Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dust swirled in the rays of the setting sun as Hermione shut the door of her-very-own-tiny-cottage in the Muggle outskirts of London. The silence was her relief. A deep exhale she had been holding for months — maybe years. A new home. A new chapter. The same old boxes.

No more Quidditch commentary drifting from the wizarding wireless, no more dirty socks scattered across the living room, no more arguments about whose turn it was to buy groceries.

She slipped off her patent leather Oxfords right at the threshold and walked to the centre of the spacious room, where the last unpacked boxes waited for her. The move from Ron's had only finished yesterday, yet she already felt at home. Strange, considering they had lived together for nearly five years.

Five years of trying to build what everyone expected them to have. "The Golden Trio was supposed to stay together, right?" friends had said. "After everything you've been through…" But what they'd been through had bonded them as comrades-in-arms, not as a man and a woman. They had been childhood friends, each other's first serious love.

Ron really was a good man — kind, loyal, brave. But their relationship had curdled into comfortable habit, stripped first of passion, then of love altogether. He dreamed of a simple life: a home, children, Sunday family dinners at the Burrow. And she… she wanted more. She wanted to keep learning, researching, discovering. When, six months ago, she received a job offer from the Department of Mysteries, Ron had winced.

— Back to your books and puzzles again, he'd said, not even bothering to hide his disappointment. — When are you finally going to settle down?

Settle down? Not a chance.

Their breakup conversation had gone surprisingly quietly. Perhaps because they both understood: it had been inevitable. Ron had even hugged her goodbye and wished her luck.

— You'll find someone who understands you better, he'd said, and there was no bitterness in his voice — only sadness.

Liberation. Yes, that was the word that best described what she felt now, breathing in the dusty air of her new rooms. She hadn't run away. She had chosen herself.

Hermione opened one of the boxes — old textbooks, volumes on advanced Arithmancy and ancient magic. Some were so rare they could only be read wearing special gloves and barely breathing. Ron had never understood her delight in such finds.

Then she opened another box — cups and plates — her parents' things, which… She cut the thought off sharply, carefully arranging the porcelain on the shelf. The third box turned out to be clothes. She set it aside. Her energy was gone: the Ministry workdays and the move had wrung her dry.

Midnight had long since passed when she finally stopped. The cottage was quiet and nearly empty — save for Crookshanks, already settled in his favourite armchair. Only the lamps and the silvery light of an almost-full moon lit the space, spilling through the tall living room window. Hermione walked over to it and wrapped her arms around herself. The April night was cool. The enormous lunar disc hung in the ink-black sky, flooding the room with a ghostly glow. It drifted across the shadows, across the corners not yet lived in. The feeling was a strange one — not loneliness, no. Something closer to anticipation. And not an empty house at all, but a possibility. The possibility of being simply Hermione Granger — without expectations, without the labels of "Potter's friend" or "the Weasley ex." An Unspeakable. The best in her field.

And tomorrow… tomorrow, a new project awaited her. Henry Coleman, her supervisor and head of the Unspeakables, had mentioned today that a new batch of confiscated artefacts had come in. Mysteries, ancient artefacts — everything that had always called to her.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching the moonlight trace strange patterns across the floor. Silence rang in her ears. The silence after a storm. After a war. After love.

Hermione closed her eyes and breathed in the quiet of her new life. Only one small cloud darkened this peace: the thought of who would be working through tomorrow's mysteries alongside her. A pale face, platinum hair, a familiar smirk… Draco Malfoy. Former enemy. For six months now, a colleague in the department. A man whose past still cast a long, poisonous shadow.

Just endure it, she told herself, gazing at the moon.

Just endure it. The way you endure bad weather or uncomfortable shoes. There would be room in this new life for that too. She had survived far worse things.

✦✦✦

The thud of a heavy crystal glass against the marble mantelpiece rang too loudly in the silence of Malfoy Manor. Draco hadn't finished his firewhisky. It left an unpleasant bitterness on his tongue — much like everything else in this godforsaken house. The Manor was magnificent, cold, and empty as a crypt. His father — in Azkaban. His mother — lost somewhere in the west wing, wrapped in her eternal mourning and quiet regrets. Draco wandered alone through the endless halls, where the echo of his footsteps sounded like nothing so much as an accusation.

The work at the Department of Mysteries was… redemption? Forced penance? A chance to prove he wasn't a completely worthless scion of a cursed bloodline? He didn't know himself.

Knowledge was his only currency now. Knowledge of dark artefacts, forbidden rituals, all the darkness he had absorbed within the walls of Malfoy Manor since childhood. That knowledge had preserved what passed for his freedom after the acquittal. Knowledge, not his father's gold. Though the gold had played its part too — the reparations had been staggering.

He moved to the tall arched window overlooking the garden. The moon. Almost full. Cold. Impassive.

Like Granger's gaze whenever their paths crossed in the Ministry corridors.

Granger. The thought of her stirred the usual wave of irritation, tangled up with frustration. And… discomfort, yes. She was a living embodiment of everything that had gone wrong in his life. Everything he was ashamed of. And tomorrow he would be picking through some confiscated antiquity alongside her.

Perfectly delightful.

He could already picture her reaction: chin tilted up, clever eyes that saw entirely too much, that eternal notebook of hers and her Muggle pen, poised to document his every wrong move or misplaced word. She tolerated his presence — he could see that. The way one tolerates an unpleasant but unavoidable smell in a Department of Mysteries laboratory.

And he… tolerated her too. Her moral superiority, her stubbornness, her absolute inflexibility, and her perpetual rightness. She was like a splinter under a fingernail — small, but insufferably irritating.

Draco looked up at the sky. Dark moonlit nights would always accompany his memories of something far more personal and terrible. Voldemort. The Mark. The choice that hadn't been a choice. He clenched his fists, feeling the familiar itch beneath his skin — not from physical scars, but from the ones that ran deeper. The scars of fear and guilt.

Just endure it, he ground out inwardly, staring at the shadow of his reflection in the dark window.

Just endure Granger, her stares, this damned Department of Mysteries, this enormous house. The way he had endured everything in the years since the war.

And survive. Day by day. Night by night. Until the next day in the place called redemption.

He finished the firewhisky after all, no longer noticing the bitterness. It was nothing compared to the taste of the past he carried in his mouth constantly. Tomorrow would be another day. Another step. Surrounded by Ministry pawns. Alongside Hermione-insufferable-know-it-all-Granger.

A perfect, unbearable life.

✦✦✦

The Friday briefing in the Department of Mysteries always began at precisely nine in the morning, and Henry Coleman had no patience for tardiness. Hermione arrived five minutes early and took her usual seat at the oval table in the conference room, beside the other department staff. Malfoy was already sitting opposite her, lazily spinning his wand between his long fingers. He looked up when she entered and gave a nod — their standard silent greeting.

— Good morning, everyone, — Coleman entered on the stroke of nine, a thick folder tucked under his arm and something else carefully wrapped in cloth. A man in his mid-forties, with neatly trimmed dark hair touched with grey at the temples, he adjusted his glasses and swept the assembled staff with a sharp blue gaze. — I trust you all slept well, because we have interesting work ahead.

He set the folder on the table and carefully unwrapped the cloth, revealing a magical containment case — a transparent sphere roughly the size of a small cauldron, pulsing with a faint golden glow.

— Aurors caught a smuggler at the border on Wednesday, — Coleman continued, adjusting his glasses. — One Fergus MacLeod, not his first offence when it comes to illegal artefact importation. Usually it's the standard nonsense — fake lucky amulets, supposedly ancient rings, you know the type.

Hermione nodded. Small-time fraudsters like him were caught by the Aurors regularly, trying to profit off credulous buyers.

— But this, — Coleman turned the containment case carefully, and Hermione saw the artefact inside — one that made her hold her breath.

Resting within the sphere was an object unlike anything she recognised. A carved, bronze, circular artefact, roughly the size of a palm. On the front — a disc with three concentric rings: runes, glyphs, and symbols she couldn't place. A small indentation at the centre. In appearance, the artefact resembled an elaborate clock — but with no hands.

— MacLeod swears he has no idea where the thing came from, — Coleman continued. — Says he bought it off some old man in Knockturn Alley for next to nothing. The old man allegedly found it in an abandoned lighthouse somewhere on the edge of Scotland. The story can't be verified, of course — no one's seen the old man. Aurors are currently going through the seized memories.

Malfoy leaned forward, studying the artefact.

— Looks like some sort of astrolabe? Or… a Time-Turner? — he asked, and there was genuine interest in his voice.

— Every Time-Turner was destroyed in the years immediately following the war. You'd know better than most, Malfoy — one was confiscated from your own estate, — Coleman remarked. — Even so, yes, that was one theory. But the runes don't correspond to any known type of Time-Turner.

Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from the mysterious object. Something about it drew her in, as though the artefact was radiating an invisible magic she could sense even through the protective enchantments.

— Malfoy, Granger — your task is to determine what this is and how it works, — said Coleman, sliding the case to the centre of the table. — Standard precautions, naturally. Don't remove the containment unless absolutely necessary, and conduct all experiments in the isolation laboratory.

He looked at them over the rims of his glasses.

Malfoy leaned back in his chair with his characteristic lazy smirk.

— How thrilling, — he drawled. — Another mysterious artefact of unknown origin. Let me guess — it'll inevitably turn out to involve some family legend about a curse and a mysteriously vanished ancestor?

— Malfoy, — Hermione said, a note of warning in her voice.

— What? I'm merely observing a certain… pattern in our clients' stories. — He rose from the table with unhurried elegance. — But who am I to cast doubt on the romantic tales of smugglers?

Coleman ignored the sarcasm entirely.

— Laboratory three is free. I expect a report by the end of next week.

✦✦✦

Isolation laboratory three was Hermione's favourite place to work — spacious, well-lit, equipped with a full set of analytical instruments and, most importantly, reinforced with powerful protective enchantments in case any artefact under examination proved more dangerous than anticipated.

She carefully positioned the containment case in the centre of the workbench and began pulling the necessary tools from the cabinets: magical magnifying lenses, detectors for various types of energy, a stack of clean parchment for transcribing runic symbols.

— Full magical aura scan first, — she murmured to herself, paying no attention to Malfoy, who had settled into the armchair by the wall and was watching her preparations with an expression of thorough boredom. — Then metal analysis, rune identification, mechanism study.

— Granger, — Malfoy drawled, — what if we simply tried removing the containment first and see what happens?

She spun around to face him.

— Are you serious? We have no idea what this thing is! It could be lethally dangerous!

— Or it could turn out to be a perfectly ordinary trinket, — Draco shrugged. — Your methodical approach is admirable, naturally, but sometimes the fastest way to understand a mechanism is to set it in motion. Carefully, of course.

— That's the fastest way to catch a curse or blow up the laboratory, — Hermione snapped, directing the first detector at the device. — Sorry, but not everyone grew up playing with dark artefacts as toys.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

— How very biased of you, Granger. — He barely flinched at the jab. — And on what basis are you assuming this object has anything to do with dark magic?

— I'm not… — Hermione caught herself, realising she had in fact jumped to a conclusion. — Any unknown magic is potentially dangerous.

— Ah, so any magic you don't understand is automatically suspect? — A familiar venom crept into Draco's voice. He loved to needle her, the insufferable Slytherin. — How… typical.

— What exactly do you mean by typical? — Hermione straightened up, forgetting entirely about the measuring instruments.

— Typical of you — categorise everything first, then deliver your verdict. Perhaps a little flexibility wouldn't go amiss, don't you think?

— And typical of you is to act without thinking and deal with the consequences later! — she shot back. — Some of us prefer not to rely on luck when it comes to potentially lethal—

— Salazar's sake, enough! — Malfoy rose from the armchair. — We're not at Hogwarts, Granger! You don't need to lecture me about—

He didn't finish the sentence. Both of them fell silent at the same moment, staring at the artefact. The ringed discs had begun to rotate. The runes flickered brighter, and a warm, almost hypnotic radiance emanated from the entire object.

— Granger…

— Malfoy…

Without thinking, they both took a step toward the table, drawn in by the mesmerising glow. The artefact seemed to pulse in time with their heartbeats, and the air around it began to distort in a strange way — like heat shimmering above summer asphalt.

— What is it doing? — Hermione whispered, leaning closer.

Malfoy came around the other side of the table, and their hands reached for the containment case at the same moment, toward that beckoning light.

The instant their fingers touched the transparent surface of the sphere, the world exploded in a blinding flash of white. Hermione felt the ground dissolve beneath her feet, felt time and space twist into a wild spiral — and the last thing she was aware of before her mind went dark was the warmth of a hand, gripping hers tightly.

✦✦✦

The first thing Hermione noticed when she regained consciousness was the smell. Damp earth, rotting leaves, and something else — something foul and utterly unfamiliar. She opened her eyes slowly, wincing against the bright sunlight filtering through… dense foliage?

A forest. They were lying in the grass in the middle of a dense forest — ferns and trees of impossible height all around them. Somewhere in the distance came a low, resonant roar that sent goosebumps crawling across her skin.

— Malfoy? — she called, sitting up and looking around.

— Here, — his voice came from behind and to the right, rough and disoriented. He was getting up from the ground as well, brushing leaves off his smart office suit. — What in the hell just happened?

Hermione spotted the artefact lying on the foliage in front of her. The ringed discs spun for one last moment, then went still. She quickly felt for her wand in her pocket and scrambled to her feet.

— Hominum Revelio! — she said clearly, pointing her wand in different directions.

Nothing. Not even a spark.

— Revelio! — she tried again, pouring more force into the spell.

This time her wand produced a few faint golden sparks, but the spell didn't take. The magic seemed to be running headlong into an invisible wall.

— Lumos! — she tried the simplest spell she knew.

A tiny, feeble light flickered to life at the tip of her wand.

Malfoy had drawn his own wand and was attempting to cast, but the result was the same — a handful of sparks, and nothing more.

— What's happening to our magic? — Hermione muttered, feeling panic begin to creep up on her.

— No idea, — Draco said grimly, scanning their surroundings. — What I'd rather know is where in the hell we are.

As if in answer to his words, the snap of breaking branches rang out nearby, followed by heavy footsteps. Something very large was moving toward them through the undergrowth.

Hermione instinctively stepped back — and caught her foot and fell. She landed precisely where Malfoy had been lying a minute ago: something soft, and incredibly foul-smelling.

— Ugh! — she exclaimed, trying to get up while simultaneously brushing a brown substance off her trousers. — What is that?!

Malfoy approached with a grimace and cast an appraising look at whatever was now coating their clothes.

— Judging by the size and… consistency, — he said with his customary sarcasm, though an unmistakable note of anxiety had crept into his voice, — these are the excrement of a rather sizeable animal.

The crashing in the bushes grew louder. Hermione scrambled upright, still trying to scrape the reeking mass from her clothes. Malfoy looked at her, then at the foul heap at their feet, then at the impenetrable undergrowth surrounding them, then at the useless wands in their hands.

— We are in deep shit, Granger.

— Yes, Malfoy, — she whispered, snatching the artefact up from the ground, — and I think we need to run.

He gave a single nod, not taking his eyes off the place the sounds were coming from.

Something enormous was moving through the undergrowth toward them.

Chapter Text

Hermione ran as fast as her legs would carry her, each stride sending a sharp stab of pain through her side. The cool April air scorched her lungs, and beneath the soles of her Oxfords crunched unfamiliar vegetation — nothing like the soft grass of English meadows, but something hard, thorny, smelling of bitterness and primordial wilderness. Her thoughts were a jumble. Only one remained clear: survive.

Behind them came a low, resonant growl that raised every hair on the back of her neck. Whatever it was, it was large. And, she suspected, hungry.

She could hear nothing but Malfoy's ragged, breathless panting beside her. The tails of his expensive jacket streamed behind him, already torn in places by the clawing branches. His dragonhide shoes had clearly never been designed for cross-country running — he was already limping. At one point he surged ahead, and Hermione's heart lurched. Fear spiked through her. He wasn't going to leave her here alone, was he?

Of course he was. This was Malfoy.

— Granger, over here! — he hissed in a breathless, urgent voice, and then vanished, as though the earth had swallowed him whole.

She reached the spot — the lip of a small drop, thick with low scrub and fresh green leaves. Below, she could make out a hollow in the earthen wall, something like the den of a large animal. Malfoy was already inside, back pressed against the damp clay, chest heaving beneath his white shirt, his usually immaculate hair dishevelled and plastered to his forehead. His tie was askew, his jacket creased and coated in dust.

She dived in after him without stopping to think about what, exactly, they were hiding in. A vile, acrid smell hit her like a wall — animal droppings, mixed with decay and damp staleness. Their refuge had clearly been serving as a latrine for some sizeable predator.

Malfoy raised a sharp hand, ordering silence. His grey eyes had narrowed to wary slits. She held her breath, pressing herself flat against the wall of their temporary shelter. Above, she heard heavy footsteps, the scrape of claws on stone, and then a long, slow sniffing.

The smell. The unbearable reek of filth and rot hung in the air, saturating their clothes, clawing its way into her lungs. Another minute of this and Hermione was quite sure she would be sick.

Malfoy had gone perfectly still — a statue, only his jaw working with quiet tension. She could see his hands shaking: cold, perhaps, or fear, or revulsion at what they were sitting in.

Then silence. Whatever was up there had apparently lost interest after catching a whiff of the latrine's bouquet, or had simply wandered off in search of easier prey.

They sat without speaking for several minutes, steadying their breathing, listening to the sounds of this primordial world. Somewhere in the distance, birds called — but even their voices were wrong, too sharp, too predatory. The cool spring wind carried wild, untamed scents that seemed to belong to no time Hermione had ever known.

Then, with a soft thump, her beaded bag dropped into her lap — small, impractical, absurdly domestic against all this savage wilderness.

— Oh, Merlin! The charm worked! — she breathed, and the relief in her voice was so raw it might have been a lifeline thrown into a storming sea.

Malfoy turned his head. The expression on his face was one of complete incomprehension.

— What is that, Granger? Your makeup bag decided to join the adventure?

— My bag! — She snatched it up and clutched it to her chest with something close to reverence. — I put a Tracking Charm on it years ago — I simply cannot lose it or leave it behind. It always finds me.

Malfoy stared at her the way one might stare at someone who had just announced they could fly without a broomstick.

— How delightful, Granger. I am absolutely thrilled that in a moment like this, your thoughts turn to fashion accessories. But perhaps, — his voice cracked into something approaching a frantic falsetto, — perhaps we could think about our situation? About where we are? About the fact that something just tried to eat us?!

Hermione flinched, and the exhaustion drained away instantly, replaced by familiar irritation.

— Our situation, Malfoy?! — she snapped, trying to wipe something unidentifiable from her blouse sleeve. — While I was studying the artefact and actually trying to understand how it worked, you were doing what you always do — standing to one side making snide remarks! Watching with that insufferable superior expression of yours, as if the work were beneath you!

— Oh, naturally! — Malfoy straightened sharply, and in the confined hollow they found themselves almost nose to nose. — It's always Malfoy's fault, isn't it! I'm not the all-powerful Hermione Granger, war hero and luminary of Arithmancy! I'm just a pathetic former Death Eater doing his community service at the Ministry, who apparently can't even breathe correctly!

He kept his voice low — almost a hiss — but every word was laced with such corrosive fury that Hermione found herself pulling back despite herself.

— So perhaps, Granger, you'd like to explain what in the hell we're doing here? Because the last thing I remember is you jabbing your wand at that bloody rock, and then the whole world turned into a light show!

— I think, — she said hoarsely, her voice unsteady with exhaustion and frayed nerves, — we need to figure that out. Quickly.

She opened her palm to look at the artefact and ran trembling fingers along the metal rings. They didn't move — locked, as though seized solid. She tried easing them with her thumbnail, coaxing them to turn. Nothing. Completely stuck. Runes, glyphs, and unfamiliar symbols covered every surface, faintly glimmering in the scattered daylight.

— Six symbols on the first ring, eleven on each of the other two. Twenty-eight in total, — she murmured, counting. — What could that mean?

— How should I know! Twenty-eight years, twenty-eight days, twenty-eight minutes until we die! — Malfoy shot back, straightening his tie with a nervous, almost unconscious gesture. — Or perhaps twenty-eight different ways to kill us!

— Or the sidereal period of the lunar cycle… — Hermione said, half to herself.

— Oh, don't you dare, Granger! — he snapped, and the panic in his voice was undisguised. — This is not the time for an astronomy lecture!

— What?! — she flared. — I'm trying to find something to work with! Do you recognise any of these symbols? And while we're at it — do you know what else comes in twenty-eight? Your pure-blood families!

Malfoy cast a brief, almost contemptuous glance at the artefact in her palm.

— Right now it's just a collection of meaningless scribbles, Granger! And frankly, that's the least of my concerns! — he was practically hissing with frustration. — In case you've forgotten, something just tried to eat us alive!

He eased carefully toward the edge of their foul refuge and peered out, face twisting with distaste. Hermione tucked the artefact back into her bag and looked out beside him, trying to breathe as little as possible.

The view that met her made her stomach drop.

They were on a small rise with a sweeping view across this world. Below, a gentle slope rolled down through shrubs and trees and unfamiliar grasses. Before them stretched a vast plain — broad-leafed forest broken by open meadow, a river glinting in the distance, and on the horizon, the jagged teeth of bare rock and stone.

No trace of civilisation. No roads. No buildings. No smoke. Only endless, ancient wilderness, breathing danger.

— Tempus! — Hermione jabbed her wand into the air.

A shimmer of golden numerals appeared — then blurred, wavered, and dissolved before forming any coherent date. The spell skidded off something invisible, as though time here obeyed entirely different rules.

— We need shelter, Granger, — Malfoy said through gritted teeth, staring out at those boundless, alien distances with an expression of barely-contained horror. — Somewhere we won't be devoured by the wildlife.

And then he swore — fluently, inventively, at considerable length — in a manner that made "for Salazar's blighted sake" the most printable phrase in the entire torrent.

Hermione's eyes went wide. She had never once heard him use language like that — at Hogwarts, at the Ministry, he had always been the embodiment of glacial propriety.

— Whatever happened to your famous aristocratic polish, Malfoy? — she couldn't resist.

He turned to give her a look — grey eyes seething with fear, revulsion, and white-hot fury.

Hermione took in the state of them both, and somewhere in the depths of her chest, a tiny, shameful flicker of satisfaction stirred. Draco Malfoy — heir to an ancient pure-blood dynasty, a walking advertisement for wizarding haute couture — was currently covered head to toe in animal excrement. His suit, which had almost certainly cost more than her monthly salary, was ruined beyond hope. His platinum hair hung in matted strips, and on his fastidious face was fixed an expression of the most profound disgust she had ever witnessed.

Malfoy, covered in filth. Not just filth. He was covered in—

Well. So was she, admittedly.

— I'll bet you thank me within ten minutes, — she said, and there was a note of quiet smugness in her voice she made no effort to hide.

— And why, exactly, would I do that? — he muttered, trying to flick something unidentifiable from his sleeve.

Instead of answering, Hermione opened her bag and began rummaging through its magically expanded depths. Clothes. She had always kept a spare change of clothes for emergencies — a habit left over from the war that practical Hermione had never managed to shake. She pulled out a worn pair of jeans and a creased t-shirt belonging to Ron, then his old jumper and a sturdy pair of walking boots.

— Hopefully these will fit, — she said, holding them out to him. — Transfiguration doesn't seem to be working here, along with most other complex magic. That's actually a rather interesting point — why does a simple Lumos function while more demanding spells don't? It may be related to the temporal displacement— She gestured at the vast ferns surrounding them. — Judging by the scale of the vegetation, we're somewhere very, very deep in the past. The magical field here may be structured entirely differently—

Malfoy stared at her — at the clothes she was pressing into his hands, at the way she was chattering without pause, as though delivering a lecture rather than sitting in filth at the bottom of prehistory.

— Granger, what the— — he exhaled. — Where did you get clothes from inside a beaded purse?

— You could simply say thank you, — she replied, with a self-satisfied smile. — Undetectable Extension Charm. And those are Ron's things. I think they should fit you.

She gave him a quick, appraising look. Malfoy was noticeably taller than her ex and leaner — not as broad across the shoulders. The clothes she was fairly confident about. The boots were another matter.

Malfoy accepted the clothes in silence, grimacing once more at the revolting smell that had saturated them both. His movements betrayed the internal conflict plainly: gratitude warring with wounded pride — accepting help from Hermione Granger was evidently a painful blow to his self-regard.

Hermione pulled out her own change of clothes — worn jeans, boots, a clean dark-blue long-sleeve top, and a warm jacket. The season seemed comparable — April — but this place was noticeably colder than the London spring of 2004. Whatever climate this world ran on, it was nothing like home.

She stepped away behind a sprawling shrub with enormous young leaves and changed quickly, trying not to think about the predators that might be lurking nearby. She knotted the dirty clothes and tucked them into her bag.

— We should hold onto the soiled things, — she called as she emerged. — They can be washed, and we may need them.

— Only if we burn them first, — Malfoy muttered, pulling Ron's jumper over the t-shirt. — I don't think that smell is ever coming out.

Hermione glanced at him and noted, quite involuntarily, the way the t-shirt sat across his lean torso. It was simply strange to see aristocratic Draco Malfoy in worn Muggle clothing — he looked… more human somehow.

— Let me guess, — he said, catching her expression, — you already have a plan.

— We need to find somewhere sheltered and put the tent up, — she said, adjusting the bag on her shoulder.

— The tent, — he repeated, with the air of someone being asked to build a castle.

— Yes, I have a tent, — Hermione said, slightly self-consciously.

Their first tent had been left behind in that cursed forest the night the Snatchers caught them. Bill Weasley had lent them his later — sturdier, more reliable. After the war, Hermione had never once opened it, yet she had kept carrying it with her, stubbornly, like a talisman from those terrible and vital days. No one had ever understood the habit — not Ron, not Harry. But to her, that tent was proof that she had survived. That she had managed. That she had been ready for anything.

— What else is in that magic purse of yours, Granger? — Something in his voice hovered between admiration and suspicion. — Any more of this and I'll start thinking you planned all of this.

— Are you serious?! — Hermione snapped, her voice cracking into something louder than she intended. — You think I wanted to end up covered in dung in some prehistoric forest?!

She caught herself immediately and looked around, alarmed. In a world like this, any noise was an invitation.

— Life simply taught me to be prepared for anything! — she continued, lower, but with no less heat. — And more often than not, to rely on myself rather than waiting for someone else to step in!

Something shifted in Malfoy's eyes. Understanding, perhaps. Or something close to sympathy. But he turned away quickly, scanning the terrain with the focused expression of someone mapping a route. His profile looked sharper than usual, his jaw set with quiet tension.

— I think we should head down toward the river valley, — he said at last, nodding toward the distant glint of water. — We can pitch your tent there. We haven't got long before dark.

He was right. The sun had dropped noticeably, painting the sky in shades of amber and rust. In this world, nightfall almost certainly meant mortal danger.

Without another word, he began picking his way carefully down the slope, threading between unfamiliar shrubs and planting each step with deliberate caution on the wet earth. Hermione followed, watching every footfall, listening to the sounds of the forest. The air smelled of moisture, of unknown flowers, of something wild and ungoverned — the smell of a world in which humankind had not yet been crowned its master.

✦✦✦

After nearly an hour of tense, careful progress through unfamiliar terrain, they finally reached the river valley. The river was wider than it had appeared from the rise — a swift, dark current threading between mossy boulders and sandy shoals. Along the banks grew enormous fossilised ferns and conifers with strangely thick trunks. The air here was heavier, saturated with the smell of river silt and plants Hermione couldn't begin to identify at a glance.

After several minutes of argument and mutual accusations — Malfoy insisting on open ground ("so we can see what's coming") and Hermione on cover ("so whatever's coming doesn't see us first") — they agreed to pitch the tent within the treeline, but close enough to the river to have access to water. She was desperately thirsty, and the Aguamenti spell had failed — she'd already tested that on the way.

She pulled the tent from her bag and spread it across a relatively flat patch of ground, then raised her wand with a decisive flourish.

— Erecto!

The magic didn't respond. Her wand didn't so much as twitch.

— We'll have to do it by hand, — she sighed. — Help me.

Malfoy grimaced, but came over without protest. He seemed to have run out of energy for his usual commentary, though the next half hour of wrestling with canvas, ropes, and pegs was punctuated throughout by:

— Pull it toward you!

— I am pulling! You're the one who's supposed to be holding the other side!

— Press down harder right there!

— Don't give me orders, Granger! Just pass me that rock! And where does this edge even attach?

— That side's too loose, Malfoy, it needs to be tighter!

— Merlin's sake how is this thing supposed to work?!

— I think… that's it.

Hermione stepped back and looked at what they'd built with a critical eye. The tent listed slightly and one edge sagged, but it was serviceable. And then, without warning, a cold wave of the past broke over her — the past she had worked so hard to put behind her.

The familiar silhouette. Canvas walls. The triangular entrance. She stood and stared at it, unable to make herself step forward. Her heart hammered. Her mouth had gone even drier. The memories came flooding in — other forests, other dangers, the same helplessness, the same cold certainty that they might not make it to morning.

— Granger, what are you waiting for? — Malfoy's voice seemed to reach her from somewhere far away. — Show me these luxury accommodations, then.

She forced herself out of the stillness, made herself breathe steadily, and went inside, lighting the space with a dim Lumos. It was more spacious than the outside suggested — the Extension Charms, at least, were holding. A small kitchen area with a stove and basin, a tiny bathroom with a shower, and further back — a bunk bed along one wall and a single bed opposite.

Malfoy followed her in, looking around with cautious curiosity.

— Not bad, for field conditions, — he admitted. — But Granger, I think we ought to sleep in shifts. Keep watch.

— Yes… you're right, — she agreed, clearing her dry throat, her gaze moving over the achingly familiar surroundings.

Every detail brought something back — nights lying awake with Ron and Harry, listening for the slightest sound outside. The terror of the night Ron left. The endless arguments, the tears, the despair that they would never find the Horcruxes, that they would never win.

Hermione moved to the table and sat down, her hand moving into her bag automatically, cataloguing its contents by touch. Arithmancy textbooks — three volumes. A potions reference — naturally. A couple of Muggle novels for sleepless nights. A field first-aid potions kit — from comfrey paste for wound-healing to a general antidote. A small brewing cauldron, toiletries, spare socks. And a dozen other things that her anxious mind had long ago classified as essentials, but which no ordinary person would ever carry around "just in case."

The silence stretched.

Then a growl broke it. Hermione startled. It was her own stomach.

— Wonderful, — she muttered. — An unknown artefact, apex predators, and a diet of pure panic.

— Mine too, — Malfoy said through his teeth, pressing a hand to his abdomen. — Do you suppose there are any edible mushrooms out here?

— I think there are two edible things out here, and they're both of us, — she said grimly, reaching back into the bag. — And if you're considering it, just know — I'm very poor nutritional value. Low in fibre, high in stubbornness.

Malfoy's mouth twitched. The first time all day.

At last, she produced a couple of oat bars and a half-eaten square of dark chocolate.

— I'm afraid that's all I have by way of food, — she said, passing him one of the bars. — Tomorrow we can try to get a fire going.

— What do you mean, get a fire going? — Malfoy swallowed the bar almost without chewing. Hunger, apparently, outranked pride.

— It seems we only have access to Lumos, — Hermione explained, pointing her wand at the burner beneath the camp cauldron. — Incendio! Expellimellious!

The wand hissed and spat a few weak orange sparks. No flame.

— So, we'll have to make fire the old-fashioned way. Friction — rubbing two sticks together. Or — — she rummaged in the bag again and retrieved a small magnifying lens, the kind they used in the laboratory — or with one of these.

She shivered. Inside the tent was only marginally warmer than outside, and with dusk settling, the temperature was still dropping.

— Speaking of which, — she added, pulling her jacket tighter, — I don't think we should light any fire outside. It might draw predators. Light and smoke both. I'll go and fetch water.

— Not on your own, you won't. There's still a little light left — I'm coming with you. I'd rather not have to fish you out of the river afterwards.

✦✦✦

— You wouldn't happen to have a bow and arrow in that magic bag of yours? — Draco asked as they stepped out of the tent. — A machete? Even a knife?

He walked a half-step behind Granger, scanning their surroundings restlessly, alert to every sound.

— I have a knife, — she said, picking her way carefully down toward the bank. — Small, folding, for collecting herbs. Not exactly ideal for hunting.

— Better than nothing, — Draco muttered, still watching the treeline.

He had no desire to admit to himself how thoroughly terrified he was. His entire life had been upholstered in luxury — Malfoy Manor with its regiment of house-elves, fine restaurants, the best of everything. Even at Hogwarts, he had never lacked for anything; any problem that arose could be solved with money or the family name.

And now here he stood in a prehistoric forest, wearing someone else's — the thought of whose made him feel faintly ill — Muggle clothing, with no idea whatsoever of how to find food or protect himself from predators without magic. His hands, trained to nothing heavier than a quill or a wand, had never once gripped anything more demanding than a broomstick. He didn't know how to start a fire, set a snare, or read an animal's tracks.

At the Ministry he had known where he stood — intellectual work, political manoeuvring, the smooth currency of social grace. But here, every advantage he possessed had turned to dust. Here, survival meant something raw and entirely without refinement.

Granger was strange when we put the tent up, he thought, watching her dip the camp cauldron carefully into the current.

And then it struck him. The tent. Severus had told him once that they'd found the three of them in a forest, sheltering in a tent…

Hell. That's why she went quiet. She remembered too.

Something cold settled inside Draco — and it had nothing to do with the evening air. The guilt he had spent years trying to push back down rose again from the depths of him, sharp and painful as it always was.

We have never spoken about it, he thought, with a bitterness that surprised him.

He thought of Potter testifying at the trial — the Malfoy family hearing. Of Granger, shoulders drawn in, giving her own statement in a voice that was flat and precise, as though she were reading out a Transfiguration essay rather than describing what had been done to her in the cellars of his home.

Had it been a genuine wish to see him free? Draco didn't know. He had been, he could admit now, profoundly shocked to see her in that courtroom at all. He had not expected support. Not after everything that had happened at the Manor. Not after his aunt had—

— I think that should be enough for now, — Granger said, straightening up with the cauldron full.

Draco took it from her without a word, still somewhere else. He watched her cup her hands and drink from the river, watched her turn her back to him without hesitation as she started back toward the camp.

The memories kept circling. That day at the Manor. Her screams. The way he had stood there, frozen, unable to help, unable to stop it, unable to do anything at all.

By the time they returned to the tent, dusk had thickened around them. Somewhere deeper in the trees came sounds he couldn't place: the soft crack of branches, something moving through the undergrowth.

— I'll take first watch, — Granger said, settling herself at the entrance with her wand ready. — I'm used to late nights. I'll wake you in a few hours.

Draco nodded and went inside. He lay down on the single bed fully dressed, pulling the blanket up to his chin, but sleep wouldn't come. The memories were still turning, and outside the sounds of the night forest pressed in — so alien, so full of menace.

Gradually, exhaustion wore him down, and he fell into an uneasy sleep, haunted by nightmares of the past and fears of what was still to come.

✦✦✦

Draco's eyes snapped open. Around him was darkness — not the soft darkness of his bedroom at the Manor with its velvet curtains, but a foreign, impenetrable black.

Maybe it was just a dream, came the desperate thought. Maybe his subconscious had played some particularly vicious trick on him, conjuring up a story in which he found himself stranded in an unknown past with this insufferable, frizzy-haired swot.

But the dreadful scratchiness of Weasley's jumper against his skin, and the unforgiving mattress beneath him, made it abundantly clear that all of this was real.

Granger!

Why hadn't she woken him? How long had he been asleep? Judging by how deeply he'd gone under, it could have been hours. What if some creature had taken her? What if she was lying somewhere in pieces while he'd been sleeping peacefully?

Hell, I shouldn't have left her on her own. What was I thinking?

Panic hit him in the chest with a dull, hollow thud somewhere beneath his ribs. Draco lurched off the brutally hard bed and, not bothering to find his bearings in the dark, lunged for the exit, nearly tripping over his own feet. A moment later he was outside.

Granger was sitting beneath the nearest broad-limbed tree, wrapped in a tartan blanket. The silver light of the stars filtered through the canopy, falling softly across her face in pale, ghostly patches. Her head had tipped to one side. She was breathing steadily and quietly.

Is she sleeping?!

Something in his chest gave a violent lurch of terror — and then, as it registered that she was perfectly fine, Draco slowly let out his breath. The relief curdled almost immediately into irritation.

— Granger! — he called in a sharp whisper, careful not to make too much noise. — Go back inside and sleep properly. You make a bloody terrible lookout.

She startled awake, blinking up at him for a few disoriented seconds before she remembered where she was.

— Malfoy… I… — she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. — I suppose I nodded off. But I can tell you — nothing came near us. Not once. I didn't see a single animal the whole time.

— Right, obviously, — Draco said, a faint smirk on his lips though the edge of panic hadn't quite left his voice. — Probably because you were such an exceptionally vigilant guard. Go on, get inside. I'll stay out here until morning.

Granger clambered unsteadily to her feet, swaying with drowsiness. Clutching her blanket around her, she shuffled toward the tent, mumbling something in the barely-coherent language spoken only by people who have just been woken up.

— Wake me if anything… — she managed, and disappeared inside.

Draco lowered himself into the spot she'd vacated and leaned his back against the rough bark of the tree. The night air was cool. Somewhere in the distance a bird cried out — or something he hoped was a bird. His heartbeat was slowly returning to normal.

He looked up at the stars through the branches. Even they looked different here — brighter, cleaner, undimmed by the ambient glow of a city that wouldn't exist for millions of years. Perfect silence, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant sounds of the night forest pressing in from all sides.

— We're going to have to make our peace with this situation and put up with each other, Granger, — Draco said quietly, speaking to no one but the darkness between the trees.

No answer came, of course. Only the wind moved through the leaves above his head, and somewhere far away, a long, mournful howl rose and fell — too wild, too merciless, and belonging entirely to this world.

Chapter Text

The first thing Hermione felt upon waking was a dreadful gurgling in her stomach and a sharp, piercing pain. Acute, relentless — as though someone had tied her insides into a tight knot. Her mouth tasted of metal, her head swam, and her stomach cramped in waves.

Water, she realised at once, pushing herself up onto her elbows with difficulty. Raw river water. Of course.

She tried to stand and immediately regretted it — the world lurched sideways, and she had to seize the edge of the camp bed to keep from falling. Somewhere outside came a steady sound — tap-tap-tap — as though someone were methodically whittling something.

Hermione crawled out of the tent, squinting against the bright morning sun. Malfoy was sitting on a fallen log a few metres from their makeshift camp, hunched over a long branch. In his hands he held her folding knife, with which he was industriously stripping bark and sharpening one end to a point.

At closer inspection, he looked… rough. His skin was paler than usual, dark shadows had settled beneath his eyes, and his movements seemed sluggish, as though every effort cost him dearly. His normally immaculate hair stuck out in all directions, and Ron's jumper hung off him like a sack.

— Good morning, Malfoy, — she said carefully, approaching. — How are you feeling?

He looked up at her — grey eyes flat and irritable.

— What do you think? — he ground out through his teeth, without pausing his whittling. — A night in a prehistoric forest, breakfast consisting of air and water of dubious quality. What could be better?

Tap-tap-tap. The knife stripped curl after curl of wood, turning the branch into something resembling a primitive spear.

— What is that? — Hermione nodded at his handiwork.

Malfoy went still, looked at the sharpened stick in his hands, then at her, and something flickered across his face — bewilderment.

— I… don't know, — he said slowly. — That is, it's a spear. Obviously. — He turned the makeshift weapon in his hands. — I haven't the faintest idea, Granger.

There was something in his voice that Hermione had never heard from him before — helplessness. Draco Malfoy, who had always seemed to know exactly what to say, how to conduct himself, what to do next, was sitting in a forest with a sharpened stick in his hands and didn't understand why he'd made it.

Something shifted painfully in Hermione's chest. Sympathy? For Malfoy? No — for both of them.

— Survival instinct, — she said quietly, taking a careful step forward. — The brain understands that we need protection, even if we don't consciously register it ourselves.

Malfoy shot her a quick, surprised look.

— Right, then, Granger, — he said, setting the spear aside. — What's the plan for today? Or shall we simply sit here until something eats us?

Hermione rubbed her temples, trying to ease the throbbing pain.

— First we need to work out where — and when — we are, — she said. — And then… find a way to get home.

— Brilliant, — Malfoy remarked drily. — And exactly how do you propose to do that? Interview the local predators?

— To start, we can try analysing the flora and fauna, — Hermione replied, already pulling a notebook and pen from her bag. — The size of the plants, species composition… It could give us a rough sense of the geological period.

Malfoy snorted.

— Of course. I forgot I was talking to a walking encyclopaedia. But what if we're not in the past? What if this is some sort of parallel world? Or a magical dimension?

— Given that magic barely functions here, — Hermione waved her wand, demonstrating a feeble glimmer of Lumos, — it isn't a magical dimension. And the vegetation… look around you, Malfoy. These ferns are enormous. Conifers with trunks that thick. The air is more humid, more oxygen-rich.

— And what does that mean?

— That we are very, very far in the past. Possibly even before the appearance of humans.

Malfoy went a shade paler still.

— You're saying we're stuck in the Stone Age? Or even earlier?

— Possibly, — Hermione did her best to sound calm, though inside her everything was contracting with the same terror. — But that's only a hypothesis. We need more data.

— Wonderful, — Malfoy rose abruptly, and the sharpened stick fell at his feet. — Just bloody wonderful. We're stranded in a prehistoric era with no food, no magic, and not the faintest idea how to get back!

He began pacing back and forth, his dishevelled hair flying.

— And do you know what's funniest, Granger? — His voice was climbing. — Yesterday morning, my biggest problem was the fact that I'd have to work alongside you on some ancient artefact! And now…

He spun to face her.

— Now we're stuck in hell, and the only person I can actually talk to is you!

Hermione clenched her jaw, swallowing everything she would have liked to say to him just then. She understood — they would have to survive together. They would have to endure each other, or they would simply kill one another. Instead she reached into her bag again, this time pulling out a battered paperback.

— Here, — she said, holding the book out to him. — I think you might find this useful.

Malfoy looked at the cover and grimaced.

— The Mysterious Island? — he read aloud. — You've found a wonderful time to be reading Muggle novels, Granger.

— Jules Verne, — she confirmed, with a slight smile. — And yes, Muggle literature. Do you know what's interesting, Malfoy? Muggles — unlike most wizards — know how to survive without magic. They have centuries of accumulated experience. So perhaps their books will prove rather more useful than all your knowledge of dark artefacts.

Malfoy gave her an irritated look, but he took the book. He sat back against a tree and leafed condescendingly through the first few pages.

Hermione felt a smile spread across her face of its own accord. Perhaps in this dreadful situation there was something positive to be found after all. Perhaps they could manage not to kill each other before they found a way home.

If they found one.

— By the way, Malfoy, — she said, opening her notebook to a clean page. — About yesterday's incident in the laboratory. What exactly do you remember?

— I remember you prodding every inch of that cursed artefact with your wand, — he muttered, eyes still on the book he'd already opened. — I remember us starting to argue. And then… light. And here we are.

— I was examining the artefact, — Hermione said. — It's called following safety protocol, in case you weren't aware.

— Right, — Malfoy turned a page. — And how well did that protocol serve us? It's not as though we're stuck in a prehistoric forest, is it?

— And what was your suggestion? — Hermione felt the familiar irritation rising. — Simply grab an unknown artefact with our bare hands?

— I suggested being more cautious, — Malfoy snapped, finally lifting his eyes from the book. — But no, Miss Know-It-All decided she knew best how to handle it!

— More cautious? — Hermione's voice went up an octave. — You're talking about caution? You, who wanted to remove the containment and "see what happens"?

— I at least wouldn't have been jabbing it with a wand like a pin-cushion!

— I was performing standard diagnostic spells! — Hermione cried, gripping her notebook. — It's elementary, Malfoy! Any first-year would know—

— Any first-year would know you sometimes need to listen to your colleagues as well! — Malfoy stood, the book dropping into the grass. — But no, the great Hermione Granger always knows best! I said there were other ways to approach the artefact! But you, as usual, weren't listening!

— Because you never say anything worth listening to! — Hermione shouted. — Only sarcasm and arrogant remarks!

— And you never admit you could be wrong! — Malfoy shouted back.

They stood mere inches apart, both flushed with fury, both breathing hard. The air between them seemed to crackle with sparks. If only those sparks could actually light a fire.

Then, suddenly, Hermione grasped the absurdity of it all. They were standing in the middle of a primeval forest, without food or fire, without clean water, surrounded by unknown dangers — and squandering what precious energy they had blaming each other.

— You know what, Malfoy? — She stepped back sharply, breathing hard. — I'm done. Done bickering with you when we have rather more important problems.

She picked up the fallen book and pushed it back into his hands.

— Read your Jules Verne. I'm going to survey the area and try to find something edible. Because if we don't find food in the next few days, the question of who's responsible for our predicament will become entirely irrelevant.

Malfoy opened his mouth, clearly poised to say something, but Hermione had already turned away and was heading into the trees.

— And try not to lose my knife, — she called over her shoulder. — We're going to need it.

✦✦✦

Draco watched Granger disappear between the trees and felt like a complete idiot. She was right — the bickering really had been a waste of energy. And he, as usual, hadn't been able to stop himself from the cutting remarks.

Well done, Draco. The only person within several thousand years, and you've managed to pick a fight with them.

He brushed the clinging leaves from the cover of the book and settled himself more comfortably on the fallen log.

The Mysterious Island — he had a vague memory of the title from childhood. Once, long ago, he'd stumbled across something like it in the Manor's library, lost among volumes on the history of magic and the genealogies of pure-blood families. His father had taken the book away with the words: "That's Muggle nonsense, Draco. Don't clutter your head with rubbish."

Now that "Muggle nonsense" might turn out to be their salvation.

Draco opened the book and began to read — sceptically at first, but gradually finding himself drawn in. The story gripped him: a group of people stranded on an uninhabited island after a shipwreck, struggling to survive using nothing but their knowledge and resourcefulness. No magic, no wands — only the human mind against the wild.

How familiar, he thought, with a bitter half-smile.

Turning the pages, he came across a description of how the characters made fire. First they tried friction — rubbing a dry stick against another piece of wood until sparks appeared.

Draco put the book down and looked at his makeshift spear. Several more branches were scattered nearby, left over from his morning's work. He picked up two of them — one thin, one with a flatter surface — and tried to replicate what the book described.

Rub. Quickly. Hard. Generate friction.

Within a few minutes his hands had begun to ache. Fresh blisters rose on his palms, and the sticks had barely warmed. In the book it had looked so straightforward, but in practice…

— For Merlin's sake! — he swore, flinging the sticks aside. — Bloody Muggles! How did they ever survive without magic?

He rubbed his aching palms and picked up the book again. He read on, skimming the plot and focusing on the practical passages. Then one detail caught his attention — the characters hadn't relied solely on friction. They had matches.

Matches. Of course. In the book, the heroes hadn't been starting entirely from scratch — they'd already had some tools of civilisation.

And I have nothing, Draco thought, with a surge of frustration. No matches, no…

Wait.

Yesterday, Granger had said something about a magnifying glass. About using the sun.

Draco got to his feet and made for the tent. Inside, on the small table, Granger had neatly arranged the contents of her enchanted bag. Several vials of potions. A spare set of clothes. A notebook.

And a magnifying glass. Small, with a wooden handle, but with perfectly clear glass.

— Of course! — he breathed, snatching it up.

He ducked back out of the tent and scanned the ground for something suitable. He needed something that would catch quickly. Dry grass? Leaves?

His gaze fell on the bark he'd stripped from the branches while making the spear. It was dry, thin — almost like paper.

Draco gathered the bark into a small pile on a flat stone, raised the magnifying glass, and angled it toward the sun. A bright point of light focused to a tiny spot on the bark.

Nothing happened.

He tried adjusting the angle, moving the glass closer, further away. The sun was bearing down rather strongly for an April morning, and sweat was already dripping from his forehead.

— Come on, — he muttered. — Basic physics. Concentrating sunlight. This ought to work.

The point of light on the bark grew smaller and brighter. Draco held his breath, not daring to move.

And then — a thin thread of smoke.

— Yes! — he whispered. — Come on, come on…

The smoke thickened. A small black spot appeared on the bark and slowly spread. A little more, and—

A tiny tongue of flame licked at the bark.

— Yes! — Draco barely managed not to shout out loud.

He blew on the flame with care, fed it more scraps of bark, then dry grass, then small twigs. The fire grew, strengthened, steadied.

He had fire. Real fire.

Draco felt a surge of pride he hadn't experienced in a very long time. Perhaps not since school, when he'd brewed a perfect potion for the first time and Snape had commended him. But this was different. This he had done without magic — with nothing but his hands and a working brain.

He carried the burning twigs carefully into the tent, not letting the precious flame go out. In the cooking area he lit the burner beneath the pot — it caught with a steady blue flame. He lit the kerosene lamp standing nearby as well, turning it down low, leaving just a small point of light.

— At last, — he exhaled.

Water. First things first — he needed to boil water. The raw river water had been cramping his stomach all morning, and Granger, judging by the look of her, felt no better.

While the water in the pot came to the boil, Draco stepped outside and carefully extinguished the remains of the fire in the grass — an open flame couldn't be left burning, or it might draw animals.

When he returned, the water was already bubbling. He turned off the burner and set the pot aside to cool. Boiled water — that was something, at least. They weren't going to die of dysentery or some other intestinal infection.

He picked up the book again and settled at the table, glancing now and then at the cooling pot. Reading felt easier now — with at least one practical problem solved, the words no longer felt like abstract information but like a guide to action.

Perhaps Granger was right about the Muggle books, he thought. Perhaps they really do know something useful about survival.

He poured himself a mug of cooled boiled water and took a careful sip. The taste was strange — flat, stripped of the familiar mineral edge — but his stomach eased almost immediately.

Now we just need to find food, Draco thought, turning back to the book. And work out how the hell to get out of here.

But those were problems to be solved with Granger. When she came back from her survey of the forest.

If she came back, crept a treacherous thought — but he pushed it aside at once.

For now, they had fire. And that was already a victory.

✦✦✦

Draco read on until he reached the chapter where the characters discussed hunting. They had no guns, of course, but they had snares — simple traps made from rope and sticks that snapped shut when prey stepped on the trigger mechanism.

He read the description several times, trying to picture the construction, then picked up Granger's notebook — she won't mind, I hope — and began sketching out a diagram. A loop of rope, a bent branch as a spring, a trigger stick…

— Perfectly logical, — he murmured, studying his drawing. — In theory, at any rate.

He went through the tent, going over everything they had available.

Rope — yes, thin but fairly strong. He'd also need flexible branches…

Half an hour later he was standing in a small clearing a hundred metres from the tent, holding two improvised traps. The first looked reasonably convincing — a rope loop attached to a bent branch, a trigger mechanism of thin sticks. The second had come out slightly lopsided, but it might still work.

Draco set the traps in spots where bird tracks were visible in the grass, then withdrew a safe distance. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

He was already turning back toward the tent when something caught his attention. In a low bush, nestled in the fork of two branches, sat a nest — small, neatly woven from grass and fine twigs.

His heart beat a little faster. Draco crept carefully closer and peered in.

Three eggs. Not large, pale-shelled, but unmistakably birds' eggs.

Spring, of course. Nesting season.

He reached toward the nest and stopped. Somewhere out there was a mother bird, sitting on these eggs. Possibly out searching for food for her future chicks right now. And he was about to steal her children.

But we'll starve to death, Draco reminded himself. This is a matter of survival.

His conscience gnawed at him all the same as he carefully lifted the eggs from the nest. They were warm. He wrapped them in his jumper and walked quickly back to camp, doing his best not to think about what he'd just done.

In the tent he found a pan among Granger's cooking things and set it on the burner. He cracked the first egg on the rim of the pan — inside was a barely-formed chick.

— Bloody hell, — he swore, quickly tipping the contents outside and pressing a little earth over them.

The second egg was better — just yolk and white, no unpleasant surprises. The third as well.

Before long the tent smelled of frying eggs — simple, but impossibly appetising. Draco's stomach growled so loudly it could probably be heard in the next clearing.

It was at that precise moment that Granger walked in.

She looked tired. In her hands was a small bundle of leaves and young green shoots.

— Oh, — she said, sniffing the air. — Is that… scrambled eggs?

— It might be, — Draco replied, with poorly concealed pride. — I wasn't exactly sitting idle while you were wandering the forest, you see. I made fire, boiled water, and even found us lunch.

He stirred the eggs in the pan, enjoying the look of surprise on Granger's face.

— How did you make fire?

— Your magnifying glass and the sun, — he explained, with a slight smirk. — You said so yourself yesterday.

— Hm, — she answered drily. — I didn't expect you to actually follow my suggestion.

Oh, thank you for the vote of confidence, Draco thought — but said nothing. Instead, he lifted the pan from the heat and divided the eggs between two plates.

— What's all that? — he asked, nodding at her findings.

— Young fern shoots, — said Granger, spreading the greenery across the table. — They're edible if you boil them first. And rose hip leaves — you can brew them into something like tea. They're high in vitamin C.

She picked up the pot of boiled water he'd prepared and dropped in a handful of leaves, lighting the burner again from the kerosene lamp.

— Though, — she added, sitting down across from him, — I'm not entirely sure about the ferns. Some species are toxic.

— Wonderful, — said Draco, sliding her plate across. — The eggs might have been inedible too. But we'll risk dying of poisoning regardless, because the alternative is dying of starvation.

Granger took her fork and tried the eggs. Her eyes closed briefly with pleasure.

— Merlin, that's good, — she murmured. — I can't remember the last time I was this hungry.

She poured them each a cup of the improvised tea. The drink was weak, with a faint herbal edge, but hot and reasonably pleasant.

— So, what else did you find out there? — Draco asked between sips.

— Nothing encouraging, — Granger admitted. — No berries, no nuts. Too early in the season for those. Several types of plant whose edibility is debatable. And a great many tracks from large animals.

— What sort of animals?

— I don't know. Large hoofprints, deep impressions. Something the size of a horse — possibly bigger.

— Splendid, — Malfoy remarked drily. — So, if the predators don't eat us, the herbivores will trample us. Very reassuring.

They ate in relative silence, exchanging the occasional remark — though without the venom of the morning. Food and a hot drink had visibly improved both their moods.

— By the way, — said Draco, as they were nearly finished, — I set a couple of snares. Perhaps we'll catch something by evening.

— Snares? — Granger raised an eyebrow. — How did you know how to make those?

— Jules Verne, — he answered, with a satisfied smirk. — It turns out your Muggle literature really is useful. Who would have thought?

Draco noticed Granger smile. The first time, he thought, since they'd ended up here.

— Well then, — she said. — Perhaps we really will survive this primeval world after all.

✦✦✦

The days began to blur together, merging into a monotonous rhythm of survival. Strangely, she and Malfoy had fallen into something resembling a routine, dividing their responsibilities without any particular argument — hunger and the fear of death, it turned out, were excellent incentives for cooperation.

Hermione stayed up late studying the stars and trying to determine precisely which era they'd been thrown into, while Malfoy, by contrast, rose very early and headed out to check his traps or scout new hunting grounds. In the days since their arrival, he seemed to have combed every thicket in the vicinity and collected every bird's egg he could find. The local bird population, in this particular moment of geological time, had certainly taken a significant hit thanks to his daily raids.

One morning he returned with a particularly triumphant smirk on his face, holding a small bird with speckled plumage.

— A quail, — he announced solemnly. — Caught in the snares.

Hermione looked at his prize and felt something stirring deep inside her — something uncomfortably close to pride. Not that she would ever have admitted it aloud.

— Not bad, Malfoy, — she said, with careful restraint. — We'll eat like kings tonight.

Even so, food remained desperately scarce. Hermione herself had found morels on a couple of occasions — wrinkled mushrooms hiding beneath drifts of dead leaves.

— Is that edible? — Malfoy asked, eyeing her latest find with suspicion.

Hermione squinted, holding the mushroom up to the light.

— It's a morel, Malfoy. Young. If it's hollow inside — it's safe to eat.

— And if it isn't?

— You die in agony from poisoning, — she replied evenly, slicing the mushroom in half. — Liver failure, convulsions, coma.

— You've always been so wonderfully uplifting, Granger.

Hermione often went out alone to study the terrain, making notes and recording what she observed. In those quiet moments she found herself thinking about childhood — family trips to the woods, her father patiently teaching her to tell edible mushrooms from poisonous ones, her mother showing her which plants could be brewed into tea. It had seemed like simple fun then, a way to spend a weekend. Now those lessons were quite literally keeping them alive.

After the war, Hermione had sought the help of a mind-healer and then travelled to Australia to find her parents. She had found them — alive, healthy, content in their new life. But the attempt to restore their memories had failed. The Obliviate she had cast was too deep. Monica and Wendell Wilkins, as her parents now called themselves, looked at her as they would look at a stranger, and not the faintest flicker of recognition crossed their faces.

The act that had once seemed to her the only right course had become a source of constant, quiet pain. She didn't regret the decision — if she hadn't erased their memories back in 1997, the Death Eaters would certainly have found her mother and father, and then Harry and the others as well. But the knowledge that she had lost them for good, that they were alive and yet she had never existed for them — that was sometimes more than she could bear.

After the failed memory restoration, Hermione had withdrawn into herself for long months. Ron had tried to comfort her, folding her into his clumsy embraces when she cried in the night. Molly and Arthur Weasley had warmly assured her she could always rely on them, that the Burrow was her home too. Yes, the Weasleys had become her new family. But the grief for her parents had never gone away — it had simply gone quiet, buried somewhere deep.

Hermione brushed away the tears the memories had brought and made herself focus on the terrain around her. The past couldn't be changed — but surviving the present was something she could actually do.

On a few occasions she even came across early wild raspberries — tiny red berries with a sharp, tart flavour. Malfoy grimaced as he ate them but didn't complain. They both understood: in their situation, being particular was a luxury they couldn't afford.

They were… surviving. Yes, that was the word for it. Each day was a battle for food, for water, for warmth, for safety. At night they still took turns keeping watch, listening to the sounds of the forest and startling at every suspicious rustle.

From time to time Hermione took the artefact out to study it. She had carefully copied every symbol engraved on the metal rings into her notebook — things resembling Elder Futhark runes, and other unknown glyphs that matched no magical writing system she knew. But what they meant, how they related to one another, what principle governed the device's operation — she still hadn't the faintest idea.

Then, on the seventh day, as she was writing in her journal, something unexpected occurred.

Hermione was sitting at the entrance to the tent as usual, examining the artefact in the morning light. Malfoy had gone to check the traps, and she could focus on the puzzle in peace, without his sardonic commentary to distract her.

Suddenly one of the symbols on the outer ring flickered. Only for a moment — a faint golden gleam, barely visible in daylight.

Hermione went still, not breathing. She waited. Counted the seconds.

The symbol flickered again. Then the one beside it. Then a third.

— What does that mean? — she whispered, leaning closer to the artefact.

The glow continued for several minutes — not bright, more like embers smouldering. Then the artefact went still, an ordinary piece of metal once more.

That evening, sitting at the table inside the tent and eating fried roots — another of Malfoy's discoveries from Jules Verne — Hermione told him what she'd found.

— Flickered? — Malfoy repeated, raising an eyebrow. — What do you mean, flickered?

— The symbols glowed, — she explained. — Briefly, but unmistakably. I have a theory that it may be connected to the lunar cycle.

— The lunar cycle? — Malfoy looked at her with undisguised scepticism. — Granger, it's an artefact, not a werewolf.

— Many magical devices respond to the phases of the moon, — she said patiently. — It's possible the artefact charges gradually, and the glow is some sort of indicator.

— Indicator of what?

— I don't know, — Hermione admitted. — But we arrived here at a full moon. I've just remembered — the night before we ended up here, the moon was… nearly full. And now — she glanced out of the tent at the night sky — it's the third quarter. Perhaps when the full moon comes round again…

— We go home, I'd hope? — Malfoy finished for her. — Marvellous. In the meantime, all we can do is wait and hope we don't starve to death first.

Hermione was about to say something encouraging when she noticed that the Lumos at the tip of her wand was burning brighter than usual. Considerably brighter.

— Malfoy, — she said slowly, — try casting Lumos.

He pointed his wand forward and spoke the simple spell clearly. Bright white light filled the entire tent — almost like an electric bulb.

— What does that mean? — he asked, studying the glowing tip of his wand.

— The magic is getting stronger, — Hermione whispered. — Or we're… adapting to this time.

A sudden thought cut through her mind. If magic was working better, other spells might work as well. More complex ones.

— Tempus, — she said clearly, pointing her wand upward.

Symbols appeared in the air, flowing smoothly into golden numerals:

10,047 BC

For several seconds they stared in silence at the date hanging in the air of the tent.

— Well, Granger, — Malfoy said at last, with his customary acid smile. — At least we now know when to schedule our appointment with the mammoths.

Chapter Text

Expellimellus worked. Merlin Almighty, finally something had gotten easier in this primeval hell!

Draco aimed his wand at a pile of dry branches and spoke the incantation. The fire obediently leapt onto the tinder, and soon a small campfire crackled cheerfully in a makeshift ring of stones. The flame was weak — but it was real fire, not the pitiful sparks his wand had managed in those first days.

— Progress, — he muttered to himself, feeding in more branches.

Over the past two weeks, magic had indeed begun to behave… differently. Not the way it did in their own time, but not as hopelessly as on that first day either. As though it was truly, gradually adapting to this place and era.

Lumos now burned steadier and brighter. The simplest household charms — Expellimellus, Excuro, Reparo for minor clothing repairs — worked, with varying success. Transfiguration, however, remained dead. As did any serious protective spells or combat magic.

Which was, broadly speaking, a catastrophe.

Draco surveyed the results of his morning "hunt" — two sorry little fish speared with his makeshift lance, and three birds' eggs found in a low-hanging nest. Meagre going for two grown adults. And Granger already looked like she weighed no more than a sparrow.

Accio would have helped — some nests were set so high they were simply unreachable. But the Summoning Charm remained as indifferent to their plight as a portrait of Salazar Slytherin to the achievements of a Gryffindor student.

Over these two weeks, he had become something of an expert in failed fishing and accidental hunting. A pair of birds that had blundered into his lopsided snares — more by luck than any acquired skill — one sizeable fish caught through happy coincidence rather than mastery of the craft, and that was the whole of their diet. Plus the herbs and sour berries Granger kept hauling back, forever risking poisoning herself in her attempts to diversify their meagre menu.

Malfoy the aristocrat. Hunter-gatherer. Father would have fainted.

Draco couldn't say that he and Granger had become friends. Decidedly not. There was still a wire strung taut between them — ready to snap at the slightest careless move or sharp word. They continued to tolerate each other because there was no alternative. Two weeks of forced coexistence had taught them to navigate around the sharp edges, but not to smooth them.

Granger still rolled her eyes when he made sardonic commentary on her attempts to catalogue the local flora. He still ground his teeth when she launched, for the hundredth time, into a lecture on the "correct" method of gutting fish or setting snares.

It was difficult to admit to himself, but her method had genuinely proven more effective. He hadn't told her that, of course.

The Compass charm worked — the one truly reliable spell in their arsenal. It had saved him more than once when Draco went on long foraging expeditions, venturing far from camp. The needle pointed faithfully, keeping him from getting lost in the endless green labyrinth of this world.

But every time he left Granger behind in camp, Draco felt a creeping unease. His mind helpfully supplied vivid images of returning to find nothing but scraps of her clothing and signs of a struggle. Or worse — a curly head, separated from its body, with unmistakable evidence of some sabre-toothed predator.

Utterly stupid thoughts. She wasn't helpless. But without combat magic…

So he kept returning with a hammering heart, and exhaling with relief at the sight of Granger in the tent, bent over her endless notes by the light of Lumos.

Alive. More or less intact. Still infuriatingly clever and stubborn.

Where did that leave them? With a pile of completely unfamiliar glyphs and runes that stubbornly refused to cohere into any coherent picture. She had filled half the notebook already with neat, precise notes — tables of correspondences, diagrams, annotated sketches — and the artefact remained as inscrutable as ever.

If Granger was right about the lunar cycle, then at the next full moon — roughly two weeks from now — the artefact should activate again.

And either send them home, or hurl them further back still. To the dinosaurs, perhaps.

God, how he wanted to go home. To wake up in his own bed with its silk sheets, to take a proper hot bath, to eat real food prepared by house-elves. To return to the predictable, methodical work of the Department of Mysteries, where the greatest danger was a paper cut from the latest report.

To never again see Granger's eyes glittering with tears when she thought he wasn't looking.

With these grim thoughts, Draco set off toward the river to refill their water supply. And a drakul take him for deciding not to follow the familiar path they had worn down over these two weeks. Instead, he turned left, pushing through unfamiliar undergrowth in hopes of reaching the river further upstream.

The new route proved harder going — dense thickets to push through, fallen trees to work around — but it brought Draco out onto a small rocky outcrop with an excellent view over the valley.

And it was from there that he saw it. The thing that turned his blood to ice.

In the distance, perhaps a mile from their camp, a thin column of smoke was rising into the sky.

Draco went still. The pot slipped from his fingers and clattered across the stones.

Who?

Cold ran down his spine. Ancient men? Primitive tribes who would see them as a threat — or, worse, as a meal? Or perhaps other displaced travellers — equally wretched, cast here by chance or magic?

Or something considerably worse.

Dozens of terrifying possibilities tore through his mind. What if they had already been tracked? What if that roar on the first day hadn't come from an animal at all, but from something sentient? What if they weren't alone in this time?

The smoke was too steady, too controlled for a wildfire. That was definitely a campfire. Which meant there were… someone.

Draco, forgetting entirely about the water, snatched up the pot and struck off at a brisk pace back toward camp. His feet carried him along the familiar path while his thoughts lurched frantically between panic and the attempt to form some kind of plan.

Warn Granger. Pack up and leave. Or — the opposite — scout them out first? What if this was a chance at rescue?

When their tent came into view, Draco slowed slightly, trying to look less like a man in full panic. But his heart was still hammering, and his mouth had gone dry with fear.

— Granger! — he called, keeping his voice as steady as he could manage. — We need to talk. Urgently.

✦✦✦

— No, Malfoy! Don't even think about it. We are not going on a scouting mission.

Hermione crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest as she listened to his agitated account of the mysterious smoke. The movement sent a sharp pain through her lower abdomen, and she barely suppressed a grimace.

— As long as we haven't been spotted, we need to keep our heads down! — she continued, trying to keep her voice firm. — We only need to wait out two weeks! This will be over soon, and we'll go home.

— Or we won't, — Malfoy countered, pacing the length of the tent in tight, anxious strides. — What if it throws us even further back? To the dinosaurs?

— How in the bloody hell is knowing who our neighbours are supposed to help us?

Hermione was more irritable than usual, and the reason was revoltingly mundane. Her lower abdomen had been aching mercilessly for two days now. Her body, unaccustomed to the constant food shortages, the physical exertion, and the sheer stress of survival, had responded to all of it with an unbearably painful period. She wanted to curl into a ball and not move until the end of the world — and she most certainly did not want to go anywhere or scout out anything.

The one thing she was grateful to her past self for — technically her future self, but never mind — was the habit of always keeping a supply of feminine hygiene products on hand. It would last her a couple of cycles. What would happen after that… The anger of not knowing, of being helpless, coiled tight inside her like a spring.

— Granger, — Malfoy stopped and looked at her with unexpected gravity. — What if there's someone out there who can actually help us?

— Who? — Hermione pushed through another wave of pain. — Primitive hunter-gatherers who've only just figured out how to chip flint? I very much doubt they'll be much use with deciphering ancient runes!

— Exactly! Ancient runes, as it happens! — Malfoy's mouth curved into a smirk. — Maybe we could ask the local shamans?

Hermione could only groan. Every word he said pulsed behind her temples.

— Fine, Granger, — Draco spun sharply toward the exit. — I'll go on my own!

— For Salazar's sake, go wherever you like! — she snapped.

At that moment, she genuinely didn't care. Let him go to his primitive people. Let him get eaten by sabre-toothed tigers — just so long as he stopped pacing the tent and rattling on about his plans.

The canvas flap fell shut behind him with a dull thud.

Hermione dropped face-first onto her bedroll, curling into a tight ball and crying quietly into the pillow — half from pain, half from despair. Potions could have helped, but she refused on principle to waste them on something she knew would pass on its own. What she could really use right now were her Muggle painkillers — plain ibuprofen seemed like a divine gift from the gods at this moment.

But alas, she was stranded in the tenth millennium BCE, and the invention of proper medicine was still a good twelve thousand years away.

✦✦✦

Hermione woke to someone gently nudging her shoulder. Through the fog of sleep came a familiar scent — herbal, faintly bitter.

— Granger, drink this, — came Malfoy's quiet voice. — And you need to eat.

His voice sounded strangely… gentle? None of his usual sardonic edge, almost soft. Hermione drowsily lifted her head and saw him holding out a steaming cup.

— What is it? — she murmured, pulling herself upright.

— Some leaves. Looked like the ones you were collecting the day before yesterday. Thought they might help.

She took the cup, breathing in the steam. The pain in her abdomen had dulled to a low, background ache — sleep must have helped. Or perhaps her body had simply decided to take pity on her.

Glancing at Malfoy, she found herself noticing that his clothes looked considerably cleaner than they had that morning. Apparently Excuro had finally deigned to work properly.

Good news.

— I cooked the fish, — said Malfoy, settling at their small camp table and nodding toward a tin plate of food. — Caught two more this morning.

He began eating in silence, and Hermione, swaying slightly from weakness, joined him. Hunger made itself known — she'd eaten almost nothing since the previous evening.

If Malfoy had proven genuinely good at anything over these two weeks, it was keeping them supplied with meat. Whatever protein they had was owed entirely to his suddenly revealed hunting and fishing abilities. He had learned to set snares, to fashion crude spears, and had even managed occasionally to bring down a bird with a hand-carved slingshot.

Cooking, however, was clearly not his domain. No matter how he tried.

Hermione prodded carefully at a piece of fish and winced. Charred black on the outside, essentially raw within. The unmistakable culinary signature of Draco Malfoy.

— Malfoy, you are a truly dreadful cook, — she observed, without any particular malice.

— Because I'm a hunter, not a chef! — he shot back, and for once, there was no sneer in it.

Hermione looked at him, surprised. Self-deprecation? From Malfoy? Without his customary venom and contempt? She would be marking this day in her journal in red ink.

— Give it here, I'll finish it off, — she said, with a small smile, taking the plate from him. — Otherwise we'll die of salmonella in the Mesolithic era. Can you imagine the headlines in the Prophet? "Malfoy and Granger Perish from Undercooked Fish in the Stone Age."

— Do you think anyone's looking for us? — Malfoy asked suddenly, serious, watching her work over the fire to bring the fish up to something edible.

— Of course. Coleman must have had the entire Auror office turned upside down by now. Harry and Ron will be beside themselves. — Something twisted inside her at the thought of her friends. She stared at the fish, turning the pieces. — I wonder how much time has passed in our world. Minutes? Hours? Years?

— I'd rather not think about that, — Malfoy muttered.

The irritation and exhaustion that had gnawed at Hermione all day seemed to ease. Perhaps it was the herbal tea. Or perhaps it was the fact that for the first time in two weeks, they were talking like normal people — no accusations, no cutting remarks.

Dinner was ready within minutes. Malfoy finished his portion in silence, and then, to her astonishment, said:

— Thank you.

Just that. No sarcasm, no signature smirk. He meant it.

Hermione nearly choked on her fish. It was, she was fairly certain, the first genuine, uncomplicated thank you ever spoken in the Queen's English during the Mesolithic era.

A truly historic moment.

— Thank you for… getting us food, — she replied, not entirely sure how to respond to this unexpected civility.

Malfoy simply hummed, turning away, and almost immediately pushed back from the table.

— I'm going to sleep. Wake me when your watch is up.

He disappeared into the back of the tent, and Hermione, automatically running Excuro over the dishes, wrapped herself in her blanket and stepped out for her usual watch.

One thought kept circling in her mind: what was that? Exhaustion? Some kind of illness? Or was Draco Malfoy actually capable of plain, ordinary human gratitude?

Curious.

✦✦✦

Taking over from Granger at dawn, Draco settled by the tent entrance and let himself think. For the first time in two weeks, it seemed, he actually had space for it — not about survival, not about finding food, not about how to avoid becoming something's lunch.

He found himself wondering what it was like for a woman to be stranded in this ancient world while dealing with period pain.

He had worked it out, of course. Not immediately, but he had. The sudden, overwhelming irritability that had descended on Granger a couple of days ago. The way she'd kept holding her abdomen…

He had never been in a serious relationship. Not once. Well — there had been whatever he and Pansy Parkinson had in school, a friendship with benefits, but that had been more boredom and convenience than anything resembling real feeling.

In the first year after the war, the very idea of romance had been unthinkable. Nightmares every night. Sudden spells of panic in the middle of the day, when any sharp sound sent his hand flying to his wand. The inability to be in a crowd — every face hostile, every stranger a potential avenger. Trembling hands that couldn't hold so much as a cup of tea for months.

And the Dark Lord's serpentine whisper, rising without warning — in the silence of an empty room, in the noise of London streets, in sleep and waking alike. Draco had stopped being able to tell where the memories ended and the hallucinations of a fractured mind began.

He remembered his mother finding him one morning before dawn. Curled in the corner of his bedroom, shaking, drenched in cold sweat. She had covered him silently with a blanket and left without a word. She'd had her own nightmares, most likely.

Gradually, it had gotten easier. Time had blunted the sharpest edges of those memories, turning them into a dull, manageable ache.

His mother had taken to casually dropping names — the Greengrass girl, Parkinson, various others from suitable families. She was waiting for Draco to come to his senses, march home, and announce his engagement to a worthy pureblood bride. As was proper for the heir to an ancient house.

But Draco had absolutely no desire for the kind of life his parents had. A cold, formal marriage of convenience, where husband and wife occupied separate wings of the Manor and met only at breakfast and official engagements. Where love was a word from novels, not from real life.

If he was honest with himself, he hadn't thought about the future at all. What future was there for a man with a Dark Mark on his arm? Even an acquittal didn't erase that brand.

After the trial, he hadn't returned to Hogwarts, opting for private tutoring at home. Many Slytherins had done the same — those among them who'd had the nerve to stay in Britain at all. Children were cruel in ordinary times; children who'd survived a war were also broken. Going back to school could have been a nightmare.

Draco had scraped through his N.E.W.T.s as an external candidate, and with that, the terms of his acquittal had come into effect — mandatory service at the Ministry under designated supervisors. The alternative was Azkaban, which made the choice rather straightforward.

They'd placed him first in the Department of Magical Transportation. Dull beyond comprehension — checking Floo licences, logging broom registrations, an endless grind of bureaucratic tedium. After two years he'd been reassigned to the Department of Mysteries. Draco, drifting through life like a wood chip on a current, had agreed to that as well.

The Department of Mysteries turned out to be considerably more interesting. At first, they hadn't trusted him with anything significant — he catalogued trinkets confiscated from smugglers, inventoried the amulets unearthed in old estates. But gradually Coleman had begun giving him more serious assignments, having apparently noticed at last that Malfoy knew considerably more about dark artefacts and forbidden magic than the rest of the department put together.

The work had come alive. Draco had discovered, with some surprise, that he actually enjoyed it — unravelling the puzzles left by ancient wizards, understanding the logic of forgotten spells. He had a talent for it. It was almost… good.

Until the insufferable know-it-all had been transferred to the department.

He had been edging his way back into social life as well. Blaise Zabini dragged him regularly to bars and parties, introduced him to women. Brief entanglements had begun to accumulate — blondes, brunettes, peers, older women. On one memorable occasion, Padma Patil had ended up in his bed, which had come as a surprise to both of them on a hungover morning.

But Draco had never actually shared a living space with a woman. Never coexisted with anyone in close quarters for more than a few hours. And he had certainly never had to contend with… female difficulties of this particular variety.

For some reason, he had wanted to try to ease her suffering. His upbringing wouldn't allow him to stand by while a woman was in pain and simultaneously trying to keep herself alive.

Some semblance of basic decency, Draco thought, with an internal smirk — and felt something warm stir in his chest.

No. That was just the Warming Charm finally kicking in.

Another small victory for their magical arsenal.

✦✦✦

A couple of days later, Draco made up his mind.

Granger was doing what she always did — sitting on the fallen log outside the tent, making endless notes in her notebook. He told her he was going hunting, and set off in the direction of the smoke he'd spotted a few days earlier.

Curiosity had been eating him alive. Granger could go on as long as she liked about the necessity of keeping their heads down, but he couldn't simply sit and wait for their unknown neighbours to decide to pay them a visit. Better to know what you were dealing with.

He followed the familiar path that wound between enormous ferns and conifers with thick, moss-covered trunks. The sun was directly overhead, pushing through the dense canopy in patches of golden light.

The smoke was still rising high above the treeline — a thin grey column dissolving into a cloudless sky. As he drew closer, Draco moved with increasing care, watching where he put his feet, avoiding dry branches and rustling leaves.

At last, he reached the edge of a small bluff and went still, holding his breath.

Below, in a natural hollow between the hills, lay… a settlement.

He didn't know exactly what he'd been expecting, but what he saw far exceeded anything his idea of "primitive" had prepared him for. A dozen cone-shaped shelters made of poles, covered in hides and bark, stood in a semicircle around a central fire. The smoke was rising from there — from a large fire pit ringed with flat stones.

People.

Actual ancient people.

There were around twenty of them — men, women, children. Dressed in something resembling clothing made from skins. Long, tangled hair, some of it braided with feathers and small bones woven in. Dark skin, weathered, marked with scars.

But that wasn't what stopped him. What stopped him was how they lived.

Near one of the shelters, a woman who looked to be middle-aged was patiently teaching two teenage girls to weave baskets from flexible withies. Her movements were precise, practised — clearly the work of someone who had mastered her craft. The girls carefully repeated each gesture, occasionally asking questions in an unfamiliar, guttural language.

By the fire, an old man with a grey beard was telling a story to a group of children. From his gestures and expressions, it seemed to be some kind of tale — a legend, perhaps, or a myth. The children listened, rapt, interrupting now and then with questions.

Three young men were making spears — shaping the shafts, binding stone tips to them with some kind of cord. One of them, noticing that his binding wasn't holding the tip securely, patiently undid the work and started again.

The women were preparing food — butchering something that looked like a deer, sorting roots and herbs, tending the fire. They worked in easy concert, like a well-oiled mechanism, each knowing her task without needing to be told.

Children chased each other between the shelters, wrestled over toys made from bone, imitated the adults around them. Laughter and shouts rang through the settlement, creating an atmosphere of… domestic warmth? Draco hadn't expected those words to come to him at all, watching ancient people go about their lives.

But the most remarkable thing came toward evening.

The hunters returned with their kill — a small antelope and several birds. They were greeted not merely as providers, but as heroes. The eldest among them — a tall man with a proud bearing and a scar running the full length of his face — was already telling the story of the hunt, gesturing and acting it out. The others listened, nodding their approval.

Then came the distribution of the meat. And here Draco saw something that shattered the last of his assumptions about "savages."

The food was not divided by strength. The first portions went to the old and the young. Then to nursing mothers. Only after that to the other adults. The hunters themselves — the ones who had risked their lives — received their shares last of all, and not one of them showed the slightest sign of resentment.

Draco spent several hours crouched behind a boulder, watching this quiet, unhurried life in a kind of daze. No signs of brutality. No "savagery." Only the steady, coordinated existence of a small community in which everyone knew their place and looked after one another.

So much for primitive savages.

When the sun began to sink toward the horizon, he carefully backed away from the edge of the bluff and made his way back to camp. His thoughts kept circling back to what he had seen.

And whether he ought to tell Granger about it.

✦✦✦

Draco picked his way along the familiar path through the thickening dusk. About an hour's walk back to camp — he had learned this terrain over two weeks of wandering. It was remarkable, really, that the local hunters hadn't found them yet. The tribe apparently preferred to keep to its own territory.

Checking the compass and the small marks he'd carved into trees on the way out, Draco reckoned the tent was close now — fifteen minutes at an easy pace. His thoughts were still circling what he'd seen: the tribe's unhurried rhythms, their solidarity, the way they cared for their weakest…

And then — a rustle.

Not the ordinary whisper of leaves in the wind, not the snap of a dry twig under some small animal's paw. Something large was moving through the undergrowth to his right. Carefully. Almost without sound.

Draco went completely still, afraid to give himself away even with a breath. His heart, however, was hammering treacherously. God, not so loud. He turned his head slowly toward the sound, trying to see into the dense shadow between the trees.

At first he saw only eyes — two amber points of light, glinting in the half-dark. Then the outline of a massive head, sharp ears, and… a white-fanged snarl.

A wolf.

But not any wolf you might encounter in the forests of modern Europe. This was a giant — the size of a small pony, with a powerful ridge of muscle across its shoulders and legs like a grown man's arms. Its grey coat caught the fading light like tarnished silver, and steam rose from its open jaws. A primeval predator, built by nature for hunting large prey.

For hunting people.

The beast stepped unhurriedly out of the undergrowth, holding Draco in the hypnotic lock of its yellow gaze. It moved with that particular grace that belongs only to born killers — every step calculated, every movement lethally precise.

Draco said his mental goodbyes to the world. To his mother, waiting for him to come home. To the Manor that had never quite felt like one. To the life he had only just begun to piece together.

His hand went to his wand without thinking.

— Incendio! — he shouted desperately, sending a stream of fiery sparks directly at the animal's face.

The wolf shook its head with an irritated snap and fell back a step, but fire clearly hadn't frightened it. If anything, it had made it angry — the snarl widened, baring those impressive fangs further, and a low, vibrating growl rolled up from deep in its chest.

Run. Have to run.

Draco turned and bolted toward camp, crashing through bushes and low branches without any thought for the path.

That was a mistake. Wolves are hunters, and for a hunter there is nothing more irresistible than fleeing prey.

Behind him came a thunderous snarl, and heavy paws began to beat the earth. The beast was running him down without apparent effort — Draco could feel that it could have caught him easily, but chose not to. It was playing. Herding its prey, waiting for it to exhaust itself.

He hurled spells over his shoulder as he ran:

— Stupefy! — his wand threw out a handful of hissing sparks.

— Petrificus Totalus! — nothing.

— Depulso! — a faint flash.

His lungs were on fire. His legs had turned to cotton wool. Somewhere behind him the wolf let out what sounded distinctly like a triumphant snarl — the hunt was entering its final stage.

Tiring, losing ground, Draco caught his foot on a protruding root and went down hard, face-first into the rotting leaves. He tried to get up. His arms wouldn't hold him. He rolled onto his back, breathing in ragged heaves, and watched his pursuer emerge from the undergrowth.

The wolf was in no hurry now. It approached slowly, scenting the air, appraising its catch. Hunger burned in those yellow eyes.

— Reducto! — Draco screamed in desperation.

Nothing.

— Bombarda!

Sparks.

— Avada fucking Kedavra!

His wand didn't even twitch.

The wolf coiled for the leap, haunches bunching with terrible power. Draco closed his eyes.

And waited for the pain.

And waited to die.

The impact was catastrophic. The beast came down on him with its full weight, claws raking across his shoulder and abdomen, shredding fabric and skin like wet parchment. Agony tore through him; red bursts exploded across his vision.

But his throat was intact. The wolf wasn't going for the kill — not yet. Just wounding. Immobilising its prey.

With the last thing he had, Draco screamed:

— Diffindo!

A household charm. For cutting things. Pathetic, feeble — but it worked. An invisible blade sliced across the beast's muzzle, leaving a shallow but vicious wound.

The wolf yelped and lurched backward, shaking its head in confusion. Blood ran down into its eyes.

— Diffindo! Diffindo! — Draco threw the cutting spell again and again, aiming for the face, the legs, the flanks.

Most went wide. Several didn't. The wolf yelped louder with each hit, retreating further. It had apparently decided this particular prey wasn't worth the trouble. With one last disgusted snarl, it vanished into the undergrowth.

Draco lay on the ground and bled.

Is this really how it ends? The thought was almost detached. Like this?

No. No, no, no. Not here. Not to some oversized dog's teeth.

Summoning what remained of his will, he pushed himself up first to his knees, then to his feet, swaying badly, the pain enormous and absolute. His jumper was soaked through with spreading crimson. Warm, sticky liquid seeped from the gashes the claws had opened. His left shoulder was one continuous fire. Across his abdomen ran four parallel furrows, deep and gaping.

Survive. Get to the tent. Get to Granger.

The sun had sunk completely below the horizon and darkness was claiming the forest. Draco walked — stumbled — from tree to tree, bracing himself against the bark, leaving bloody handprints as he went. Every step cost him. Black rings swam across his vision.

And then — ahead, between the trees — a faint light flickered.

Lumos. The familiar, beloved light of their camp.

— Granger… — Draco rasped, and crumpled into the leaves, falling headlong into the dark.

The last thought he managed before consciousness left him entirely:

Please. Find me.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat at the entrance to the tent, by the faint light of a Lumos, reading an Arithmancy textbook and making notes in her notebook.

The sun had almost sunk below the horizon. And Malfoy still hadn't returned.

He usually came back by this time — tired, often irritable from an unsuccessful hunt, but alive and more or less unharmed. Today he had been gone for almost the entire day, since early morning.

A familiar, sticky feeling of anxiety was taking root inside her — the same one that had haunted her during the war, when Harry or Ron had gone out on reconnaissance and hadn't returned at the appointed time. Back then she would sit by the tent for hours, peering into the darkness and imagining the worst possible scenarios.

What if some predator had eaten him? — the treacherous inner voice whispered. What if he'd fallen into a crevice? What if he'd got lost?

Hermione tried to focus on her notes, but her hands trembled. The letters and symbols blurred before her eyes, her thoughts scattered.

If only her friends were here…

Harry would have already done something typically, gloriously reckless — got into a brawl with a sabre-toothed tiger, or tried to tame a mammoth. But his fearlessness wouldn't have let her feel so helpless and alone.

Ron… poor Ron would have had a dreadful time without proper food. He'd have moaned every half hour about dying of hunger and demanded they find something "real" rather than "these stupid herbs." But Hermione was certain — he'd have already speared some beast through sheer stubbornness alone.

A sad smile touched her lips.

Then, suddenly, a rustling sound came from very close by.

Hermione froze, clutching her wand. Something was moving in the bushes — carefully, stealthily. Branches crackled softly under someone's weight.

Malfoy?

But no — he always returned along their path, from the other direction. And this… this was something different. Something that was creeping toward their camp.

The rustling continued. Drew closer.

Hermione realised she was sitting in the open, lit up like a target by her Lumos. If this was a predator, she was easy prey. Slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements, she rose and backed toward the tent entrance.

And then — a loud crack of branches. Something heavy crashed into the undergrowth very close by. Then silence. Only the birds, startled by the sound, burst upward somewhere deep in the forest with a sharp cry.

Her heart was pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else, drumming in her ears. Her throat had gone dry. Every instinct screamed: run, hide, don't move.

But she was a Gryffindor. Brave and stubborn.

What if it really was Malfoy?

Hermione tightened her grip on her wand and pointed it toward the sound. The light trembled — her hands were shaking with fear and adrenaline.

— Malfoy, is that you? — she called quietly, trying to make her voice sound steadier than she felt.

No answer.

Every step was an effort. Her legs felt leaden, blood thundered at her temples. The beam of her Lumos slid across tree trunks, over ferns, over—

— Merlin's beard! — the words tore from her.

A few metres from the tent, face down in the dirt, lay Malfoy.

His jumper was torn to shreds and soaked through with blood — dark, almost black in the fading light. His platinum hair was matted with sweat and filth. He wasn't moving. Not at all.

— Malfoy! — Hermione rushed toward him, forgetting all caution.

She dropped to her knees beside him, ignoring the sharp stones digging through the thin fabric of her jeans. With trembling hands she turned him onto his back.

Alive. Breathing. Weakly, unevenly — but breathing.

His face was deathly pale, his lips almost blue. On his left shoulder gaped deep, ragged gashes, still seeping blood. His abdomen had been torn open too — not as deeply, but the wounds were bleeding freely, soaking through what remained of his jumper.

Claws. These were claw marks.

— Malfoy, can you hear me? — She gave his cheek a gentle pat. — Open your eyes!

No response. He was unconscious and, by the look of him, had lost a great deal of blood. Far too much.

She had to get him into the tent immediately, clean the wounds, stop the bleeding. But how? He was heavy, and in this state — utterly unmoveable.

Hermione tried to lift him, wrapping her arms under his shoulders. Malfoy's body was slick with blood and sweat. She dragged him toward the tent, but managed only a few metres before her strength gave out. Her muscles burned, her vision darkened with the effort.

I can't do this. He'll die here on the cold ground and I won't even be able to drag him to shelter.

Panic struck — but before she could think of any alternative, she cried out in desperation, sweeping her wand:

— Mobilicorpus!

Malfoy's body shuddered… and slowly rose into the air. Unsteadily, swaying — but it rose.

— Oh my God, — Hermione breathed, scarcely believing her eyes.

The spell had worked. For the first time since their arrival here, a real spell had worked. Not everyday magic — an actual, complex levitation of a human body.

Why now? Why now of all times?

But there was no time to analyse it — she would do that later. She carefully levitated Malfoy into the tent and lowered him onto his narrow camp bed. He groaned as his body met the mattress, but didn't open his eyes.

Hermione lit every source of light available — the kerosene lamp, several candles — and began examining the wounds in proper light.

The picture was even worse than she'd thought.

The deep wounds on his shoulder reached almost to the bone. The edges were ragged — not the clean slice of a blade, but the marks of animal claws that had torn through flesh. The wounds on his abdomen were not as deep, but bled more freely.

What had done this? A bear? A wolf? Something worse?

And more urgently — where was that creature now? Was it following the scent of blood back to their camp?

But that was almost beside the point. What mattered now was keeping Malfoy alive.

First, Hermione cleaned his clothing and hair of forest dirt. Then she quickly arranged her field first-aid kit on the bedside table. The familiar phial of dittany for wound healing — part of the bottle had already been spent on minor cuts and scrapes over these past weeks.

This will help. It has to.

But would there be enough? She would need to make every drop count.

She carefully cut away his clothing, freeing him from the jumper and undershirt. And then Hermione gasped.

Beneath the fresh wounds, his entire chest was mapped with small white scars. Dozens of thin lines crossed the pale skin — some straight, like knife cuts, others uneven and ragged. Old. Very old. Most were tiny, barely visible, but some…

Merlin, what are these? Scars from Harry's curse? Oh…

And on his left forearm, she found an old bandage of dirty cloth. She carefully removed it and saw the Dark Mark. Half-faded with time and… with cuts. Thin scars layered over the snake crawling from the skull. Almost imperceptible, but there were so many of them. Had he been trying to cut it out?

Death Eater.

The memories crashed down all at once: Bellatrix, bent over her with a knife. Screams. Pain. Crucio.

And he had stood in the corner and watched. Simply watched, while she was tortured in his home.

For a moment her hands went still. Her heart hammered, and her throat closed around a hard knot.

This is still Draco Malfoy. A former Death Eater. The one who…

But her gaze fell on his face — deathly pale, wet with beads of sweat. On the wounds still seeping blood.

But right now, he is dying.

Hermione gave her head a sharp shake, driving the memories back. Later. I'll think about it later. When he's alive.

She began cleaning the wounds, clearing away dirt and clotted blood. Malfoy twitched and groaned when the spell touched the deepest gashes, and Hermione felt her chest tighten with something she couldn't quite name.

Then the blood-replenishing potion — on the deepest wounds first. The liquid hissed and foamed against the damaged tissue, and the bleeding gradually began to slow. But there was so little of it left…

Please. Please, let there be enough.

Finally — the dittany. Hermione tipped precious drops of the healing potion with care, watching them begin to draw the wound edges together, coaxing the torn flesh slowly to knit. She used nearly half of what remained, praying to every god she could think of that it would be sufficient.

Her hands were shaking with exhaustion and strain by the time she wound the bandages around his torso and shoulder, trying not to look at the Dark Mark.

Don't think about it now. Don't.

When the last bandage was secured, Hermione stepped back, breathing hard, feeling the sweat cooling on her spine. Malfoy lay still, but his breathing was more even. A faint trace of colour had returned to his face in place of the deathly pallor. The bleeding had stopped.

She carefully lifted his head and tipped the blood-replenishing potion into his mouth, massaging his throat so he would swallow. A few drops spilled from the corner of his lips, and Hermione barely held back tears of desperation.

Every drop counts.

He groaned in his sleep — painfully, in one long, drawn-out sound — and she reached out instinctively, touching his forehead. His skin was blazing. His temperature was climbing — a fever taking hold, the body's natural response to trauma and blood loss.

— Hold on, Malfoy, — she whispered, and her voice broke. — Don't you dare die.

Because if he died, she would be alone in this primordial world. Alone with an artefact she had yet to decipher. Alone with whatever creatures hunted in the dark.

And Hermione Granger had absolutely no idea whether she could survive that.

She dampened a piece of cloth in cool water and began carefully wiping the sweat from his forehead and neck, trying at least to ease the fever. Her movements were gentle, almost tender — she was afraid of disturbing the bandages or causing additional pain.

Hermione leaned closer to check his pulse at his neck, and for the first time found herself this close to his face. In the wavering light of the kerosene lamp she could make out every detail — the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the pale stubble on his jaw and cheeks, grown out over weeks without a razor. Malfoy, always so polished and immaculate, looked… human. Vulnerable.

His lashes, surprisingly long, cast shadows on his pale skin. His lips, usually compressed into a sardonic smirk, were now slightly parted, dry and cracked from the fever. She pressed her fingers gently to his neck, feeling for his pulse. The skin beneath her touch was hot, almost burning — but the pulse, faint yet steady, told her he was fighting. That he was still here.

A strange, inconvenient feeling of tenderness rose in her chest. Now, without his masks, he was simply a wounded man who needed her help. Simply Draco.

Gradually his breathing deepened, steadied. Hermione carefully drew the blanket over him and stepped out of the tent on unsteady legs.

The cold night air hit her face — and only then did she see that she was covered in Malfoy's blood. Her hands were trembling so violently she could barely hold her wand.

She slid slowly to the ground, her back against a tree trunk. And then the panic she had held in check until now took hold entirely.

Tears came in a flood — hot, salty, unstoppable. Her whole body shook with sobs she tried to muffle by pressing her face into her knees. The full weight of how close Malfoy had come to dying — of dying in her arms, bleeding out into the cold earth — settled over her like a slab of iron.

I nearly lost him. He almost died.

However much she disliked him, however much she sometimes wanted him to simply shut up and disappear — here, in this godforsaken corner of reality, she needed him desperately. He was the only thing connecting her to home, to normality, to humanity.

The tears fell, and Hermione sat in the dark, sniffling, feeling utterly hollowed out. But gradually, thoughts began to take shape.

Whatever attacked him is still out there. It could find us.

Gathering the last of her strength, she got to her feet on trembling legs and set about clearing the blood trail leading to the tent. Tergeo held, and slowly the red stains vanished from the grass and the earth. It probably wouldn't stop the beast — but it might buy them a little time.

And then… Hermione drew a slow breath, focusing on a spell she hadn't cast in years. High-level protective enchantments. If her magic was working better now…

— Cave inimicum! — she whispered, pouring into the incantation everything she had — her will, her fear for Malfoy, her desperate determination to protect them both.

The air around the tent shimmered, and then an invisible dome settled over their makeshift refuge. The protective enchantment held — not perfectly, but enough to conceal them from hostile eyes and wild animals.

Hermione exhaled, feeling an invisible weight lift from her shoulders.

It worked. We're safe. For now.

She returned to the tent, where Malfoy still lay motionless, and settled into the chair beside his bed. Wand in one hand, a cup of cooling tea in the other.

It was going to be a long night.

But now she had a hypothesis: her magic grew stronger when her emotions ran highest.

✦✦✦

Malfoy didn't wake until the following noon. Hermione hadn't left his bedside all night, occasionally dampening his dry lips with a wet cloth and casting a few cooling charms to keep his fever from climbing too high.

The night stretched on endlessly. Every groan made her tense, listening to his breathing, checking his pulse. Several times she thought he was about to come round — his eyelids fluttering, his lips moving soundlessly — but consciousness didn't return.

She had more than enough time to think through their situation in detail.

First: Malfoy had survived. That was what mattered.

Second: it turned out that for the entire time they had been here, he had apparently been wrapping his left arm in cloth. She only now realised she had never seen him in just a t-shirt. He had always worn that ridiculous jumper of Ron's, while Hermione had been perfectly comfortable sleeping in a t-shirt — the tent was quite warm, ever since they'd established a permanent fire and kept heating charms going.

Now she understood. He had been hiding the Dark Mark.

Why? So she wouldn't see it? Or because he couldn't bear to see it himself?

Hermione absently rubbed her own forearm, where beneath the fabric of her sleeve the letters lay — barely distinguishable now, nearly absorbed back into the skin. The Healers at St. Mungo's had done everything possible to fade the scarring. But Hermione knew what was written there. She knew the exact position of every letter, remembered the way Bellatrix's knife had cut through skin, how the blood had run down onto the marble floor of Malfoy Manor.

Mudblood.

Some wounds never heal entirely, however skilfully they are treated.

Hermione looked at his sleeping face — gaunt, pale, dark shadows beneath his eyes — and felt a strange mixture of pity and confusion. She had never thought about what he did after the war, how he lived, what kept him awake at night. The subject of the past had never come up in the office — they worked side by side like polite strangers, pretending there was no history between them.

But there was. And it wasn't going anywhere.

All the same, she laid a clean bandage over the Mark. There was something unspoken but sincere in the gesture.

In the morning Hermione checked his snares and, to her delight, found a quail caught in one of them — fat and plump. Enough for a proper nourishing broth at midday. Malfoy needed real food.

The everyday spells were all much easier now — Diffindo neatly jointed the carcass, Tergeo cleared away blood and feathers, and Expellimellius kept the fire burning evenly. Food had stopped being a daily ordeal.

Hermione was tasting something that fell somewhere between a soup and a stew — pieces of tender bird, roots and young nettles — when a groan came from the back of the tent.

She set down her spoon and went to the bed, watching him carefully.

Malfoy was slowly opening his eyes, wincing against the kerosene lamp's light. His lips moved, trying to form words.

— Granger, — he rasped at last, — just tell me I'm in St. Mungo's right now and all of this was a dream.

Merlin, even half-unconscious he manages to be funny.

A wave of relief hit her with such force that the room briefly swam. He's conscious.

— I don't think even St. Mungo's serves as good a lunch as this, — she said, keeping her voice light, and sat down in the chair beside the bed. — Come on, Malfoy, come back to us. You need to eat.

He managed to open his eyes fully — the grey irises were slightly unfocused with weakness, but his gaze was coherent. For several long moments he simply looked at her with an expression she didn't recognise. Not mocking. Not superior.

Hermione swallowed, feeling something tighten in her chest. She had never seen him like this — defenceless, without his usual masks.

— Don't try to move suddenly, — she said quietly. — I'll redress the wounds a little later. The bandages need changing.

Malfoy tried to push himself up onto his good right elbow, but groaned immediately and fell back. Hermione instinctively reached over to adjust the pillows and help him sit higher — and he unexpectedly caught her wrist.

His fingers were warm, his grip weak, but the touch burned her skin.

— Thank you, Granger, — he said, low and rough, not releasing her hand.

Two simple words, but there was such sincerity in them that her breath stopped. She felt the pulse beneath his thumb — quick, uneven — and her own heartbeat, which had suddenly picked up.

— I… — she began, and stopped, feeling heat spread across her cheeks.

Hermione carefully freed her wrist from his loose grip — the skin where he had touched her still burned — and adjusted the pillow anyway, tucking a second one beneath his head.

— The protective charms worked, — she said, trying for lightness and managing a small smile. — Cave inimicum held up almost perfectly.

Why am I blushing? This is just Malfoy.

A wounded weakened Malfoy who had almost died in her arms.

— You found me, — he said, and the familiar mockery was absent from his voice. Only wonder, as though he couldn't quite believe it himself. — You saved me.

— Well, of course, — Hermione replied, holding his gaze. — You'd have done the same.

Would he, though? Really?

She wasn't certain. But looking at him now — exhausted, grateful — she wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that beneath all those layers of sarcasm and arrogance there was someone capable of genuine kindness. Kindness without calculation.

Malfoy gave a slow nod, his eyes still on her.

— Perhaps, — he said quietly. — Perhaps you have too much faith in me, Granger.

✦✦✦

Draco didn't manage to get up until evening. Every movement sent pain shooting through him — his whole body burned, the wounds on his abdomen worst of all, and his shoulder, where the creature had done its most thorough work, throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Even making it to the tiny washroom cost him a staggering effort.

Granger had made dinner. And it was good. From the meagre supplies they had, she somehow managed to produce something genuinely edible.

He was consumed with shame. For what he'd done — for going out alone on reconnaissance and nearly dying for it. For forcing her to tend his wounds, to see him weak and bleeding out. For the fact that she might have died herself if he hadn't come back.

And for what she knew now.

He had noticed how carefully she had re-bandaged his left arm. Professionally. Without asking questions. But the knowledge was there in her eyes — heavy, and inescapable.

Draco stared at his reflection in the small mirror above the washbasin. Pale as a ghost. Lips dry and cracked, dark rings beneath his eyes. Hair matted with sweat and clinging in lank, untidy strands.

The last time he had looked like this was after—

Malfoy Manor, spring of 1998. Draco lay on the floor of his bedroom, writhing with the residual pain of the Cruciatus. Voldemort spared no one — not even the families of his most devoted servants. Especially when those servants had allowed Potter and his friends to slip away.

"Your family has disappointed me, Draco," — the sibilant voice still rang in his ears. "Perhaps pain will help you focus more clearly on your duties."

Yes — the pain of Cruciatus had been worse than this, worse than claws. But back then, after the torture, the same face had looked out of the mirror at him — haggard, hollow, full of shame and pain.

After the bald bastard had died at the hands of the Boy Who Lived, Draco had tried to remove the Dark Mark.

He couldn't bear to look at it every day. The black skull with the snake-tongue — a constant reminder of who he had been, what he had done, what he had become. Draco had tried everything he could find — combed every volume in the Manor's vast library, searched out recipes for removing magical brands, sought out Healers in secret.

Nothing worked. The Mark had been set too deep, with too dark a magic.

Once, in a fit of despair and self-loathing, he had locked himself in the bathroom and gone at his arm with Cutting Curses. Slash after slash, until the skin was nothing but bloody ruin. He had carved away at it without feeling the pain — wanting to cut the cursed Mark out along with the flesh beneath, anything not to see it ever again.

If not for Blinky…

The old elf had practically raised Draco. Had nursed him when his parents were occupied with their social obligations, comforted him after childhood nightmares, healed scraped knees. And he could sense when his boy was suffering — even at a distance, even through the walls of the Manor.

Blinky found him on the bathroom floor in a pool of his own blood, his arm in shreds from the cuts, already losing consciousness.

— Young master! — the elf had shrieked, throwing himself across the room. — What is young master doing to himself?!

Then came the potions, the healing spells, the endless hours of recovery. And when Draco came round, Blinky scolded him — for the first and only time in his life.

— Blinky raised young master from a baby! — the elf had cried, huge saucer-eyes brimming with tears. — Blinky has always protected young master! Blinky cannot allow young master to hurt himself! That is not why Blinky has cared for him all his life!

The tears in the elf's eyes accomplished what neither threats nor his mother's pleading had managed. Draco never touched the Mark again. He hid it with Glamour charms, wore long sleeves, did everything possible not to look at the damned brand.

But here, the charms didn't work. And so Draco, in those first few days, had quietly cut a strip of fabric from a bedsheet and bound his arm while Granger wasn't looking. Not so much to hide it from her — she would have seen it sooner or later — as to keep from seeing it himself.

The knowledge that Granger now knew his shameful secret coiled inside him, sick and sticky.

She's seen it. She's not stupid — she remembers exactly who I really am.

Draco was ashamed. Of everything. Of the past. Of the silences where he could have spoken. Of the stillness where he should have acted.

Of standing in the corner of the drawing room and watching Bellatrix torture the girl on the floor of his home. Of not saying a word, not taking a single step to stop it.

"Mudblood! Where did you get the sword? WHERE?!"

Granger's screams still echoed in his head at night. And he was still standing there watching. Paralysed by fear, by self-disgust — and still watching.

The shame had grown out of self-hatred. Deep, corrosive as acid. He hated himself for every cowardly choice, for every moment of weakness, for every time he had chosen to preserve his own life instead of doing what was right.

And Granger knew. The woman who had risked her life for principles, who had never once stood aside when someone needed help — she had always known exactly what kind of coward he was.

She saved my life. After everything I did — and failed to do — she saved my life anyway.

Draco looked down at his bandaged arm. Beneath the clean cloth lay the brand of his shame — forever pressed into his skin, a reminder of who he had been at seventeen.

But who am I now?

He didn't know the answer to that question.

✦✦✦

Draco lay on the bed staring at the ceiling of the tent when he heard quiet footsteps. Granger was approaching with a bowl of water and her wand.

— The bandages need changing, — she said, setting the bowl on the bedside table.

He nodded, not trusting his own voice. His throat had tightened with anticipation of what was about to happen. She would be close, right beside him, and she would see him — weak, wounded, dependent on her help.

Granger sat down on the edge of the bed, and the mattress dipped slightly under her weight. Draco felt the warmth of her body — such a contrast to the cold that had taken up residence in his chest.

— Can you lift your arm? — she asked, beginning to unwind the bandages at his shoulder.

Draco raised his arm slowly, trying not to wince. Every movement brought sharp, stabbing pain — but the physical pain was nothing beside the one spreading inside him.

She worked in silence. Carefully but steadily she removed the old dressings, stiff with dried blood and seepage. Her fingers were warm.

These same hands had once trembled with fear in the drawing room of my home.

Draco closed his eyes, unable to look at her composed face. Shame burned from within, spreading through his veins in place of blood. His body felt on fire — no longer from the fever, but from the full weight of his own disgrace.

The cloth came away from the skin, exposing the deep claw-furrows on his shoulder. Granger cleaned them carefully with water, and Draco flinched at the cool touch.

— Sorry, — she murmured. — Too cold?

He shook his head without opening his eyes.

Don't apologise. Please, don't apologise.

Her fingers gently traced the edges of the wounds, checking how they were healing. The touches were professional — and yet for some reason they sent goosebumps crawling across his skin. Draco clenched his jaw, feeling his cheeks burn with shame.

— Healing well, — she said quietly, reaching for the dittany. — A little more potion, and we can put on fresh bandages.

The dittany hissed against the damaged flesh, and Draco groaned despite himself. Granger stilled immediately.

— Does it hurt badly? — Genuine concern in her voice.

— I can manage, — he rasped, still not opening his eyes.

She moved to the wounds on his abdomen, and Draco tensed involuntarily. Being this helpless in front of her was worse than any torture.

Why is she treating me like this? Why isn't she angry? Why isn't she shouting?

Granger cleaned the deep lacerations running across his stomach with particular care. Her breath was warm on his skin, her fingers — impossibly gentle. Draco clenched his fists, fighting the urge to pull away. Not from the pain — but from how unbearable it was to receive a kindness he didn't deserve.

— Ferula, — she said, directing her wand at the treated wounds.

The spell held perfectly — fresh white bandages wound themselves around his torso in neat, even layers. The magic really was working better.

In that moment Granger seemed to him almost saintly: sitting quietly beside him, tending his wounds, appearing to forgive what he couldn't forgive in himself. And he hated her for that silence.

Shout at me. Hit me. Tell me how much you hate me too. For everything I did to you. For the childhood I poisoned. For the pain I caused.

But she said nothing. She was even — almost smiling? Barely, at the very corner of her lips, as though quietly satisfied with how well the wounds were healing.

Draco clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. How desperately he wanted to ask her forgiveness right now. The words tore at him, lodging in his throat:

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all of it. For what I did at school. For standing there and watching while they tortured you. For being a coward. For never managing to be better.

But he couldn't say it aloud. The walls he had built over years were too solid. The masks he had worn since childhood had grown into his face.

— All done, — she said quietly, setting down her wand.

Draco looked at the fresh dressings. Clean, white, neatly applied. His left forearm had been left untouched. Granger hadn't so much as laid a finger on those bandages — as though she understood that what lay beneath them wasn't a wound. Only shame.

She cleared away the bowl of faintly pinkish water and vanished the soiled bandages. At her own bed she paused and turned.

— Goodnight, Malfoy, — she said, gently.

Quiet. Simple. Without a single barb. Draco blinked, scarcely believing what he'd heard. Where was the sarcasm? The lecture on what a fool he'd been? Even the faintest suggestion that he was an idiot?

Draco lay in the dark listening to her settle into her bed, and felt something break inside him. Something important. Something that hurt.

Goodnight, Granger. And… thank you.

But those words, too, went unspoken.

Chapter Text

Day Twenty.

Hermione drew a line in her notebook, sitting by the tent in the light of her Lumos, finishing another set of calculations. The stars overhead glittered so brightly, and seemed so close, that she wanted to reach out and touch them.

Malfoy was already asleep — or pretending to be. These past few days he had grown even more withdrawn than usual. Since that night when the beast had wounded him and she had tended to his injuries, an invisible wall of unspoken things and silence had settled between them.

She had seen his Mark. He knew she had seen it. And they both made a careful point of pretending nothing had happened.

Every morning and every evening she changed his bandages without a word. Twice a day — in the morning she checked how the wounds had healed overnight, in the evening she dressed them before sleep. The ritual had become almost meditative: she would approach with a small bowl of warm water, and he would silently pull off his t-shirt.

Not a word about the dark skull tucked carefully beneath its own separate bandage. Not a word about the scatter of scars across his chest. Only her painstaking focus, the light touch of her hands, and a quiet "done" at the end of it.

Strangely, Hermione almost missed their old sparring. At least back then the air had crackled with something real — anger, irritation, contempt. Now a polite detachment had settled between them that was worse than any quarrel.

What was going on inside his head all these days? What did he think about when she sometimes caught him sitting by the fire under the protective dome, his gaze somewhere far away?

The past? The war? The fact that she now knew a little more about him?

Hermione caught herself trying to picture him at seventeen — frightened, cornered, with no idea how to escape the trap he had fallen into by the will of his family and circumstance. She had been thinking a great deal, lately, about what that Malfoy must have been like.

It had been easy to hate schoolboy Draco Malfoy — arrogant, cruel, revelling in his own superiority. It was harder to hate teenage Draco Malfoy, forced to bear the brand of a Death Eater. To protect his family — that was what Narcissa Malfoy had said at the trial.

And harder still to hate adult Draco Malfoy, who every single day pulled his sleeves down so as not to see the reminder of his mistakes.

Hermione shook her head, pushing the thoughts away. This was no time for reflections on forgiveness and redemption. She needed to focus on what mattered — on getting home.

About the attack — a wolf, enormous, a creature that seemed to belong to the very bones of the earth — Malfoy had spoken sparingly and with reluctance. Only the bare necessities: the predator's size, its behaviour, how he had managed to escape. But where exactly it had happened, he never said. She suspected he might have gone to investigate that mysterious smoke after all, but if that was the case, Malfoy kept stubbornly silent, and whenever she tried to press for details, he only closed himself off further.

Hermione sighed and buried herself in her calculations again. Arithmancy didn't fail her — even here, in the tenth millennium BCE, numbers fell into their familiar patterns. The lunar cycle of twenty-nine and a half days remained a constant, an unchanging given that allowed her to build a bridge between then and now.

She had counted the days from their arrival on the fifth of April, carefully marking the phases of the moon in her notebook. The waning moon of the first days had gradually faded to nothing; the new moon had come and brought with it especially dark and restless nights. Then a thin crescent of the waxing moon had appeared, growing fuller with each night that passed.

On day fifteen, the artefact had shown signs of activity again — but that time the glow had been brighter, longer-lasting.

Hermione raised her eyes to the moon — waxing, with a barely perceptible asymmetry along its left edge. A few more days, and the disc would be perfectly round. Which meant…

She picked up her pen and carefully underlined the final date in her notebook: 5 May, 03:36.

If her calculations were correct — and they had to be correct, because Hermione Granger did not make mistakes in Arithmancy — then at that precise moment the artefact would activate again. And either take them home, or…

Or hurl them even further back into the past. To the dinosaurs, as Malfoy had grimly joked.

The thought sent a chill down her spine. Hermione snapped the notebook shut and pressed it to her chest, as though trying to shield her precious calculations from the whims of time and space.

She looked toward the tent entrance, beyond which the silent Malfoy lay. Was he asleep, she wondered? Or lying awake as well, tormented by his own demons?

Something had shifted between them. Not only because of the Mark — though because of that too.

The moment when he had thanked her — not sarcastically, not with condescension, but sincerely. The moment when it had become clear: the hostility they had so carefully cultivated over the years was beginning to fracture at the seams.

And that, for some reason, frightened her more than any predator in this primordial world.

Hermione stood and checked the protective charms around the camp one more time. The Cave Inimicum held firm — the magic was truly growing stronger with each passing day. Perhaps it was a matter of emotional state. Perhaps they had genuinely adapted to the magical field of this time. Or perhaps the approach of the full moon was affecting the very fabric of reality around them.

Too many perhapses and far too little certainty.

She cast one last glance at the stars — constellations that somewhere in twelve thousand years' time a small Hermione would look up at, as her father taught her to find the Plough — and made her way into the tent. Tomorrow she would try to speak with Malfoy again. They needed to discuss a plan for the moment of activation. They needed to decide what to do if something went wrong.

They needed to stop pretending that nothing was happening between them.

But that was for tomorrow. Tonight, Hermione simply settled onto her bed, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and listened to the steady sound of Malfoy's breathing at the other end of the tent.

Strangely, his presence was a comfort. Even silent, even sullen. In this wild world, where any night might be the last, the simple knowledge that she was not alone was worth more than any treasure.

Nine days, she thought drowsily, slipping into sleep. Nine days until the full moon. Until answers. Until home.

✦✦✦

At the other end of the tent, Draco lay with his eyes closed, listening to the night sounds of the forest beyond the walls of their shelter. He could hear Granger working through her calculations, the rustle of pages and the quiet scratch of pen on paper.

Clever girl. Always so methodical. Always with a plan.

He hadn't slept for hours, tormented by familiar insomnia. The wounds had nearly healed — Granger's dittany worked wonders — but the scars inside ached far worse than the physical ones. Especially at night, when there was nowhere to hide from his own thoughts.

The way she handled his bandaged arm during their daily dressings — carefully, without unnecessary questions — said a great deal. About a tact he hadn't expected from her. About a consideration he hadn't earned.

Draco turned onto his side, wincing at the lingering pain in his shoulder. In the dim half-light of the tent he could make out Granger's silhouette on her bed — small, curled beneath her blanket. Her breathing was steady and even. She was asleep.

And he lay there, thinking about the tribe he had seen. About the way they lived — simply, honestly, without lies or pretence. They looked after one another, shared the last piece of meat with the old and the young, worked side by side.

Everything his family had never had. Everything his world had never been.

He still hadn't told her about them. How could he explain that he had gone to spy on ancient people? That he had spent hours watching their unhurried life, feeling like a wretched, skulking voyeur? That he had come away from them with a strange, unsettling envy of their simplicity?

No. That wasn't something he could speak about. Least of all to Granger, who already saw far too much of him as it was.

Draco closed his eyes and tried to force himself to sleep. But sleep wouldn't come, and his thoughts kept circling.

Now he was thinking about who he wanted to be, when — if — they made it home.

✦✦✦

On the morning of day twenty-four, Malfoy was unusually animated. Not talkative, exactly, but at least not buried inside himself the way he had been for days.

— I found something interesting yesterday, — he said, as they ate breakfast — fried eggs and the herbal tea that had long since become routine.

— What?

— Honey, — he said, with poorly concealed pride. — A hollow in a tree with a wild bee colony. Fairly high up, but reachable.

She raised her eyebrows.

— And how exactly do you plan to get at it? Bees aren't particularly welcoming to thieves.

— Smoke, — Malfoy explained. — There were wasps in my mother's greenhouse at the Manor once. Our elf used smoke to deal with them. I reckon it'll work on bees too — drive them off long enough to take part of the comb without killing the colony.

— Be careful, — Hermione warned. — Wild bees can be more aggressive than kept ones.

— I'll manage, — he said, with easy confidence.

And he did. By evening Malfoy had returned with a generous handful of honeycomb — golden, smelling of wildflowers and approaching summer. A few stings on his hands and neck suggested the smoke hadn't worked perfectly, but the prize had been worth it.

— Merlin, — Hermione breathed, tasting the honey. — This is heaven.

The sweetness was so intense after weeks of bland food that her eyes filled with tears.

Wild honey, completely unprocessed — thick, fragrant, extraordinary.

— Not bad, is it? — Malfoy smiled for the first time in days — not wryly, but with something quite genuine in it.

— Better than anything from Honeydukes, — Hermione agreed.

They ate the honey straight from the comb, licking their fingers and feeling their bodies come alive with the energy of something sweet and real. For the first time, the air between them was almost friendly.

— You know, — Hermione said carefully, when they had finished their small feast, — I've worked out the precise time of the next full moon.

Malfoy's expression sharpened.

— And?

— The fifth of May, three thirty-six in the morning. Give or take a few minutes.

— So in five days we might actually be out of here?

— If my theory is correct — yes.

— And if it isn't?

Hermione was quiet for a moment.

— Then we're stuck here another month. Until the next full moon.

— Or the artefact drops us somewhere else entirely, — Malfoy added, with a grim note. — Well. Five more days of tolerating each other, then.

But there was no anger in his voice. No sarcasm. Only tiredness, and something else. Regret, perhaps?

— Yes, — Hermione agreed quietly. — Tolerating each other.

The strange thing was, the idea of tolerating him no longer felt quite as dreadful as it had in those first days. Something had shifted over these weeks. Nothing sweeping, nothing revolutionary — but it had shifted.

✦✦✦

Day twenty-eight. The last dressing.

Draco sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Granger examined his wounds one final time in the morning light. Her fingers were light, almost weightless, as she checked how the scratches on his stomach had healed.

— Healing beautifully, — she murmured, stepping back. — I think by this evening you can take the bandages off for good. Let the skin breathe.

He nodded, pulling on his t-shirt and over it the patched Weasley jumper. The fabric was worn nearly to holes, but it still held warmth. Strange to think that tomorrow, if Granger's calculations were right, they would either be home, or… or somewhere unknown entirely.

Draco headed out to check the traps, already saying his silent farewells to this place. Every tree, every thicket had become achingly familiar over these weeks. Here he had somehow learned to survive. Here he had come to understand that he was perhaps not quite the useless aristocrat he had always taken himself to be.

They needed to clear the camp thoroughly of any trace of their presence. God only knew what effect objects from the future might have in the hands of ancient people. The butterfly effect and all that. Draco couldn't begin to imagine how a plastic pen or a scrap of modern fabric might alter the course of civilisation.

He made his rounds of all the familiar spots — the snares near the raspberry thicket, the trap on the path that led down to the river — and returned to camp. The sun was already tilting toward the horizon.

And Granger was nowhere to be seen.

That was odd. At this hour she was usually sitting outside the tent, making her endless notebook entries or studying the artefact. Their rhythm over the past month had become so finely tuned that any deviation was immediately noticeable.

A twinge of unease caught him somewhere beneath the ribs. Where could she have gone? Especially now, with only hours left until the artefact activated?

The longest conversation they'd had in nearly a fortnight had been the day he brought back the honey. A few painful stings, granted, but he'd come home with a whole fistful of sticky comb.

The look on Granger's face when she'd tasted it… Draco could still picture that expression of pure bliss. The way she had slowly closed her eyes, tilting her head back. The way she had exhaled — satisfied, almost like a contented sigh — a flush rising in her cheeks, whether from the sweetness or from simple human pleasure after so many weeks of sparse food.

Something strange had stirred in Draco's chest as he watched her slowly lick the honey from her fingers, entirely absorbed in that small, uncomplicated delight. For the first time since they'd arrived here, Granger had looked neither tense nor controlled nor watchful — only… content. Relaxed. Almost happy.

For some reason, it was that moment that had lodged itself in his memory. Not her grateful words, not the smile — but that expression of pure, unguarded pleasure on her face. Draco had caught himself wanting to see it again.

He'd slipped her the larger piece without a word — and had silently prayed she wouldn't notice.

He circled the camp once more and checked the spot where she usually gathered herbs. Nothing. Made his way down to the river — no one there either.

And then he heard a splash.

Just around a slight bend in the bank there was a backwater where the current slowed and pooled into something like a natural basin. Draco walked a few metres along the bank and carefully looked out from behind the bushes.

And went still.

Granger's head was visible above the surface of the water. She was bathing? In a cold river. In early May.

Idiot woman, she'd catch her death.

He had already opened his mouth to call out to her, to tell her to get out of the water at once — and at that moment she began to climb out herself.

Time stopped.

Water ran from her body in golden rivulets in the light of the setting sun. Her underclothes — a simple cotton t-shirt and knickers — were soaked and clinging to her skin, concealing almost nothing. Thin — too thin from weeks of short rations — yet so… undeniably feminine.

Draco could not look away. Droplets of water traced slowly down her shoulders, her collarbones, lower… Her hair, darkened by the water, curled in damp rings around her face. Her skin looked like porcelain in the soft light.

His trousers felt uncomfortably tight. Painfully so.

He wrenched himself back and ducked behind the bushes. His heart was hammering as if it had come loose. He turned and walked — quickly, carefully avoiding the dry branches underfoot — back to the tent. He threw himself onto the bed and pulled the blanket over his head.

Salazar. What was that?

His chest heaved as though he'd sprinted several miles. His temples were pounding. And between his legs — devil take it, the shame of it.

It was fine. He'd simply gone too long without sex. A natural reaction to a naked body. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But seriously. Granger?

Draco could never have conceived of wanting Hermione Granger. The insufferable know-it-all. The girl he had tormented at school. His colleague.

The woman who had saved his life and silently changed his bandages, seeing every scar and asking no questions.

Just a body. Just a physical reaction. Nothing more.

But the image wouldn't leave. Droplets of water on skin. Wet fabric clinging to her curves. That moment when she had thrown her head back to wring the water from her hair…

Draco groaned and pressed his face into the pillow. When she had been an annoying, insufferable little upstart, everything had been so much simpler — he could hate her for her blood, for always being better than him at everything.

But now… now she was simply Granger. Who carried a beaded bag full of everything they could possibly need. Who made something edible out of practically nothing. Who had nursed him back from a wolf attack with almost no explanation demanded in return.

Who was beautiful. When on earth had she become beautiful?

Footsteps outside made him go rigid. Granger was coming back. Draco pulled the blanket higher and closed his eyes, doing his best impression of sleep.

— Malfoy? — she called quietly. — Are you in there?

He didn't answer, carefully maintaining the steady breathing of a sleeping person. He heard her moving things about, heard her murmuring a drying charm.

The image surfaced again, and Draco clenched his jaw. No. Not now. Not her.

But his body, it seemed, had quite other ideas.

— Tomorrow's the full moon, — Granger said quietly, speaking, it seemed, more to herself than to him. — Tomorrow it'll all be over.

Yes. Tomorrow they would go home and forget this month like a strange dream.

They would go back, wouldn't they?

✦✦✦

The tent vanished with a soft pop, leaving behind only slightly flattened grass. Hermione pocketed her wand and looked over the site of their temporary home — in a few hours, not a trace of their presence would remain.

It was approaching midnight. Only a little time left until the calculated moment of the artefact's activation. A strange feeling had spread through her chest — a mixture of joyful anticipation and, for some reason, a quiet, settled sadness. Her theory had to work. It had to.

Hermione settled onto a fallen trunk, leaning her back against a living tree. The bark was rough, but so familiar by now — after a month, this place had become almost like home. Malfoy had gone off somewhere — this seemed to be the third time this evening he had gone to check the area. As he had explained, they needed to make sure they had left nothing behind, no accidental traces of the future in the past.

He had been strange today. From early morning his sharpness and sarcasm had returned, as though in a single night all those defensive walls that a month of surviving together had begun to dismantle had simply grown back. Though Hermione had almost been glad of it — there he was, the familiar Malfoy. It would be easier this way.

They would go home, go back to their work at the Ministry, to their tidy offices and predictable routines. Back to their mutual jabs and polite indifference.

Everything would be as it was before.

Hermione rubbed her palms together — the night air was cool, though by day it had already grown properly warm. A flutter of nerves stirred inside her. Very soon she would see Harry and, quite possibly… yes, certainly Ron. She would hug Ginny, who would tell her every piece of news and gossip. Feel the embrace of Molly Weasley, who would undoubtedly have made a celebratory dinner and would keep pressing food on her, declaring that Hermione had gone terribly thin. Bury her face in Crookshanks' soft fur.

She very much hoped Harry had taken the cat in while she'd been gone. If not, she would personally hex him with something thoroughly unpleasant.

Footsteps in the grass made her look up. Malfoy was coming back — a tall silhouette against the starred sky, his face half-hidden in shadow. He stopped and looked over the place where their tent had stood until so recently, and something indefinable shifted in the way he was standing.

And then, unexpectedly, he sat down beside her on the fallen trunk. Not at the far end as usual, but right beside her — close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body in the cool air.

— Ready to go home? — Hermione asked, casting a Lumos.

The soft golden light illuminated his face, and she saw the same strange expression she had been catching glimpses of these past few days — something guarded, almost pained.

Malfoy was silent for several long seconds, looking at the light at the tip of her wand.

— Ready, — he said at last, but his voice sounded somehow… unconvincing. — You?

— Of course, — Hermione answered quickly, though something inside her wavered with an unexpected flash of doubt. — I've missed proper food, a hot shower, a real bed…

— Your friends, — he added quietly.

— Yes. My friends.

Silence again. Somewhere in the distance a night bird called, and the branches rustled in a light breeze. The moon hung almost directly overhead — enormous, silver, perfect.

— Strange, — Malfoy said suddenly, looking up at the sky.

— What is?

— A month ago I was certain I wouldn't last a day in your company, — there was an unexpected honesty in his voice.

— You know, — she said quietly, — I thought I would hate every minute of being alone with you.

— And?

— And it turned out… — she paused, searching for the words. — It turned out you're not a bad person to be stranded with. When you stop being an insufferable prat.

Malfoy made a sound — almost a laugh.

— What a refined compliment. My thanks.

— Any time, — Hermione smiled.

They sat in silence, shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the stars that in twelve thousand years' time would look down on an entirely different world. A world where they would be colleagues again.

— Perhaps you're being too kind to me, Granger, — he said, after a time.

— Perhaps you're too hard on yourself.

She would miss this, she realised. Their clashes, which had softened into something more like sparring. The rare moments when the masks slipped and she glimpsed the real Malfoy — not the aristocrat, not the former Death Eater, but simply a person who was also trying to work out who he was.

The artefact in her hand began to pulse with a faint light.

— I think it's time, — Hermione whispered.

Malfoy instinctively took hold of her forearm — his fingers were cool against her skin. Neither of them took their eyes off the metal rings. The runes and glyphs lit up in sequence, as though some kind of code was being entered. The outer ring began to turn slowly, then the middle, then the inner — faster and faster…

Then — a blinding flash of white light.

The world disappeared.

The sensation was familiar and yet different — not the chaotic whirl of the first time, but a controlled movement through time and space. Hermione could feel the artefact directing their passage, guiding them toward something with deliberate purpose.

And then solid ground beneath her feet.

The first thing that hit her was the smell. Not a smell — a stench. A revolting combination of human waste, rotting food, unwashed bodies, and something else so foul that Hermione barely managed not to be sick on the spot.

The smell again?

They were standing in a narrow, filthy alley between two tall buildings of darkened brick and timber. The walls of the houses loomed overhead, almost meeting at the top and turning the alley into something like a tunnel. Beneath their feet something squelched — a slick of mud, refuse, and unidentifiable matter. The air was thick and heavy, saturated with the smell of… some great city.

Voices rang out very close by — loud, rough, speaking a language that was both familiar and not. The clang of metal, the creak of wheels, the tramp of feet on stone.

— Merlin's sake, — Malfoy groaned, pressing his hand over his nose. — What is that smell?

— Be quiet! — Hermione hissed, pulling out her wand. — Tempus!

The spell worked instantly — the magic here was strong, responsive. Golden figures formed in the air before them:

5 May, 114 AD.

A groan of disappointment escaped her before she could stop it.

— What in the bloody hell?! — Malfoy swore, thoroughly and inventively. — We were supposed to go home! Your damned calculations—

— Keep your voice down! — Hermione grabbed his arm and pulled him quickly into the darker end of the alley, away from the main road. — Someone will hear us!

They pressed themselves into a narrow recess between two buildings — something like a dead end, choked with rubbish and building waste. The stench here was even worse, but at least they couldn't be seen from the street.

— Where are we? — Malfoy hissed, still holding his nose.

Hermione peered out from their hiding place, listening to the sounds of the street. The voices coming from outside were speaking Latin — but not the formal Latin she had occasionally heard at Hogwarts while studying spells; this was a living language, full of words she didn't know.

— I think this is Rome, — she said quietly. — We're in Ancient Rome, Malfoy.

— Rome? — Malfoy let out a sound that was almost a yelp. — Rome… So your theory was wrong?

— Not wrong, — Hermione countered, her mind racing. — The artefact works. It moves us through time. But not back to our own time — forward. Chronologically. From the more distant past toward the less distant.

— And where do you suppose we'll end up next? — Malfoy's voice was pure horror.

— I don't know, Malfoy! — Hermione was in a panic herself. — We need to analyse the pattern. But first… — she looked frantically at their modern clothes, — we need to deal with more pressing problems.

Jeans and jumpers were going to attract rather a lot of attention. And the sounds from outside suggested the city was waking up, the alleys filling with people.

— Language, — she muttered to herself. — My Latin is dreadful. Yours?

— I can read it fairly well and manage spoken, — Malfoy admitted.

— Clothes, — Hermione went on, running through the list. — We need local clothing. And shelter. And money. And—

— Granger, — Malfoy interrupted, — breathe. Let's take this one thing at a time.

She drew a deep, unsteady breath and tried to focus. Panic wouldn't help. She needed a plan.

— All right. First — clothes. I'll try a Transfiguration. Perhaps it'll work here?

Hermione pointed her wand at her jeans, picturing in her mind the illustrations from history encyclopaedias. A Roman tunic. Long, to the knee, woven wool. Something like a cloak over it.

A moment, and the spell worked flawlessly. Her jeans and t-shirt flowed and shifted, changing shape and colour, becoming a plain brown tunic and a dark grey cloak. The fabric was coarser, simpler — exactly the kind of thing worn by city-dwellers in the illustrations from every book she'd ever come across on the subject.

— Your turn, — she said to Malfoy, directing her wand at his clothes.

— Wait, — Malfoy looked at the result of her Transfiguration with undisguised distaste. — Seriously, Granger? We're supposed to look like beggars?

Hermione looked at him in puzzlement. Then at her new outfit. It seemed perfectly ordinary to her.

— Well… we need to blend in, — she said. — Simple clothing is less conspicuous…

— Simple doesn't mean shabby, — Malfoy cut her off, drawing his own wand. — Let me.

He pointed it at himself first, and his jumper and jeans became an elegant white tunic with a narrow red border along the edge, over it a toga the colour of ivory, draped with precision at the shoulder and covering his left arm. The fabric looked well-made, but not ostentatiously rich.

— Malfoy! — Hermione protested.

— I said we shouldn't look like beggars, — he replied, unruffled, turning his wand toward her.

Her brown rags Transfigured into a graceful, long, cream-coloured dress, gathered beneath the bust with a sash, a light woollen palla draped over the shoulders. Simple, but rather beautiful — the dress of a Roman woman of what appeared to be modest means.

— It's too... — Hermione began to object.

— Absolutely not, Granger, I will not have us looking like escaped galley slaves, — he added with his customary bite. — I have certain standards.

Hermione simply rolled her eyes and let the jab pass.

— Shoes, — she murmured, Transfiguring their boots into leather sandals — plain, but reasonably comfortable.

— Better, — Malfoy approved with a critical nod. — Now we look like respectable provincials.

— How do you know what Roman clothing is supposed to look like? — Hermione asked, puzzled.

— It doesn't matter, Granger, — he said, with a dismissive gesture. — Something I read once. We'd do better to focus on not being stuck here permanently.

Hermione looked at him — his expression set, but unmistakably anxious — and felt a cold knot of fear tighten inside her.

— We won't be, — she said, trying to sound certain. — We'll find a way. We'll find the pattern. We'll get home.

But somewhere deep down, a small voice whispered: And what if we don't? What if the artefact is broken? What if we're condemned to wander through the ages for the rest of our days?

Hermione forced the thoughts away. For now, what mattered was surviving Ancient Rome. The rest… the rest they would deal with later.

— Come on, — she said, checking that her beaded bag with the artefact was safely tucked inside the folds of her dress. — We should probably find somewhere to stay. And work out what's going on here.

The voices in the street were growing louder. Rome was waking up.

Chapter Text

It was Ancient Rome. Actually, genuinely, Ancient Rome.

The creak of wooden wheels over stone slabs. The clatter of mule hooves hauling carts loaded with something heavy. The loud voices of traders already hawking their wares, though the sun had barely cleared the city's rooftops. The ring of metal — blacksmiths starting work at dawn. Somewhere in the distance, the steady rhythm of stonemasons' hammers, raising yet another magnificent building.

And the smells. Merlin, the smells! The scent of fresh bread mingled with the stench of open latrines, smoke from street vendors' braziers with the acrid reek of tanneries. Eastern spices and market fish — all of it swirled into one extraordinary, dizzying mixture that screamed a single word: life! The teeming, relentless life of an empire in full bloom.

— Malfoy, — Granger hissed, tugging at his sleeve. — Soldiers!

Draco spun around and saw the patrol — three legionaries in red cloaks, walking straight toward them, scrutinising every face in the crowd. His heart dropped somewhere into his stomach.

— This way, quickly, — he grabbed Granger's hand and pulled her into a narrow passage between two buildings.

They pressed against the wall, trying to melt into the shadow. Draco could feel his own heart hammering — and Granger's too; she was standing close enough that he felt the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her tunic.

The soldiers passed without so much as a glance in their direction.

— Malfoy, we probably need some sort of documentation? — Granger breathed, once the legionaries had disappeared from view. — We can't just wander through Rome without papers?

— We'll figure something out, — Draco muttered, though inside everything had clenched with panic.

Who could have imagined they'd end up here, of all places.

As a child, before Hogwarts, he had spent hours in the Manor's library poring over books about Ancient Rome. Wizarding historians wrote about the age of empire with considerable detail and flair. They described how Roman wizards concealed themselves in underground sanctuaries, disguised as priests of Eastern cults. How they led double lives: trading in the markets by day, gathering in secret temples by night to practice real magic under the guise of sacred mysteries.

Draco could recall nearly every chapter of Barnabas Blotcher's Secret History of Rome, every illustration from The Magical Chronicles of the Empire. And yes — he was quite prepared to wager he knew considerably more about this period than Granger with all her Muggle encyclopaedias.

But there was a world of difference between reading about it in the comfort of the Manor library and hiding from a patrol in a stinking alleyway.

They slipped out of their hiding place and moved on, winding through narrow side streets. Draco made a point of looking assured — chin up, measured stride, the bearing of an aristocrat with no interest in the rabble. Inside, chaos reigned.

On the one hand, a childhood fantasy had come true — he was in Ancient Rome! Real, living Rome! On the other hand... hell, he was frightened. What if they couldn't make themselves understood? What if they were arrested? What if—

Just as they rounded another corner, a sound drifted from ahead — somewhere between a groan and a snore. Draco peered carefully around the wall and stopped dead.

In a small niche between two buildings, directly on the filthy stones, lay a man in a fine toga with a purple border. A patrician — and judging by the quality of the cloth, a very wealthy one. Around him lay the shards of an expensive amphora, wine pooled across the ground; evidently last night's banquet had ended precisely here.

And most importantly — a leather purse was clearly visible beneath the fold of his toga.

— Granger, — Draco called softly.

— What? — She came to look over his shoulder. — Merlin Almighty, is he dead?

— Drunk, — Draco corrected, watching the patrician's chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. — And very rich, by the look of that toga. You see the purse?

A brief pause, then:

— Malfoy, no! We can't rob him!

— Well… — Draco drew out the word, — he's insensible with drink. If we don't relieve him of a little, someone else will. And rather less delicately.

— That's — that's theft!

— That's survival, — Draco said flatly. — Make your choice, Granger. Either we take some of his money, or we starve in the street. We don't have a third option right now.

He could see her agonising. He knew every one of her principles was screaming against it — but surely logic had to win out? And at the same time, somewhere inside, Draco had his own misgivings: his father would have personally requested a dementor's kiss if he ever learned that his only son had stooped to… theft.

— It's a crime, Malfoy! — she finally managed — and then, a moment later, groaned. — Gods… Fine. But only a portion! And carefully! And we leave him enough to… get home!

Draco nodded and approached the sleeping patrician. The man was out cold. The purse was heavy, coins clinking within. Draco took roughly a third of the contents and placed the rest carefully back.

Their borrowing complete, they slipped quietly away from the scene. Draco felt the weight of the coins — and the weight of what they'd done. He, Draco Malfoy, heir to a pureblood family who could in principle buy half of Diagon Alley, had just robbed a drunk patrician in a filthy back alley of Ancient Rome.

Aristocratic principles versus an empty stomach. Family honour versus a roof over their heads.

Draco glanced back at the sleeping figure and paused. And what if—

— Hey! Wake up! — Draco bent down and shook the man by the shoulder.

Granger grabbed his arm in alarm:

— What are you doing?!

The patrician groaned and tried to wave him off, but Draco kept shaking him firmly.

— Domine! Wake up, sir!

The man finally opened bleary eyes and struggled to focus on the figure bent over him.

— What… who… — he tried to sit up and swayed.

— You fell asleep in the street, sir, — Draco said respectfully, extending a hand to help him rise.

The patrician got to his feet with difficulty, leaning against the wall. His eyes cleared, and an expression of genuine surprise spread across his face — and something close to gratitude.

— Oh, immortal gods! — he murmured, patting himself down. — How long have I been lying here? And you… you woke me?

— Er… yes.

— You could have robbed me… — the patrician checked his still-heavy purse and studied Draco carefully. — You're not from here — I can hear it in your accent.

— Er… passing through, yes.

The patrician reached into the purse and produced several coins.

— Take these. For your honesty. There aren't many like you anymore.

— No! — Draco took a step back. — I mean… there's no need.

— Take it, don't insult an old man. It's given in thanks. — The patrician laughed, pressed the coins into Draco's hand, and walked away, still swaying slightly.

Damn.

Draco stood there, clutching the coins, feeling the treacherous heat rising in his face. He could sense Granger's gaze boring into the back of his neck, but he couldn't turn around and meet her eyes.

— Let's go, — he muttered at last, staring fixedly at the departing figure.

— Well, I never, — came Granger's voice, barely concealing her amazement. — Quite the moral gymnastics, Malfoy.

— Shut up. — He set his jaw. — That wasn't — I didn't plan—

— I know, — she said, and he could hear the smirk. — Truly impressive.

Insufferable woman.

✦✦✦

Draco led them through back streets, keeping well away from the main thoroughfares where legionaries might be patrolling. The traders' voices were growing louder — they were drawing close to some kind of market.

— Stop, — Granger halted abruptly. — We need to sort out our cover story right now. What if someone asks questions?

— I've already been thinking about that, — Draco began, but she cut him off.

— We'll say we're philosophers, — she announced decisively. — From Athens, say — come to Rome to exchange knowledge. That would explain my accent and—

— Are you out of your mind? — Draco stared at her with genuine disbelief. — Philosophers? Really?

— What's wrong with that? — Granger bristled. — It's perfectly respectable—

— First of all, — Draco counted off on his fingers, — female philosophers in Rome are about as common as honest politicians. Which is to say, they don't exist. Second, philosophers generally have patrons and letters of introduction. Do we have either of those?

Granger bit her lip, clearly unwilling to concede.

— Fine then… merchants! We're merchants — papyrus and books. A family business.

— And which books were you planning to sell? — Draco enquired acidly. — Actually, brilliant idea — shall we run off copies of your Jules Verne? Granger, this is Rome, not Diagon Alley. Everything here runs on status and knowing how to present yourself.

— Oh, I do beg your pardon for not being an expert in ancient Roman grifting! — she burst out. — Perhaps you'd like to suggest something better?

Draco glanced around — several passers-by had already begun to eye them. Two well-dressed people quarrelling in an incomprehensible language in the middle of the street was not the ideal way to go unnoticed.

— Listen carefully, — he lowered his voice. — I'll be a patrician from Gaul. Lucretius Maximus of Lugdunum.

— Lugdu— what? — Granger frowned.

— Modern Lyon. Do you know no history at all? It's a major city in Gaul right now — far enough away that no one can verify anything.

— And me? Who am I?

Draco hesitated. He studied her face carefully — as though truly seeing it, perhaps for the first time. She didn't look much like a Roman woman, it was true. Chestnut curls caught the morning light; dark eyes with amber flecks regarded him with their familiar suspicion. And her lips — slightly full, slightly parted in surprise at his certainty. Something warm ran down his spine — an odd, entirely inappropriate sensation that he promptly shoved aside.

— You… you could pass for a freed Greek slave — that would explain your accent. Educated, able to read, trained in healing.

— What?! — Granger nearly cried out, catching herself just in time and pressing her hand to her mouth. — Have you lost your mind? I am not playing a slave!

— Will you listen, — Draco corrected patiently. — A liberta — a freedwoman. That's an entirely different standing. You're legally free, but you remain under my patronage. And also… — he paused, savouring the way she tensed in anticipation — you're my concubine.

— What?! — This time she did cry out, and Draco swiftly covered her mouth with his palm, pressing her against the wall.

— Keep your voice down. It's only a cover, — he hissed close to her ear, feeling the warmth of her lips beneath his fingers. — You have to understand — in Rome, a woman alone without male protection can simply be seized and sold into slavery. A concubine is untouchable. She's under her patron's protection.

Granger wrenched herself free, slapping his hand away, and Draco heard her breathing hard.

— Could we possibly come up with something a little less… demeaning?

— Of course, — Draco agreed pleasantly, relishing her indignation. — You could be a prostitute in a lupanar. Or a beggar. Or a slave at the market. Take your pick.

A pause. Draco could almost hear Granger swallowing several choice words.

— And what's my name? If I'm Greek…

— Melania, — Malfoy answered without hesitation. — A Greek name. You're a physician's daughter from Athens, sold into slavery after your father's death, later freed by a noble patrician in recognition of your medical skills.

— How touching, — Granger remarked drily. — And naturally, out of sheer gratitude, you became my patron?

— Precisely, — Malfoy agreed, unruffled. — Although of course our arrangement is founded on mutual respect and… er… passionate devotion.

— I think I'm going to be sick, — Hermione muttered.

— Endure it, Melania, — he smirked. — Reputations are at stake.

— I hate you, Malfoy! — her knuckles caught him square in the chest.

Good, — Draco felt something almost like relief at the words. Still hits like that. He remembered her right hook to his face in third year.

— And where exactly is the money coming from? — she ground out.

Now he owed her his plan — the one that had been taking shape in his head. Almost there…

— I'll be doing business.

— You just said we have no goods! That this isn't Diagon Alley!

— Quite right. Because the business I'll be doing is selling the services of my educated healer-concubine.

— What? Malfoy, are you serious?

Oh, Draco was genuinely enjoying her expression right now — that particular cocktail of disbelief, fury, outrage, and indignation. There she was. Back to normal. No more of those careful, pitying looks she'd given him while bandaging his wounds.

They were leaving all that behind.

— What else are we supposed to live on, Granger? — Draco reasoned. — We appear to need to hold out until the next full moon. And your medical knowledge is our only means of earning any coin. You can manage that, can't you? A few treated wounds and we can last a few days at least. I'll find the clients; you do the healing. An honest partnership.

Silence. Draco could almost feel the battle being waged inside that curly head — logic against pride.

— This is outrageous, Malfoy! — she finally grumbled. — It's a forced partnership, not an honest one! And I'm only agreeing because we have absolutely no choice. And I want to know where you got all this knowledge about Ancient Rome.

— I'll tell you later, — Draco waved her off. — Right now we need lodgings. An insula — a block of flats, several storeys high. We'll rent a room on the upper floor; it's cheaper. Riskier, mind you — if there's a fire the whole building comes down like a house of cards and getting out is rather difficult, but we haven't got much of a choice.

— An insula? How do you even know all this? — she was practically groaning with frustration.

— Because, my dear Granger, — Draco allowed himself the most self-satisfied smirk in his considerable repertoire, — I did not spend my entire childhood tormenting Gryffindors. Occasionally I even read books. Can you imagine?

He turned and set off at a confident pace toward the main street, hearing her follow behind him — indignant, sandals slapping rapidly against the stones — his concubine.

For the first time in years, Draco Malfoy felt on top of the world. Almost like Marcus Aurelius.

✦✦✦

Hermione walked beside Malfoy, and with every step the panic inside her grew.

Don't look around. Don't show fear. But how could she not look, when these monstrous insulae — as Malfoy called them — loomed overhead, threatening to collapse at any moment? Five storeys of brick and timber held together by sheer optimism and ancient Roman engineering.

We won't survive here.

They made their way along the street, taking in the towering buildings on either side. She could see Malfoy working to look assured, but she understood — it was only a performance. And they would need to perform it very, very convincingly.

Pull yourself together, Hermione.

Malfoy stopped in front of one of the buildings, and she nearly walked into him. Her heart beat faster — people were gathered at the entrance. Real Romans. Men in worn clothing throwing dice. An elderly woman was shouting at someone upstairs, and Hermione flinched at the coarseness of her Latin.

I don't understand half the words. What if someone asks me something? What if I answer wrong?

— This insula looks decent enough, — Malfoy said.

The men on the steps looked up. Their eyes moved over her — slow, appraising, sticky — and she felt nausea rise in her throat.

They're looking at me like an object. Like merchandise. She dropped her gaze and clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms.

Don't panic. Don't panic. You can do this.

— We need to find whoever's in charge here — some kind of landlord, — Malfoy said over his shoulder, stepping inside.

The landlord turned up quickly — a short, swarthy Greek in a worn but clean tunic, with shrewd eyes and an unctuous smile. The moment he spotted a respectably dressed patrician, he came scurrying over.

— Salve, domine! How may I serve the noble gentleman?

Malfoy spoke in Latin — not quite fluent, with a noticeable accent, but perfectly intelligible:

— Greetings. I'm looking for lodgings. A month, perhaps more. I am Lucretius Maximus of Lugdunum, here on business.

— Documents, — the landlord held out his hand.

We're finished…

— Tomorrow, — Malfoy said, with sudden authority. — We've only just arrived.

The Greek narrowed his eyes, looking them over. His gaze lingered on the quality of their clothing, then shifted to Hermione.

— And who is this?

— My liberta, — Malfoy answered shortly. — She's a healer.

A healer. She was supposed to be playing a healer. Without her wand, without spells, without modern medicine. Only the meagre knowledge of herbs she'd managed to absorb. I can't do this. If someone falls ill, if they expect help from me…

— A healer? — the landlord brightened, though his suspicion didn't disappear entirely. — And where are your things? Your luggage?

— Being delivered later, — Malfoy said, carefully performing the mild irritation of a wealthy man obliged to explain himself to a servant. — Look — do you have rooms available or not? If not, we'll find somewhere else.

— I do, I do! — the Greek hurried on. — Third floor, two rooms. But — — he narrowed his eyes again — payment upfront. And a deposit. Double deposit, given there are no documents.

— How much? — Malfoy said flatly.

— One hundred denarii for the week, deposit included.

Merlin, what do we do?

— Fifty, — he said. — And no deposit until we've seen the rooms.

The Greek wavered, then nodded.

— Very well. But I'll want those documents tomorrow.

They climbed a creaking staircase. On the second-floor landing they nearly collided with a young man in a craftsman's tunic. His gaze moved over Hermione — slow and stripping — and she felt a raw, animal fear. He could do whatever he liked with me.

Malfoy stepped in front of her without a word, but it seemed to make little difference. The man smirked and descended, glancing back as he went, as though committing their faces to memory.

He knows where we live. He could come back.

Their new lodgings turned out to be… spartan.

Two small rooms with low ceilings and a single shuttered window looking onto an inner courtyard. Walls of darkened brick, a clay floor partly covered with straw matting. Plain wooden furniture: a table, a few stools, two storage chests, and wooden sleeping pallets in place of beds. In the corner stood a brazier — a metal bowl on legs, for cooking and presumably for warmth.

— Excellent rooms! — the landlord enthused. — Quiet neighbours. True, Quintus upstairs does bring girls home, but only on holidays. Below you there's Julia with her children — five of them, but small, they don't make much noise. The youngest does cry at night, but you'll get used to it.

Hermione focused intently on suppressing the wave of nausea rising in her throat — from the smell, or from panic, she couldn't have said.

Meanwhile the landlord extended his hand for payment. She watched Malfoy count out the coins with visible reluctance.

— Documents — tomorrow, — the Greek reminded them, and left.

When the door closed, Hermione breathed in slowly. Held it. One… two… three… four… It usually helped.

— Well then, — she murmured, doing her best to sound composed, and looked around their temporary home, — I've seen worse.

She crossed to a door in the corner, hoping to find something that resembled a bathroom.

— Where are you going? — Malfoy enquired, watching her search with evident amusement.

— Looking for the toilet, — Hermione answered honestly, pulling at the handle. Behind the door was a tiny closet containing several clay amphorae.

Malfoy laughed — genuinely, it seemed, with real feeling.

He is so insufferable.

— Melania, my dear, I'm afraid you're in for a disappointment.

— What do you mean? — Hermione turned to face him, and something unpleasant stirred in her stomach at the sight of his satisfied smirk.

— Even the wealthier residents of an insula use the public facilities — latrinae, — he explained, with poorly concealed relish. — Private toilets exist only in the townhouses of the most eminent patricians. And we, regrettably, are not quite that wealthy.

— So you're saying… — Hermione felt the heat rise in her cheeks, — I have to go… outside?

— To the public latrina around the corner, — Malfoy confirmed. — Communal, incidentally. Romans have no concept of privacy for such matters. They treat it as something of a social occasion.

— Merlin Almighty, — Hermione groaned. — And bathing? A wash?

— The thermae, — Malfoy said, perfectly unruffled. — Public baths. Men's and women's sections are separate, for what it's worth. Hot and cold water, massage. Some of them even have libraries.

Hermione sank onto one of the stools. Her mind declined to accept reality.

— And how often does one go?

— To the baths? Daily, if you can afford it. It's the centre of social life — people discuss politics there, make deals, gossip. — Malfoy was plainly enjoying her horror. — Oh, and Granger — toilet paper hasn't been invented yet. I'd suggest making creative use of Transfiguration.

— I think even the tent had better conditions than this, — Hermione muttered, putting her head in her hands.

— But here, at least, there's civilisation. — He left some coins on the table and moved toward the door. — I'm going to find us something to eat. I'll have a look around for potential clients while I'm at it.

— Wait, what if—

But Malfoy was already gone.

Hermione stared at the closed door, irritation mounting steadily. She cast a locking charm and hoped it would be enough to keep unwanted visitors out.

— Wonderful, Melania. Locked indoors. Just like a proper slave, — she muttered, getting to her feet.

A few turns about the room helped a little. Yes, the situation was dreadful. She — one of Hogwarts's finest graduates, an Unspeakable — was being made to play a freedwoman. Couldn't go out alone because it wasn't safe. Back home she could have been Minister for Magic. And here…

Hermione went to the window and pushed open the shutters a crack. Below, life churned on — women with covered heads going about their errands, men arguing loudly over something.

One month. Just one month, and we go home.

She closed the shutters and looked around the room. Dirty, but not beyond saving. A little Transfiguration wouldn't go amiss. If they were stuck here, she could at least make the place liveable.

I survived a war. I can survive this.

Hermione sat down at the table and began making a list of everything she might need in her new role. She would have to study local customs, understand how things worked here.

This is just another problem. A difficult, unpleasant one — but solvable.

✦✦✦

Draco cast a simple Notice-Me-Not charm on the door — enough to discourage curious neighbours and… men. He had seen the way they'd devoured Granger with their eyes. Disgusting, like animals.

Out on the street, he breathed in deeply. He needed to buy things that would lend some appearance of credibility to Granger's Muggle-healer operation — right. So he needed to find a market. The Forum Boarium, he believed it was called. Plenty of traders there. The books had said it was somewhere near the river. By the Temple of Hercules? Or Portunus? Damn it, why did all these Roman temples look exactly the same?

After half an hour of wandering through back streets, Draco accepted that he was hopelessly lost. Every street looked identical — the same insulae, the same ground-floor shops, the same bellowing traders. He walked past the same fountain twice before realising he was going in circles.

— Hey, boy! — he called to a lad of about twelve. — Where's the Forum Boarium from here?

The boy sized him up with sharp eyes.

— Two asses and I'll take you, — he said promptly.

Of course.

Draco rolled his eyes but reached for his coins. Rome was Rome — everything here had a price.

The boy led him to the market in ten minutes, cutting through alleyways Draco would never have found on his own. The Forum Boarium was exactly as the books had described — a vast square packed with pens, carts, shouting traders, and… smell.

Now he needed medical supplies. In theory, Draco knew that Roman physicians bought their instruments and remedies from specialist traders. In practice, it turned out there were dozens of such traders, and how to tell a reputable one from a charlatan was entirely unclear.

The first herb shop. Draco entered, trying to look assured. An elderly Greek behind the counter looked him over appraisingly.

— What does the noble gentleman require?

— I need… — Draco hesitated. How did one say medicinal herbs without sounding like an idiot? — Herbs. For healing.

The Greek smiled — he had clearly scented an inexperienced buyer.

— Oh, I have wonderful herbs! This one cures all ailments! — he produced some dried root. — Brought from distant India! Only a hundred denarii!

A hundred denarii? For a root? That was practically their entire money.

— Something… simpler, — Draco muttered.

The Greek sighed with theatrical disappointment and began pulling out bundles of herbs, naming their properties. Draco understood about half the words, nodded along as though he knew what he was doing, and in the end bought several bundles of the things that at least looked familiar.

The instrument shop was worse. The trader, sensing his uncertainty, launched into a full sales pitch.

— Now this is for trepanation — excellent piece! And this for bloodletting — the latest model! Oh, and these — specialty forceps for removing arrows!

— I need basic instruments, — Draco interrupted. — For… general practice.

— In that case, here you are — the standard set. — the trader said with a resigned nod. — Scalpel, tweezers, needles, thread made from sheep's gut…

Sheep's gut? Draco winced, but bought the set. It at least resembled what he'd seen in the illustrations.

Star anise turned out to be simpler — ordinary anise, which Muggles used in cooking; Draco found it at a spice merchant's stall. Here, though, he took his time, carefully selecting the best sprigs, the way Professor Snape had taught him. He could make the essence himself, at any rate. Granger could handle the healing.

On the way back, he got lost again. The streets seemed different, though he was certain he was taking the same route. At some point Draco found himself in an entirely unfamiliar neighbourhood — narrow alleys, peeling walls, and suspicious figures lurking in doorways.

— Hey there, fancy clothes! — someone called out. — Lost your way?

Draco quickened his pace, gripping his wand beneath his tunic. Using magic was out of the question, but if it came to it—

Fortunately, he turned onto a familiar street before it came to that.

He even ducked into a thermopolium — one of the street-food counters that sold simple hot meals to working Romans. The smell of braised meat and fresh bread reminded him that neither of them had eaten since morning.

— What would you recommend? — he asked the owner, a stocky Roman in a grease-stained apron.

— The lamb stew is very good today, — the man answered, stirring the contents of a large pot. — And the bread's just out of the oven.

Draco bought enough for two, trying not to think about how much money he'd already spent.

Tomorrow, Granger, we start earning, he thought. Otherwise we've got a week at most.

By the time he finally made it back to the insula, the sun was already sinking. The climb up the stairs felt endless — his legs ached from a day of wandering the city.

Draco lifted the charm and pushed open the door.

— Melania, I'm back. And I've brought— what in the name of a hippogriff?

Their shabby rooms had been transformed. Instead of the hard wooden pallets — two proper beds, thin but real mattresses. All the furniture looked cleaner. In the second room Granger had arranged something resembling a consulting room — a couch, shelves, a worktable.

And his concubine herself was asleep on one of the beds, curled up small. Her chestnut curls spread across a freshly Transfigured pillow, and her face in sleep looked startlingly peaceful — without the habitual crease of worry between her brows, without the tight set of her lips. She was breathing slowly and deeply. Draco suddenly realised that neither of them had slept the night before, and the day had been rather more than demanding.

He set his purchases quietly on the table — clay pots of braised meat, fresh bread, apples, a jug of watered wine — then began arranging the medical supplies on the shelves. Herbs on one side, instruments on the other. Though if he was honest, he wasn't entirely sure he'd bought the right things. Half the herbs looked dubious, and as for the instruments — well, he supposed Granger would sort it out.

He glanced into the closet to put away the food, and stopped. Then burst out laughing. Granger had Transfigured it into a fully functioning toilet, complete with a washbasin and something that approximated a shower.

— Granger, — Draco managed between fits of laughter, — you failed the culture shock test! Couldn't picture yourself without modern conveniences?

Her eyes opened at the noise, and she looked around, disoriented.

— Malfoy? You're back?

— Evidently. And I must say, your interior design choices are… impressive.

Granger blinked several times, coming fully awake — and immediately the smell of food caught her attention.

— Oh, Merlin, I'm famished! — she exclaimed, practically bouncing at the sight of the pots on the table.

Draco watched her hurriedly push back her dishevelled hair and head for the table with the expression of someone who had just spotted an oasis in the desert. But the moment she sat down and picked up her spoon, Granger turned on him with an accusatory look.

— How could you just leave me here alone?! — the opening of her tirade sounded suitably outraged, though somewhat undermined by the fact that she was simultaneously wolfing down the stew. — What if the neighbours had come? Or the landlord? I don't even know what to say to them!

— You were asleep, — Draco pointed out, settling into the chair across from her. — And by all appearances you made rather productive use of the time. The beds are quite elegant. But next time, — he went on, tearing off a piece of bread, — do be careful with the Transfiguration. Too many sudden changes and we'll attract the wrong sort of attention. The neighbours aren't fools — they'll notice if a run-down room suddenly looks like a patrician's private quarters.

She paused mid-chew.

— You're right, — Granger admitted, frowning. — I just couldn't bear it any longer.

— Well, — Draco shrugged, — I expect the landlord will assume we simply brought our own furniture. Wealthy provincials presumably have a habit of travelling in comfort.

He took a sip of wine and added, with mild amusement:

— The toilet, however, may require a separate explanation. I don't think Romans will buy the idea of a portable personal latrina.

Granger went pink, but her chin came up stubbornly.

— It was an absolute necessity, — she declared. — And that's the end of it. Let's think about tomorrow instead — we still haven't got any documents.

— We'll figure something out, — said Draco, without much conviction.

— Figure out what exactly? Conjure local papers? That's far too risky. Run? Where to, and on what money?

Draco said nothing. He had no idea what they were going to do tomorrow. Every scrap of book-learning he possessed had turned out to be nearly useless when faced with the actual business of surviving in Ancient Rome.

✦✦✦

After an unexpectedly good dinner, they retreated to their respective beds. Silence settled over the room, broken only by the distant sounds of a Roman night: dogs barking, drunken singing somewhere below, the creak of carts over stone.

But Hermione couldn't sleep. Questions turned over and over in her mind, refusing to settle.

— Malfoy, — she called quietly into the darkness.

— Mm? — came from the next bed.

— Why can't I simply be your… colleague? Or a friend? A travelling companion?

A quiet snort.

— Granger, I'm afraid your feminist ideals don't carry much weight here. A woman alone is a target. Even a free one. Without male protection you're easy prey for slave traders, criminals, or common swindlers. The status of liberta under my patronage gives you formal protection.

— But we could be relations! — Hermione pressed. — Brother and sister. Well — cousins, at least.

A long-suffering sigh drifted through the darkness.

— And how exactly would we explain such different origins? — the amusement in his voice was barely concealed. — A Gaul and a Greek woman — family? Why is the "sister" still unmarried at her age? Why does the "brother" allow his "sister" to practice healing for strangers instead of finding her a suitable husband? That would raise rather a lot of questions. And suspicions.

Hermione bit her lip. His reasoning was sound, and she knew it — which made conceding all the more irritating.

— Then… — she paused, gathering the nerve to ask the next one. — Why not a wife?

A long silence. Then a quiet laugh.

— Oh, Granger — do you genuinely not understand, or are you just being difficult? — Malfoy's voice had taken on a drowsy edge, though the sharpness remained. — A patrician's wife, even a provincial one, would not be treating plebeians for coin. It would be considered unseemly. Scandalous, even. Her sphere would be the household, calls on other matrons, bearing children, managing the servants.

He shifted on the bed, and the mattress gave a quiet creak.

— Since we're both stuck in this situation, we both have to make it work. Your role as an educated liberta allows you to practice medicine without compromising our standing or inviting unnecessary scrutiny. Rather elegant, when you think about it. I had hoped you'd appreciate it.

Hermione lay in the dark, turning his explanation over. The logic was airtight — and yet something still needled at her pride.

— Fine, — she murmured at last.

Silence reclaimed the room. Hermione was nearly asleep when a quiet voice came from the next bed:

— Besides, — Malfoy added, sounding as though he were already half gone, — we haven't known each other nearly long enough for you to be my wife, Granger.

Her cheeks burned in the darkness, and she had no idea why.

Chapter Text

A sharp knock at the door woke Hermione at dawn. She jumped out of bed, instinctively reaching for her wand. Malfoy, it turned out, was already awake — he had opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, and Hermione heard the familiar voice of the insula's manager.

— Salve, — performed courtesy. — I trust the honourable gentleman has not forgotten his promise?

She looked out past Malfoy and watched him transform in an instant — straightening up, his face settling into that very expression of aristocratic disdain she remembered from Hogwarts, only now it was aimed at someone else entirely.

— What promise would that be? — he enquired coldly, and there was an icy politeness in his voice that sent a chill down even Hermione's spine.

— The documents, sir, — the manager licked his lips. — Yesterday you promised to provide them this morning.

— Ah yes, of course, — Malfoy gave a languid wave of his hand. — You see… what is your name?

— Hector.

— You see, Hector. I have encountered certain… difficulties. The man who was supposed to bring our things from the province has been delayed. Bandits on the roads, you understand.

Hermione watched with something close to admiration as he lied without so much as blinking. His voice carried that aristocratic carelessness that left no room for argument.

— But sir, — the manager shifted. — The master of the house has strictly instructed me to—

— What if I were to compensate you for the inconvenience? — Draco produced a small pouch from the folds of his toga and jingled the coins. — Double the rent, shall we say?

Hector's eyes lit up with greed, but he still wavered.

— I would be glad to, sir, but…

— Besides, — Draco continued, — you'll recall that my… liberta, — he nodded toward Hermione, — is quite skilled in the treatment of injuries. Perhaps she might be of service?

Hermione felt a sting of irritation. But… she had agreed to this herself, hadn't she? There was no retreating now. Hector studied her carefully, his gaze moving appraisingly over her clothes and her serious face.

— Skilled, you say? — he drew the word out. — I have a slave… a good worker; it would be a shame to lose him. He injured his leg three days ago and has been lying in a fever ever since. The local healer says it looks grim.

Hermione's heart lurched. Three days with a leg injury, and a fever — that could mean blood poisoning, gangrene… death.

— If your girl can get him back on his feet, — the manager continued, — I am prepared to forget about the documents for… shall we say, a week?

— Two weeks, — Draco corrected, unruffled.

— One and a half, — Hector bargained.

— One and a half, — Draco agreed, and extended his hand.

✦✦✦

Following the manager through the narrow, fetid corridors of the insula, Hermione felt nausea rising inside her. Not from the smell — though the mixture of unwashed bodies, stale filth, and rotting refuse was revolting — but from the dawning awareness that she was being drawn into a game whose rules she did not understand.

What if she couldn't help? What if her knowledge wasn't enough?

2 May, 1998. The Battle of Hogwarts.

The Great Hall had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. The House tables were gone, and in their place lay dozens of bodies — the wounded, the shell-shocked, the dying. The air was thick with the smell of blood and smoke, with cries of pain and desperate healing spells.

— Hermione! — Madam Pomfrey called out, rushing between the injured. — Over there, by the column — a Ravenclaw boy, he's bleeding badly!

Hermione ran toward the spot, her knees buckling with exhaustion and adrenaline. She worked on instinct — Diffindo to cut away the clothing, Episkey for emergency bleeding control, Ferula to splint the fractures. Her hands were steady. Her thoughts were clear. There were people to save. Whatever it took.

Because so many were already beyond saving.

Remus Lupin and Tonks — pale, serene, almost peaceful, as though merely sleeping beneath the enchanted ceiling gone dark. Fred… and his twin, who hadn't moved an inch from the body, gripping the cold hand and mouthing something without a sound.

— Don't you dare die! — she had hissed at the third-year Ravenclaw, whose life was draining through a ragged wound on his shoulder. — Don't you dare! I won't let you go!

And the boy had lived. As had another dozen wounded she treated on that terrible day. With her own hands, her own knowledge, her own stubborn refusal to give up.

But Remus, Tonks, Fred, Colin Creevey and fifty others remained dead. And no spell in existence could bring them back.

The memory released her as abruptly as it had seized her. Hermione blinked, returning to reality — to the filthy corridors of the Roman insula, to Hector shuffling impatiently ahead.

— In here, — said the manager, pulling aside a grimy scrap of cloth that served as a door.

What met Hermione's eyes made her involuntarily recoil.

A tiny, windowless cell, lit only by the dim glow of an oil lamp. A dirt floor covered in dirty straw and rags. Along the walls — a few rush mats. A place where people lived. Where slaves lived.

The air was so stale and rank that Hermione pressed her hand over her nose and mouth, fighting the urge to retch. People lived here, ate here, slept here, fell ill here, and perhaps died here — in conditions worse than those for animals.

How could anyone? How could anyone treat human beings like cattle?

— Over there, Gaius, — Hector pointed to the far corner of the cell, where a young man of about eighteen lay on a filthy mat.

Hermione moved closer, making herself breathe through her mouth. The boy — she couldn't bring herself to call him a man — was unconscious. His face burned with fever, his lips were cracked, and dark shadows had settled deep beneath his eyes. But worst of all was his left leg.

The foot was swollen and angry red. Around a shallow but ragged wound, dark streaks had formed — the unmistakeable sign of infection beginning to spread through the blood.

Back in the Great Hall, she had acted on adrenaline and a desperate will to save everyone who could still be saved.

But now… now it was different. Now there was no Madam Pomfrey standing by, ready to take over if something went wrong. No St Mungo's through the nearest fireplace. Not even proper medical instruments.

There was only a young slave lying in this cell, and her own two hands. And fear — a dull, pressing fear of not being enough. Of her knowledge, which had saved lives in a world of magic, proving utterly useless in the world of ancient Rome.

What if I make it worse?

Hermione clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. No. She had no right to that fear. No right to give up.

— I'll need a few things, — she said, looking up at Malfoy. — From our room. Could you fetch them?

He nodded and disappeared into the corridor.

— And you, Master Hector, — she turned to the manager, — would you mind leaving us? I need to concentrate.

— But…

— Either I work in silence, or I don't work at all, — Hermione said flatly.

The manager hesitated, but eventually withdrew, muttering something about waiting just outside.

Alone with the patient, Hermione examined the wound carefully. The infection had only just taken hold, but it was already spreading through the vessels. The wound needed to be cleaned, and quickly.

The boy groaned in his sleep, and Hermione gently touched his forehead. His skin was blazing.

— Hold on, — she whispered. — I'm going to try to help you.

By the time Malfoy returned with a transfigured medical bag, Hermione had already taken stock of what she had to work with. There were the instruments Malfoy had purchased, a few strips of clean cloth, a small vial of Essence of Dittany, a Wiggenweld Potion, and… her wand.

The risk was enormous. If anyone saw, heard, suspected… But the boy was dying.

— Stand outside and don't let anyone in, — she said quietly to Malfoy. — Tell them I'm working and mustn't be disturbed.

When he had gone, Hermione took out her wand. Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to focus. A single clumsy movement and the spell could damage the healthy tissue, leaving things worse than before. She raised the tip slowly over the wound, holding the wand as she would a scalpel. Her wrist ached with the tension of keeping it still — every millimetre mattered.

— Tergeo.

The magical current required constant adjustment — a fraction to the left to avoid the unbroken skin, a fraction deeper to reach the pocket of infection. Her fingers went numb from holding the wand in absolute stillness.

The wound cleared slowly — Hermione worked with a surgeon's precision, millimetre by millimetre.

By the time no trace of infection remained, her right arm burned with fatigue and beads of sweat had gathered on her forehead. But the result was worth it — a perfectly clean wound, ready to be dressed. She fashioned a compress from cloth soaked in the Essence of Dittany and pressed it into place.

The tincture hissed as it met the damaged flesh, but that was a good sign — it was working. Once everything was cleaned and a tight bandage applied, Hermione carefully dripped a measure of the Wiggenweld Potion between the boy's cracked lips. That should take hold.

The fever seemed to be retreating — not rapidly, but noticeably. He lay still, his breathing more even than before.

And Hermione felt sweat running down her back. Not so much from the stuffiness of the cell as from the full weight of what she had just done. Used magic. Left traces. Taken the risk.

All of this, in a world where human beings were kept in conditions she couldn't have imagined even in her worst nightmares. Where a human life was worth less than a week and a half's rent.

She sat on the floor beside him for a while longer, watching her first patient fight for his life. Then she got up and walked out. Malfoy was waiting just outside, leaning against the wall.

— How is he?

— He'll survive. As long as there are no complications.

She didn't want to talk. She wanted to wash the horror of it from her skin. She wanted to go back to the primeval forest and unsee all of this.

✦✦✦

Draco had seen the panic in Granger's eyes. Had watched her freeze in the doorway of the cell when she saw the conditions the slaves were kept in. Had watched the colour drain from her face as she examined the sick boy. Had watched her hands tremble afterward…

He followed her silently back to their room, observing her every movement. The way she cast cleansing spells on herself in frantic succession — once, twice, three times — as though trying to scrub away not only the filth but everything she had witnessed. The way she dropped onto the bed and turned to face the wall, curling into herself.

Draco stayed in the doorway, watching the line of her shoulders, rigid with tension. Experience told him the right move was to disappear. Give her time to collect herself. He had seen enough of these moments — his mother had spent weeks confined to her bedroom after each visit from the Dark Lord.

Some things were better faced alone.

He pulled the door quietly shut behind him, went downstairs, and stepped out into the street. The sun was already high, and Rome was stirring into another day of its loud, filthy, unforgiving life.

He needed to think strategically. If Granger was going to react like this to every treatment she performed, she would burn herself out within a week.

Which meant finding easier money. And keeping her away from… the local realities, as much as possible.

Draco leaned back against the wall and considered. What had they spent his entire childhood drilling into him, grooming him for an aristocratic life? Exactly — building connections and striking profitable deals. Finding the right people, telling them what they wanted to hear, getting what you needed in return.

She is my concubina, after all, he reminded himself, using that to explain away the sudden unease he felt about Granger's state of mind. He had to look after her somehow.

He could, of course, use magic again. Find some wealthy patrician, Confund him thoroughly, and relieve him of his gold. His magic did seem to be working reliably enough now. The thought made Draco recoil.

Because, firstly, it was dangerous. One drunk fool in an alleyway was one thing. But if anyone were to see him brandishing a wand and muttering strange words… Far too great a risk.

And secondly… Draco had made himself a promise — no more theft. He had some principles left, however few. Even if the Malfoy family did not yet exist, and Gringotts was not even a concept, Draco was still an aristocrat. And aristocrats did not make their living as common thieves.

There was a better way.

Draco straightened up, and a familiar predatory smirk settled across his face. He knew exactly where in Rome one could find wealthy men with money to spare and superstitious wives. Men who would believe any polished tale of Eastern wonders and pay in gold to have a curse lifted or good fortune called down upon their house.

Granger could play the part of a mysterious priestess of some goddess, surely?

He allowed himself a private smile, picturing her reaction — the indignant huff, the immediate objection. This is fraud, Malfoy! We can't take advantage of people's superstitions! He could already hear her.

But it was worth the attempt. After all, Rome's wealthy would be getting exactly what they were paying for — a captivating story and the comfortable sensation of their own importance. And he and Granger would get the money they needed to survive. A fair exchange, not theft.

And nobody would have to be treated in a reeking cellar.

With that settled in his mind, Draco set off toward what he suspected was the true beating heart of ancient Rome — the grand thermae, where the wealthy gathered not merely to bathe but to conduct business, broker deals, and, most importantly, to outshine one another.

Precisely the right hunting ground for a man of his particular… talents.

✦✦✦

The baths were good.

Draco had no grasp of the ritual of it — when to move from the tepidarium to the caldarium, how long to linger in each room, what exactly to do with all the implements he'd been handed. But watching those around him, he picked up the essentials quickly enough. The main thing was not to hurry, to project complete ease, and to listen carefully.

Settling himself in the first warm room, where patricians lounged on marble benches in languid discussion of their affairs, Draco found a convenient spot nearby and sharpened his ears.

— …the price of Egyptian wheat has shot up again, — grumbled a heavyset man with thinning hair. — Those damned merchants have colluded!

— What can one do, — remarked his companion philosophically — a lean patrician with sharp, intelligent eyes. — Where there is demand, there will be price. Perhaps it is time to look to olive oil instead?

Not what I need, Draco noted mentally, drifting without apparent purpose toward another group.

— …I'm telling you, my charioteer will win at the upcoming races in the Circus Maximus! — a young patrician was insisting to his friends with great fervour. — My horses are the finest stock, brought from Hispania. I'll wager a thousand denarii!

— Braggart, — his companions laughed. — Remember last time? Your four came in last!

More interesting, thought Draco, filing away the information about the races. He would have to get to the Circus Maximus at some point — if only to see the thing with his own eyes.

But he had a different task for now.

He moved at a leisurely pace into the caldarium, where the heat was even more intense and the benches scorched bare skin. This was where the real business was done — in the hottest room, where patricians loosened by the steam let their guard down and spoke of more personal matters.

— …I don't know what to do with her, Gaius Octavius, — a middle-aged man was saying miserably, mopping the sweat from his brow. — Valeria used to be fire in bed, and now… she lies there like a marble statue. Won't even look at me.

— Have you consulted a physician? — his companion asked sympathetically.

— I have. He says everything is in order, just her age. But she's only thirty! What age is that?

Draco's interest quickened. This was more like it.

— I've heard, — Gaius Octavius said, lowering his voice, — that the priestesses of Isis perform a certain rite. "The Rekindling of Isis's Fire," they call it. They say it works wonders on women… in bed.

— Priestesses of Isis? — The patrician brightened. — And where does one find them? The genuine article, not charlatans?

— That's precisely the difficulty, — Gaius Octavius sighed. — There's nothing but frauds out there. They'll perform any mystery you like for coin and deliver nothing.

Now, decided Draco — and, arranging his expression into that of a man who had happened to overhear, leaned toward the two patricians.

— Forgive me for intruding, — he said with well-judged diffidence, — but I couldn't help overhearing… You were speaking of the priestesses of Isis?

The patricians looked at him with surprise.

— And what's it to you? — asked the owner of the cold wife, not particularly warmly.

— You see, — Draco let a note of quiet confidence into his voice, — I have a… companion. A liberta. In her childhood she served at a temple of Isis. She knows many of the goddess's mysteries.

Pure improvisation — but the patrician took the bait instantly.

— Served at a temple? A real temple?

— Oh yes, — Draco nodded with a grave expression. — She is no charlatan, I assure you. I have seen with my own eyes how she… — he dropped his voice, — how she restores a woman's fire. The results are remarkable.

The patrician's eyes lit up.

— And what does she charge?

— Nothing, — Draco lied without a flicker. — This is a sacred rite; it cannot be sold. But should the result prove satisfactory… — he spread his hands expressively, — a gentleman of your standing will know how to show his gratitude.

It was a masterstroke. No fixed price — which meant nobody could accuse anyone of fraud. And a grateful patrician who got what he'd hoped for could prove very generous indeed.

— When can she come? — The patrician was practically trembling with impatience.

— Tomorrow evening, if that suits you. I should mention — she will need a private room and… certain items for the rite.

— Yes, of course! — The patrician extended his hand. — Lucius Cornelius Sulla. And you?

— Lucretius Maximus, — Draco lied without the slightest hesitation. — The ninth hour tomorrow?

— Excellent! Come to my house on the Aventine, near the Temple of Diana. Ask anyone — the house of Sulla is well known.

Leaving the baths, Draco felt thoroughly pleased with himself. The plan had worked even better than he'd hoped. All that remained now was…

Damn, it came to him. I need to find out something about this Isis. And get hold of the trappings. Amulets, incense, that sort of thing…

He turned the question over in his mind. The Egyptian quarter, perhaps? Some market or other?

It'll come together, he reassured himself. The main thing is — I have a client. The rest is mere logistics.

There was just the small matter of convincing Granger to play the role of a priestess of Isis.

That was going to be… a challenge.

✦✦✦

Having pulled herself together after the morning's ordeal, Hermione sought distraction the only way she knew — she buried herself in work.

The artefact lay on the table, catching the sunlight that filtered through the narrow window of their room. Three discs covered in runes and glyphs whose meaning continued to elude her. But there had to be some logic to it. Some system.

Hermione took her pen and began copying out the symbols in the order they had lit up during their "journey" from the Stone Age to here. The outer ring — first something resembling a lightning bolt, then a spiral, then a symbol that looked like two hands intertwined…

She was working her way through an apple — one of the few pleasures available in this wretched city — when the door opened and Malfoy came in.

Hermione took him in at a glance. He was clearly very pleased with himself — practically glowing with self-satisfaction, like a cat that had caught a particularly impressive mouse.

— Granger, I've found you some work, — he announced without preamble.

Her pen stilled in her hand.

— Oh, my lord, — she replied with lethal sweetness, — as your concubine, I'm sure I ought to be absolutely overcome with gratitude.

— Just listen, — he waved off her tone. — An influential patrician has invited you to examine his wife tomorrow evening. Something to do with a general malaise.

Hermione frowned.

— Malfoy, no. This is not up for discussion. Treating wounds is one thing, but—

— You won't be treating anyone, — he cut her off.

— What?

— You'll simply… look her over, — Malfoy shrugged. — The woman complains of weakness, lethargy. The husband is worried. You'll see what's what, perhaps suggest some herbs.

— And what exactly are her symptoms?

Malfoy hesitated slightly.

— Well… women's troubles, Granger. Men aren't much use with that sort of thing, as you know. The patrician said something about a loss of vitality, that his wife had become… unresponsive.

Depression? Anaemia? Hermione thought. That sounded plausible enough. At least by twenty-first century standards…

— And if I can't help her?

— Then you simply tell him it's a complicated case requiring further observation, — Malfoy said easily. — Which is perfectly honest. Oh, and here — he produced several objects from the folds of his toga and laid them on the table beside the artefact.

There were beads of some dark stone, silver amulets bearing strange symbols, and… Hermione recognised one of the signs — an ankh, the Egyptian symbol of life.

— These are for… effect, — Malfoy explained. — And to make you look credible. I also have various incenses and oils here. In case they're needed.

— Malfoy, I'm not sure… My Latin isn't strong enough.

— Granger, — he looked at her steadily. — Just examine her. I told him we take no payment in advance. If you help — we receive a generous expression of gratitude. If not — we've lost nothing. Your conscience will remain spotless.

My conscience… Hermione repeated internally, studying the amulets.

She knew he was holding something back. Knew he was in all likelihood drawing her into some dubious scheme. But…

But she thought of the cell, and the sick slave lying in it. She would need to check on him tomorrow…

And this was simply a conversation with a woman. What could be dangerous about a conversation?

— All right, — she said slowly. — But if anything goes wrong—

— Nothing will go wrong, — Malfoy said with great confidence. — Trust me.

Trust me. Those were precisely the words from him that Hermione feared most.

✦✦✦

The following evening, Malfoy led Hermione through a labyrinth of narrow streets — stopping to ask directions from locals at every other turn — into an entirely different part of the city. Here the air seemed cleaner, the streets broader, and the houses…

The house at which they stopped was a world away from their shabby insula. A high wall of stone and mosaic, carved wooden gates with bronze fittings depicting hunting scenes. Even the torches at the entrance were of real metal, not wood and rags like those in their neighbourhood.

A slave came to the gate — young, well-kept, wearing a clean tunic. His skin was smooth, his hair neatly trimmed. Even the slaves here lived better than the free poor in their part of the city.

— Master Lucretius Maximus? — the slave enquired politely. — Master Lucius Cornelius is expecting you.

They were led through a spacious inner courtyard with marble columns and a fountain at its centre. The walls were decorated with frescoes depicting scenes from Greek myths, and the floor was laid with an intricate mosaic of coloured stones.

Merlin, they're wealthy, Hermione thought, trying not to stare about her like a country visitor.

In a reception room of considerable grandeur, they were met by Lucius Cornelius Sulla himself. A man of about thirty-six, tall and athletically built, with regular features and dark eyes. His hair had been carefully curled in the fashionable style, and his toga was immaculately white and skilfully draped. He radiated the authority and ease of a man accustomed to his word being law.

— Ah, — he said, running an appraising eye over Hermione, — so this is your priestess, Lucretius?

Hermione turned on Malfoy a look of pure murder, slow and deliberate. Priestess? He had introduced her as a priestess? That word, at least, she knew perfectly well in Latin.

— This is Melania, — Malfoy replied without turning a hair under a gaze that could have melted iron. — She is accomplished in her practice. A genuine… master of her craft. She has her own methods.

Hermione was going to kill him.

Right here, right now — produce her wand from the folds of her clothing and curse him with the most intricate hex she knew. And she knew quite a few.

Her own methods, she seethed inwardly. I'll show you methods, Malfoy.

But for now she had to stay silent and play the part of a mysterious Eastern handmaid of the goddess.

— Excellent, — Sulla nodded, satisfied. — Valeria is waiting in her chambers. I trust your… priestess will be able to restore my wife's former fire.

Fire? Hermione felt her stomach drop. What fire?

Lucius signalled to a slave, and Hermione was led through a series of corridors to the far end of the house.

The room she was brought to surpassed even the entrance hall in its opulence. A spacious chamber with high painted ceilings, the walls decorated with frescoes of goddesses and cupids. Candles burned everywhere in costly holders, casting a soft, intimate glow. And the scent — jasmine, intoxicating.

At the centre of the room was a small marble pool tiled with mother-of-pearl mosaic. Beyond it, divans and chairs upholstered in silk, and low wooden tables. And in one of the chairs sat a woman.

Valeria was… beautiful. Not the striking beauty that commands attention, but something rarer — a particular grace that came from within. She was no more than thirty, her fair hair arranged in an elaborate style pinned with gold. Her figure was slight, but so elegant it invited the eye to linger. She wore a flowing tunic in sea-green that brought out the colour of her eyes.

It was the first time Hermione had seen a Roman noblewoman this closely, and she was struck by how different she was from the women she and Malfoy had encountered in their own neighbourhood. Pampered skin, well-tended hands, the posture of someone who had never known want.

But Valeria's eyes held a sadness so profound that Hermione felt an involuntary stir of sympathy.

— Salve, — Hermione greeted her in Latin, speaking slowly and clearly. — I am Melania.

— Salve, Melania, — Valeria replied in a melodious voice. — I am Valeria Cornelia. My husband tells me you are… a priestess of Isis? That you served at her temple? And that you may be able to help me?

Isis? Something cold settled in Hermione's chest. Malfoy, I am going to kill you.

— Yes, — she said slowly, thinking fast. — I served the great goddess in… Alexandria.

Well — theoretically served. In the sense that she had studied Egyptian mythology in History of Magic and from Muggle encyclopaedias.

— Oh, — Valeria's face brightened. — And is it true that Isis can restore a woman's… desire?

Hermione felt the colour rush to her face. Now she understood what Sulla had meant by fire.

Malfoy, she cursed him inwardly, when we get back, I will do things to you that will make the Cruciatus Curse feel like a tickle.

— Tell me what is troubling you, Valeria, — Hermione said, settling into the edge of the neighbouring chair.

Valeria dropped her eyes, her slender fingers worrying at the hem of her tunic.

— I… — she began, then fell silent, gathering herself. — My husband… he is a good man, you understand? He provides for me, gives me everything I need. This house, servants, jewellery…

She raised her hand, the bracelet shifting gently on her wrist. The gold gleamed, and in her eyes there was no joy, no warmth — only emptiness.

— But in the bedroom… — her voice faltered. — When we were first married, he would come to me and… we would talk. He would kiss me, tell me I was beautiful, stroke my hair. And now…

Valeria pressed her lips together, and Hermione saw tears surface in her eyes.

— Now he simply… comes. Does what a man must do, and leaves. Sometimes he does not even look at me. As though I were… as though I were a piece of marble, not a living woman.

Hermione felt something tighten in her chest. A familiar, tender pain.

— I know he is tired, — Valeria went on quickly, as if defending him. — Business, trade, he travels to the distant provinces often. And last year he even took part in suppressing that uprising in Dacia… Men have it hard. But I… I simply want to feel desired…

She raised her eyes to Hermione's, and there was so much sorrow in them that Hermione's breath caught.

— Do you think Isis can help me win back his love?

A small cottage in the wizarding outskirts of London. The bedroom she had shared with Ron for nearly five years.

— Hermione? — his voice careful, almost apologetic. The bed shifted under his weight as he sat down beside her.

She was lying with her back to him, face buried in the pillow. It had been a hard day — another troll attack on a wizarding village. Two people had been killed, and she had wanted to talk about it, to share the weight of it, to find some comfort in being held…

But Ron hadn't asked about work. His hand came to rest on her hip, and she understood what he wanted.

— Not tonight, — she whispered.

— But it's been three weeks… — he began, and there was hurt in his voice.

Three weeks. Yes, that sounded right. Time turned into numbers, intimacy into obligation, love into routine.

Once, that distant summer of 1998, when they had first come together in the wreckage of the war, everything had been different. Passion, tenderness, the need to comfort and to heal each other. Ron had been her first, she had been his. They had learned love, explored it, discovered it together…

And then something had broken. The spark had faded so gradually that she hadn't noticed exactly when it had all ended.

Ron would remember intimacy without warning — usually late at night, when she was dead on her feet, or in the morning when she was already late. No tenderness beforehand, no words, no… interest in her pleasure.

As though their closeness were a duty. A convenient release.

— Ron, I need… I need you to… — she had tried to explain that she needed warmth and gentleness, not something mechanical.

But he hadn't understood. He took it as criticism, withdrew, assumed she was being difficult.

And she had been too exhausted from trying to save the relationship to also take it upon herself to teach him how to bring a woman pleasure.

Hermione pushed the memory away and brought herself back to the present. Valeria sat across from her, waiting for a miracle from the priestess of Isis — and so it fell to her to help that miracle along.

A ritual, she thought. I need to do something that helps her believe in herself.

Hermione reached into her bag for the incense Malfoy had brought. The scent of myrrh and tonka bean filled the air, mingling with the flicker of the candles.

— Valeria, — she said in a low, measured voice, — the great Isis hears the pain in your heart. But before she can restore your fire, we must cleanse your soul of doubt.

She lit the incense in a small bronze bowl and began to move slowly around Valeria's chair.

— Breathe deeply, — Hermione said gently. — Let the sacred smoke carry away your fears. You are not stone, not a lifeless statue. You are a living woman, made by the goddess for love and for passion.

Valeria breathed in the fragrant smoke obediently, and Hermione could see the tension beginning to leave her shoulders.

— Close your eyes, — Hermione continued, setting the bowl on the low table. — And tell me — when did you last touch your own skin? Not to bathe, not out of necessity. Simply to feel how soft it is. How warm.

Valeria stirred, opening her eyes slightly.

— I… don't understand…

— Your body is the temple of Isis, — Hermione said patiently, and sank to her knees before Valeria's chair, looking up into her face. — You have forgotten who you are. You believe your worth lies in what you give your husband. In the children you bear, in the household you tend. But that is not the truth. You are of worth in yourself. Your beauty, your strength, your womanhood — they belong to you, not to your husband.

The words came of their own accord, and Hermione marvelled at where they were coming from. As if some ancient wisdom were truly speaking through her.

— Stand, — she said softly, offering her hand.

Valeria rose, still held by the rhythm of her voice and the drift of the incense. Hermione took her hand and led her to the marble pool at the centre of the room. Its surface was perfectly still, mirror-smooth, reflecting the shimmer of the candles.

— Look, — Hermione whispered, stepping behind Valeria. — Look how beautiful you are.

In the water, the Roman woman's face looked back at her — soft features, large eyes, full lips. In the rippling light she did indeed look like a goddess.

— Do you see this woman? — Hermione placed her hands lightly on Valeria's shoulders. — She does not need anyone's approval to be beautiful. She should not have to beg for love. She herself is the source of love and of desire.

Valeria gazed at her reflection, and in her eyes something new began to kindle, slowly and surely. Recognition. Acceptance.

— Feel your power, — Hermione continued. — You do not ask — you give. You do not hope to be desired — you choose whom to grace with your desire. Men must earn your attention, not the other way around.

— But how… how do I do that? — Valeria whispered, her eyes still fixed on her reflection.

— Begin with yourself, — Hermione gently turned her to face her. — Every morning, look in the mirror and tell yourself that you are beautiful. Touch your body with love, not shame. Wear what pleases you, not what you think your husband wishes to see. And above all — remember that your sexuality belongs to you. You have the right to ask for pleasure, not only to give it.

— To ask? — Valeria's eyes widened. — But surely that is…

— Natural, — Hermione said firmly. — The goddess did not make woman to endure. Tell your husband what you need. Show him how to touch you. Do not be ashamed of your desires — use them as your strength.

Hermione caught herself a moment too late, realising she had used the word sexuality — a concept that would have sat oddly in ancient Rome. But Valeria seemed to receive it as part of some mystical tongue.

— You speak such… extraordinary words, — the Roman woman breathed. — Is this the language of the goddess?

— Yes, — Hermione lied without so much as a flicker. — Isis reveals the ancient truths to me.

The atmosphere in the room had become almost tangible. The incense smoke, the pulse of the candles, the reflections in the water — all of it conspired to create the sense of something genuinely sacred taking place. And Valeria believed. Believed every word.

— I feel… — she whispered, looking at her hands as though seeing them for the first time. — I feel something… changing.

— That is the power of Isis awakening within you, — Hermione confirmed. — Carry it with pride.

✦✦✦

Having concluded the ritual and left Valeria alone with her new sense of herself, Hermione made her way back toward the entrance.

To say she was furious would be an understatement. A genuine volcano of emotion was seething inside her.

In the atrium, the scene that met her eyes poured oil on the flames: two perfectly contented men sprawled on divans, sipping expensive wine from elegant cups and conversing at leisure about some business matter. As though they had not, moments ago, been discussing how to fix a wife like a broken piece of furniture.

Hermione burned with contempt. For Lucius Cornelius — for treating Valeria like a beautiful ornament that had inconveniently stopped performing its function. For Malfoy — naturally — for setting her up, deceiving her, drawing her into this scheme without the faintest warning of what she was walking into.

Her fingertips prickled with wordless magic, building from the force of everything she felt. The rage was so intense it was difficult to contain.

Lucius took a languid sip of wine and looked her over with an appraising eye.

— Well then? How did it go? My wife… is she healed?

— Oh, Lucius, — said Hermione in a voice that rang with steel, — it went rather wonderfully.

Magic pulsed at her fingertips, pressing for release. Her emotions were beyond any reasonable threshold.

— You know, — she continued, moving toward the two men, — during the ritual, the great Isis herself appeared to me. And the goddess asked me to convey something of great importance to you.

Lucius raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with interest.

— Isis told me, — Hermione's voice dropped to something low and almost hypnotic, — that there is only one true goddess in this house. And it is your wife. And from this day forward, you are to worship her alone. To serve her desires. To attend to her needs. And not the other way around.

And at that moment, the wordless magic that had been gathering from her fury found its way out.

CRACK.

The large clay amphora of wine standing on the table beside Lucius split clean in two. Dark red wine cascaded over the patrician's immaculate white toga, flooded the table and the fruit arranged upon it, and began to run across the mosaic floor.

Lucius leapt to his feet, dropping his cup, eyes wide. Malfoy froze too, his own cup suspended halfway to his lips.

It was… magnificent.

The two men stared between the shattered amphora and Hermione, who stood with perfect composure, as though such miracles were an everyday occurrence for her.

— The goddess does not forgive disrespect shown to her daughters, — Hermione added, quite calmly now, watching Lucius attempt to shake the wine from his toga. — I would advise you to remember that.

The patrician was visibly impressed. Or frightened. His eyes held the wide, stunned look of a man who had just witnessed something beyond his understanding.

But that was no longer Hermione's concern. She turned on the heel of her sandal and walked toward the exit, leaving behind her the scent of incense and a room in a state of complete stupefaction.

Malfoy could sort out the consequences of his own scheming.

Chapter Text

Out of long habit, Draco woke early. There had been no real sleep. Only thoughts.

He lay on the Transfigured bed, mentally replaying the events of the previous evening. The look on Lucius Cornelius's face after the amphora exploded... it had been more than shock. There had been something predatory in it. The look of a man already calculating how to acquire such a 'priestess' for his own private use.

When Granger stormed out of the house in a fury, Draco had been left alone with the stunned patrician. He'd had to smile tightly, murmur apologies for 'the priestess's temperament', and leave the address of their insula 'in case Valeria required assistance again'.

Wealthy Romans loved the exotic. But what if this had all gone too far?

Afraid to leave her alone, Draco caught up with Granger at the gate. They walked home in silence, climbed the creaking staircase in silence. She went to bed in silence, turning her face to the wall.

She was ignoring him — pointedly, methodically. And he wanted to know what had happened in there, with Valeria. What had provoked that surge of nonverbal magic from Granger? But any question from him right now would be taken as a provocation.

Draco genuinely didn't understand the depth of her fury. He had been trying to shield her from the more difficult cases, to find them an easy income. Wasn't that consideration? At least, that was how he saw it.

Though... the way her eyes had blazed when she turned her fury on the patrician. Her strength, her audacity, the way she could bring a wealthy man to his knees with words alone. Granger certainly knew how to make an impression.

Impressive. And dangerous.

Draco was only beginning to understand that she was not someone to trifle with. That her principles were gunpowder, and he would do well not to play with matches.

Next time, he would be smarter.

When sunlight began filtering through the shutters, Draco rose quietly and slipped into the treatment room. He cast a Silencing Charm, then set about brewing Essence of Dittany from a few sprigs of anise. The work demanded concentration — exactly what he needed to stop himself from brooding over the disaster.

This will come in useful, he told himself, though he had no idea how they were supposed to earn a living now, with a furious woman in the next room.

The Essence simmered slowly in the cauldron, filling the air with a faintly sweet scent. From beyond the wall came sounds — Granger was awake. Footsteps. The rustle of clothing. The splash of water.

Draco found himself listening without meaning to, half-expecting her to come in, see him at work, perhaps even say something. But the minutes stretched on, and the door never opened.

She was still ignoring him, then.

He turned back to the potion, feeling something unpleasant scraping away at him from the inside.

✦✦✦

Hermione felt hollowed out — as though every last drop of her energy had been drained away. And the realisation that she was trapped with a manipulator who had used her poured despair into the emotions already swirling inside her.

She had been certain of what she was doing in that "ritual" with Valeria. Every word, every gesture had risen from somewhere deep within — from the place where the pain of her own old wounds still lived. She hadn't only been speaking to Valeria. She had been speaking to herself. To the Hermione who had once lain beside a man she didn't… That was in the past now.

And she had hoped the vile patrician would heed her words. Her outburst. That something good might come of this wretched charade.

As for Malfoy… well, he had behaved like Malfoy. Cynical, pragmatic, ready to exploit any opportunity in service of his own ends. She shouldn't have been surprised. She shouldn't have expected anything more from him.

And yet the foolish hurt gnawed at her from the inside, like a worm. She had hoped — Merlin knew how desperately she had hoped — that somewhere back in that ancient forest, there had been a moment when his masks slipped. When he had thanked her for saving his life. When they had sat together beneath a tree, and for the first time in all those years there had been no hatred between them.

She had been so certain she'd seen something human in him.

How very wrong she had been.

No — she hadn't shouted at him, much as she'd wanted to. Hadn't made a scene, hadn't demanded explanations, hadn't tried to appeal to whatever conscience he might possess.

Malfoy was chaos. Closed off, emotionally volatile, unpredictable, ready to rewrite the rules at any moment if it suited him. He couldn't be trusted. His words couldn't be relied upon.

And Hermione had never liked chaos. She had grown up among books and formulas and clear, fixed laws. Order was her element, logic her weapon, control her salvation. Which left only one way to maintain any semblance of control over the situation — to ignore him. Reduce their interactions to the bare minimum required for survival. No more heart-to-heart conversations. No more foolish hope in that humanity of his, which had perhaps existed only in her imagination.

A faintly sweet scent drifted in from the next room — Malfoy was brewing something. A potion, of course. Dittany, naturally. He had always been decent at Potions, even if she outstripped him. Was he actually attempting to make himself useful to their practice?

Hermione pulled her cardigan tighter around herself. The thought of carrying on this forced cohabitation made her stomach turn.

By midday, when the Roman sun began to beat down mercilessly, the confinement of the rooms became unbearable and she went to check on Gaius. At least one of her patients was receiving honest treatment — no deception, no theatrical performance.

The boy was lying on the same grimy mat in the same fetid little room, but he looked considerably better. The burning flush had left his face, and his eyes held a clear, present expression instead of the glazed fog of fever.

— Salve, — Hermione greeted him, kneeling down.

— Doctor! — Gaius tried to sit up, but she gently held him back.

The wound was healing cleanly, the edges even — the Dittany had done its work. She changed the dressing by hand, since the boy was now alert enough to notice magic.

— You saved my life, — Gaius whispered. — Hector says I was dying. I will pray to the gods for you! And I'll tell everyone in the neighbourhood that you perform miracles!

The word miracles sent a chill through her. The last thing they needed was word spreading about miraculous healings.

— Gaius, — she said carefully. — The wound was quite minor, truly. I only cleaned it and dressed it. You're young — that's why your body is mending so well.

Gaius nodded, though his eyes held a puzzled look. Then he tried to rise again, and this time Hermione didn't stop him. The boy sat up, pressing his back against the grimy wall, and looked at her with the eyes of a wounded fawn.

— Doctor, — he began hesitantly, — what will become of me now?

— What do you mean?

— Well… I am Hector's slave. I work as a porter in his warehouses. But with an injured leg… — Gaius lowered his gaze. — I'm afraid my master will decide I'm no longer fit for heavy work. And slaves who are no longer of use…

He didn't finish, but Hermione understood perfectly well. Useless slaves were sold. At best — to another master, for lighter work at a lower price. At worst — to the gladiatorial fights. Or simply turned out onto the streets to die.

Hermione looked at him — at the young, gaunt face, at the hands already calloused from hard labour at such an early age, at the eyes full of fear for his future. And she understood with a clarity that was almost unbearable: she had saved his life, but she could not save his fate.

Because Gaius was a slave. And even once he recovered, he would remain a slave — and would go on carrying loads in Hector's warehouses until his strength gave out.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

— Everything will be all right, — she lied. — In a few days you'll be walking.

Gaius nodded again in silence, but she could see the fear still written on his face. He knew the rules of his world far better than she did.

Hermione rose, gathering her medical things. Her throat ached with tears she could not allow herself to shed.

— Rest, — she said. — I'll come again tomorrow.

— Thank you, doctor, — Gaius answered quietly. — For everything.

Hermione returned to their rooms with a heavy heart and shut herself in the living quarters, keeping well away from the treatment room where Malfoy was still at work. She sat down at the table, opened her notebook, and turned to what she did best — precise calculations. The date of the next full moon. The time of the artefact's activation. The number of days still remaining to them in this world, where people were property, where women were objects, where saving one life changed nothing in the vast tableau of suffering.

Numbers didn't lie. Numbers didn't manipulate. Numbers didn't make her feel used and humiliated.

Unlike a certain insufferable Slytherin in the next room.

✦✦✦

After hours spent preparing the potion, that something unpleasant in his chest had become unbearable. A familiar feeling — the same one that had gnawed at him in the forest, when Granger had silently dressed his wounds and seen the Mark beneath the bandages.

He had been ashamed then. Ashamed of how cowardly he'd been in concealing the brand of his disgrace. Ashamed of his helplessness, of the fact that she had saved his life despite knowing exactly who he was. And yet Granger hadn't said a single word of condemnation. She had simply healed him. Had even smiled, watching how well the wounds were closing.

And now she looked at him like something scraped off the bottom of her shoe.

She was ignoring him with particular resolve. When she had returned, he had carefully asked about the boy. Granger had answered only with a clipped "he's improving" and turned back to her notebooks.

At least in the past I'd earned her hatred, he thought, irritated. But now? I simply found us a client…

Gradually, it was beginning to dawn on him: what had happened yesterday had cut deeper than he'd realised. He understood that what he'd done was not the sort of thing that got forgiven over a cup of tea and a perfunctory apology. Not that he intended to apologise. He still couldn't see that he was in the wrong for trying to find them an easy source of income.

Even so, Draco understood a simple truth: they were trapped in time. They would have to cooperate in order to survive and get back. They could despise each other all they liked, but they would be forced to work together. Because they simply had no other choice.

And so he had brewed a godforsaken mountain of Dittany — enough to last weeks — decanting it into little vials made from Transfigured shards of pottery. Then, unable to bear the suffocating atmosphere a moment longer, he had walked out to wander the streets of Rome, feeling like a complete idiot.

The sun was merciless by the time Draco reached the craftsmen's quarter, where the things the Empire was proud of were made. Smiths, potters, weavers, carpenters… And among them — a particular caste.

The booksellers.

A row of stalls where old men sold papyrus scrolls covered in neat, careful lines. Beside them, copyists methodically produced duplicates for waiting customers. Draco watched, transfixed, as lines of Virgil and Cicero came into being before his eyes. Genuine antiquity, unfolding right in front of him. Texts that, two thousand years from now, would be monuments of literature.

Should I buy something for Granger? She loves books more than life itself. Maybe that would at least make her speak to me.

Draco began examining the scrolls laid out for sale, handling them like precious things. There was Virgil himself… No, too dull.

And here — Seneca's De Ira…

Draco smirked. Bringing a treatise on the mastery of rage to a furious Granger? She'd probably beat him with the scroll.

De rerum natura. On the Nature of Things. Titus Lucretius Carus.

Draco picked up the scroll and turned through several pages. And then he saw something that made his heart beat faster.

In the margins, among the Latin letters, unmistakable symbols stood out. He was absolutely certain he had seen them on the artefact.

— How much for this one? — His voice betrayed his excitement.

The old man looked him over, taking stock of his clothing and silently calculating his worth as a buyer.

— Twenty denarii. It's a rare text.

Salazar, that was nearly all the money they had. But those symbols…

— Fifteen.

— Eighteen.

— Seventeen.

The merchant nodded, extending his hand. The deal was done. Draco took the scroll carefully, feeling the rough surface of the ancient papyrus beneath his fingers.

I hope Granger will be glad of this find. Or at the very least — will actually speak to me.

Because the silence was killing him. Slowly, but more surely than any curse.

✦✦✦

Draco was walking quickly back toward the insula, the scroll tucked into the folds of his toga. He was very much hoping it might prove the key to understanding the artefact. But then he spotted Hector, waving cheerfully at him from a distance. The landlord was standing at the entrance to the building, a fawning smile spread across his face.

— Oh, Master Lucretius! — the landlord called out in an ingratiating tone. — How fortunate! There was a lad here looking for you.

A slave of around eighteen, in a fine tunic — Draco recognised one of Sulla's household servants. Damn. Had the patrician suspected something?

— You were looking for me? — he said, drawing closer and studying the young man's face carefully.

— Salve, Master Lucius Maximus, — the slave bowed politely. — My master, Lucius Cornelius Sulla, asked me to bring you this.

He held out a small leather purse that gave a satisfying clink of coins. Draco barely managed to suppress a delighted reaction.

— My master also asked me to convey to your… healer, — the slave hesitated a moment, searching for the right word, — that her ritual worked. The Lady Valeria is feeling considerably better. My master sends his sincere gratitude to you both.

Draco turned and found himself under the landlord's watchful gaze.

— My thanks, — Draco said briefly, taking the purse. — Please convey my appreciation to your master.

The slave bowed and hurried off, disappearing into the passing crowd. Draco opened the purse and counted the coins — around three hundred denarii. Not bad at all. Though it hadn't escaped his notice that the landlord had been watching him rather too closely.

— Master Lucretius! — Hector's voice rang out with hollow cheerfulness. — What fortunate timing — I have a matter of some importance to discuss.

— I'm listening, — Draco turned to the landlord, instantly on guard.

— In a day or two, officials from the prefecture will be coming to carry out a document inspection, — Hector spread his hands in a show of helplessness. — The whole building. I'm afraid there's nothing I can do — orders from above. I trust your documents have arrived by now?

Draco felt something go cold inside him.

— Inspectors? In a day or two?

— Precisely. And I do, of course, remember your… generosity, — Hector said, his look heavy with implication. — But against the prefecture, I am powerless. If you have no documents…

— I paid you yesterday specifically so there wouldn't be any problems with documents! — Draco hissed, grabbing the landlord by the cloth of his tunic at the shoulder.

— Master, master! — Hector began to whine. — I can't very well stop them from conducting inspections! This is entirely beyond my control! I would gladly help, but… what can I do against the city authorities?

Slimy wretch. Draco could see the poorly concealed glee in his eyes. Hector was savouring the moment — he had taken the money, and now he was watching his "generous" tenant walk straight into a trap.

— What exactly are you suggesting? — Draco said through his teeth, releasing the landlord with distaste.

— Well… — Hector made a show of considering. — You could try going to the prefecture. They issue temporary permits for travellers. If you can get there before tomorrow, of course.

— The prefecture? And what would I tell them?

— Say your documents were lost on the road. Bring witnesses to vouch for your identity. Pay the fee… — Hector shrugged. — Standard procedure.

Witnesses? What bloody witnesses?

— How much is this… fee? — Draco asked flatly.

— For a temporary permit? A hundred denarii at the very least. More, if the prefect happens to be in a foul mood.

A hundred denarii. A third of what they'd earned. And that was assuming anyone believed their story about lost documents.

— And if I can't produce witnesses? — Draco's voice dropped to a dangerous quiet.

— In that case, — Hector spread his hands with a pantomime of regret, — I'm afraid the inspectors will be obliged to ask some rather uncomfortable questions. You know how these officials feel about people without papers. Foreigners in particular.

The threat was perfectly plain, however neatly it had been wrapped in courteous language. Draco clenched his jaw. A blackmailer. A plain, grubby little blackmailer who had taken money for his silence and was now setting them up to take the fall.

— I see, — he said coldly. — Thank you for the… information, Hector.

— Always glad to be of service, Master Lucretius, — the landlord bowed, but his eyes were dancing with malicious satisfaction.

Draco turned and headed for the staircase, fighting a burning urge to cast a couple of pain curses.

He was running out of time to deal with this. Which left two options: go to the prefecture for forged documents and risk falling into the clutches of Roman bureaucracy, or make a swift exit from Rome altogether. Perhaps the tent really had been the better arrangement.

✦✦✦

Draco was already reaching for the door to their rooms when it swung open from the other side. A woman of around forty stepped out — by the look of her, a typical resident of their modest neighbourhood. A neat dressing on her cheek, relief and gratitude in her every movement. Catching sight of Draco, she bowed and hurried away.

Granger appeared from the treatment room — brisk and businesslike. She was putting instruments away, but on noticing him, moved through to the living quarters.

She despises me. But she's still treating people. So not everything is broken…

— Was that a patient? — he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

— Very perceptive, — Granger replied distantly, without looking up. — She wanted a wart removed. Enormous and hideous. Had been making her life a misery.

She finally looked at him, and the familiar venom flashed in her brown eyes:

— Oh, don't look so surprised, Lucretius. I'm multifunctional. I can perform "rekindling the flame" rituals and pioneer cosmetic medicine in Ancient Rome. A truly versatile priestess.

The sarcasm was back. Good. Sarcasm he could work with.

— Granger, there's something important I need to tell you, — he began carefully.

— I doubt it, — she flicked the dirt off herself with her wand, with studied nonchalance. — Your definition of "important" usually turns out to mean another scheme.

— This concerns our safety.

— Our? — an eyebrow arched upward. — How touching. So we're a team now?

Draco clenched his teeth. Fine. He'd have to go straight at it.

— Valeria sends her gratitude. Lucius as well.

Granger went still. Surprise flickered across her face.

— What?

— Lucius sent a slave with money and his thanks. — He set the purse on the table. — Your ritual worked. Valeria is considerably better.

For a few seconds she stared at the money, then raised her eyes:

— And what exactly do you think that changes?

— Well… — Draco was thrown by the coldness in her voice. — You helped a woman. It worked…

— Precisely. I made it work, — she cut him off. — Despite the fact that you put me in a humiliating position without so much as warning me about the details. So don't you dare frame this as some shared victory.

Damn. She wasn't budging.

— Granger, listen—

— I'm listening, — she crossed her arms. — Go on, then. Tell me this important information about our safety. I'm curious how many other people you've managed to deceive today.

Draco produced the scroll, hoping to shift things onto better ground:

— Do you see these symbols? The same ones as on the artefact.

Granger's eyes lit up for a moment with that sharp, predatory interest she got as a researcher.

— Give it here. — She snatched the scroll and began turning through the pages. — Lucretius Carus. De rerum natura. The symbols do match. Where did you get this?

— From a papyrus seller. It cost nearly everything we had…

— Everything you made by selling me as an exotic curiosity, — she remarked acidly, not lifting her eyes from the text.

— Granger…

— The safety issue, — she reminded him. — Get to it. I have work to do.

Draco drew a slow breath:

— In a day or two, city officials will be coming to inspect documents.

Granger's head snapped up:

— What?!

— I'll handle it, — he said flatly. — I'll go to the prefecture and get the paperwork sorted.

— Malfoy, that's madness. It's one thing to settle here quietly and keep your head down — it's quite another to walk into the authorities. What if they start digging? What if they find out that we—

— They won't, — Draco waved a dismissive hand. — I know how to handle these conversations.

— You know? — her voice was ice. — The way you know how to spin another story about "priestesses?"

Draco felt a stab of irritation:

— This is entirely different. I have a plan—

— Your plans have done nothing but cause problems!

— And what do you suggest? Sitting here and waiting to be arrested? — he snapped. — Whether you like it or not, I'm taking responsibility for our safety.

— On what grounds?

— Because I understand how this world works! Politics, intrigue, surviving among predators — that's my territory, not yours.

Granger looked him over with undisguised contempt:

— Your territory is creating problems and then heroically solving them?

— My territory is keeping us alive in a place I know better than you do! — Draco said sharply. — We have twenty-seven days until the next full moon. And we will last that long.

— Not by your methods, — she headed for the door. — And, Malfoy? Next time, do warn me in advance exactly how you plan to "save" us.

The door shut behind her with a pointed click.

✦✦✦

Draco was woken by someone cursing loudly directly beneath their window. By the grey light seeping through the shutters, dawn had only just begun.

— What's going on? — Granger mumbled drowsily from the neighbouring bed.

Draco went to the window and eased the shutters open a crack. Down below, right at the entrance to the insula, two legionaries were checking the documents of some merchant who was arguing with them heatedly. The landlord stood nearby, bowing and scraping.

— Damn, the inspectors, — Draco hissed. — They're here already. Hector said in a day or two!

Granger was awake in an instant and pressed herself to the window beside him. They watched the merchant reluctantly hand over a crumpled scroll. The legionaries examined it carefully, made a note on their list, and waved him through.

— Did you see the seal? — Granger asked quietly.

— Couldn't make out the details. — Draco squinted. — Too far away.

At that moment a gust of wind tore the parchment from the merchant's hands. The document sailed straight toward them, struck the wall, and landed on the narrow ledge outside the third-floor window — barely half a metre away.

Draco and Granger looked at each other.

— That's too convenient to be a coincidence, — she murmured.

— Don't care, — Draco was already leaning out over the windowsill, trying to reach the paper.

Down below, the merchant was looking around, clearly searching for his document, but it didn't occur to him to look up. The legionaries were already moving toward the entrance of the building.

— Accio, — Draco whispered.

The parchment settled softly into his hand, and they bent over their find together. A scroll bearing the prefect's official seal, the owner's name, place of origin, occupation, duration of stay in Rome.

— I can make copies — I've done it before, at the Ministry, — Granger said quickly. — I'll Transfigure the paper, change the names…

— We have ten minutes at most, — Draco glanced out of the window. — They've just gone inside.

Granger was already working over two pages from her notebook, Transfiguring them into matching scrolls. Draco dictated the details of their cover story while she traced Latin letters with her wand.

— The seal, — she frowned. — How do we replicate the seal?

Draco studied the original. An intricate pattern featuring an eagle, with an inscription running around the edge. With his own wand, he carefully copied the impression onto their scrolls.

— Not perfect, but it'll pass, — he assessed the result. — The main thing is to look confident.

— Levitate the original back down, — Granger was already tucking away their freshly made documents. — Let the merchant find it.

Not wanting to risk the magic, Draco simply dropped the parchment out of the window, aiming for it to land near the entrance. Down below, the merchant had just come back and scooped it up with a relieved exclamation.

The knock at the door came a few minutes later.

— Document inspection! — a rough voice barked.

Draco drew a slow breath, reminded himself that he was a patrician and had nothing to fear, and opened the door.

The two legionaries looked at him with no particular interest — this was clearly routine.

— Documents, — the senior one held out his hand.

Draco handed over the scrolls with an air of perfect composure. The legionary glanced briefly at the seals and checked his list.

— Lucretius Maximus, from Lugdunum?

— That's correct.

— Purpose of visit?

— Trade. And medicine — my freedwoman is a skilled healer.

The legionary looked at Granger, who was standing modestly behind him with her eyes downcast, exactly as a freedwoman should.

— Length of stay?

— A month, perhaps longer. It depends on business.

— Very well, — the legionary made a mark on his list and handed the scrolls back. — Registered. Don't forget to renew if you stay beyond the month. The fine for overstaying is a hundred denarii.

And they left without so much as stepping into the room.

Draco closed the door and leaned against it. His hands were trembling slightly, but he quickly tucked them into the folds of his clothing.

— We did it, — Granger breathed. — I can't believe we actually did it! But Malfoy — don't you think that was a rather extraordinary coincidence?

— It doesn't matter now, Granger. — He dismissed it with a wave.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. And then —

— Wait. Did you just say you'd forged documents at the Ministry?

— It's… not what you're thinking! — She fixed him with a defiant stare.

Draco didn't press for details, but quietly filed away yet another intriguing fact about Hermione Granger.

And that business with the documents — it really had been an astonishing stroke of luck. Almost suspiciously so. But never mind. For now, at least, they could breathe.

✦✦✦

Hermione hadn't forgotten what Malfoy had done. And she had no intention of pretending otherwise. He wasn't sorry, in any case — Slytherins weren't built for remorse.

And yet Hermione had begun to notice careful, almost imperceptible attempts on his part to make amends. Though he probably didn't even realise that was what he was doing — this was Malfoy, after all.

He had brewed an entire arsenal of Essence of Dittany — neat little vials lined up in a row on the treatment room shelf like small soldiers. She could have prepared it herself, of course, but it was… practical that he did it instead.

Practical. Nothing more.

He had genuinely taken responsibility for their safety — and judging by the tension he carried after his rare run-ins with Hector, things were worse than he was letting on.

Malfoy had also taken over the administrative side of her work. He had explained to the neighbours that she was a medicus vulnerum — a surgeon specialising in injuries. No colds, no childbirths. After one incident involving a pregnant woman who wanted to "see how the baby was growing," Hermione was… grateful to him for that.

Grateful that he had spared them unnecessary complications. Nothing more.

Every morning she found him at the table — bent over the treatise, methodically working through the Latin, making notes. The artefact lay beside him, and he kept checking the symbols against the text.

He worked with focus and without any theatrical display. Like… like a research partner.

No. Like a convenient translation instrument. Nothing more.

Hermione hadn't told him about the ritual with Valeria. And she certainly wouldn't have told him about the painful memories she'd had to open up in order to help another woman. Malfoy hadn't asked, either. Perhaps he had finally grasped the sensitivity of the subject. Or perhaps he was simply afraid of drawing the "priestess's wrath" again.

Almost certainly the latter.

One day in May, she finished her calculations. The numbers resolved into a precise answer: the third of June, 10:21 by Roman time. The next full moon.

They had to get home. They would get home.

Until then, they would have to go on coexisting in this world — where Hector suspected too much, where rumours spread faster than plague, where any day could be their last.

And the only person she could rely on was Malfoy. A deeply unpleasant thought. But an honest one.

That same Malfoy who had once hurled the word Mudblood at her like a stone. Did it still hurt? Yes, if she was truthful with herself. Not sharply — more like an old scar that ached in bad weather.

Hermione wasn't sure which troubled her more: the thought that he might still think of her that way, silently despising her all the while — or that he might have forgotten it entirely, as though those humiliations had been too small and insignificant to be worth remembering.

She pushed the unpleasant thoughts aside, set down her calculations, and went through to the treatment room. A patient was waiting — a young legionary with a deep cut on his arm. No rituals, no deception — just honest medical care and a few drops of Dittany.

Chapter Text

Truth be told, money was no longer a problem — Lucius Cornelius's coin had covered nearly all their expenses. And after Gaius's "miraculous" recovery, word of Melania's "golden hands" had spread through the neighbourhood with remarkable speed. By the second week of their stay in Rome, patients had begun appearing at Granger's door with increasing regularity — the sick and desperate clustering in the doorway of their insula at all hours.

Draco had found himself assuming the role of gatekeeper, weeding out the beggars and the malingerers. There was the old woman with her "dying daughter," who turned out to be a perfectly healthy girl angling for a free examination. There was the drunk who insisted that everything inside him was "on fire" — from cheap wine, naturally.

One had to be firm about it. Because he had noticed how heavily this work was weighing on Granger. For some reason, she had taken the role of healer on deliberately — a role that had begun, in truth, as nothing more than a mask for survival. But that damned Gryffindor nature of hers would not allow her to do it by halves, and Draco could see it. She examined every patient with the thoroughness worthy of St. Mungo's itself.

And by evening, she was barely on her feet.

— You need to stop, — he told her, for what felt like the hundredth time, watching her mechanically rub her temples after a particularly brutal day. — You've earned enough. What we have will do.

— I can't simply tell them I won't treat them anymore, — she answered, her voice flat and dull. — They need this help.

— You can, — Draco cut her off. — You cannot save all of Rome, Granger.

But she only shook her head, and the next morning opened her doors again to all of those wretched invalids. The rumours about Gryffindors were no exaggeration — those idiots genuinely did not know how to stop when they had decided to save the world.

Meanwhile, Draco was combing Rome for anything remotely magical. The old Greek in the market selling "enchanted" amulets? An ordinary con artist with counterfeit trinkets. The mysterious little shop down the alley behind the Boarium, allegedly selling "special" herbs? Nothing but an opium den.

Once, he'd even convinced himself he was on the trail of something. An old man in a threadbare toga, clutching a staff that bore a suspicious resemblance to a wand. Draco had followed him across half the city, threading through narrow streets, until the man turned into some kind of courtyard.

His heart had quickened. At last. A real wizard, who might know something about magic in Ancient Rome — or better yet, might have something to say about that wretched artefact…

Draco had peered carefully around the corner, and gone still.

The old man was standing in the middle of the courtyard with his "wand" raised to the sky, loudly declaiming… poetry. Several boys sat around him, diligently copying their teacher's every word onto scraps of parchment. An ordinary teacher of letters, educating children from modest families. The "wand" was a simple pointer.

Draco barely suppressed a groan of pure, undiluted disappointment.

By the twentieth day, he was forced to concede the obvious: if there were wizards in Rome, they were hiding far too well.

And then there was Hector.

Who, despite having been paid a deposit through the end of the month, kept appearing with increasing frequency. Sometimes under the pretext of inspecting the rooms, sometimes for yet another review of their documents, sometimes simply to "have a chat about business." His small, sly eyes darted into every corner, noting every detail, every inconsistency. The business with the Transfigured beds had required some very convincing lies, naturally.

Salazar. Only eight days left.

In the meantime, work on translating the treatise continued. The symbols from the artefact — those same enigmatic glyphs that Granger had been attempting to systematise without success — were scattered through the text in apparently random order.

In the evenings, while she collapsed after seeing patients, Draco hunched over the scroll by the light of an oil lamp, labouring over the text in search of some logic.

One symbol, for instance — something resembling interlocking spirals — appeared alongside the line Time does not exist of itself. Interesting. Time as illusion?

Draco drew the scroll closer to the flame, squinting with exhaustion. The lamplight danced, throwing restless shadows across the papyrus. For a moment it seemed to him that the letters on the page were trembling, as though alive.

And then—

In place of Latin letters, familiar English characters flickered before his eyes. Clear, ordinary, his own. Draco blinked and rubbed his face.

No. Latin again. Plain, ancient, laborious Latin that demanded wrenching translation.

Exhaustion. Just exhaustion.

He pressed his fingers to his temples, dispelling the phantom, and returned to the symbols.

Another sign — something like diverging rays — corresponded to the phrase As the fears of the soul scatter, so the walls give way. Fears? Walls? A metaphor, or something more literal?

And then one more symbol — Morgana help him — was annotated beside the line Their flesh grows languid, dissolving in love's delight. Draco stared at the text, feeling heat rise to his face. The entire passage reeked of… intimacy. Something about lips, kisses, and desire.

What in the name of all four Founders was this supposed to mean? What possible connection did… that… have to do with time travel?

He stole a glance at Granger, who had fallen asleep at the table just as she was, face buried in her arms, bent over her Arithmancy notes. In the flickering lamplight, her curls gleamed warm copper and gold.

Their flesh grows languid…

Draco gave his head a sharp shake, driving away the uninvited thought. A coincidence. Random annotations by some depraved scroll-copyist. The artefact that hurled them from one past to another could not possibly have any connection to… to that.

It was absurd. He and Granger… they could barely stand each other.

Barely stand each other? the voice inside him asked, with pointed sarcasm. Who, then, makes sure she eats every evening? Who turns away the more persistent patients? Who has learned that Granger, as it turns out, has a sweet tooth — and goes out of his way to buy her honey sesame cakes from the vendor on the corner, the ones she eats with such an expression of bliss on her face that he finds himself wanting to buy her a whole basket?

Practicality, Draco told himself stubbornly. A satisfied Granger works more efficiently. Pure pragmatism.

But his gaze drifted again to the sleeping Granger, to the strand of hair that had fallen across her face—

Stop.

Yes — if he were being honest — what frightened Draco most was what was happening inside him. Ever since the business with the "Isis priestess," that familiar sticky, treacly guilt had begun to seep back in — the kind he knew from the years after the war, but with a new and different edge to it now. He understood perfectly well that his deception alone (or — well — his omission of certain details regarding the "ritual," which was technically not quite a lie) had set off a chain of events that had dismantled whatever fragile beginnings of… trust? partnership?… had existed between him and Granger.

After so many days of tense coexistence — polite, functional, cold as stone — Draco found it unbearable to watch her, pale and exhausted, barely leaving their rooms. Patients. That notebook of hers. Sleep. Patients again.

He had tried several times to compose, in his head, some version of a conversation about their… situation. To clarify matters, somehow. Explain his motives. But how does one explain what one does not understand oneself? Sorry, Granger, I simply didn't want you treating filthy slaves? Forgive me for putting you in an impossible position, but look what you earned from it?

The pitiful excuses of a coward.

One evening, watching Granger read her Arithmancy volume — probably for the hundredth time; she could quote entire chapters from memory — Draco thought: I need to get her out of this damned room. And I'm going mad from this silence myself.

He cleared his throat. Granger didn't so much as look up from her book.

— There are chariot races tomorrow, — he said, to no one in particular. — Four of Rome's finest teams. I… thought perhaps you might want to see them.

At last she raised her eyes. Suspicion was written plainly in them.

— You're inviting me… somewhere for entertainment? — The distance in her voice was enough to raise the hairs on his neck.

Draco gave a small shrug, carefully studying the pattern of cracks in the wall behind her head.

— I only thought… It's a significant part of Roman culture. An opportunity like this is hardly likely to come along again for anyone from our time. — He paused, choosing his words. — And we have enough money for decent seats. It would be foolish to miss the chance to see something that most witches and wizards have only ever read about in books.

In truth, Draco simply wanted, desperately, to clear the air. To recover something resembling what had passed for normal between them. If their sparring and mutual needling could be called normal. But anything was better than this chill that made him want to howl.

Merlin knew, Draco had no idea how else to reach Granger. Which left only clumsy attempts at a peace offering.

— It's simply… an outing, — he added quickly, seeing her frown deepen. — A cultural exercise. A chance to witness history firsthand.

Granger was silent, studying him with the expression of someone trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. More difficult than their artefact.

— All right, — she said at last. — But only for the historical value.

— Of course, — Draco nodded, feeling something loosen unexpectedly in his chest. — Purely for history.

✦✦✦

Hermione had been watching. All those days since the "Isis priestess" incident, she had been quietly observing this Draco — a version of him she had never seen before.

She watched him methodically handle the administrative side of her medical practice — screening out the malingerers, negotiating a schedule, collecting payment from those who could pay, and tactfully "forgetting" to charge the very poor. She watched him take on the entirety of their domestic life — from buying food to cleaning their rooms.

Something in her chest went warm when he silently brewed Essence of Dittany — the only potion available to them. His long (rather fine) fingers carefully prepared the stems, added them to the pot, stirred with the same focused attention he had once brought to Potions at school.

She noticed how every morning he cast the Concealment Charm on his left arm — quickly, almost imperceptibly, but she saw it all the same. From a distance she had watched the bite wounds on his shoulder close over — mercifully without complication, leaving only thin, pale lines.

And yes, she felt his guilt. She could practically touch it — in the way he averted his gaze when their eyes met. In the clumsy attempts at conversation. In the honey cakes that "happened" to appear on the table every evening.

But Hermione was waiting. She had principles too, and she had no intention of forgiving him so easily. He ought to, for Merlin's sake, earn his forgiveness, not receive it by default. He needed to acknowledge what he had done.

Though, if she were being honest, there was hardly time for forgiveness and grievances.

She had people to treat. A steady stream of suffering that looked to her with such naked hope it made her chest ache. There weren't many of them, but Hermione gave each case her full attention. Some things she could manage without magic — cleaning a wound, placing sutures (terrifying, the first few times), administering a simple herbal sedative. Others required Dittany, which she described as a rare Eastern essence.

Once, Hermione had been a specialist in Magical Population Management. Then she had become an Unspeakable. She had never imagined she would end up treating people. But… she found she liked it? She had even started to wonder whether, when they got home, she might consider changing her specialisation entirely. If—

The boy Gaius came every few days — not for treatment, the wound had long since healed, but simply… to talk. The young slave who dreamed of freedom would tell her about the small workshop he planned to open once he'd saved enough money.

— Mistress Melania, — he would say, shyly, — I brought you fruit from the market. The master let me take a few clusters of the finest grapes.

He always brought something — fruit, fresh bread, or simply news about how her other patients were getting on. It was sweet, and Hermione was glad of his company.

— How is your leg? — she asked each time, though she already knew the answer.

— Better than it ever was before, — he laughed. — You are a true sorceress, Mistress.

Those words always made her heart constrict. If only he knew how literally he was right…

Every time she used magic, she was taking a risk. One careless flick of her wand, one flash too bright — and they would be exposed. And what then? Burned as sorcerers? Thrown to the lions in the arena? Crucified?

But Hermione could not simply refuse to help. It wasn't in her. Even Malfoy's occasional terse suggestions — "Enough, that's enough" — she barely registered.

One cannot save all of Rome. That much was true. But if she could do even a little good, why shouldn't she?

She glanced sidelong at Malfoy, reading his annotated scroll. In profile, by the light of their oil lamp, he looked… tired. And lonely. As adrift in this time as she was. Perhaps an outing really would brighten things a little.

✦✦✦

On the way to the Circus Maximus, Hermione absorbed everything she could — the architecture, the faces, the particular character of each street. After weeks confined to the stuffy rooms of the insula, the city felt impossibly vivid, loud, and alive.

To be fair, she had ventured out on her own once — an awkward foray into the thermae, where she had observed the social rituals of Roman matrons who discussed their husbands, their servants, and the latest gossip with exactly the same fervour that witches at the Leaky Cauldron brought to the newest issue of Witch Weekly.

But mostly she tried not to go anywhere alone, bearing in mind Malfoy's warnings about what happened to unaccompanied women in Ancient Rome. Abduction, slavery, assault — the full catalogue of a patriarchal society's horrors. And yes, she was frightened. Humiliating to admit, but frightened.

Malfoy, walking beside her with the bearing of a respectable patrician, appeared to be entirely in his element. He moved through the crowd with easy confidence, steering her through the labyrinth of streets toward their appointed "cultural programme."

The Circus Maximus was staggering in scale. A vast arena, stretched into an elongated oval, ringed by tiers of seating that climbed toward the sky. Thousands — tens of thousands, surely — already packed the stands, and the roar of voices merged into a single wall of sound that pressed against the ears.

— This way, — Malfoy took her by the elbow, steering her past the entrance for the common crowd, where people were jostling and shoving for the free seats.

They climbed a marble staircase to the middle section — seating for the better-off citizens. Not a patrician box, but perfectly respectable, with cushioned seats and an awning against the sun.

— Twenty denarii per place, — a local attendant informed them, running an appraising eye over the pair.

Malfoy counted out the coins without a flicker of concern, and soon they were settled in comfortable seats with an excellent view of the arena. Below, the chariots were assembling — three to each team. Horses stamped and shifted, while drivers checked their harnesses.

— Look, — Malfoy leaned toward her, and his breath grazed her neck. They were speaking in murmurs to keep their strange language from drawing attention. — For the Romans, this is more than entertainment. It's politics, religion, and gambling all at once.

His arm came to rest along the back of her seat — a gesture that, from the outside, looked proprietary, but in practice simply allowed him to speak closer and quieter.

— There are four factions. Each with its own backers, its own supporters. Sometimes it comes to blows between the fans. Rather like Quidditch, in fact.

— Will the gentleman be placing a bet? — A man approached with wax tablets and a stylus, ready to record wagers.

— What do you say, dear Melania? — Malfoy turned to Hermione with a sly smile. — Who do we back?

— Tell me who is who first, — she said, studying the teams below. — Why are they in different colours? What does it mean?

— White is purity, the aristocracy. Red is fire, summer, the god Mars. Green is the merchants' faction. Blue is the people's party — the crowd's favourites.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, considering. Placing a bet based on social standing seemed rather beside the point. But the colour… red and gold. The colours of Gryffindor. The colours of courage and honour.

— Red, — she said, without hesitation.

Malfoy rolled his eyes with an expression that suggested he had expected nothing else.

— Predictable, Granger. Naturally you picked your pseudo-Gryffindors. — He turned to the bookmaker. — Ten denarii on the Reds for the lady. And ten on the Greens for me.

— Green? — Hermione said, with a short laugh. — Who's calling who predictable, Malfoy.

— The Greens simply have the best horses this season, — he replied, unbothered, handing over the coins. — From Africa. Specially trained.

— Well then. — Hermione lifted her chin in challenge. — We'll just see about that.

The trumpets sounded, and the crowd erupted. Hermione leaned forward, swept up in it before she could think. Beside her, Malfoy had gone tense too, his shoulder pressing against hers — she barely noticed, too fixed on the chariots lining up at the start.

Then the gong crashed, the horses lunged forward in an explosion of sand, and the entire field dissolved into a boiling whirl of noise and motion. Wheels shrieked against stone, whips cracked through the air, and the drivers' shouts were swallowed whole by the roaring stands.

At first she winced at the brutality of it — the drivers lashed not only their horses but each other, chariots slammed into the barriers, one of the Blues overturned on the second lap entirely.

But gradually, inevitably, the excitement took hold.

— Come on! — she cried, half-rising from her seat as the red chariot swept past the green on a corner. — Faster!

All around her the crowd surged and screamed, and she screamed with them, quite forgetting about decorum, about being an educated woman of the twenty-first century. Right now she was simply a girl who had bet ten honestly-earned denarii and desperately wanted to win. She had never been much of a Quidditch enthusiast, and yet here — here she could feel it, that crackling, uncontainable thrill.

A change of scenery. Hermione smiled inwardly at herself.

— Mind the corner! — she cried out, as the red driver hauled too sharply on the reins.

— Your Reds are about to crash, — Malfoy observed, with satisfaction.

— Oh, be quiet! Look at your Greens falling behind!

The final lap. Red and Green neck and neck, White trailing by half a length, Blue hopelessly at the rear. The stands were screaming themselves hoarse—

And then the red driver made an extraordinary move — cut beneath the nose of the Greens, forcing their horses wide, and burst ahead.

— YES! — Hermione shot to her feet. — YES! YES! WE WON!

She spun toward Malfoy, flushed and breathless, barely getting her breath under control — and caught his gaze. He was not watching the arena, where the red chariot was crossing the finish line. He was not watching the celebrating crowd. He was watching her.

His expression was unfamiliarly open — unguarded, as though he had momentarily forgotten about his perpetual armour. No mockery in his eyes. Only… a strange sort of wonder. And the warm reflection of sunlight in the cold marble of those grey irises.

Something caught in Hermione's chest. For a brief moment it seemed to her that the noise of the arena had vanished, the screaming crowd dissolved, and there was only this — his gaze, unbearably direct, levelling every barrier between them.

— What? — she asked, trying to keep her voice even, and felt something shift inside her despite herself.

— Nothing, — he said, with a slight shake of his head, and a small smile. — You were cheering for your Reds so hard, I almost believed you were born here.

And Hermione realised, all at once, that she was happy. For the first time since arriving in Rome — perhaps for the first time in months — she simply felt… well. All thought of being stranded deep in the past with a former enemy, of patients waiting for help, of the artefact and its cryptic symbols, had gone.

Just a moment of pure, uncomplicated joy.

Getting clear of the crowds after the races took nearly an hour — thousands of people pressing through narrow exits, shoving, arguing, dissecting every moment of the finish. Malfoy kept hold of her elbow, carving a path through the human tide, and she was grateful for it.

By the time they finally emerged onto a relatively clear street, the sun was already tilting toward the horizon. They walked slowly, unhurried, taking in the city in its details.

— Malfoy, — Hermione began, summoning her nerve — the question had been burning on her tongue for a very long time — could you perhaps finally explain how you know so much about Ancient Rome?

— It's hardly ancient at the moment, — he countered, with his habitual smirk. — More of a present-tense Rome, really.

— Don't dodge the question! — She stopped, hands on her hips. — I have the right to know whose expertise I've been trusting in this whole… escapade.

Malfoy went still, hands tucked into the folds of his toga. He looked somewhere past her, and then sighed — a sigh that somehow came out almost sheepish.

— All right, Granger. Prepare yourself for a shocking revelation. — He met her eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitched as he fought back a smile. — You see, there is an unspoken rule. A universal truth about men, one might say. Every man thinks about the Roman Empire.

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

— I'm sorry? — she said, attempting to conceal her growing curiosity.

— His obsession, Granger! — He spread his hands as though demonstrating the obvious. — That phase in childhood when you would devour any book, any picture, any fact about your Empire. You remember Blaise Zabini?

Hermione nodded, picturing the reserved Slytherin.

— His Empire was dragons. He admitted it first year. But I swear, for years after that he could argue for hours about whose scales were harder — the Welsh Green or the Hungarian Horntail.

There was a nostalgic warmth in Malfoy's voice.

— And Theo Nott? — he went on, growing more animated. — His Empire stretched considerably further. Space. Stars. We were friends before Hogwarts, and he could spend hours pointing out that Cassiopeia of his. Used to say he'd fly there one day. He's probably still staring through a telescope somewhere.

Hermione couldn't suppress a smile. The image was too vivid: small aristocratic wizards, each with his private obsession. It was… human.

— And your Empire… — she began.

— Was Rome, — he finished, simply. His eyes lit for a moment with something unguarded. — The Empire that ruled the world. Power. Strategy. The art of commanding men and shaping destinies. Everything my father tried to teach me through the examples of our ancestors — but on a scale. In all this grandeur of marble and steel.

He gestured toward the stone buildings with their vast columns, visible in the distance.

— I read everything. Magical chronicles of Roman wizards at the emperors' courts? Obviously. I could sit in the library for hours, imagining the legions, the forums, the patrician conspiracies… — He stopped abruptly, and that shadow of embarrassment crossed his face again. — Well. These are all a child's daydreams. This was before Hogwarts.

Something shifted, unexpectedly, in Hermione's chest. She heard it — not just his words, but the thing underneath them. The habitual arrogance was gone from his voice when he spoke of Rome, the usual cynicism nowhere in evidence. There was… passion. The naive, uncomplicated passion of a child lost in a world that seemed, to him, perfect. That was where all this ease and detail came from — he hadn't simply studied it. He had lived inside it, in his imagination. And in the admission there was something exposed, almost intimate — he was showing her not the Malfoy façade, but the childhood room full of books where outsiders were not admitted.

This trust — accidental and unguarded — moved her in spite of everything that lay between them. And then she remembered him in first year — the slicked-back hair, the imperious stare, the performance of the Slytherin prince.

If only Harry had known what he was missing when he refused that outstretched hand on the train. A secret connoisseur of Roman history.

And Hermione laughed — genuinely, warmly, without a trace of mockery.

— Granger, stop it! — Malfoy protested, but his voice was threaded with amusement. — And if you breathe a word of this to anyone—

— Oh, I intend to give a full exclusive interview to the Prophet the moment we're back! — Hermione wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. — "Draco Malfoy: A Secret Passion for Ancient Rome." Front page material, honestly.

— In that case I'll tell everyone about your Transfiguration of the facilities! — he shot back. — "Hermione Granger Redecorates the Privy on Day One."

They were laughing. Walking through evening Rome toward their temporary (she very much hoped it was temporary) home, and laughing — the way normal people laughed, the way… friends laughed?

No. No, no. Merely colleagues who had finally managed to find something approaching a common language.

Above the rooftops, the moon had already appeared — nearly full. A few more days, and they might try to go home. Hermione thought of home often. Nearly two months, now, since they had vanished. She imagined Harry's panic — he would be frantic, would have turned every stone in every place he could think of. And Ron? She could hardly picture his reaction. They had only just ended things, and she had immediately disappeared.

Along with Malfoy, no less.

— Good night, Granger, — she heard from the other bed, once they had settled for the night.

— Good night, Malfoy.

In the dark, she smiled, turning the day over in her mind. Melania and Lucretus had rather a splendid time, it had to be said. Perhaps even a better time than Hermione and Draco could ever have allowed themselves.

✦✦✦

Something was wrong.

Hermione woke to a formless unease, not immediately understanding what had pulled her from sleep. The room was dark, Malfoy breathing quietly in the other bed. But something…

A smell. Faint, barely there — but unmistakeable. Smoke. Not the familiar kind, from the brazier in the corner; that smelled of coal and food. This was something else.

She lay still, not quite awake, and raised herself on one elbow, drawing breath instinctively. Perhaps she had imagined it.

But no — the ghostly thread thickened, strengthened, settling into a persistent, bitter taste at the back of her throat. Then came the voices. Not the ordinary nocturnal murmurs of other tenants, but something agitated, tightly wound.

— Malfoy, — she called quietly.

Only steady, even breathing in response. He was fast asleep.

Her heart began to beat faster. Hermione got carefully to her feet, sliding her bare soles into the leather sandals. She crossed to the door and pressed her ear against the wood. The sounds were sharper now — anxious voices, heavy footsteps on the stairs.

— Malfoy! — louder this time, her voice cracking.

He jerked half-awake, and before his eyes were even open, his hand had already found his wand beneath the pillow.

— What? — He sat up, brow furrowed.

— Smoke. Do you hear the voices? Something is happening.

He went still, breathing in. Confusion crossed his face first — and then, in an instant, the moonlight seemed to drain the colour from it entirely.

— Shit, — he exhaled, throwing himself out of bed. — Granger, this is—

And then the screaming started, somewhere beyond the door. Piercing, frantic, soaked in terror:

— IGNIS! IGNIS! FIRE!

The smell hit them the same moment the word did — acrid, suffocating, that sickly-bitter sweetness of burning wood, cloth, straw. Grey, poisonous tendrils of smoke were already seeping through the cracks above the door.

The insula was on fire. They were on fire.

— Quickly, take the scrolls and the potions! — she cried, seizing her bag and jamming the artefact inside. — We have to go! NOW!

Her hands were shaking. Only one thought beat through her mind — survive, get out, do not burn alive in this wretched box.

In seconds they had grabbed what mattered most. The door was already warm to the touch; behind it, fire roared. The corridor was a wall of smoke and chaos. People in nightclothes stumbled and shoved, fell and were trampled. A child's screaming threaded through the crack and splinter of burning beams. Somewhere above them something gave way with an enormous crash, and the whole building shuddered.

The fire had started on the upper floors, it seemed. They had been lucky to be on the third. Those on the fifth…

Malfoy grabbed her hand — hard, bruisingly — and hauled her toward the stairs. The smoke thickened, stinging her eyes to tears, searing her lungs. Every breath was an act of will.

— Granger, get down! — he barked, yanking her low.

Because the air was cleaner below, and they descended almost on hands and knees. A woman carrying a child stumbled directly in front of them. Malfoy caught her by the elbow, pulled her upright. An old man collapsed, choking — Hermione dragged him along by the arm.

The staircase seemed to have no end. The descent lasted an eternity. Or perhaps only a minute — time had lost all meaning in this hell of smoke and fire.

And then — air. Cold night air that rushed into scorched lungs like a benediction. They spilled out onto the street, coughing, gasping — but alive. Hermione turned back.

And stopped.

The upper floors of the insula were burning like a giant torch. Flames tore from the windows, licked up the walls, sent orange tongues reaching toward the black sky. In the windows, silhouettes — people who had not got out. Their cries—

— Malfoy, we can help! — she whispered, her fingers finding her wand. — Protego will shield us! There could still be people in there!

He stood beside her, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle working. Firelight played across his face, carving sharp shadows and flashes of gold.

— Granger… — he began, roughly.

— Don't you dare! — Tears ran down her face, cutting through the soot. — Don't you dare say we can't! There are CHILDREN in there!

But the wooden floors were burning like paper. The fifth storey collapsed onto the fourth with a sickening crack. Then the fourth onto the third. A house of cards. That was what Malfoy had said about fires in insulae — they burn like houses of cards.

Hermione watched through a blur of tears as the place that had been their home for nearly a month was consumed. The walls eaten by fire, and with them the people she might have saved. If only she had—

And then — movement.

Malfoy. He broke and ran toward a group of men who had formed a chain, pulling survivors from the lower floors. And then, after what felt to her like an eternity, he walked back out of the rolling smoke with a small body pressed against his chest. A child. A little girl, perhaps three years old, her hair singed, her face black with soot — but… alive? Behind him the fire surged higher, as though reaching to reclaim her.

Draco Malfoy — aristocrat, former Death Eater — carrying a child out of a burning building.

The image branded itself into her mind more sharply than any spell. It would never leave.

Hermione. Pull yourself together.

She shook herself. Around her, the survivors had gathered — burned, broken, blank with shock. No one knew what to do.

But she did. This was what she did best.

— Bring the injured here! — she cried, her voice tearing. — Severe burns on the left! Those who can walk, on the right! I need water! Clean cloth! Now!

Remarkably, they listened. Perhaps it was her tone — that commanding note she had developed over years of friendship with Harry and Ron, who had sometimes needed it rather urgently. Or perhaps people in a panic simply need one person who knows what to do.

The next hours dissolved into an unbroken nightmare of burns and injuries. She worked on instinct — cleaning wounds, binding them, rationing the precious remains of her potions. Malfoy was beside her throughout — fetching water, holding down the badly injured while she treated the worst of the casualties.

The sun was already rising over Rome when she finally let herself stop and breathe. Her hands shook with exhaustion. Her tunic was covered in blood and ash.

And then she saw him.

Among the bodies of the dead, laid out in a row for identification. Gaius. Her very first patient. Her friend. Young, strong — a future ahead of him.

Dead.

Her knees gave way. Hermione sank down beside the body, and everything she had been holding back broke through at once. She wept — rawly, brokenly, until her throat was ragged. From helplessness, from the injustice of it, from the cruelty of a world where people die trapped inside wood and stone.

She would learn, later, that he had suffocated from the smoke while helping others escape from the upper floors. That in the last minutes of his life, this young slave who had dreamed of freedom had been thinking not of himself, but of others. That his death had been heroic — and that this made it all the more unbearable.

The course of time cannot be changed. It seemed he had been meant to die young.

Chapter Text

The sun was already beating down hard when Draco finally managed to take stock of the situation. The upper floors, including their own — the third — had burned out. Somewhere up there, in the rubble and wreckage, lay their Transfigured beds and Granger's makeshift infirmary.

But that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was that Draco, in a fit of some sudden bravery — insanity was the more accurate term — had used a Levitation Charm to pull a child out from under a fallen stone beam. And worst of all, it appeared someone had witnessed it.

What in the hell was I thinking? — he thought, absently rubbing his aching shoulder. His muscles were sore from the unaccustomed exertion — hauling people out of rubble was decidedly not part of his usual daily routine. Until this morning, at least.

In the meantime, he had been helping Granger examine the wounded — around twenty people who needed attention. Those he and the other men had managed to drag free from the debris. Some had inhaled smoke and were only now coming round. Others were injured.

Draco had never imagined he would one day work as a Healer. A Healer's assistant, to be precise. More precisely still — the assistant of Hermione Granger, who was commanding the entire operation with the terrifying efficiency of a military general.

He'd managed to load some potions into Granger's medical bag in time. But some of the supplies had been left behind on the third floor of their ruined house. Not that it ranked anywhere near the top of their list of problems.

He had to admit: Granger's approach to triaging the wounded by severity was impressive. Practical. Logical. Utterly without sentiment. As if she'd done this her whole life, rather than learning on the fly over the past few weeks of their... travels. While she dealt with the serious injuries, he assessed those with lesser wounds.

He had watched her use Essence of Dittany to close wounds and burns. He had watched her apply bandages in a panic with Ferula, twice. He had watched her stop the bleeding with Episkey on the little girl Draco had carried out of the burning building.

And if Draco had seen it, someone else most certainly had.

We've made a mess of this.

Was Gryffindor bravery contagious? Airborne? It was the only explanation Draco could find for his own behaviour. At the critical moment, he hadn't thought about consequences, hadn't weighed the risks, hadn't cast about for reasons to stand aside and do nothing. He'd simply grabbed his wand and gone to pull people out of a fire. Like a complete idiot.

Like Potter.

Oh, Salazar. Not that.

By the time the sun was nearing midday, he realised he was sitting on the ground with his back against the wall of the neighbouring building. He couldn't quite account for how he'd got there, but Granger was sitting beside him. Exhausted, soot and grime streaked across her face. He almost certainly looked no better — though he couldn't quite bring himself to care. He wanted to close his eyes and shut the world out. Stop thinking about what had happened. Stop thinking about what came next. Just sit and breathe, slowly. After so many hours of relentless work, that felt like an impossible luxury.

— Granger, we need to leave. We've been noticed. We were too careless.

— What do you mean?

He turned his head toward her with some effort. Stubborn. She would never concede the obvious until the very last moment.

— I think I accidentally used Leviosa.

— It's LeviOsa, not LevioSA.

— What?

— Sorry. Force of habit. I think I also violated the Statute of Secrecy a couple of times.

— I saw.

— Shit.

Draco nearly choked on his own breath. Granger could swear? Apparently extreme circumstances had a way of stripping away whatever people kept carefully hidden.

Curious. What else didn't he know about Hermione Granger?

— What do we do?

— I can't leave the sick. They need help. And given that no one from the prefecture has shown up yet, it seems no one else gives a damn.

Draco looked at her more carefully. Exhaustion, grime, hair in complete disarray — but the same stubbornness in her eyes. The same relentless drive to help, whatever the cost. Typical Gryffindor. But somehow that no longer irritated him.

Strange.

— Fine, — he agreed, surprising himself entirely. — Let's deal with problems as they come.

Where is this coming from? When did I become so... reckless?

— Let's.

Who could have imagined it? Draco Malfoy, nearly spent, sitting somewhere in the year 114, beside Hermione Granger — having just spent the better part of nine hours saving people without stopping. If someone had told him a year ago that this was possible, he would have laughed. And then had them referred to the Janus Thickey Ward for observation.

But right now, it felt... natural. Right. As if he had been moving toward this his whole life without realising it. Perhaps time travel didn't merely change your location.

Perhaps it changed you.

✦✦✦

Hector, that shrewd building manager, gave them a single room in the surviving insula across the street. By some miracle the fire had spared the structures nearby. Many of the tenants had fled, afraid the flames might return, and space in the building had opened up. But those who truly needed help…

Hermione had argued, pleaded, tried to make him understand that the injured needed somewhere to recover — even just a few days, until the worst wounds began to heal. In the end he'd agreed to hand over the surviving slave quarters in the basement, but only because his own slaves had scattered after the fire. Hector merely shrugged and muttered irritably that "this isn't a charity house" and "money matters more than sympathy — pay for all of them if you care so much, not just your own corner."

— Your liberta talks far too much, Lucretius! — he threw at Malfoy yet again, when Hermione pressed especially hard for fresh straw to bed down the injured.

Liberta. A freed slave. Formally free, but bound to her master forever. Hermione had grown accustomed to the word by now, but it still grated every time. Particularly the contempt with which Hector said it.

But Hector knew. Hermione could see it in the way his eyes darted with something like fear. The way he kept glancing at her medical bag. How quickly he looked away whenever he noticed how fast her patients' wounds were closing. He'd seen it. Or heard it from someone who had.

They needed to leave — to abandon the wounded and go. The logic was airtight. Getting home mattered more. Her mind understood that perfectly.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Over the past five days she had slept ten hours at most, and never consecutively. Treating burns had proved far harder than treating ordinary wounds. The skin peeled away, infections took hold quickly, and the pain was such that grown men wept like children. How could she leave people to die?

Especially when memories of Gaius still burned sharply in her mind. She had pulled him back from the very edge using magic. And what had come of it? He'd died anyway. Choked on smoke while saving someone else's children.

Perhaps, — Hermione thought, methodically changing another bandage, — it isn't that I failed to protect him. Perhaps time simply doesn't tolerate interference.

The thought terrified her more than the open wounds and the groaning of the injured. What if the artefact was deliberately preventing them from altering the course of events? What if everything they did here — healing, rescuing, helping — was nothing more than the illusion of influence? What if people's fates were already written?

Hermione pressed her lips together and pushed the thought away. No. Even if that were true — even if time was relentless and history immovable — she couldn't stop. Couldn't look at suffering and walk past it. And if Gaius was always going to die, then at least he had died a hero, saving children, rather than rotting in some fetid corner, forgotten by everyone.

Meanwhile, Malfoy kept disappearing — off to buy more bandages and "medicinal" salves. Hermione didn't ask where he managed to procure the Essence of Dittany. She simply noted it, in silence, and was grateful.

And that was... almost unbearable. Every old assumption was crumbling — Draco Malfoy, helping save lives. The same person who had treated her contemptibly only a few weeks ago was now quietly pressing small vials of potion into her hands when he thought no one was watching. Draco Malfoy, who helped with the dressings, who had risked his life, in the end.

Who are you, Malfoy? And where was this person all the years before?

But there was no time to think about him. There was an elderly woman with second-degree burns on her hands. There was a young mother with a nursing infant and a wide burn across her back from a falling beam. And one afternoon, while Malfoy had gone out again for food or water or bandages, Hermione was examining a woman with a burned arm. She was explaining how to change the dressings properly going forward, when a voice came from behind her:

— Your papers, please.

Her heart lurched and dropped somewhere into her stomach. Hermione turned slowly, fighting the urge to reach for her wand.

Before her stood a Praetorian guardsman in a red cloak with gold trim. Behind him, eyes darting, stood Hector — whispering something to the guardsman. Hermione couldn't make out the words, but the tone told her everything she needed to know. Five more soldiers stood further back.

Six men. For one healer. Either they were being very cautious, or they were very afraid.

— My patron has stepped out. He'll return shortly, and you can speak with him then, — Hermione said, her voice steadier than she felt.

— What is that? — The guardsman pointed at her medical bag.

— I'm a healer. These are my instruments.

— Open it.

Hermione opened the bag with shaking hands. New iron instruments, bandages, vials of Essence of Dittany — it all looked ordinary enough, on the surface. At least, she hoped it did.

The woman she'd been examining let out a low moan — the dressing had shifted, and the burned skin was exposed to the air again.

— I need to continue my work, — Hermione said, frightened but stubborn. — This woman is in pain.

Stupid. Very stupid. Don't argue with people wearing armour.

— I've been told you're a temple priestess. Where are your documents from the temple?

She had no such documents. She was a witch, stranded in the past, who had broken a hundred rules. Alone.

Where in Merlin's name is Malfoy?

— I'm not able to speak with you. Please wait for my patron.

How do I stall? What do I do? Hermione was desperately trying to recall everything she'd ever read about women's rights in Ancient Rome. Not much. Very little, in fact.

— People claim to have seen a "strange light" during the healing.

Merlin. They knew.

— There was a fire — perhaps it was a trick of the light, — everything inside her turned to ice. — Reflected flames, smoke... It could have looked like anything.

Lie. I need to lie convincingly. Like Malfoy.

The Praetorian stepped closer, and Hermione felt the air grow heavier. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Not threatening, exactly — but there was nothing remotely friendly about any of this.

— Strange light. And healing that happens too quickly. That is not ordinary medicine.

— I... I use particular herbs. From the East. My patron—

— What is going on here?

Hermione hadn't expected to feel such overwhelming relief at that cool, imperious tone. Malfoy appeared as if from nowhere — materialising in the doorway with an expression of aristocratic irritation, arms full of rolled bandages.

Finally.

— Your liberta? Papers, — the Praetorian turned to Malfoy, his voice no warmer for it.

Malfoy set the bandages down on the bench by the door with unhurried ease. His eyes moved across the room — six soldiers, frightened patients, Hector lurking behind the guardsmen.

— Of course, — he said, perfectly calm. — But might I first ask what the matter is? Melania is treating those injured in the fire. I see nothing unlawful here.

Melania. Malfoy spoke exactly as a Roman patrician should — measured, with a faint air of superiority, neither fawning nor hostile.

— Reports of suspicious activity. Magic.

The word hung in the air like a sentence.

That was it. It was over.

Malfoy was silent for several seconds, his face entirely unreadable. Then he gave a slow nod, as though he had just reached a decision.

— Magic? — he repeated, with mild, polished surprise. — That is a serious accusation. Might I see the witnesses?

While the Praetorian was drawing breath to answer, Malfoy produced his wand in a movement so slight it was nearly invisible. Hermione only caught it because she was still kneeling at the burned woman's side — a brief flick of the wrist, concealed within the folds of his toga.

— Confundus, — he breathed, barely moving his lips.

The spell was faint, almost imperceptible. But it was enough. The Praetorians blinked, swayed slightly, and a look of mild bewilderment settled over their faces. In the same motion, Malfoy extended his hand to Hermione.

— Run, — he hissed. — Now.

The Confundus wouldn't last a minute. The soldiers were already exchanging glances, sensing something was wrong.

Hermione didn't argue — she bolted after Malfoy toward the door.

— Hey! — one of the soldiers shouted. — Stop!

But they were already out in the street.

— Stay with me! — Malfoy called, pulling her into the maze of narrow alleyways.

✦✦✦

Draco could hear voices behind them. It felt as though all of Rome was giving chase.

The slap of heavy sandals on stone, the clank of armour, shouted Latin — it all blurred into one continuous roar of pursuit. Every sound hit him like a fist against the chest. Desperate thoughts spiralled through his mind — they were about to be caught, Granger would be sold into slavery or something worse, and he'd be sent to the gladiatorial arena to be finished off by some hulking brute the size of a troll.

Think, for Merlin's sake, think!

And Granger ran beside him — brave, relentless, even as Draco watched her flagging. Her breathing was growing more ragged, her face flushed, but she didn't complain and didn't ask him to stop. They wove through the crowds, trying to lose themselves among merchants, slaves, craftsmen. Draco pulled Granger one way and then another, seizing every chance to disappear. But the Praetorians seemed to share some mystical connection — the moment they vanished down one street, another set of guardsmen would pick up the chase in the next. What in the hell?

You have a wand in your hand, you idiot.

He could Apparate. But where?

In an unfamiliar city, in an unfamiliar century, Apparition could prove lethal. He could materialise inside a wall, underground, mid-air — Splinch in half, leave half himself behind somewhere.

But there was no choice.

At some point, watching Granger lose ground with every step — she was barely staying upright, one hand trailing along the building walls for support — Draco shoved her sharply into a narrow dead-end between two buildings.

— Granger, listen to me carefully, — he breathed, keeping a tight rein on his own panic.

She was scanning frantically for the soldiers, shoulders shaking, breath in tatters. Eyes wide with fear — she was on the edge. Draco pressed her back against the rough stone wall, shielding her from any passing eyes. He could feel her shoulders trembling beneath his hands, could feel the fast, broken rhythm of her heart.

— Hermione.

That was the sound of the name of the only person he would trust with his life right now. If only she could... trust him with hers.

— I need you to trust me. Right now.

— What are you... talking about? — Her voice cracked, rough with exhaustion and fear.

— I can Apparate us out of here. Somewhere safe.

Can I? Hell, I don't know. But if I don't try — we're dead.

— How safe? — She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to catch her breath.

The thunder of the guardsmen's boots was almost on top of them now, their shouts bouncing off the walls, growing louder. They had seconds.

— It's a risk, Granger. — He caught her gaze. — But there's no other way. We're cornered.

An enormous risk. One wrong pull and it was over. But if they stayed — death would find them anyway. No question about it.

Draco watched her chest heave, trapped between his arms and the cold stone at her back. Watched her close her eyes — like a child trying to hide from a nightmare, except this nightmare was perfectly real.

And in that moment he understood that this had become something far greater than a simple partnership for survival.

— Trust me, — he said, low, almost a whisper. — Please.

He remembered saying those words once before. He remembered how she had trusted him. How he had deceived her — turned her into a pawn in his own stupid game, passing her off as a priestess of Isis. And how he had been unable to meet the look in her eyes afterward. That particular shade of disappointment.

Damn it, Granger... I'm asking you. Give me a chance to make it right.

A thud. Sudden, bone-shaking.

Draco pressed himself harder against her instinctively, as if he could somehow shield her from the horror closing in around them.

A searing pain tore through his back. His breath was knocked clean out of him. One of the guardsmen had loosed an arrow. Beneath his right shoulder blade, burning pain bloomed and spread, and a thin thread of warmth began to run down his skin.

Found.

He clenched his teeth and didn't allow himself to make a sound. He couldn't frighten her more than she already was. Couldn't show the fear. Watching her face, feeling the taut, trembling body beneath his hands, Draco waited. Right up until the moment that Granger — eyes still shut tight — gave him a single nod.

She trusted him. Again. In spite of everything.

With one last ragged breath in that narrow alleyway, Draco summoned every ounce of his magic, every shred of his will, and all of his desperation—channeling it into a single Apparition. The last thing he felt before the magical vortex swept them away was the sensation of her total trust and a sharp, piercing realization: if they survived this, he would never betray that faith again.

✦✦✦

One moment Hermione had felt the cold stone wall at the back of her head and Malfoy's hands gripping her shoulders — and now... Now there was soft earth beneath her feet and a sweet floral scent hitting her all at once. It took her eyes a second to register that she was standing in some vast garden. Wild, and beautiful in its abandonment. The complete opposite of the dirty, clamorous Rome they had fled.

Where are we?

No sounds of pursuit. No sounds of a city at all — only silence, broken by distant birdsong and the rustle of leaves...

And Malfoy, collapsed at her feet.

— Oh, Merlin! — it escaped her when she saw the broken arrow shaft jutting from his back and the vivid red stain spreading across the white fabric of his toga. — Malfoy, don't move.

When did that happen? Why didn't he say anything? — the questions spiralled up in a rising tide of panic.

But panic was a luxury she had no time for. Something inside her clicked over, and her mind cleared, narrowed to a single point of here-and-now, her hands already reaching for her medical bag and — closing on nothing. The bag was back at the house.

Her breath faltered for just a moment. No. Not everything was lost. Her wand slipped obediently into her palm and Hermione set about cutting away the fabric, exposing the wound. Fragments of wood and metal from the arrow protruded from just below his shoulder blade. From the small bag tucked beneath the folds of her tunic, she drew out the vial of Essence of Dittany — the very same one, by some twist of fate, that she had used in the prehistoric forest and on her very first patient in Rome.

— Malfoy, this is going to hurt badly, but you need to hold on. — Her voice came out strange to her own ears — detached, but steady and firm.

He was lying face down, his cheek pressed into the grass, but conscious. Even attempting to make jokes:

— This is becoming a tradition, — he muttered into the ground. — Granger-the-Healer rescues Malfoy from certain death.

— Don't talk nonsense, — Hermione said sharply, though somewhere beneath the layer of dread, something shifted and loosened. If he was joking, it wasn't as bad as it could be.

Hermione wrapped both hands around the arrow shaft. The metal tip hadn't gone deep, but it had caught at an awkward angle — pull wrong and she'd tear the muscle.

— On three. One—

— Granger, if you're going to— ow!

Hermione yanked — sharp, decisive, before fear could paralyse either of them. A bright thread of blood sprang onto her hands, but not heavily — the major vessels were clear.

— You said on three! — there was something almost childishly indignant in his voice.

— Lie still, — Hermione ordered, cleansing the wound with a spell. — If I warn people ahead of time, they tense up and it gets worse.

The wound was not as deep as it had first appeared — the arrow had passed between the ribs, catching only muscle and skin. Frightening, painful, but not fatal. He had been extraordinarily lucky; it could have been so much worse. She leaned closer and began applying drops of Essence of Dittany, watching the potion set to work, drawing the inflamed edges together. Malfoy drew a sharp breath and held it, the muscles of his back visibly tightening.

— Bear with me, — she murmured, softer now, pressing a dressing over the top.

— Bearing it, — he turned his head with some effort, and his grey eyes — so alive, full of pain and a strange clarity — met hers. — Thank you.

Only now, with the adrenaline beginning to ebb, did she allow herself to truly take in the place Malfoy had Apparated them to.

— What is this place? — she asked, on an exhale.

Malfoy, who was clearly in considerably more pain than he wished to appear, made an attempt to push himself up onto one elbow.

— An old garden, — he said, looking around with a sudden, unguarded tenderness that crossed his face before he could stop it. — I don't remember whose estate it was. Somewhere in the hills outside Rome. When I was seven, I saw this garden in an illustration in Magical Chronicles of the Empire, and I wanted so badly to be here. I thought it was beautiful…

His gaze drifted across marble columns darkened by time but still magnificent, across statues that had lost a limb or two to the centuries yet kept all their grace. Wild vine clung to the stonework, and the abandoned terraces — where roses must once have bloomed in lavish abundance — had been given over to field poppies and cornflowers. The soft light of the setting sun was painting the scattered clouds in shades of rose and gold. The place was achingly beautiful and achingly melancholy in equal measure.

— I wasn't sure it would work, — he added quietly. — I'm sorry, Granger. It was an enormous risk. I've never Apparated to a memory from a book before.

Hermione looked into his eyes — they seemed almost translucent to her now, the colour of a rain cloud, with glints of blue sky in the grey. So alive. So... Everything was written in them: exhaustion, weakness, and a strange relief. Something clenched inside her, enough to steal half a breath.

— You saved us, — her voice came out rough.

— There was no choice, — he looked away, making a show of studying a blade of grass in front of him. — Either we die getting caught, or we die from a botched Apparition.

The quiet, treacherous tears she hadn't expected came then, rolling down her cheeks and washing away the grime and the mask of composure she'd held in place all day. Everything she had kept locked down through the chase broke loose at once. By some miracle, they were alive. And judging by the silence all around them, safe.

— Can we stay here? — she asked, brushing the moisture from her face with the back of her hand, as though annoyed at herself for the weakness. — By my calculations, at 10:21 tomorrow morning we'll... end up somewhere.

Her faith in the precision of those calculations wavered suddenly. The artefact remained as much a mystery as ever.

A short distance away she spotted a wooden shelter with straw pallets — a resting place for the occasional traveller. She helped Malfoy straighten his torn toga, and they made their way toward it, barely keeping their feet from sheer exhaustion. First she erected a series of protective enchantments over the shelter, one shield after another, until the air hummed with magic. Only then did she allow herself to sink down onto the hard, prickling straw.

Now, in the quiet, the full weight of what had happened was beginning to reach her. They had been found out. They had run. She had abandoned the people who needed her. People with burns and open wounds. What would become of them now? Guilt coiled itself into a tight knot somewhere beneath her ribs.

Malfoy lowered himself onto the adjacent pallet with a grimace, pushing through the pain.

— Don't lie on your back, — Hermione said automatically. — On your side, at least.

— Yes, Doctor, — he gave a faint smile, shifting to get comfortable.

After some time — when her breathing had levelled out and her heart had stopped hammering against her ribs — she sat up. From beneath the shelter the view was one of extraordinary, timeless beauty: the sun, nearly gone behind the horizon, laying its last rose-coloured light across the marble and the green.

— It really is beautiful here, — she said quietly. — I understand why you dreamed of coming.

He didn't answer. They simply sat in the silence that had been given to them, watching the day yield to night, watching the tiny silver points appear one by one in the darkening sky. Each of them lost in their own thoughts.

Hermione turned the fragments of the day over in her mind. A morning full of familiar work, and an evening that had turned everything upside down. They were fugitives now.

— Do you think we'll be home tomorrow? — she asked at last.

— I would very much like that, Granger, — and there was a genuine, unguarded longing in his voice.

She thought about the first time he had called her by her given name. About the way he had put his body between her and the soldiers. About the enormous risk he had taken, trusting a childhood memory to save them both.

Draco Malfoy was not at all who he wanted people to think he was. Behind the outward mask of cynicism and arrogance was someone prepared to sacrifice himself. Someone who had dreamed of beautiful gardens as a child and still remembered the illustrations from old books.

What else is he hiding behind that mask?

— Malfoy, — she said softly.

— Mm?

— Thank you, — she wasn't looking at him, but she could feel the warmth rising in her cheeks.

It was awkward, and... warm. She felt him turn toward her.

— We're a team, aren't we?

A team. Yes. It seemed they were. Now — without any doubt.

✦✦✦

Draco looked at the place he had dreamed of as a child. It was a million times more beautiful than the illustration. His heart constricted with a strange, almost painful tenderness — a childhood dream had materialised at last, but at the worst possible moment of his life. For the first time in this entire month, there was no fear around him, no drunken shouting, no smoke. Only the rustle of leaves and the steady sound of Granger's breathing.

He looked at her, lying twenty inches away. Asleep, just like that, on the rough pallet. Exhausted. Spent. Lips slightly parted, the impression of a straw pressed into her cheek. Something turned over inside him at the sight of her like this — so unguarded.

He Transfigured a blanket. It came out slightly lopsided — his hands were trembling with exhaustion. He draped it over her, careful not to touch. But when he adjusted the edge at her shoulder, his fingers caught a strand of hair. Soft. Smooth. Like silk. He pulled his hand back as though burned.

Draco lay carefully down on his left side, unable to look away from the sleeping figure beside him. The way her curls had come loose, spread across the straw in a chestnut halo. The way her lashes quivered softly in sleep, casting shadows on her cheeks. He lit the faintest Lumos — just to see her better. The woman who had saved his life. Who had healed his wounds. Again.

Why do you do it, Granger?

In that desperate moment when he had covered her with his body, Draco hadn't recognised himself. Where had it come from — that instinct, animal and unthinking, to protect. To put himself between her and whatever was coming. To take any pain, as long as it didn't reach... her.

He studied the freckles on her face — tiny constellations he had never noticed before. Or never allowed himself to notice. He saw a small cut on her forehead — from the fire, probably. She had been saving everyone else, with no thought for herself at all...

His hand moved of its own accord, reaching to touch, to heal — and he stopped himself halfway.

He found that he wanted her never to be hurt again. Never. Wanted no drop of her blood to fall.

Her "dirty" blood — the thought pierced him with its own absurdity.

Something cut sharply through his chest. He remembered everything. Every taunt he had thrown at her as a child. How easily that word — the one he now despised with every part of himself — had come to his lips. To the child he had been, it was nothing more than an insult, confirmation of his family's superiority. But when he watched Bellatrix — his aunt — scream Mudblood and carve into Hermione with a knife... In that moment Draco understood that it had never been a game. That the word had always been a weapon. That every time he had spat it in her face, he had wounded something in her that couldn't be seen.

Who could have told that Draco then that this very Mudblood would one day save his life. That he would lie beside her in ancient Rome and... be unable to look away.

This was Granger. The one he had been stranded in the past with for two months now. The one he had shared a tent with, shared a single room in the insula. For days he had been desperately driving away the thought — the one that kept returning regardless — that this was no longer simply Granger.

That she had become... something more.

He had refused to the last to admit that he admired her. Her courage, bordering on madness. Her desperate need to care for people — even for him, a former Death Eater. He had watched her every day and understood: she made no distinction between those who deserved help and those who didn't. Rich or destitute, free or enslaved — it made no difference to her. She gave the same of herself to each one, held every life as something that mattered. Even here, two thousand years before their time, she managed to remain a true Gryffindor. Saving, healing, protecting. And that... that was dismantling something in Draco's understanding of the world. She behaved nothing like anyone he had ever known.

And I? Who am I beside you?

Her brows drew together in some troubled dream, and she gave a small, quiet moan. Her exhausted mind was apparently offering up unpleasant images.

But that soft, almost defenceless sound turned everything inside Draco upside down. Heat moved through him, and his heart began to beat so loudly he was afraid it would wake her. He went perfectly still, not daring to draw breath.

Devil take it, what is happening to me? When did this start? Why did it start?

We're a team — he repeated his own words silently, clinging to them like a lifeline.

Nothing more than a team. Partners in misfortune. She was the one who had saved the entire wizarding world, once. He was the one who had done nothing while she was tortured in his own home.

But he allowed himself... to look. Because right now, in the dark, by the faint light of his Lumos, in this small paradise pulled from somewhere deep in his memory, she was—

Yes, damn it, yes! She was beautiful!

Not just beautiful—she was devastatingly, shamelessly, wrongly beautiful. He, Draco Malfoy, had no business thinking of Granger this way.

He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tight. When had those unruly curls stopped being a "bushy mess" and become something he longed to touch? When had those brown eyes—now hidden beneath her lids—become something he wanted to drown in?

Then a sudden thought struck his chest, stealing his breath—she had Weasley. That ginger idiot of hers, who was probably scouring all of London for her right now. He wondered, did she miss him? Did she think of him as she fell asleep? Did she see him in her dreams?

Jealousy flared, twisting his insides—illogical and corrosive. Why? Why should he even care?

Why did it burn so much?

He didn't even want to think about it. About her returning to Weasley. About him holding her, kissing her…

He adjusted the blanket that had slipped from her shoulder. The movement sent a jolt of pain beneath his shoulder blade—a reminder of how she had tended to his wound, leaning so close he could feel her breath against his skin.

Granger… Her-mi-o-ne…

When had she become "Hermione" in his head?

He extinguished the Lumos and drifted into a sleep where the line between desire and reality finally vanished.

He dreamed of a beautiful Roman house with a sun-drenched atrium. He, a patrician in a snow-white toga, tenderly embraced his wife, kissing her temple and whispering in her ear until she laughed. Her face was a blur, but he could clearly see the mass of chestnut curls and a dusting of freckles on her bare shoulder.

And even in his sleep, he knew it was wrong.

And even in his sleep, he didn't care.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke at dawn. Without opening her eyes, she already knew — the sun had barely crested the horizon, the air cool and damp with dew. After so many weeks in the past, she had somehow learned to feel time against her skin.

Malfoy was asleep. His platinum hair had fallen into an endearing disarray; one hand tucked beneath his head, the other resting loosely on the straw. Hermione watched him for a moment — he looked so calm. So unguarded.

She found a Transfigured blanket draped over her. Soft, warm, smelling of something elusive and domestic. Wool? No, something more considered — Malfoy had clearly spent time on the details.

Wait… what? Malfoy?

Who else? She remembered falling asleep curled on bare straw. And waking up... covered. Hermione smiled. It came out slightly strained — yesterday's events flared in her mind with painful clarity. Somewhere back there, in Rome, people remained...

I did everything I could.

She felt it then — a long-forgotten sense of helplessness at the sheer weight of it all. Once, long ago, on the battlefield at Hogwarts, she had made her peace with the agonising truth that not everyone was meant to survive that day. But here, in Rome, there was something strange and torturous about accepting a different truth entirely — she had fought desperately to save people who, in her own time, had long since crumbled to dust. Every life rescued was already condemned. Perhaps not today, not from the fire, but…

Hermione rose carefully, trying not to wake Malfoy. Her body protested — a night on a hard straw pallet made itself known in her back and neck. She supposed she had grown used to discomfort by now: a rigid bed instead of a proper mattress, Scouring Charms instead of a shower, the constant low-level readiness to run or fight for her life. War and time travel — excellent tutors in the art of survival.

She slipped off her rough leather sandals and walked through the soft grass barefoot. The dew was cold against her soles, but it was… pleasant. Alive. Real. She wanted to drink in this place properly, all of it, down to the last moment. Because soon — in a few hours — the artefact would activate, and they would find themselves… where? In the next nightmare? Or, finally, home?

Merlin, Jesus, Jupiter, Zeus, Isis, and whoever else is listening — how many more ways can we beg to go home?

She walked the perimeter of their temporary shelter, taking in the terrain in the morning light. The place truly was beautiful — green hills covered in young vineyards, olive groves, a small lake glinting in the distance. And silence. Blissful, unhurried silence after the chaos of Rome. She even found blackberry bushes laden with ripe fruit, a pair of apricot trees heavy with pale yellow plums. She picked one berry, tried it — extraordinary. Sweet and tart at once, with a faint astringency, the juice bursting across her tongue.

She was already heading back to their camp with a full Transfigured basket, looking forward to surprising Malfoy with fresh fruit. From a distance she spotted the platinum head — he was awake. Sitting exactly where he had slept. Not moving.

— Look what I found — blackberries, apricots, all sorts! — she said, drawing closer, that fluttering anticipation rising inside her. Soon the artefact activates, soon we'll— — Come and eat! Malfoy?

Something was wrong. Something was definitively wrong.

His eyes—usually so vivid, so expressive—sometimes narrowed with mischief, sometimes bright with genuine interest. At times thoughtful and almost tender, like when he told her about his childhood hobby.

But now… For a moment, she felt a chill of terror. His gaze was vacant. Dead.

Then he blinked sharply—once, twice—and life flooded back into his grey irises. He stood in one fluid motion, brushing stray bits of straw from his clothes. A flick of his wand, and the Roman attire transformed: the toga vanished, replaced by his usual black trousers, a thin black jumper, and boots polished to a mirror shine. His movements were precise, practiced—he truly was a master of Transfiguration. Every detail was in place; every crease was perfect.

She noticed the blanket was gone. Simply vanished into the air, as though it had never existed.

— We should go, — his voice was flat, drained of colour. — With any luck, this artefact will finally take us home.

He wasn't looking at her. He was looking somewhere past her, to the side, at the ground beneath his feet — anywhere but at her.

What's happening inside your head, Draco Malfoy? What were you thinking, sitting here alone at dawn? What was in that emptiness you just came back from?

But Hermione said nothing. She thought she understood. She remembered seeing that same look on Harry's face when he was practising Occlumency. Malfoy was building walls. Shutting himself away — from her? Why?

She nodded in silence and followed his lead. Stepped behind the straw shelter, changed quickly back into her familiar jeans and t-shirt — the very clothes she had been wearing when, once upon a time (or was it only a month ago?), she had stood in an ancient forest. Strange, how foreign they felt now, after the Roman tunic. Tight, awkward, too… modern.

The basket of fruit sat untouched on the ground.

The remaining two hours until the artefact activated stretched on endlessly. Malfoy simply sat on a rock and gazed into the distance, at the hills and the vineyards. His profile might have been carved from marble — motionless, cold, perfect. Now and then his lips moved almost imperceptibly, as though he were conducting some internal argument, sparring with an invisible adversary.

Hermione stopped trying to speak to him. She took out the artefact instead, and her fingers traced the engraved symbols for what felt like the hundredth time — desperately, as though the missing piece might finally reveal itself if she just looked hard enough. The ancient symbols wound into patterns that defied every system of logic she knew. No structure. No textbook she had ever read.

Pull yourself together. Please, just pull yourself together.

But how do you pull yourself together when everything inside you is hammering — your heart, your thoughts, your fear? When a treacherous trembling seeps down your spine with the understanding: she doesn't know. Hermione Granger, top of every class at Hogwarts, hasn't the faintest idea where the artefact will throw them next. No framework, no instructions. Still no contingency plan for stuck in the past with Draco Malfoy and an unpredictable artefact.

Time moved strangely — rushing, then crawling, as though mocking her attempts to calculate it. The sun climbed higher; the shadows grew shorter. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas sang. An ordinary day in the Italian countryside, second century AD. For everyone but them.

For the girl who was used to having answers. And the boy who acted as though questions didn't exist.

When the artefact flickered and every symbol blazed to life at once — they both stood, as if on command. The distance between them — those same few steps that had separated them all morning — suddenly felt insurmountable. And then he reached out and took hold of her forearm, gently. The touch was careful. Almost weightless. Hermione looked up and met his storm-grey eyes. The emptiness was gone — now there was far too much inside them. It was disorienting.

We're moving on. Or going home. Please. Let it be home.

And then the vortex took them, tearing through space and time, carrying them away from this small paradise into the next unknown where and when. The last thing she felt before the world shattered — his fingers tightening around her arm.

✦✦✦

Hermione stumbled, fighting to stay upright. The world was still spinning, her stomach clenched with the now-familiar nausea of displacement through time. But the firm grip on her forearm kept her from falling — Malfoy held her until she found her footing.

When the dizziness passed and her vision cleared, she looked around. A forest. A forest again, but different — no towering ferns, no Italian cypress trees, just familiar oaks and ash. England? Diffuse light filtered through the canopy — daytime, but which year? Which century?

— Tempus, — she heard Malfoy's strained voice beside her. His wand was trembling in his hand.

Golden numbers hung in the air: 3 June, 1353.

A few seconds of silence. And then:

— Shit. Shit! SHIT! — Malfoy exploded. — Bloody artefact! Bloody past!

He released her arm and swung away, driving his fist into the nearest tree. The bark splintered. His knuckles came away bloody. Hermione watched him and understood — he was in pain. Not from his split hand, but from the understanding that they were not home. They were in the past again. Stranded again, in another unknown somewhere. She wanted to scream herself. To sob. To beat her fists against the trees just as he was doing. But…

1353. The mid-fourteenth century. If we're in Europe…

— We need to work out where we are, — she forced herself to speak steadily, even as everything inside her was shaking.

A gap was visible between the trees — a road? She took a step toward it.

— We're in the bloody past, Granger! — Malfoy spun to face her, and she flinched involuntarily at the fury in his eyes. — What else is there to understand?! We're stuck again! Again! Give me that damned artefact!

He thrust out his hand — bloodied, trembling with rage.

Hermione instinctively clutched the metal disc tighter, pressing it against her chest.

— Don't. We have no idea how it works. If you break it—

— If I break it?! — Malfoy took a step toward her, and she stepped back. — It's already broken, Granger! Or haven't you noticed? We were supposed to go home! HOME! And instead—

He swept his hand at the forest surrounding them.

— I hate this! — his voice cracked. — I hate this bloody artefact! I hate this entire situation! I hate—

He stopped. His gaze lingered on her, and something flashed in his grey eyes — despair and raw pain.

Hate you?

Hermione felt her heart physically contract. It hurt to watch him come apart. It hurt to see the fragile bridge they had built between themselves over these past days — working side by side to save people from the fire — crumbling before her eyes. It hurt to recognise her own helplessness.

Malfoy, so composed just yesterday, was now simply a lost, furious, broken person. Same as her.

— We need to work out what to do next, — she said firmly, hearing her own voice waver.

Silence. She could see the knuckles of his uninjured hand white with tension. The muscle jumping in his jaw. The way he was fighting himself — fighting the rage, the despair that had seized him whole.

— We have to, Malfoy, — Hermione gathered everything she had left — every scrap of courage, every reserve of strength. — We don't have a choice. We have to survive and wait for the next full moon. We have to figure out the artefact. We have to—

— Have to, have to, have to! — he almost spat the words. — You always know what we have to do, don't you, Granger? Always so correct, always so—

He looked her over with an expression that held equal parts contempt and something sharper.

He's back. The real Draco Malfoy was back. Cold, cutting, cruel. Not the one who had draped a Transfigured blanket over her in the night. Not the one who had put himself between her and the Roman guards. Not the one who had held her hand before the jump. Had that Malfoy been an illusion? A temporary lapse? And this one, then — this was the reality. Something inside her gave a sharp, clean stab of pain. A glass shard of truth, driving itself in just below the ribs.

Not now. Feel it later. Think about it later. Right now, survive.

— Do whatever you like, — she said, level now, turning away. — You can stay here and have your breakdown. I'm going to find out where we are and what's happening.

She turned and walked toward the gap in the trees. Every step was an effort — her legs were shaking with fear and exhaustion and the weight of not knowing. But she made herself keep going. One step. Another. Another.

Behind her — silence.

But when she emerged onto a rutted dirt road, churned apart by what were clearly cart wheels, she saw a stone tower in the distance with narrow arrow-slit windows, and caught in the air the smell of smoke — ominous and cold. And that was when she understood: she could not do this alone.

The fourteenth century. England, most likely. A world still pulling itself back together after the Black Death.

They had landed in a genuine hell. And they would have to walk through it together, whether they wanted to or not.

✦✦✦

Draco stood in the forest for several minutes after Granger left. Staring at the blood on his knuckles. The physical pain was almost pleasant — it drowned out the other kind, the inner kind, the kind that made him want to scream himself raw.

This damn artifact is playing with us! Home. I just want home.

But there was no home. There was only this godforsaken forest in this godforsaken fourteenth century, and Granger, who—

No. Don't think about that.

He tightened his bloodied fist, feeling the pain pulse through it. Last night he had allowed himself a weakness. An unforgivable weakness.

They were meant to be back. They should be at the Ministry right now, shaking hands and parting ways for good. She to her ginger idiot Weasley and her career; he to the ruins of the Malfoy name. The end, damn it!

Instead they were stuck. Again. And now they would have to—

A dull ache from a half-healed wound somewhere beneath his shoulder blade jogged his memory. A Roman guard's arrow. A permanent reminder of the moment he had, with rather embarrassing desperation, wanted to protect her.

Occlumency had managed to wall off the rage, at least — leaving only the bare essentials of continued existence. He cleared the blood from his knuckles with a terse flick of his wand, forced himself to move, and walked out of the trees. And saw her — sitting alone at the roadside, hunched over the artefact.

The walls shuddered. Something inside him contracted, lurched, howled. A new feeling, unfamiliar, alarming. The urge to walk over and put his arms around her. To tell her it would be all right, that he would find a way to get them home, that he—

Shut up.

Draco reinforced the wall mentally. Brick by brick, the way his aunt had taught him. The way his father had repeated, like a refrain: Emotions are weakness, Draco. Malfoys do not show weakness.

He walked over to her and stopped a pace away. Extended his hand.

— On your feet, Granger. No point sitting there feeling sorry for yourself.

She looked up, sweeping him with those impossible brown eyes, expression thoroughly unimpressed — but she took his hand. Her fingers were cold and trembling faintly.

Don't think about that. Don't feel it.

Draco studied the arrow-slit tower jutting above the treeline across an open field. The architecture was familiar — he had seen its like on old engravings in the Manor library. England. Almost certainly England.

— We need to change, — he said, businesslike, drawing his wand.

Without asking permission, he directed it at her. The jeans and t-shirt Transfigured into a simple woollen summer dress, grey-blue, long, with narrow sleeves.

— Saw something like it in the portraits at the Manor, — he said, examining the result with a critical eye. — Though I'm not certain I've got it quite right.

His turn. A sweep of the wand and his own clothes began to shift. A figure surfaced in his memory — from one of the family tapestries — a wizard of the fourteenth century in a dark mantle with embroidered trim. The fabric obligingly took the right shape, and on his feet appeared pointed leather boots, soft-soled and absurdly impractical.

Granger looked him over from head to toe. And then she laughed. Quietly, but with complete sincerity.

Draco raised an eyebrow.

— What?

— Malfoy, that is absolutely not what the local Muggles are wearing. — A small smile, and something warm spread through him, uninvited.

Draco sighed and cursed himself internally.

Granger drew her wand, glancing around quickly — no one. A wave, and the heavy mantle began to change. Grew shorter, simpler. Became dark brown breeches tucked into plain leather shoes. A grey linen shirt with a lace-up collar. A short sleeveless jerkin over the top in rough-woven fabric. Ouch, it was scratchy.

— Better, — she said, surveying them both. — Not the height of fourteenth-century fashion, but better to look like poor travellers than wealthy ones worth robbing.

Draco merely nodded, hiding her smile deeper behind his mental walls.

— Let's go, — he said, turning to the road. — We need to find shelter before dark.

✦✦✦

They had been walking along the deserted road for several hours. In silence.

The sun had climbed to its peak and was now tilting westward. The road was badly rutted, deep wheel-tracks from carts cutting through the earth, but clearly in use. A good sign — settlements nearby. Draco walked slightly ahead, ears tuned to the sounds around them. His back ached from yesterday's wound and the long walk, but he ignored it. He was sifting through everything he knew about this period. His knowledge ran mostly to magical history; about Muggle medieval life he knew a frankly embarrassing nothing.

Granger walked behind him, stubbornly keeping pace, though he could see she was exhausted. She didn't complain. She never complained.

— You know, — she said suddenly, and he startled. — Nicolas Flamel is somewhere out there right now. He's barely twenty, just beginning to study alchemy. He won't create the Philosopher's Stone for another thirty years.

Draco gave a short hum. Of course she knew the exact dates.

— The whole wizarding world is in the grip of an alchemical fever at the moment, actually, — she went on, clearly trying to fill the oppressive silence. — Wizards experimenting with the transmutation of metals, searching for the Elixir of Life. There was a rather celebrated alchemist, Oswald Thornton — he was the first to attempt a systematic approach to—

Insufferable know-it-all, Draco thought, with something that was almost a smirk. And yet, strangely, her lecture was doing something to him — something almost calming, quietly restoring his sense of equilibrium.

— …and incidentally, — she paused for effect, — Hogsmeade has existed for roughly three and a half centuries by now. If we are in England, then…

— Don't even think about it, Granger, — Draco said. — That is the single worst idea available to us.

— But why? We could—

— And what exactly would we say? — He stopped and turned to face her. — Hello, we've accidentally time-travelled from the twenty-first century, any chance of a room? Oh, and would you like us to demonstrate spells that won't be invented for another few hundred years?

She opened her mouth to argue. He pressed on:

— Granger, use your head. One careless move and we could return to a world where— — He stumbled over the words for just a moment. — Where the war never ended. We need to disappear among the Muggles. Again. Lie low for a month, no one the wiser.

— But it's dangerous out here! The Plague is still raging!

— Less dangerous than rewriting history, — he said flatly, turning to face her. — Or would you rather go back and find the Weasleys never existed?

She went pale — suddenly, visibly — and he knew he had struck too precisely.

And who told you to open your mouth?

— We need to be very careful with magic as well. I'd rather not see you… either of us… burned at the stake. — Draco turned back to the road and kept walking.

Granger followed him in silence.

Don't look back. Don't look at her. Move forward and do what needs to be done. Survive. Everything else — everything else, lock it away.

✦✦✦

Malfoy had a point. Interfering with the course of history was out of the question — even if, as it seemed to her, the stream of events was ultimately fixed. She almost let pass the fact that he had mentioned Ron. Surely he hadn't carried that schoolboy rivalry all this way?

Perhaps lying low really was the better strategy. Going deep into the forests again, the way they had before.

But she was angry at him. Properly, quietly angry. She had swallowed his breakdown only because being alone in the fourteenth century was more frightening than being with an enraged Malfoy in it. She tried now to recall everything she knew about this period: the collapse of faith, the Black Death, brigands and looters, the Crusades.

She had simply tried to restore some semblance of normality between them — in the only way she knew. Talk about something neutral, shift to practical problems, find a solution. It had always worked with Harry and Ron. Even in the darkest stretches of the Horcrux hunt, she could pull them back from despair through planning, through concrete action.

But she saw quickly that it didn't work with Malfoy. His defences had been honed over years. And the strangest thing — she understood that. She understood it because over these two months she had learned to read his silences.

Then he stopped, putting a hand on her shoulder. She followed his gaze and understood at once — in the distance, a man was kneeling in prayer at a wayside cross. A monk, by the look of the brown habit. When he rose, she could make out grey hair framing a smoothly tonsured crown.

— Perhaps we could ask him the way to the nearest town? — Hermione whispered.

They stood frozen, watching the monk brush down the rough cloth of his habit and turn toward them.

— We need a story, — Malfoy said under his breath, eyes fixed on the approaching figure. — Quickly!

— We're pilgrims, — Hermione breathed. — We got separated from our group—

— Brother and sister? — he said.

— Cousins. From… from the northern counties. Minor gentry of some kind, — she was thinking frantically, trying to reconstruct the map of medieval England.

— We were robbed, — he continued, picking up the thread.

— Bandits. They took everything. We barely got away.

Their whispers cut off as the monk drew level with them. He stopped at a respectful distance, and his gaze moved over their — clearly rather peculiar — clothing.

— God's peace to you, travellers, — he said, in the lilting cadences of Middle English.

— And to you, — she hesitated, reaching for the right words. — We… we are trying to find our way.

— Come you from far afield? — his eyes were still studying the fabric of her dress.

— From Cumberland, — she said, the first northern county that came to mind. — We were bound for Canterbury. But we… became separated from our party. We were attacked.

The monk crossed himself, and his face folded into an expression of sorrowful concern.

— God have mercy. Dark times, dark times. Has the Plague not reached your parts? Have you no fever? No weakness in the limbs? — His voice grew sharper, more guarded.

Hermione felt a chill move down her spine. Of course. The Plague.

— No, — she said quickly. — We are well. No fever.

The old man pressed his palm carefully to Hermione's forehead, then Malfoy's — who twitched with fastidious distaste. Satisfied that neither ran hot, he relaxed slightly and crossed himself again.

— Thanks be to God. Forgive me — caution is our first commandment now. The pestilence has taken too many. What are your names?

— Draco, — said Malfoy, clipped.

— Hermione, Draco's cousin, — she added, pressing her hands into fists to hide the trembling. — We are looking for shelter, but we have no money at all. Could you perhaps tell us where we might find lodging in exchange for work?

The old man considered this.

— Can you read?

— Our parents saw to it that we learned Latin and letters, — Hermione answered carefully. — And so, holy father—

The monk interrupted her, smiling.

— The only Father here is the Lord our God. I am merely a servant — and not the most diligent one at that. I am Brother Thomas, of the Abbey of Saint Edmund. I had walked to the neighbouring village, and stopped to pray at this holy place. — He indicated the wayside cross.

Hermione went thoroughly scarlet. She had a very poor grasp of ecclesiastical ranks and had been quite certain they were all called holy father…

— Your names are rather unusual… — He pursed his lips, as though quietly weighing something. — I can offer you a place at our abbey. We ask no money, but we will need help: the roof is letting in water, and the manuscripts in the scriptorium are suffering from damp. Brother August has lost most of his sight — he cannot copy any longer. And I am no longer young myself… We need willing hands and clear heads.

Hermione exchanged a glance with Malfoy.

— We are prepared to work. For board and lodging.

Brother Thomas studied their faces once more, carefully.

— Well then — if you are prepared to work honestly… Come. The abbey is not far — half an hour's walk. — Brother Thomas set off along the road, gesturing toward the tree line. — I should warn you from the outset — our life is a strict one. We work from dawn to dusk. The cells are small, and there is little warmth.

— We are not accustomed to comfort, — Hermione assured him, thinking privately that they only needed to wait out a single month.

— We shall see about that, — the monk said, with a small shake of his head. — It is God's will that we help one another in these troubled times.

✦✦✦

The sun was tilting toward sunset when they finally saw the silhouette of the abbey on a low hill. The June evening was warm and clear, smelling of wildflowers and fresh-cut grass. Golden light lay in soft bands across grey stone walls, partly covered in moss and threaded through with ivy.

Brother Thomas walked ahead at an unhurried, measured pace. His brown habit swished through the long grass, and the heavy wooden rosary knocked steadily against his belt.

— Here is home, — he said, pushing open the massive oak gates. — Welcome to the Abbey of Saint Edmund.

Hermione stepped inside and looked around. Everywhere, signs of long neglect. Grass pushing up between the cobblestones, a gaping hole in the roof of one of the towers, the bell tower leaning at a visible angle. And yet something remained — something settling — in these ancient walls. Something that inclined you toward silence and thought.

— The house is small, — Brother Thomas explained, leading them across the central courtyard. — Only three brothers left now, and a handful of orphaned children who found their way to us after the Plague. But there is room enough. Many cells stand empty — choose whichever suits you.

They passed a garden gone half to ruin at the centre of the courtyard, where the remnants of neat beds were still visible beneath the weeds. The air was full of lavender and rosemary — some monk was still tending the herbs.

— These are the guest quarters, — Brother Thomas indicated a row of doors along the western wing. — Rather better than the ordinary cells — they have hearths. And over there — he gestured toward the eastern wing, — the brothers' cells, the plain ones. As you prefer.

Hermione felt the heat rise in her cheeks, sudden and unexpected. Two months she and Malfoy had shared the same space — first the tent, then the cramped room in the insula. And now, without warning, a choice presented itself. A choice between proximity and distance.

— We… — she began and stopped. — That is to say, we need separate—

The words caught in her throat. She glanced sideways at Malfoy and caught his expression — odd, attentive, reading her.

— Of course, my daughter, — Brother Thomas said gently, nodding. — Cousins, naturally. Those two cells there — adjoining, but separate.

He pointed to the rooms in the guest wing.

— Make yourselves at home, — the monk continued. — When you hear the bell, come to the refectory. You must be hungry after the road. Supper is plain, but filling.

Brother Thomas withdrew at his unhurried pace, leaving them alone before two adjacent doors. Hermione stood there, suddenly aware of the absurdity of her own embarrassment. What was the matter with her? It was a purely practical question of accommodation.

— Well then, — she said, with studied lightness. — I'll take this one.

She pushed open the nearest door and crossed the threshold without looking back. Behind her, she heard only the creak of the neighbouring door.

The cell was small and austerely furnished. A narrow bed with a thin straw mattress, a low wooden table, a plain matching chair, a small clothes chest, a fireplace. The only ornament was a wooden cross above the bed head, darkened with age. A small window looked out onto the inner courtyard, where the tops of apple trees were just visible in the evening light.

Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed. The silence was almost ringing. She closed her eyes, and let the quiet of this place work its way slowly into her. Two months of running. Two months of survival. Two months of unrelenting tension. And now — walls, shelter, stillness. Could they afford to breathe, while somewhere out there the plague was perhaps still raging?

She took the artefact out of her beaded bag, along with all the notes and diagrams she had been keeping throughout. Laid everything out neatly, trying to create at least the appearance of control in this tiny space.

Through the thin wall came sounds of movement — Malfoy settling in. Footsteps, the creak of floorboards, muffled sounds. The wall really was thin. Hermione caught herself listening for them.

Strange. I've grown so used to his presence over all this time that the silence feels incomplete.

Somewhere in the depths of the abbey, a bell rang for supper. Hermione stood, straightened her dress, and went to the door. In the corridor she nearly walked into Malfoy — he was coming out of his cell at the same moment.

— Supper?

— Yes, — she said. — I'm absolutely starving.

The refectory was a long, vaulted hall lit by candles in plain wall sconces. Seated at the long table were three men in monastic habits and several children — boys and girls, seven to fourteen or thereabouts. All of them looked up when the travellers entered.

— Ah, here are our guests, — Brother Thomas said warmly, rising. — Brother August, Brother William — this is Draco, and Hermione, of the house of… remind me?

— De Grey, — Hermione said, quickly, the first thing that came to her.

The introductions were brief and courteous. The brothers were men of few words; the children were shy with strangers. Supper proved exactly as promised — a thick vegetable pottage, dark bread, a cup of weak ale. After the long road, it felt like a feast.

— Have you been long on your way? — asked Brother August, a very elderly monk.

— Several months, — Hermione answered. — The road has been… difficult.

— Such times, — Brother William sighed — the youngest of the three. — Plague, brigandry, wars… God is testing us.

— But He protects those who travel with a clean heart, — Brother Thomas added. — As He led you to us.

Hermione looked down into her bowl, feeling a pang of guilt. A clean heart. If the brothers knew who was sitting before them — workers of the Department of Mysteries, from the twenty-first century.

Malfoy sat beside her in silence, methodically finishing his pottage. He too seemed submerged in his own thoughts.

After supper the children cleared the bowls and went to their cells, and the brothers withdrew to prayers. Hermione and Malfoy remained alone in the emptied refectory, the candles burning low, the coals crackling in the hearth.

— Strange place, — he said quietly, scanning the stone walls.

— Peaceful, — Hermione said. — For the first time in a long while, I feel safe.

— Safe, — he repeated slowly. — Yes. I suppose so. Have you worked out the date of the next full moon?

— I'll do that tomorrow.

— Good. — He stood.

They walked to the door in silence. Parted for their cells in silence. Invisible walls — far thicker than the stone ones between their rooms — rose between them without a word.

Hermione undressed and lay down on the narrow monastic bed. Outside, in the full dark, one of the monks was making his unhurried way across the courtyard — steady footsteps on stone flags. Beyond the wall, silence too. Malfoy was apparently already asleep.

Strange…

Two months she had fallen asleep to the sound of his breathing. To the quiet rustle when he turned over in the night.

The abbey breathed with peace. It felt like a place where they could rest, recover their strength, study the artefact properly. A place where they could simply be — not run, not hide, not claw their way through every day.

And Malfoy—

Hermione pushed the thought away. Not the time to think about him. Not the time to examine that strange feeling that had come over her when they went to separate cells. Not the time to try to understand at what point the presence of a man she had once considered an enemy had become something she simply… expected.

Beyond the wall, the bed creaked softly — a familiar sound that had once calmed her in the darkness of other centuries.

This is so strange, she thought, drifting toward sleep. Missing someone who is only a few feet away.