure you can’t remember anything?”

A small smile tugged at Hermione’s lips. He was so happy with his discovery, his grey eyes shining with a spark she hadn’t seen in a long time. She hated that she’d be the one to quench that.

She cleared her throat. “No, Draco. I woke up here in my blue dress. I found these clothes in the cupboard.”

“Oh.” Embarrassment flooded Malfoy’s features. “Right.”

“But it was a really great idea,” Hermione said.

Malfoy glared at her. “Don’t condescend to me.”

“I’m not,” Hermione said eagerly. “In fact, have you checked your cupboard? Maybe you’ll find more comfortable clothes in there.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable, thank you,” Malfoy replied haughtily. Then he pulled a book from his bookcase, threw himself on the bed, and started reading.

Hermione shook her head and went back to sorting through her own books. Perhaps she missed something.

The light slowly faded from the room, announcing the arrival of evening. Her stomach growled. Hermione yanked a bag of crisps from the bathroom cupboard, grumbling that Malfoy got a whole kitchen with fresh food to himself.

Sitting down on the floor, she leaned her back against the bedframe and picked up a book at random. Sherlock Holmes. It was a totally random choice, nothing to do with Malfoy’s opinion about the book.

“What are you eating?” Malfoy’s voice came from behind her.

Wordlessly, Hermione raised her bag of crisps above her head.

Malfoy groaned. “Sour cream and onions! My favorite.”

Hermione turned around. “I’d much rather have real food, thank you very much.”

Malfoy ignored her. “You know what goes well with that flavor? Ice-cold ale. Hmm.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you even going to attempt to cook something for yourself?”

“I won’t deign to answer that question,” Malfoy replied, dignified. Then his eyes returned to Hermione’s crisps. “Hell, I’d even settle for lukewarm ale at this point. Or…”

Hermione sighed. “Is there a point to this?”

“Cut me some slack, Granger. I’m hungry.”

“Then cook!”

Malfoy scoffed. “Describe the flavor to me.”

Hermione turned back to her book.

Malfoy groaned. “Come on Granger! I’m dying here.”

“Shut up.”

“Seriously. What does it taste like?”

“Ugh!” Shooting up to her feet, Hermione grabbed the old lady’s portrait from its resting place beside the bed.

“What are you doing?” Malfoy asked warily.

Hermione raised the portrait and covered the window.

“Hey!” Malfoy protested.

The painting woman pursed her lips. “About time, young lady. You have some serious explaining to do.”

Hermione grabbed the portrait again and turned it around. The back of the canvas was grey, cobwebs sticking into all four corners. Waves of dust and grime fell on her bed in an elegant shower, but the screech coming from the portrait, as well as the panicked yells from the other side of the window made it all worth it.

“Young lady! How dare you!”

“Granger! You can’t do this to me!”

A satisfied smile widening her lips, Hermione sat back on the floor with her book.

Chapter Text

Draco tossed and turned in his bed. Now that he wasn’t drunk off his ass (a regrettable state of affairs), he discovered that the bed was incredibly uncomfortable. Scratchy sheets rubbed at his skin, and there wasn’t really much room to stretch his limbs. Not to mention the incessant ache in his stomach and the beginnings of a hunger migraine that began throbbing in its temples.

He really should’ve worked with Granger to solve these fucking puzzles and get the hell out of here. But her condescending tone sent him into a sulk, and consequently, he refused to investigate the contents of his cupboard. Something else he regretted: his wedding attire was becoming unrecognizably wrinkled, chafing against his skin in uncomfortable places.

 With an irritated sigh, Draco got out of bed and marched to the window that looked outside. Yanking the curtain aside, he inspected the garden below him. Moonlight slid off the treetops, giving an eerie outline to the world. Leaves swayed gently in the summer breeze, and suddenly he felt a bone-deep longing to be outside, to fly, to get away from here and have the clouds cocoon him from the world.

Flying. That’s something he hadn’t done in ages. Why did he think of it just now?

This was usually the point of the night when he stalked to the well-stocked liquor cabinet of his townhouse and poured himself a generous measure from the closest bottle. But that was out of the question right now, as Granger ended up on the good side of the wall. Irritation rose in his belly. That swotty woman didn’t know how lucky she was. If Draco were the one stuck with an endless supply of snacks and booze, he’d never want to leave.

Although, come to think of it, that was actually the perfect way to describe his townhouse. An endless supply of snacks and booze. And he very rarely left it.

Stupid Pansy. If it wasn’t for her stupid wedding, he’d be back home right now, enjoying a late-night snack of whatever he fancied while sipping a delicious glass of firewhiskey.  

His stomach growled. What sort of kidnappers couldn’t even fork over the necessary funds for a house-elf? Stalking to the kitchen, he yanked another slice of disgusting, stale bread from its bag and stuffed it into his mouth.

Then he went back to the bedroom and threw himself with such force onto the bed that the old biddy in the painting jumped in her sleep. Draco smirked. Granger thought that she punished him by turning the picture his way. Well, it wasn’t exactly pleasant to have the old hag inspect and criticize his every move, but since she was on Granger’s side of the wall, her voice was quite muffled by the glass. Consequently, Granger was forced to listen to a running commentary on Draco’s actions, delivered in a screechy, haughty voice.

“What do you think you’re doing, young man? Don’t you dare turn your back on me! Why are you slouching like that? And where’s your tie? Didn’t your mother teach you better manners?”

An angry shout sounded from the other side of the wall, and suddenly no more noise came from the old woman’s mouth, even though it was moving as vigorously as before. If Draco had to guess, Granger cast a wandless Silencio on the painting.

Draco chuckled. Granger was really efficient, wasn’t she. She solved the mystery of their entire situation and the most urgent clue by the time Draco even woke up. She was used to action and putting her mind to stuff and not giving up until she succeeded. Brightest Witch of Their Age and all that shit. No wonder she lost it when she realized she couldn’t just up and leave within the next hour or so.

Shame curled in Draco’s belly. He hasn’t exactly done his part. Maybe, if he made the slightest effort, he could’ve come across a clue in his room and contributed something worthwhile to their escape.

Contributing something worthwhile. That’s another thing he hasn’t done in ages.

There’s always tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, when I get up, I’ll go through that fucking cupboard. And then I can get home, back to my snacks and booze and house-elves and empty rooms.

He woke up a few hours later, hunger gnawing at his insides like a persistent thought that just wouldn’t leave. “Fuck this,” he ground out as he sat up, rubbing his hand over the newly acquired stubble on his cheek.

He survived being attacked by zillions of creatures, both magical and mundane varieties. He shared a home with the vilest, most evil wizard of all time, not to mention his pet snake and werewolf. He faced the Wizengamot with criminal charges and won his case. He was forced to volunteer at the Ministry. He went on a year-long tour of England and apologized to every single person he, his family members, or any random Death Eater has ever harmed in any way.

He will not die of hunger next to a pantry full of food!

Besides, based on his memories from the time he was a young boy and the scent of freshly baked apple tarts pulled him into the kitchens of the Manor, cooking was like making potions. Except with different ingredients. And results. But the process was roughly the same.

And he was very good at potions. Or at least he used to be. Come to think of it, brewing potions was another thing he hadn’t done in ages.

Head slightly buzzing from hunger, he marched himself into the kitchen and inspected the contents of the cabinet.

Eggs. Meat. Vegetables. What can you make with those?

The names of dishes rattled through his head like tasty riders on a crazy gourmet carousel. Coq au Vin. Hamburger. Beef Wellington. Boeuf Bourguignonne. Osso Bucco. Mashed potatoes. Sol Meuniere. Pancake. Hash browns. Boiled egg. Baked beans. Bacon.

Mouth already watering, he considered his options. He had absolutely zero fucking idea about how to make any of those.

Except probably boiled eggs. Eggs that were boiled. And how do you boil eggs? In boiling water. See? Drago grinned. It’s like potion making!

Selecting a reasonably sized pot from the cupboard, he filled it with water and placed five eggs in it. Then he put it on the stove and holding his hand above it, cast the water-heating charm. Instantly, the water started bubbling. Draco’s grin turned into a full-blown smile. This was easier than he thought!

Sweat dampened his eyebrows as he struggled to maintain the spell without his wand. How did Muggles cook without any magic? It’s a wonder they existed at all.

“Ouch!” Draco yelped as boiling water splashed on his fingers. He yanked his hand backwards and immediately encountered the next problem.

How long do you need to boil an egg for it to be considered boiled? Surely it can’t be that long. And how long has it been since he started the process? He should’ve paid attention to the time. But what did it matter as he had zero idea anyway on how long the entire process should last?

“Whatever.” Exhaling loudly, Draco picked his favorite non-standardized measuring unit of time, reciting poems in his head. He went through The Wizard and the Hopping Pot, then added Gringott’s warning poem for good measure. By that time, most of the water from the pot had evaporated, so the eggs simply had to be ready.

Beads of sweat trickling down his back, Draco considered using a cooling charm on the eggs, but he couldn’t muster the energy. So he simply doused the eggs in cold water from the tap, cracked their shells open in the sink and gobbled them up in one go.

“Hmmmm.” His face broke into a smile as he consumed the best meal of his entire life.

Chapter Text

Sunlight was seeping through the curtains by the time Draco finished his breakfast. A glance at the painting confirmed that a, Granger had still not forgiven him for annoying her, and b, the old hag was thankfully still asleep.

Furious yelps and the screeches of wood sliding on wood came from the other side of the wall. Apparently, Granger was awake and attacking her room again. Draco smirked as he imagined the fierce expression on her face as she tried to wrestle the room into letting her out. Her hair must be all over the place, and her eyebrows surely knitted together with a frown. Her lush, pink lips pursed adorably.

Draco froze mid-step. Where did that come from? Eyes widening slightly, he shook the inappropriate images from his head.

Pulling the curtains aside, Draco walked to the cupboard. Time to inspect what his kidnappers left for him.

The doors opened on well-oiled hinges. Draco pushed aside the clothes for later inspection and concentrated on the odd assortment of items that greeted him on the shelves.

A chess board, with only the dark pieces available. A piece of parchment with random dashes and dots. A number of weird metallic badges depicting various images, like a charging bull, a racing horse, four interlocking circles, a roaring lion, and a black circle that contained four quadrants, two white and two blue.

“Merlin’s tits,” Draco grumbled. What was this nonsense?

There was also a floppy book titled Cooking for Dummies.

“Very funny, assholes,” he murmured as he leafed through the slim volume. But this was actually useful. Maybe he could eat something else than boiled eggs for lunch?

His cheeks colored as his gaze landed on a flowchart labelled ‘How to turn on the stove.’ Well, it seemed that Muggles weren’t doomed for extinction just yet.

 Laying the book aside, he inspected the clothing. His nose wrinkled as he examined the simple, soft T-shirts and trousers, but he had to admit that although they were much too Muggle for his taste, the quality of these items wasn’t totally abhorrent.

After changing his trousers, he discarded his dress shirt and reached for a light blue T-shirt when a sharp intake of breath came from behind him.

Great, he thought. Now the old painting hag will tell me off for indecency.

But the haughty screeching never came. Draco turned around, and his lips pulled into a smirk as he took in the sight of Granger’s slightly flustered cheeks, wide eyes and parted lips.

“See something you like, Granger?” he drawled.

At that, Granger’s face went beetroot red. Draco grinned wolfishly, advancing on their shared window with the shirt still in his hand, but Granger’s face quickly disappeared behind the narrowed eyes of the old painting hag. The picture slammed back into place just as the woman opened her mouth.

“Such indecency! Put your shirt on this instant, young man!”

“Oh, come on Granger!” Draco pleaded. “It was just a joke!”

“What kind of clothes are these anyway? A respectable young man wouldn’t be seen dead in them, let me tell you.”

“Silencio!” Draco roared and relished at the sight of the old hag’s face turning puce, her mouth gaping like a fish out of water.

Grinning widely, Draco pulled on his shirt and turned around in a small circle, displaying his offending self in the offending garments to the old woman. Then, with a mock salute, he departed for the kitchen.

If Granger refused to talk to him, he might as well make a head start on that cooking book.

Inspecting the ingredients, he checked off what he had against the recipes and discovered that he could make at least four different dishes with his supply. His book included depictions and names of all the torture instruments he found in the cabinet. Armed with all this information, he set out to peel vegetables and dice meat.

He found a miniature Snitch at the back of the cupboard, which turned out to be an instrument called an oven timer (Thank you, Cooking for Dummies!). Thus freed from the chore of reciting poetry, Draco hummed a little tune under his breath in time to the steady ticking of the Snitch as he shoved the discarded product wrappings into the trash.

An image caught his eye: the plastic packaging where the chicken breasts used to lay sported little black dots in a weird pattern. It vaguely reminded Draco of something, so he decided to keep the packaging and show it to Granger later on, once she deigned to speak to him again.

Sometime later, the Snitch ceased its merry ticking and emitted a horrible screech instead, signaling the end of cooking time. Draco quickly shut the blasted thing off and pulled the pot from the stove.

His mouth watered at the scent, and his lips curled into a full-blown smile.

Chicken stew. He made chicken stew from scratch, all by himself.

And it was the best damned chicken stew he had ever tasted in his life.

He spent the rest of the day reading the advanced charms book and picking out the next recipes to try. Once or twice, he was distracted by the sounds coming from across the wall (Granger must be going mental, cooped up all by herself and nobody to boss around, he thought) but any time he yelled “All right, Granger?”, no reply came.

By the time the sun went down, a pang of worry had wormed its way into his chest. Was Granger OK? How was she coping? But none of his taunts (“Talk to me, Granger, I’m fully dressed!” “Want to see the amazing dish I made in my luxurious kitchen?”) or pleas (“Please, let me back in, I want to talk to you!”) yielded any results.

Finally, after taking a lovely long shower and finishing the last of his rather excellent stew, Draco slipped into his bed with a content sigh and let sleep claim him.

Chapter Text

Hermione was going crazy. She woke up extremely early on Monday morning, all the things she usually did before going to work running around in her head on a useless loop. Make coffee, brush teeth, comb hair, eat yoghurt, put on suit and robes, grab briefcase, out the door.

But now, she was sitting here in this godforsaken escape room, doing none of that while her draft legislation went unsubmitted, her presentation unprepared, her files unfiled, her work trip unplanned. Panic and anger swirled deep in her chest. She should be on her way to work, do her part, contribute, be useful. But here she was, utterly useless and a complete waste of space. Soon, the Ministry will open, office hours will begin, and her boss will notice her absence.

Hermione’s stomach tightened into a spiky ball. During her years at the Ministry, she has never even taken a day off. And today, she will simply fail to show up and miss the deadline for the new draft.

Will she be reprimanded? Or even fired?

Pulse beating on her eardrums, she took deep breaths, one after the other as she went through the motions. It must be seven in the morning. Coffee, teeth, hair, yoghurt, suit, robes, briefcase, door.

Fingers snaking into her hair, she pulled at the roots as her shoulders fell inwards. She curled into a ball, lay on her side, and let angry tears slide down her face.

Sometime later, hunger pulled her from her bed. Wiping at the dried tear tracks on her face, she padded into the bathroom and yanked the snack cupboard open. Her stomach turned at the thought of eating another bag of crisps, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Her jaw dropped to the floor as she surveyed the cupboard. In place of the crisps she consumed the day before, she found a wholewheat egg sandwich and an apple. Stomach growling forcefully, she took the offering without a thought and ate it in a couple of quick bites. Then she drank two large glasses of water, combed her hair and switched her brain on.

How did the new food get here? By magic, or was there a mechanical way out of the room? If it was the latter, it had to be two-way, which meant that Hermione could find it.

And so she set to work. She pulled every single piece of movable furniture to the side, looking for trapdoors, gaps, windows, holes, anything a person could squeeze through.

After about an hour, she sat back on her heels, sweaty and panting, defeated. No openings. The only way out had to be by magic.

But she wasn’t the only one here. Perhaps Malfoy was bored enough now to work with her on an escape plan. A delicious sense of anticipation warmed her chest at the thought of the blond man on the other side of the wall. She had to admit, Malfoy had definitely outgrown the spoiled rich schoolboy attitude he used to parade around at Hogwarts. With the menacing air and ugly pureblood bigotry gone, his snarky remarks became playful, witty taunts.

Hermione remembered grinning at a few of Malfoy’s sarcastic comebacks muttered under his breath when he volunteered with her department at the Ministry a couple of years ago. It was a part of his rehabilitation: all former Death Eaters not sentenced to Azkaban were required to volunteer with the Ministry, St Mungo’s, or a charity chosen by the Wizengamot. Malfoy was placed with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Hermione suspected that Blaise Zabini was behind the decision, lobbying for his friend to be a volunteer at the department he worked at. Not that she minded; Malfoy had proved to be a smart, polite coworker with a sharp mind and witty observations.

After his time at the Ministry, Malfoy apparently went on an apology tour to ask the forgiveness of everyone he had wronged. She learned about this one evening last year when she found him on her doorstep, fidgeting and nervous. He issued a heartfelt apology, and considering that his time at the Ministry had completely overwritten her Hogwarts memories of him, it wasn’t difficult to forgive him at all.

She spotted him once or twice at various social occasions over the course of last year and was taken aback by the change in him. Dark circles enveloped his grey eyes, the spark entirely gone from them. His cheeks were sunken, the skin on them tight and ashen. At Neville’s wedding ceremony he was fidgety, gaze flitting around as if looking for the nearest exit, fingers clasped tightly around each other. And then, of course, at the reception, he drank half the bar by himself and ended up dead to the world.

Hermione wondered what happened to him. Was he still hung up on Pansy? She knew they were together during the last few years of Hogwarts and perhaps seeing her marry Neville was too much for him.

Either way, it was time for him to join the quest of getting out of here. Hermione marched to their shared window and took the painting down.

And was rewarded by the most beautiful male body she’d ever seen. Facing away from her, Malfoy was in the process of losing his dress trousers. Hermione stared, eyes wide, as two long, lean legs emerged from the silky black material. She knew she should avert her eyes, but she was transfixed. Wearing nothing but his boxers, Malfoy rummaged around in his open cupboard, selecting a pair of black jeans. He pulled them on, the muscles in his back tightening under his pale skin. A tattoo of a dragon coiled around his back, its sinuous body gliding along heavy cords of muscles.

Hermione may have gasped at the sight, but to be honest, her brain has momentarily given up control over her body, so she couldn’t recall whether the sound came from her or the universe in general.

Malfoy turned, pale blond hair falling onto his forehead, and at the sight of her, a wicked grin spread on his face. Hermione vaguely registered that the spark was back in his eyes at full force, not to mention the vast expanse of muscles on his chest and abdomen, but by then, alarm bells were ringing in her brain. Malfoy approached her, body graceful like a predator's, and Hermione’s blood reached boiling point. Her fight or flight reflex kicking in, she slammed the portrait back over the window and collapsed on her bed.

What on Earth was wrong with her? Ogling an old acquaintance like a hormonal teenager? Hermione groaned softly, letting her head fall back against the wall. This room was driving her crazy.

She needed a distraction. Having finished Sherlock Holmes the night before, she pulled another book from her pile and buried herself in the pages.

Hunger pangs roused her a few hours later. She looked up and was surprised to find the sun at its zenith. It was midday. She wondered what her colleagues were doing.

Maybe someone found the draft at Neville’s wedding and submitted it. It was a long shot, but probably Blaise wandered by her table and spotting the abandoned parchments, took it upon himself to submit it. Admittedly, not a very likely scenario, but not completely impossible. It was Blaise’s fault that she couldn’t submit the entire thing on Friday, after all.

Walking into the bathroom, she was happy to discover a large salad sitting beside the boxes of cookies. Not even questioning its origins anymore, she grabbed it and sat down at the desk to eat.

The afternoon passed in a similar manner. Her cheeks coloring, she ignored Malfoy’s taunts from his side of the wall and the grumbling of the old lady in the painting (Malfoy’s Silencio must have worn off).

By tomorrow, he’ll forget all about me ogling him, she thought hopefully as she readied herself for bed. After all, he must have women ogling him left and right. The thought spreading a strangely sour taste in her mouth, she shook it off and slid beneath the sheets.

Chapter Text

“No! NO! Leave me alone!”

Hermione shot up in bed, her fingers grappling for a wand that wasn’t there. “What? Who? Where?”

Static silence was her only response, the air vibrating with unseen energy. Then, from the other side of the wall, screaming.

“Please don’t make me do it! No, no, please, no!”

Malfoy. With a sinking heart, Hermione realized that he must be having a nightmare.

Getting to her knees, she pulled the painting from the wall and peered into Malfoy’s room. The curtain was drawn, but a thin slice of moonlight managed to sneak in beside it, illuminating the room just enough for Hermione to spot Malfoy writhing on the bed. His covers were wrangled, his eyes firmly squeezed together, and his face was contorted into a look of agony.

“No, please don’t!” he screamed.

“Malfoy! Wake up!”

Muffled by the blasted glass between them, her words had no effect on him. He continued thrashing, his long limbs flailing and helpless.

Stomach heavy and tight, Hermione curled her fingers into a fist and banged on the window. “Malfoy!”

Body jerking violently, Malfoy shot up in bed, a final scream escaping through his lips.

“It’s all right,” Hermione said in her best attempt at a soothing voice from behind a glass wall. “It was just a nightmare.”

Malfoy blinked, panting. “Granger,” he croaked.

“Yes, it’s me. You had a nightmare, but it’s over. You’re all right.”

“I’m all right,” he repeated, his voice dead. He ran a hand through his hair and took several deep breaths. “Did I wake you?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, Granger.”

Hermione shook her head. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Malfoy scoffed. “But I just woke you.”

“Did you choose to have a nightmare and scream in your sleep?”

“Of course not.”

“Well then, it wasn’t your fault.”

 A small smile spread across Malfoy’s face, driving the remnants of his nightmare away. “Look at that. Hermione Granger arguing in my favor.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s hardly the first time.”

Malfoy’s expression sobered. Hermione could guess why: an image of herself probably appeared in his mind, defending him in front of the Wizengamot during his trial. Her and Harry’s testimonies were crucial in Malfoy’s narrow escape from Azkaban.

“Yeah,” he said softy, the sound barely reaching Hermione through the glass. He regarded her seriously, emotion welling in his grey eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hermione asked. “The nightmare, I mean?”

Getting up from the bed, Malfoy walked to the window. Wood scraped on wood as he pulled the chair from his desk beneath the glass and set down. Up close, Hermione could spot the beginnings of thick, blond stubble on his jaw, the inevitable effect of having neither razor not wand at his disposal. Her fingers pricked as she wondered what it would be like to run her hand over it.

“Not really.” Malfoy sighed. “I have a fuckload of nightmare ingredients my brain can pick from. A giant cast of characters, like Voldemort, Aunt Bellatrix, Greyback, a whole lot of torture instruments, and a wide variety of victims. My mother, me, Potter, Luna Lovegood, you.” His voice cracked a bit at the last word. “My personal favorite is when one of those assholes makes me torture one of the victims.”

Which was, based on the words he screamed, exactly his nightmare today. “I’m sorry,” Hermione said.

Malfoy shrugged. “Perks of surviving a war, I guess.”

Hermione snorted. “Yeah. We get our own personal Clue nightmares.”

“What?” Malfoy asked, confused.

“Never mind.” As a pureblood, Malfoy probably never came across the game.

“Do you get nightmares too?” he asked.

Hermione nodded. Leaning back against the wall, they sat side-by-side for a moment, Hermione playing with a strand of hair, Malfoy rubbing his jaw. His hair was tousled, his pensive gaze fixed somewhere behind her, his lips parted, and Hermione tried really hard not to acknowledge that this was what Draco Malfoy looked like when he just got up from bed.

Which reminded her.

Clearing her throat, she asked the question that plagued her since the wedding. “Do you still love her?”

Malfoy looked up, confused. “Who?”

“Pansy.”

 Eyes widening, Malfoy gave a short laugh. “What? No! What gave you the idea?”

Hermione ignored the small burst of relief in her chest. “Then why did you get so drunk at the wedding?”

Gaze averted to the floor, Malfoy shrugged. “Do I need a reason?”

“People don’t usually get blackout drunk without a reason.”

“I just like having a good time.”

“Is puking all over yourself a good time?”

Malfoy smirked. “Come on, you of all people don’t have the right to lecture me about having a good time.”

“For your information, I know perfectly well how to have a good time,” Hermione said with dignity.

“Oh yeah? Like amending legislations and drafting presentations?”

“I enjoy what I do. I like being needed.”

Malfoy gave a snort. “Look at us. The laziest fucker and the most high-achieving witch on the planet, locked in together.”

Hermione shook her head. “You’re not lazy.”

“Tell that to my mother.”

“Seriously, Malfoy. I went to school with you. I worked with you. You aren’t lazy.”

He shrugged. “That was a long time ago. Maybe I changed.”

“But why?”

He was silent for a moment. “I guess I just stopped seeing the point.”

“But…”

“Leave it, Granger.” His voice acquired a rough edge. “I’m not your project.”

“No, you’re not.”

The first rays of the sun peaked through the gap between the window and the curtain. It was Tuesday. Hermione suppressed a sigh. At home, she would be dashing between the bathroom and the kitchen, getting ready for work.

“Did you check your cupboard?” she asked.

Malfoy perked up. “Yeah! And guess what I found.”

He stood up and hurried to the bathroom. When he came back, he pressed a large book to the window, grinning widely. It was such a lovely sight, especially after the grim end of her night, that Hermione couldn’t help but smile back.

“Cooking for Dummies. Ha.”

Excitement shining in his eyes, Malfoy leafed through the book. “I already made chicken stew. I hate to brag, Granger, but it was the best fucking chicken stew I ever ate.”

Hermione laughed. “You love to brag, Malfoy.”

“Probably. A tiny bit,” Malfoy conceded with a grin. “But it doesn’t mean that the statement is not true. And today, I’m going to try a steak!”

Hermione’s mouth watered. “Hmm! I never thought I’d ever say this, but I totally envy you. You’re on a joyride while I’m stuck here with adventure novels and crisps.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad to me either.”

Malfoy’s stomach growled, and the next instant, Hermione’s followed suit.

They blinked at each other for a second, then dissolved in a burst of laughter.

“Why don’t we reconvene after breakfast?” Hermione asked.

“Excellent idea, Granger. See you in a bit!”

Chapter Text

Draco leaned back in his chair, stroking his stomach happily. His culinary victory tour continued with the most amazing omelet he ever tasted. Tomorrow, he’ll try making pancakes.

Leaving his dishes to soak, as suggested by the most wonderful book ever written, he approached Granger’s window.

His heart leaped as he took in her small form, curls all over the place, nose wrinkled in concentration as she pored over a book. His hand rose to smooth a curl from her face, and he was positively shocked when instead of soft, silky hair, his fingers encountered cold, hard glass.

Granger startled, a blush spreading on her face as she looked up from her book. “Oh, Malfoy. Didn’t see you there.”

“What did you choose for breakfast?” Draco asked, yanking his hand behind his back. As good as crisps and cookies were, he had to admit that a decent meal definitely had its perks.

“Oh. Our captors must feel sorry for me because I keep finding regular food at mealtimes. Today, it was scrambled eggs.”

Draco grinned. “I bet it wasn’t as good as mine.”

Granger smiled back. “That I’m sure of.”

A second passed, then two, but Granger’s deep, chocolate eyes seemed to have magnetic powers, because Draco had trouble averting his gaze. With a smile lighting up her face, her usually sharp expression softened, and the effect was striking. Draco couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before.

 Something stirred in his brain, a memory. Granger at a desk wearing a pale blue jacket, chocolate gaze focused on a parchment, then curls dancing around her face as she looked up, an appreciative smile on her face. “Great work, Malfoy. Finally someone understood what I actually asked for.”

Hmm. Perhaps he did notice it before.

A blush creeping up on her face, Granger averted her eyes. “Erm, was there anything else in your cupboard?”

Draco rubbed his jaw. “Right. Yeah. The cupboard.” He hurried back to the ugly brown thing and scooped up the mismatched knickknacks he found there.

“Prepare yourself, Granger, for the haul of the century.” He risked a glance at her face and was rewarded with an amused smile. Heart lurching in his chest, he went on. “Here’s a torn parchment with the most exciting pattern of random dots and dashes across. Here’s a half-ready chessboard with – drumroll please – only the dark pieces available. What amazing symbolism.”

He gave a sarcastic snort, then picked up the assortment of metal badges and let them fall back on the windowsill. “And here are some badges for the most annoying school houses in the world.” He showed her the one with the lion. “This here is for Gryffindor. And this,” he pointed to the four interlocking circles that he thought resembled handcuffs, “is probably a school house for future Azkaban guards. Or maybe a school for people with a bondage kink?”

A glance at Granger revealed adorably blushed cheeks. Emboldened, Draco continued. “But this here is not a school.” He picked up the charging bull. “This is Potter himself. Or is it Weasley? Can’t decide.”

Granger burst out laughing, and it sounded like the clearest brook bubbling on the mountainside. Like a church bell ringing in the distance, leading weary travelers home.  Draco lowered his hands, badges forgotten, a pleasant warmth spreading in his chest at the sight of her.

“While your descriptions are surprisingly accurate, those are actually car brands.” Granger said, wiping her eyes.

Draco shook his head. “What now?”

“Car brands,” Granger said, eyes bright. “You know, those metallic thingies Muggles travel around in?”

Draco inspected the badges. “So each of these represent a type of car?”

Granger nodded. “Yeah. The one with the circles is Audi. The horse is a Mustang. What else have you got?”

One by one, Draco showed the badges, and Granger rattled out random words that were apparently types of cars.

“But what do we do with them?” Draco asked.

Granger looked behind him. “Did you probably find a board to go with them?”

“A board?”

“Yes. Something to place them on. If placed in the correct order, they should unlock the next clue, or something.”

Draco rubbed his jaw. “There wasn’t anything like that in the cupboard.”

“Did you find the hidden compartment?”

“The what?”

“There was a hidden compartment in one of the drawers in my cupboard.”

A frantic search for a hidden compartment ensued. Draco yanked open the cupboard, pulled out drawers, tested their bottoms, their backs and their sides for trigger mechanisms, while Granger jumped up and down on her bed, cheering him on. A wide grin split Draco’s face in half as he snuck glances at her, reporting his progress.

Then finally, he bumped into one of the shelves and it fell down with a clatter, revealing a hollowed-out bottom with words scratched across it. Draco crouched down and read some of them aloud.

“Peugeot. Lamborghini. BMW?”

“That’s it!” Granger yelled excitedly. “Bring it here!”

Heart pounding much faster than the search warranted, Draco approached the window. Granger directed him which badge to pair up with which word, and once everything was in place, the board lit up with a soft violet light.

Eyes wide, incredulous smiles on their faces, Draco and Granger stared at each other. Then movement caught Draco’s eye.

“Granger! There was a flash behind you!”

Granger turned around, her curls flying. “Flash? Where?”

“On the desk! It was the same violet color than the board here.”

Jumping to her feet, Granger hurried to the desk and picked up a small thingy. Her eyes widened, and she let out a little yelp. “Malfoy, look at this!” She sped back to her bed and pressed the thingy to the glass.

Squinting, Draco looked at the device. It was a small, metallic cuboid, with six white buttons not unlike the ones he saw on the oven. Above them was a green piece of glass, with three checkmarks and three question marks twirling wildly. “Erm, what am I looking at?”

“It’s some sort of electronic device that, I believe, will open the door for us. And we’re halfway through to that!”

“What? How do you know?”

“Because when I first found it, it had six question marks. And now three are replaced by checkmarks!”

Draco frowned. “We already solved three puzzles?”

“Of course, silly!” Granger laughed. “The two carpets and this one.”

“Right. And it only took us two days and a morning!”

“It would’ve taken less if you bothered to check your cupboard first.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Or if those fuckers gave you the Muggle car puzzle and not me.” Honestly, never in a million years could he have solved that on his own.

Wait a minute.

Excitement bubbled in his throat, but Draco forced his voice into an even rhythm. “Granger? What kind of puzzles did you find?”

Granger was straining her neck, trying to peek at his other puzzle on the windowsill. Distracted by the curve of her neck, Draco didn’t register her reply at first.

“I said what?”

Draco shook his head. “Sorry.” He repeated the question, and Granger departed in search of her puzzles. Draco gave himself a minute to enjoy the view of her bottom, looking cuter and perkier than it had any right, especially in those ridiculous Muggle shorts. When she turned back, Draco averted his eyes so quickly that he almost saw the inside of his skull.

“I’ve got some Quidditch figurines, then these feet and this board. They go here but I don’t know in what kind of order. Why?”

A slow smile spread across his face, partly because he knew the answer, and partly because he was the first to figure it out. “Frankly, Granger, I don’t know what you’d do without me.”

Granger raised an eyebrow. “Live happily ever after without anyone pestering me?”

Draco snorted. “As if I’m the only one pestering you.”

“True.” A small smile played on her lips as Granger tilted her head to the side. “Care to enlighten me?”

Draco rubbed his hands together, savoring the moment. It didn’t happen often that someone, no, not someone, that he one-upped Hermione Granger. “You were given the puzzles that I can solve whereas I ended up with the ones you know the answer to.”

Understanding dawned on Granger’s face, and frankly, it was a beautiful sight. “That’s genius.”

“Thank you, darling,” Draco said, a self-satisfied smirk spreading on his face as his body became light, floating three feet above the ground.

“No, I mean, our captor is a genius!”

“What?” Draco came crashing down back to Earth.

“What a way to force us to work together.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “So what is this thing?”

“Why should I tell you?” Draco pouted. “I solved this puzzle and yet you call our captor a genius.”

Granger regarded him, her lips twitching as she tried to hold back a grin. “Please, oh Mr. Draco Clever Malfoy, share your special knowledge with me.”

Draco felt an answering grin creep up on his face. “That’s a much better middle name for me.”

Granger’s smile turned deeper, a hint of understanding glinting in her eyes. His actual middle name, which happened to be his father’s name, has become much too heavy for him over the years.

“It’s just a name,” Granger said, her gaze steady and warm. “Another thing you had no control over.”

Draco averted his eyes. “Right.”

“Tell me, Malfoy. What are these feet?”

Running his fingers through his hair, Draco took a deep breath as he collected himself. When he looked up again, he found Granger gazing at a point above his eyes with a newly formed blush on her face, her lips slightly parted.

Warmth bubbled in his chest as he answered the question. “Those are the basic steps for Merlin’s waltz.”

Chapter Text

The next few hours went by in a blur. Draco told Granger what order to put the feet on the board, which glowed violet and earned them another checkmark on the small cuboid thingy. Now only two question marks remained, and two puzzles. But here they struck a wall.

“Your parchment looks like Morse code,” Granger said.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“It’s a Muggle way to communicate secret messages. Those dashes and dots represent letters of the alphabet.”

“Ah. And can you solve it?”

Granger shook her head. “Not without a key.”

Draco smirked. “And here I thought you knew everything.”

Granger rolled her eyes. “Nobody knows everything.”

That truth became even more apparent as Draco examined the Quidditch figurines. There were two teams, one clad in red and the other in green robes (how imaginative), but he had no idea what to do with them. “I could play out some scenarios, but wouldn’t we need a board thingy like this to sort the figurines on?” He pointed to the dancing feet chart on Granger’s side of the room.

Granger nodded. “You’re right.” She tore through her room again, giving Draco excellent views of her bottom, but the search yielded no other results.

Then Draco’s stomach began growling, and they agreed to retreat for lunch and meet after.

Draco spent a rather enjoyable hour preparing his steak and mashed potatoes, and an even more enjoyable fifteen minutes devouring it. He returned to Granger, sated and happy.

“Well, Granger, I don’t know about you, but I had the most excellent lunch.”

Granger scowled at him, but there was no real malice in the expression. “Your claims need corroboration.”

Draco frowned. “What now?”

A sly grin appeared on Granger’s face. “I mean, Malfoy, it’s all well that you brag about your newfound cooking skills, but you’ll have to excuse me for not quite believing you until I tasted the evidence myself.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to invite yourself to dinner with me?”

Granger’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t back down. “If that’s what it takes to prove your claims.”

Draco rubbed his palms together, little jolts of exhilaration travelling through his chest. “Challenge accepted. When we get out of here, prepare to be amazed.”

Granger inclined her head. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

Holding her gaze for a moment, Draco’s heartbeat quickened in his chest. “Yet another motivation to get out of here.”

Granger smiled. “True.” Then she gestured to the chess set laid out in front of her on the bed. “Maybe this is our next exercise?”

“Chess?”

“Yes.” Granger nodded, setting up her pieces. “I mean, you have one set of pieces and I have the other. It’s fairly obvious that our captor wants us to play, right?”

Draco grinned. “Well, it can’t hurt.” He took a look at the little black pieces, all jumbled up on the windowsill. “Wait, I need to adjust my room first.” He stepped to the desk and dragged it in front of the window. Then he set up his board, a smirk snaking up on his face as he worked. “What a pity we can’t play it the proper Slytherin way.”

“What’s the proper Slytherin way?”

Draco grinned at her. “Anytime someone loses a piece, they have to drink a shot.”

Granger laughed. “That sounds like the best way to get drunk real fast.”

Draco wiggled his eyebrows. “No wonder Slytherin dorm parties were legendary.” He smiled wistfully at the memory of countless chess parties molding into one big event of laughter and camaraderie. How he missed that. But that was before things went to shit, and well, now was now.

A thought occurred to him, and his smile turned sly. “You know, one of us could play the proper Slytherin way.”

Granger gave an incredulous laugh. “No way. I need all my brain cells functional, thank you.”

Draco smirked. “So you’re saying you know I’ll beat you.”

“You probably will. I’m not a very good player to begin with,” Granger conceded. “And I’d get steadily worse with the number of pieces you eliminate.”

“Where’s that famous Gryffindor courage?” Draco goaded. He was determined to get his way. If he couldn’t drink, then he wanted, no, he needed Granger to get sloshed for him. He wondered what she would look like, limbs all loose and face flushed from drink.

Granger pulled herself upright. “It’s not a question of courage.”

“Come on, Granger, what’s the harm? You drink a couple of shots, have a good time, and sleep it off. It’s not like you have to get up early tomorrow.”

Granger glanced toward the door to her bathroom. “Leave it, Malfoy.”

Sensing victory, Draco played his trump card. “Do it for me. Help a sad mess of a former Slytherin remember the good old days. Isn’t that what you do, help pathetic creatures?”

Granger groaned. “You’re hardly pathetic.”

Draco gave a dark chuckle. “Believe me, I am.” An image of himself flashed in his mind, sitting in his armchair, staring into the empty rooms of his empty house. He grabbed one of his chess pieces, the hard wooden edges biting into his palm.

“Malfoy?” Granger’s voice was tentative, almost shy.

He shook his head. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter. Let’s play.”

“Ugh, you’ll be the death of me!” With that, Granger got up from her bed and left. Draco strained his neck, trying to see where she got to. His eyes widened as Granger returned, clutching a small bottle of firewhiskey and a shot glass in her hand.

“If it means that much to you, I’ll play the Slytherin way,” she said, her voice low and determined.

A gleeful warmth bubbled in Draco’s stomach, tainted by an unpleasant pang of guilt. “You don’t have to do that, Granger. I’m an excellent chess player, and you’ll be sloshed off your face in no time.”

“You’re all talk, Malfoy.” Granger eyed him, her eyes sparkling. The sight made Draco’s pants oddly uncomfortable.

“All right.” He gestured to Granger’s board. “Your move.”

“Wait,” Granger said. “It’s not fair that I’m forced to do something unpleasant while you just sit around smugly. You need a punishment for losing a piece as well.”

“Fair enough,” Draco conceded. He wracked his brains for an appropriate punishment. He was about to offer to eat raw carrots, something he really didn’t like, but then his lips pulled into a wide smile.

“I have an excellent idea.” He walked to the cupboard and yanked on the offensively pink sweater sporting a yellow smiley face that he so far has managed to avoid. When he turned back around, Granger burst out laughing. “Wait a minute, Malfoy, you don’t have to put on hideous clothes unless you lose a piece.”

Draco shook his head, advancing on the window. “Au contraire, darling. Every time I lose a piece, I’ll take something off.”

The breath hitched in Granger’s throat, her cheeks turning red quicker than the Great Hall when Gryffindor stole the House Cup from Slytherin during his first year.

“Now you have even more motivation to beat me,” Draco drawled as he sat down at the desk.

Granger made a sputtering sound, hastily averting her eyes. Then, grabbing one of her pieces, she opened the game.

Draco didn’t lie when he said he was an excellent player. However, he really hated this sweater, plus he wanted to see Granger’s reaction to his little stripping game, so he bungled up his answering move.

“Ha!” Granger yelled in triumph and made her move. Then both of them yelped as one of Draco’s pawns disintegrated on the board.

“Amazing,” Granger said. “Our boards must be connected by magic.”

Draco nodded, divesting himself from the offending sweater. Then he made a move, a well thought out one this time, and Granger’s attention snapped back to the board.

The game continued for a few moves, and then Draco made his first kill. One of Granger’s pawns crumbled on the board.

“Bottoms up, darling,” he smirked.

Granger uncorked the bottle and filled her shot glass. She eyed the amber liquid unhappily, then downed it in one go. Draco followed the graceful arch of her neck, the way her curls stroked her skin. He wondered what it would feel like to run his finger down her neck.

“Ugh.” She shuddered as the whiskey no doubt burned its way down to her stomach. Draco found that he didn’t miss that feeling as much as he thought he would. “I wish our captor would’ve left some better tasting alcohol here.”

Draco snorted. “And what would that be?”

Granger shrugged. “Dom Perignon? Mojitos? Ooh, I know. Bailey’s!”

“I don’t know what any of those words mean.”

“They’re all very delicious alcoholic drinks. Especially Bailey’s.”

“What’s that?”

A wistful smile spread on Granger’s face. “Only the best tasting liquor in the world. It’s basically Irish whiskey, cream and cocoa.”

Draco grinned. “Sounds like dessert.”

Granger’s grin turned mischievous. “You know, the first time I ever got drunk was on Bailey’s?”

“Really?” Placing his elbow on the desk, Draco cradled his jaw in his palm. “I feel like there’s a story there.”

Granger snorted. “Absolutely.” She adjusted a few strands of hair around her face as she stared into space, her mind far away. “The summer before sixth year, my parents left me alone in the house for a weekend. Harry and Ron came over to stay with me, and we dared each other to try the booze in my parents’ liquor cabinet.” Her eyes glazed over as the memory replayed in her mind. A smile tugged at Draco’s lips as he regarded her, lost in the moment.

“All of those drinks tasted vile, but then we came across half a bottle of Bailey’s. It was so delicious that we abandoned the game and just kept on drinking that one until we finished the bottle.”

“And got plastered.”

“Completely.” Granger grinned.

“Smooth.” Draco laughed. “Did you replace the bottle?”

“Yes, the next day. But get this.” Granger’s eyes flashed dangerously, the laughter barely contained in her voice. “We drank that one too.”

“What?”

“Yeah. You see, the first bottle was open, with some of the booze already missing. So to make it look like we didn’t touch it…”

“You had to drink some of the new bottle,” Draco interjected.

“Exactly. But by the time we reached the appropriate level, we were quite tipsy and completely forgot about that goal. So we went on drinking until the new bottle was empty, too.”

“And got even more plastered.”

Granger threw back her head and laughed. “You wouldn’t believe how drunk we were. I mean, Harry could barely hold himself upright on the couch, so he just sat slumped there, his gaze unfocused, glasses askew as he tried to pry another drop from the empty bottle. And Ron, he wanted to fly to the store to replace the newly empty bottle with another new one, so he sat on the floor, mounted my parents’ totally unmagical broomstick and was yelling at it to fly.”

Granger’s laughter was contagious, and even though he couldn’t care less about Potter and Weasley’s drunken adventures, Draco felt himself joining in. “And you?”

Granger wiped her eyes with the back of her palm, her face flushed and eyes shining with laughter. “Well, I tried to feed my cat and got very frustrated that he wouldn’t eat.”

Draco snorted. “You’re sensible even off your face, Granger.”

“Not at all. The next day I found a whole heap of cat food piled up in front of our mop. Our orange mop.”

Chapter Text

Warmth spread across Hermione’s body, making her limbs loose and comfortable. The game of wizarding chess was well underway, and it looked like she was going to lose. But she found that she didn’t care that much.

First of all, every time she lost a piece, she had to drink a shot, which admittedly tasted disgusting, but it ultimately resulted in a delicious, warm cloud taking over her body and mind. She wondered briefly why she was against this in the first place.

And every time Malfoy lost a piece, he had to take off an article of clothing, which was a punishment Hermione didn’t mind at all. Obviously, cheating little ferret as he was, he started with his socks. Hermione groaned, already two shots in, when Malfoy lost his second pawn and pulled a sock off with a seductive expression on his face. Then she worked extra hard to kill another piece of his, and she succeeded, only to be rewarded with another sock.

And then she lost two pieces in quick succession, resulting in two shots, and after that, everything became increasingly hazy. Her face was on fire, her heart beat loudly, and the pieces started multiplying on the board, randomly jumping in various directions. She couldn’t help but giggle at the sight. The only grievance she had was that all this jumping around made it quite difficult to focus on what she needed to do to kill off another of his pieces, which meant that Malfoy’s shirt and trousers would stay on, regrettably.

“Admit defeat, Granger,” Malfoy said, the pompous little ass.

“Ne’er,” Hermione replied, narrowing her eyes to stop the pieces from spinning. “I wanna see your dragon again.”

Malfoy snorted. “Then at least go get a glass of water. You’re completely sloshed.”

“ ‘m fine.” What should she do to make him lose a piece? But then she made the mistake of looking up, straight into Malfoy’s gorgeous, piercing eyes.

“You have gorgeous eyes,” she informed him.

Malfoy’s gorgeous eyes widened. “I do?”

Hermione nodded eagerly. “Yeah. ‘s really unfair.”

“Why?”

“’Cause your mouth is gorgeous too. So kissable. And that hair… mmm… makes me want to bury my fingers in it.”

Malfoy choked, but Hermione went on. “So it’s really not fair that your eyes should be that gorgeous too.”

Malfoy gave a dark chuckle. “Don’t worry, enough parts of me are ugly.”

Hermione hiccupped. “Not your chest. Or your back. Those are gorgeous too. And what I saw from your legs… hmmm… delicious broom thighs.”

“What?”

“The only part I didn’t see was your… you know.” She giggled as she gestured toward Malfoy’s crotch, upending three chess pieces by accident. “Oops.”

Malfoy laughed, the sound spreading fuzzy, warm happiness in Hermione’s chest. She gave him a dreamy smile. “Even your laugh ‘s beautiful.”

“Let me reassure you, that specific part of my anatomy matches the rest of my apparently gorgeous body.”

Hermione giggled. “That’s what I thought. So unfair.”

Malfoy gazed at her, his eyes laden with an emotion her whiskey-addled brain was unable to decipher.

“Get a glass of water, Granger. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

Hermione gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.” Then she unfolded her legs from beneath her and stumbled to the bathroom. With some difficulty, she located a glass and filled it with water. She gulped it down, water sloshing down her face and her front. It felt nice, cooling her overheated body, so she drank another glass and splashed some water on herself.

Then she made her wobbly way back to Malfoy, who made a strange, gurgled sound upon spotting her.

“’m back,” she announced, lowering herself on her bed. It was really not as easy as it sounded, because the room was steadily spinning around her.

Water dripped on the blanket, and she narrowed her eyes in confusion. “’s raining.”

“No,” Malfoy said, his voice strained. “You’re wet.”

Hermione ran her fingers over her hair and found that Malfoy was right. “I am.” She giggled, because this was funny for some reason. Then she shivered and discovered that her shirt was wet as well, completely plastered to her chest. “Oh. I’m cold.”

She pulled her shirt upwards and yanked it over her head. Malfoy sounded like he was choking, but it was so nice to lift the wet fabric from her skin that she forgot to ask what his problem was. She looked down at her chest, letting her fingers run across her black lace bra. Luckily, that wasn’t wet at all. Curiously, Malfoy choked again.

Throwing the wet shirt on the floor, she turned back to Malfoy. His cheeks were flushed, and he gazed at her with wide eyes. “What?”

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his tone almost reverent.

Hermione’s face split into the largest smile. “You think so?” Nobody ever thought she was beautiful. She shifted on the bed, and something bumped into her knee. A chess board.

“Oh, right, we’re playing chess.” Hermione giggled. How could she forget? “Is it my move?” She pushed a piece across the board experimentally.

“We don’t have to keep going,” Malfoy replied, but then one of his pieces exploded. He gazed at his board, dumbfounded. “Merlin, Granger, you almost managed to checkmate me by accident.”

“I did?” Hermione’s heart filled with joy. “I won? I never win at wizarding chess!”

“And you won’t this time, either.” Malfoy’s grin had a dangerous edge. “However, you did win something.”

“What did I win?”

Malfoy stood up, his long fingers curling around the edge of his shirt. Hermione gulped as he began to pull the shirt upward, revealing tight ab muscles. Her face flushed as she suddenly remembered what he had to do when he lost a piece.

“I’ll get to see your dragon,” she breathed, leaning forward. The glass of the window felt cool against her forehead, and she welcomed the sensation as her eyes followed the journey of Malfoy’s shirt.

She suppressed a moan (or at least she thought she did) at the sight of the glorious expanse of muscles and ink that was Draco Malfoy. He twirled around for her with a very sexy smirk on his face and she sighed. He was unbelievably gorgeous. She placed her fingers on the window, imagining that it wasn’t cold glass she was touching but hard, hot muscles.

Malfoy gave a dark chuckle. “I see I’ve rendered you speechless.”

If the world wasn’t spinning, if Hermione’s brain was still working, she’d probably have come up with something witty to say to that. But right here and now, she was only capable of slowly nodding. “Yeah.”

Malfoy gazed at her, the teasing gone from his expression to be replaced by pure, raging fire. “Granger,” he said, his eyes raking over her body. A drop of water fell from her hair and snaked its way down her chest. She shivered.

Malfoy’s gaze followed the drop of water, but then his eyes widened and became fixed at something behind her. “Granger! Your bottle!”

“What?” Hermione spun around, the world tilting dangerously at the movement.

“There are some dots on your whiskey bottle. I found similar dots in the meat packaging.”

Dots? Meat packaging? That didn’t make a lot of sense to Hermione. “What are you talking about?”

Malfoy launched into an explanation, and Hermione reached for the half-empty bottle. Squinting her eyes, she indeed found some little dots dancing on the bottle, disappearing into the amber colored liquid. Were there more dots? Probably. There was only one way to find out, so she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a big gulp.

She was vaguely aware of Malfoy shouting something, but the whiskey burned her stomach nicely, and now she could see that there indeed were more dots. She giggled.

“More dots,” she said, showing the bottle to Malfoy happily.

“Why did you drink it?”

“To free the poor little dots,” she said dreamily. Then she leaned back against the wall, cradling the bottle in her hands. “Can I tell you a se’ret?”

Malfoy regarded her warily. “Are you sure you want to?”

Hermione shrugged. “You pro’aly already noticed.”

“All right.” Malfoy leaned closer to the window. If it wasn’t for the glass, she could lean her head on his shoulder. That gorgeous, wide shoulder. Hermione sighed.

 “I think I’m a bit drunk.”

Malfoy burst out laughing. “No, Granger, you’re completely smashed.”

Hermione smiled, letting the dots do their merry little dance around the bottle. Yes, she probably was. And that was fine.

Chapter Text

Draco leaned against the wall he shared with Granger, a soft smile playing on his lips. The sun was going down and painted the room in a beautiful orange glow as the afternoon slowly turned into evening. His stomach growled loudly, measuring the time as well, but Draco didn’t want to get up at all.

As she was no longer required to concentrate on playing chess, Granger’s drunken brain kept flitting between emotions and topics, and it was absolutely adorable. The drink has melted off the usual serious expression from her face, leaving soft edges, shiny eyes and a simple, giddy joy that Draco just couldn’t get enough of.

Draco tried explaining to her what he thought the dots would do in the morning, but she only gazed at him with wide eyes, a flushed face and slightly parted lips.

“You’re so smart, Draco,” she said, and the sound of his given name on her lips made him shiver nicely. “Can you tell me again?”

“If you call me smart again,” he replied, and she called him smart again, and he started explaining again. But he’d given up once he noticed that she occupied herself by tilting the bottle left and right so the liquid would flow from side to side, giggling. He smiled and resolved to talk about this when Granger was yet again in complete control of her faculties.

“You know, Malfoy, Slytherin chess is really not that bad,” she murmured sometime later, lifting the bottle to her lips. Draco has long since given up trying to convince her to stop drinking. Luckily, the bottle was not full-sized; a regular drinker could hardly even get more than a decent buzz from it. But as the evidence showed, Granger was a complete lightweight.

Nevertheless, after the initial four shots she had to down in quick succession, she spread out the rest of the whiskey for the remainder of the afternoon, which kept her inebriation on a manageable level. And Merlin, was she a cute drunk.

“Let’s see what you think of that in the morning.”

Granger shrugged. “’S not like people expect me to do stuff in the morning.”

“Welcome to my life, darling.”

Lowering the bottle, Granger fixed her large brown eyes on him. “That’s so sad! Why’s that your life?”

Draco shrugged. “Dunno.” He didn’t, really. It just happened. Once he finished his grand tour of apology, he thought he’d finally feel liberated and ready to start a new, much better chapter of his life. But instead, he found himself walking around in the shadowy rooms of his new townhouse, dazed and empty, wondering what the point of it was.

“Y’ know, I really hoped you’d return to the Ministry,” Granger said, her voice lowered conspiratorially.

Draco snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“No, really,” Granger said, nodding earnestly. “You were the best volunteer I ever worked with.”

Draco wanted to snort derogatorily at the notion but found a strange warmth spreading in his chest instead. “Really, Granger. Me as a Ministry worker. What would my ancestors say?”

Granger giggled. “How dare you sully the Malfoy name,” she said in a screeching voice that was an oddly accurate imitation of his Great Aunt Phylomenia, including the soft slur and the unfocused gaze.

Draco burst out laughing, and Granger joined in, throwing her head back. Draco tried very hard not to stare at her chest, where those tantalizingly gorgeous lace-clad breasts rippled softly to the rhythm of her laughter.

“But s’riously, Malfoy,” Hermione said once they finished laughing. “You don’t have to work at the Ministry if you don’t want to. Just find something you love doing. That makes you want to get out of bed in the morning.”

But that was the trouble, wasn’t it? Ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, what did it matter if he got out of bed in the morning?

And maybe it was because Hermione was drunk and wouldn’t remember it in the morning, but Draco found himself opening his mouth and voicing this exact thought to her. His stomach sank a bit as he heard his mouth forming the words; he never ever admitted this out loud. Not to Theo or Blaise, not to his mother, not even to himself.

Hermione turned to him, her eyes wide and shiny. “It matters a lot.”

“Please. Who’d care if I didn’t get up one day? One less Death Eater on the planet.”

“I’d care,” she said defiantly. “And you’re not a Death Eater.”

“I was.” Draco chose to ignore the thrill of joy that ran through his chest at her words. I’d care.

“Yes, you were. But not anymore.”

Draco lifted his left arm, the ugly old mark in stark contrast to his pale skin. “Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.”

“No!” Hermione exclaimed, the nearly empty bottle of firewhiskey jumping dangerously in her hand. “You apologized. Didn’t you mean it?”

“Of course I meant it.”

“Then you’re not a Death Eater anymore.”

Draco scoffed. “I’ve done things, Hermione. Horrible things. Unforgiveable things.”

Hermione shook her head, her curls hitting the glass with little thuds. “You were forgiven, Draco. Why don’t you want to forgive yourself?”

And Draco gaped at her, at this wonderful creature who made him feel all sorts of things he hadn’t felt in a long time. Who asked him a question he didn’t even know was plaguing him. Who, despite being drunk off her ass, seemed to see straight to his soul, and saw a piece of him that nobody else did. Not even Draco himself.

“Because I don’t deserve it,” he muttered.

And then, it was then that Hermione’s big chocolate eyes filled with tears, and her lips wobbled, and all Draco wanted to do was take her in his arms and kiss away the tears and make it all better.

“Of course you deserve it,” she said, placing her hand on the glass. And Draco found himself lifting his hand and placing it on his side of the window, right across from hers. He opened his mouth to reply something, to argue with her, to thank her, to ask if she truly meant it, but then Hermione’s eyes widened and she emitted a small giggle.

“Uh-oh. I have to pee.”

Draco blinked at the sudden change of subject and then burst out laughing. “Drink a glass of water while you’re in there, darling.”

Hermione’s lips pulled into a dreamy, joyful smile. “You are so nice, you always take care of me.” She rested her forehead on the glass, sighing happily, right where Draco’s hand was, and he felt a little thrill travel through his chest.

“Hermione?”

“Hmm?”

“Didn’t you want to use the bathroom?”

“Right! Silly me,” Hermione giggled. Then she pushed herself off the bed and wobbled to the bathroom, Draco’s eyes following her all the way.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke with a dull thudding in her head. Her mouth was parched, her stomach swirling, and she groaned as she slowly opened her eyes.

Yesterday afternoon was a blur. She remembered playing wizarding chess with Malfoy and drinking her penalty shots whenever she lost a piece. She remembered laughter, lots of laughter, and grey eyes regarding her warily, and also ravenously, and what was most unusual, sometimes with a reverent admiration.

But then there was an image of snuggling up to Malfoy’s lovely, warm chest, which couldn’t have happened, so who knew what was real and what was her whiskey-marinated brain fulfilling weird, hidden fantasies.

She looked down at herself. She was entangled in the covers, wearing nothing but a bra and her cotton sleeping pants. Which meant that at one point during the evening, she must have changed from her denim shorts and taken off her shirt.

Ugh. She could only hope that Malfoy didn’t witness the process.

Slowly, carefully, she lowered her feet to the floor and raised herself into a seated position. The world tilted dangerously, her stomach following suit, but everything righted itself in the next instant. Taking a few short breaths, she stood up and made her way to the bathroom.

Where a small, inconspicuous vial waited for her on top of the sink.

“Thank you, captors,” she muttered as she downed the potion, then followed it up with a giant glass of water.

After a few minutes, the headache and nausea retreated, and she took a quick shower. Having forgotten to bring fresh clothes from the cupboard, she pulled back on her underwear from yesterday, along with her sleeping pants. She made a mental note to change them once she was back in her bedroom. But then bits and pieces of last afternoon started emerging from the fog of her memory, and she lowered herself to the floor.

“You have gorgeous eyes.”

“The only part I didn’t see was … you know.”

Mortification burned her face as she buried her fingers in her hair. This was much worse than she thought. Leave it to her to get completely, embarrassingly drunk on just a couple of shots and tell the most gorgeous guy she’d ever seen what she really thought of him.

But then there was Malfoy’s gaze. He looked at her like he didn’t mind these statements at all. In fact, he even told her she was beautiful when she…

Oh my God! I removed my shirt in front of him!, she thought, glancing down at her bra-clad chest. Thank God she at least had her nice bra on, courtesy of being kidnapped from the wedding.

Movement caught her eye and she turned toward the bedroom. Malfoy’s tall form appeared in their shared window, the worry apparent on his face.

“Hermio… er… Granger? Are you all right?”

Hermione flattened herself against the wall. He couldn’t see her from this angle, so she gave herself a few minutes to observe him. He looked well-rested; the earlier dark shadows removed from below his eyes. His light stubble was more pronounced, and his face seemed to have lost the haggardness she observed at the wedding – probably due to skipping alcohol and eating better food.

And apart from the obvious worry on his face, which was entirely due to her sorry state the night before, he seemed calmer, more balanced than before.

Captivity, this particular one at least, seemed to work in his favor, keeping him away from his self-destructive habits.

And then she remembered another part of their conversation. “Because I don’t deserve it.” Could this be the root cause of his problems? That he still hasn’t forgiven himself?

“Granger! Can you hear me? Are you OK?” The urgency in Malfoy’s voice was unmistakable. Hermione wondered briefly if it was because he felt responsible for goading her into drinking.

Peeling herself off the floor, she padded back to the bedroom. “Good morning.”

Relief flooded Malfoy’s face, his lips pulling into a smile. “Oh, good. You’re alive.” But then his cheeks reddened and his fingernails seemed to become incredibly interesting. Hermione realized she was still not wearing a shirt.

“Pardon,” she said, her face going up in flames as she made a detour for the cupboard and yanked the first available shirt over her head.

“How are you feeling?” Malfoy inquired, his voice neutral.

“Not too bad,” she replied from behind the cupboard door, raking her fingers through her damp curls. “I woke up with a headache, but I found a hangover potion in the bathroom so now I’m as good as new.”

“Excellent,” Malfoy said.

Hermione located a discarded pair of jeans on the floor and checking that she was still hidden by the cupboard from Malfoy’s view, put them on. Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped out from behind the cupboard and faced Malfoy.

She expected sly grins and merciless taunting about her state last night. About losing to him at chess, getting drunk on a minimal amount of firewhiskey, and confessing all those embarrassing things to him.

What she didn’t expect was the neutral, almost wary expression that settled over Malfoy. “So,” he cleared his throat. “Pretty good game last night, eh?”

 “If you say so,” she replied, her expression matching his.

His fingers raked through his hair, and a lock fell into his forehead. “What do you… erm… remember from it?”

His eyes flitted to her, then to the back of the room. He was nervous, Hermione realized. Maybe he was afraid she’d try to throw herself at him? But Malfoy wasn’t exactly against receiving female attention, so he wouldn’t act that anxious about it, even if she wasn’t his usual type of witch.

Could it be that other conversation? The one about him? Could he be worried he revealed too much?

“Bits and pieces,” she replied diplomatically.

Malfoy’s lips pulled into a lopsided grin. “Which ones?”

“The most embarrassing ones.”

Malfoy snorted. “Which ones?”

A smile rising to her lips, Hermione tilted her head to the side. “Why don’t you tell me, and I’ll let you know if I got that.”

Malfoy’s grin turned mischievous. “OK. How about the bit about you cheating during your OWLs?”

Hermione’s jaw hit the floor. “WHAT?”

Malfoy laughed. “Just messing with you. The truth is, you were rather adorable. Nothing embarrassing.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re a happy drunk, Granger. You should let loose more often.”

Cheeks coloring, Hermione averted her eyes. “Well, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“The next time we play chess, I promise to get you a bottle of that booze you like. Bales? Balies?”

Hermione grinned. “Bailey’s.” The next time. Her heart gave a little lurch. He wanted to play with her again.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Malfoy said. “Do you remember the part where I told you my brilliant observation?”

“Hmm. Not sure. Was it really that brilliant?”

“You said, and I quote: ‘You’re so smart, Draco.’”

“Oh. I must have been really sloshed by then.”

Malfoy shook his head, a smirk on his face. “Nuh-uh, darling. You said it and you can’t take it back.”

Hermione smiled. “All right. So let me hear that famous Malfoy brilliance again.”

“The dots represent chess pieces. Align your pieces on the board the way the dots on the bottle show.”

A hunt followed for the discarded chess board (tangled in Hermione’s bedclothes), the pieces (all magically resurrected and scattered all over the room), and the empty whiskey bottle (Hermione’s face flushed at the memories).

Once everything was ready, Hermione set up her board like the day before, facing Malfoy on the other side of the window. He was already all set – he probably already did it yesterday. Hermione busied herself with the pieces, letting her curls fall into her face to avoid Malfoy’s piercing gaze. She kept waiting for a scathing remark about her incompetence, or a snide comment about her uselessness, but Malfoy was silent.

“All right,” she said, clearing her throat as the last piece hovered above the board in her fingers. “Let’s put your theory to test.”

The last pawn found its place with a bit more force than strictly necessary. Hermione held her breath, eyes fixed on the board.

For a second, nothing happened.

“Or, you know, these could just be dots,” Malfoy said, his voice forcefully light.

But then the board glowed violet, and a mighty screech pulled Hermione’s gaze to the left.

Where a light brown door blazed into existence, right in the middle of the wall she shared with Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Draco gulped as he stared at the door. “Well, I didn’t expect that,” he muttered. He was convinced the dot puzzle would turn the penultimate question mark on the Muggle thingy into a checkmark.

“That can’t be the exit, can it?” Granger asked, her eyes glued to the door.

“Not unless you want to exit to my room,” Draco said, forcing his voice to remain even.

Would she want to be in the same room as him? If he could trust her drunken confessions, she didn’t find him totally abhorrent. But does she even remember what she said? And what he said?

“Well, you do have a functioning kitchen,” Granger said, raising an eyebrow.

Draco’s eyes widened. Did that mean she was coming over? He hid the happy flush on his face behind a dramatic gasp of mock-hurt. “And here I thought you weren’t only interested in my fortune.”

Granger laughed, and the sound did something to Draco’s belly. “You did promise to cook for me.”

“True.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Granger twirled a lock of hair around her finger while Draco rubbed his jaw, flinching slightly as the unusual stubble scratched his skin.

“So,” he said.

“Well,” she said.

“Shall I just…” Granger trailed off, gesturing wildly toward the door.

“No time like the present,” Draco replied, taking deep breaths to force his heartbeat to slow to regular levels. What was this pathetic display? Draco Malfoy did not get nervous when a witch visited him!

“All right,” Granger said and shuffled toward the door.

She disappeared from view. Draco stood rooted to the spot, eyes glued to the new door. The doorknob turned, and with a mighty screech, the door pushed open.

In the doorway stood Granger.

She looked exactly like on the other side of the window, and yet totally different. Her presence, undiluted by glass, seemed to radiate in the open doorway. She brought a fresh scent to the room, lemons and mint, but her tentativeness, her hesitation was so unlike the Granger he used to know that he had to wonder if something was wrong with her.

“Hi,” she said, raising her hand with an awkward wave.

“Hi,” he replied, shuffling his feet.

But then Granger’s eyes widened and she took a deep breath. “I can’t believe it! They gave you the better smelling room.”

Malfoy frowned. “What?”

“My room smells nothing like pines.” Granger’s tone was accusatory, as if it was Draco’s fault that he got the better end of this deal. “I can’t believe our captors like you better than me.”

Draco grinned. He could understand her indignation; why anyone would like him better than literally any other person on Earth was beyond him.

But come to think of it, the pine scent actually was his fault.

“I’m sure that’s true, Granger, but the pine scent is my doing.”

“How?”

“I developed this little charm that spreads the scent of pine forests.”

Granger’s jaw dropped. “You develop your own charms?”

Draco shrugged. “Yeah. Not a big deal.”

Then Granger’s eyes widened, her jaw set, and she launched into a very swotty lecture about the advanced skills needed to develop functioning charms. Draco felt a grin spread on his face. There was the Granger he used to know. Insufferable know-it-all. But somehow, she seemed to be lecturing him on the stupidity of underestimating his own talents, which was a bewildering turn of events.

What is the world coming to?

“So you do think I’m brilliant,” he interrupted.

Granger blinked. “Brilliant at charms, apparently.”

“And at chess.”

“That too. Although, I have to point out that I’m not exactly the best opponent to measure your skill against.”

“And at solving puzzles.”

Granger held up her hands. “Now that I’m not so sure about.”

“Hey! I solved this one.”

“I would’ve solved it, if I wasn’t … incapacitated.”

“If you weren’t incapacitated, also known as smashed off your face, we wouldn’t have discovered your set of dots.”

Granger rolled her eyes. “You have a point there. But still. What a weird puzzle.”

Draco grinned. “It seems that our captors wanted you to drink, and me to cook.

Granger tilted her head to the side. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“What’s another way?”

“They wanted you to do something with yourself, and me to relax.”

Draco gaped at her. “I’m starting to get an idea who our captors might be.”

“You’re just starting?” Granger smirked. “You’re probably not as brilliant as you’d like to believe.”

Draco groaned. “I can’t deal with this before breakfast.”

“And who is supposed to cook breakfast?”

“I’m starting to regret solving this puzzle,” Draco grumbled as he made his way to the kitchen.

He started to pull bowls and ingredients from the cabinet, fully expecting Granger to criticize his every move, then take over the whole process.

But instead, she asked, “What are we making?”

“Pancakes.”

Granger’s eyes lit up. “I haven’t had pancakes in ages!”

“Then make yourself useful.” Draco glanced at the recipe and combined the ingredients while Granger prepped the pan and banged about the kitchen in search of plates and cutlery.

“Other side,” Draco said, stepping sideways.

“Thanks.”

“There’s butter and jam in the cold cabinet.”

“The fridge,” Granger said automatically, then proceeded to explain everything he never wanted to know about this apparently indispensable kitchen appliance.

Draco let her drone on as he poured a portion of the batter into the pan. The air was filled with the tantalizing scent of sizzling pancakes, just as Granger finished setting the table, or rather, the top of the cold cabinet.

“I appreciate the feminine touch, Granger,” he remarked. “I usually just eat with the plate on my lap.”

“Yeah, me too,” she replied. “It’s hard to make an effort just for yourself, right?”

Draco glanced at her over his shoulder. “I guess.”

She gazed back at him for a moment, those large chocolate eyes solemn and unblinking. Then she gave herself a little shake. “Chairs.” With that, she disappeared into the bedroom and returned with Draco’s desk chair in tow. Then, just as Draco dropped the last pancake to the pile, she dragged her own chair into the tiny kitchen.

“Hmm.” Draco inspected the crammed space, tiptoeing over protruding chair legs to deposit the pan in the sink. “Next time we could eat in my bedroom.”

“Agreed,” said Granger as she squeezed herself past the toilet and sank into her chair.

With some difficulty, Draco folded himself into his chair and grabbed his cutlery. Apprehension rose in his chest; this was the first time he made pancakes, and he had to share them with Granger of all people. He braced himself for scathing critique, or at the very least, well-meant but still painful-to-hear comments for future improvement.

What he didn’t expect was the expression of utter delight that spread across Granger’s face as she took her first bite. “Mmmmmm.”

Draco’s lips pulled into a wide smile. “That good?”

“Malfoy, these are the best damned pancakes I ever had,” she declared, her eyes fluttering closed. She took another bite and actually moaned. “Hmmm, so good.”

And Draco couldn’t help but imagine another context where she’d utter those words and make those sounds with the exact same blissed-out expression on her face.

Chapter Text

Malfoy took care of the dishes while Hermione dismantled their impromptu breakfast corner. The clattering of crockery and splashing of water still hadn’t ceased by the time she came to a halt in front of Malfoy’s bookcase.

“Wow.” The selection of books was just short of a magic scholar’s dream. Advanced level potions and charms textbooks, combined with a few essay collections by some of the most revered magic professors, both modern and classic. She let her fingers run along the spines, wondering which book to pull out first.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Malfoy’s voice was dark and sinful and came from right above her shoulder. Hermione yelped.

“Malfoy!” She said reproachfully, her cheeks coloring furiously.

“What? I meant our bookcases, of course.” Malfoy’s face was the picture of innocence.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a smile was fighting to make an appearance. “Knock yourself out,” she said, gesturing toward her bedroom. She turned back to the bookcase and selected an essay collection centered around the potential of enhancing potions with charms.

She sat down at Malfoy’s desk, nose already buried in the first essay, and was only vaguely aware of Malfoy returning with a handful of novels.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Malfoy said. Hermione ignored him. A dark chuckle came from the other side of the room, and Hermione looked up to see Malfoy sprawled out on his bed, one hand draped behind his head, the other resting on a thick novel. His hair was artfully tousled, and piercing grey eyes bore into hers.

A memory of Malfoy, shirtless and smirking, flashed in Hermione’s mind. She averted her gaze quickly and hid behind her book.

The next few hours were marked by the turning of pages and the occasional sharp gasp from Hermione as she encountered another revolutionary idea, and from Malfoy who seemed to take the quest of Edmond Dantes very seriously.

“But this can’t be right!” Hermione exclaimed, pointing at a particularly intriguing notion of working a weakened version of Obliviate into the Memory Potion. “Doesn’t this actually counter the effects of the potion?”

“What?” Malfoy looked up from his book.

“Combining Obliviate and the Memory Potion. But doesn’t one fight against the other?”

Malfoy shook his head. “Not if you’re limiting the effects of Obliviate to the noise around the actual things you try to memorize.” He sat up, a spark igniting in his eyes. “The Memory Potion has a blanket effect, right?”

Hermione nodded. “It makes you remember every single thing while the effects last.”

“Yeah. But a lot of it is actually useless. If you want to study for an exam, for example, you don’t want to remember the texture of the couch you’re sitting on, or the taste of the coffee you drank while studying.”

“True.”

“So, you can add Obliviate to exclude the useless stuff and focus on what you actually want to remember.”

Hermione shook her head. “But how can you direct the effects of Obliviate to the useless and retain the useful?” She ran a finger through her curls. “Moreover, how do you know what’s actually going to be useful to remember?”

“You have to be really precise.” Malfoy grinned. “As for the second part, you should’ve taken Divination more seriously.”

Hermione scowled at him. “Right. I was about to take you seriously but then you had to go and mention Divination.”

Malfoy laughed. “Still a sore spot, I see?”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione dove back into the essay, stealing the occasional glance at Malfoy. She knew he was smart; even back at Hogwarts, he earned rather good marks, and he was an excellent co-worker at the Ministry. A shame that he decided not to pursue a career there. But then why didn’t he pursue any career? He was clearly interested in both charms and potions.

“Question for you, Granger,” Malfoy said, raising his eyes from his book.

 “Yeah?”

“Who would you choose, the Count or Lord Wilmore?”

Hermione tilted her head to the side. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“For what task am I choosing?”

A sly grin spread on Malfoy’s face. “That’s a very Slytherin answer.”

“It wasn’t even an answer,” Hermione argued.

“Exactly.” Malfoy turned back to his novel.

The day went on, each of them glued to their books, and only coming up for air to debate an issue, argue about a point, or voice their frustration with a concept. When Malfoy’s stomach announced that it was time for lunch, they relocated their discussion to the kitchen, where Hermione explained the overarching legacy of the Count of Monte Christo in Muggle culture while chopping vegetables. Malfoy added a few wizarding novels that drew inspiration from the story as he seasoned the meat.

“This was rather delicious,” Hermione declared, leaning back in her chair.

Malfoy’s face lit up with a genuine, almost boyish delight. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Hermione’s heart lurched at the sight. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw Malfoy that carefree and happy. Or, come to think of it, ever.

“What?” Malfoy asked. “You’re staring, Granger.”

“Nothing,” she replied. “It’s just,” she added tentatively, “accomplishing something suits you.”

Averting his eyes, Malfoy started fidgeting with his cutlery. “Right. Gotta stay true to the family name, you know.” He gave a dark chuckle. “My ancestors helped William the Conqueror conquer the country. My father helped the darkest megalomaniac in wizarding history murder half the population of England. And now, thanks to Cooking for Dummies, I’m able to prepare a meal by myself. Talk about accomplishments.”

Hermione regarded him for a moment, thoughts racing in her head. “What would you consider a worthy accomplishment, then?”

Malfoy gaped at her incredulously. “Didn’t you hear what I said? The Malfoy name is practically synonymous with murder.”

“So?”

“SO?”

“Draco,” Hermione said, emphasizing both syllables of Malfoy’s given name. He flinched. “You’re not your ancestors. What they expect you to do doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?” Malfoy jumped to his feet. “Don’t you remember what I did? Back in sixth year? And after?”

“Didn’t you apologize for it?”

“And is that enough?” Like a caged animal, he started pacing the length of the room, his fingers raking deep paths across his scalp.

Hermione stood up and approached him cautiously. “Didn’t you also donate funds to the victims? Your time and skills to the Ministry?”

“And is that enough?” Malfoy glared at her, red rimming his grey eyes. “Is anything ever going to be enough?”

“What would you consider to be enough, Draco?” Hermione asked quietly, her heart breaking for him.

“To not have done it,” Draco whispered, his voice shaking. “Any of it.” His shoulders hunched forward and he turned his back to Hermione. Eyes brimming with tears, she closed the distance between them and placed her hand on his arm. He flinched but didn’t move away.

“You’ll have to find a way to forgive yourself, Draco,” she said. “You’ll kill yourself otherwise.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” he asked, his voice hoarse and raw.

“Yes. It would be horrible.”

Draco turned around. “Why?”

“Because then, years after his death, Voldemort would take another victim.”

Draco scoffed. “I’m not a victim, Granger. I’m a villain.”

Hermione shook her head, tightening her grip on Draco’s arm. “You were a kid, Draco. You were presented with impossible choices and were forced to do horrible things. You chose to protect the people you love most by sacrificing those you loved less. It’s a choice many of us would have made.”

“Not you.” Draco shook his head with conviction. “You’d have come up with a genius plan to save all the people. Even the ones you hated.”

“Probably.” Hermione gave a sad little smile. “And then it would’ve all backfired and I would’ve gotten everyone killed.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t.” She let her hands travel to Draco’s shoulders, squeezing tight. “You know why I don’t know?”

Draco shook his head, his eyes boring holes into Hermione’s.

“Because you took the fall.”

“What?”

“You made an impossible, horrible choice that saved us from having to make similarly horrible choices. We don’t have to carry this guilt on our shoulders, because you took it all. You took the role of the villain and thus enabled the rest of us to become heroes.”

“You don’t understand!” Draco raised his hands and clasped Hermione’s shoulders painfully, as if holding on for dear life.

“No, you don’t understand!” Hermione replied, her voice firm but kind. “The world has forgiven you. When are you going to forgive yourself?”

And then Draco’s face crumpled, his shoulders curled forward and he collapsed into Hermione’s arms.