Chapter Text
Unbelievable. It was Potter’s first day as Draco’s boss and he was already demanding something from him. Of course he was. He’d probably dreamt of this moment—dreamt of ordering him around—since their very first meeting at Hogwarts. Now he was the big-boss of Aurors he was well within his remit to order Draco about, and he simply had to lay down and take it. Well, not so simply. He could be difficult, of course. Truthfully, this Auror business was becoming more trouble than it was worth. It had meant to be a means to an end. It was meant to be a way to show the wizarding world that the Malfoy name had been cleared, and he was oh so good at fitting in and being a productive member of society. And of course, there was some fighting of bad guys. That was fun. But as of late there’d been less duelling and more dead leads and random dead wizards, which made any kind of combat extremely difficult. Sometimes Draco considered walking away from it all, returning to a life spent flitting around Europe and seeing what each country had to offer in the way of women. No matter that he’d already done that once before, there was no way it could ever become as drab as this.
As he walked into Potter’s office, Draco entertained the thought again. Europe. Sun. Women. Instead, he was met with four sad grey walls, a desk befitting of a keeper of keys and a weathered chair to match.
“You could at least decorate, Potter,” Draco said as he seated.
“Haven’t had the chance,” he said, thumbing toward the child-sized stack of folders upon his desk. “I’ve brought you in to ask you for a favour.”
“A favour is not work and not within my remit. Frankly, don’t care, so I’ll say no.”
Potter crossed his arms and leant his behind on the desk. “I need a Legilimens.”
“So, it is work?”
“It’s a grey area.”
“How grey? You’ve accidentally killed a wench after you paid her a piece to stick it in and need to hide the body and affair from your wife, or you’ve stolen one too many quills from the stationery cupboard and require me to replace them?”
“Malfoy.” Potter’s patience was waning. No, in fact, patience entirely gone. “Neither of those are grey.”
“Get on with it then, Potter, I’m not amused. I have better places to be.” Better places being at his manor where he’d order the house-elves to make an icy gin martini, his foot-prisons slipped off at the Floo, perhaps even his leg-prisons somewhere along the way, and maybe that witch he’d seen last week lounging somewhere naked around the room. What was her name? Wendy? Willow? Whatever. He had better places to be than in Potter’s fusty office.
Potter had assumed his serious bearing and tone and looked straight into Draco’s eyes for a length before speaking. Something he typically avoided. “It’s Hermione.”
“Immediately no.” Draco shook his head.
“Hear me out.”
“I don’t want to hear anything about Granger. No need. I’ve been living a blissful existence not knowing anything about or having anything to do with that know-it-all. In fact, anytime I see G-R in the Daily Prophet I stop reading and move on, not wanting to burden myself with any information about the witch at all.”
“You must be missing plenty of news about Gringotts and Gryffindor then.”
“Again, blissful existence.”
Potter’s expression was unmoved. “Are you done?”
“I don’t care what you have to say, Potter. It’s a no.” Draco went to move towards the door, then he stopped with a thought. “You need a Legilimens for Granger?”
Potter nodded.
“But you are one.” Proficient, in fact. Not that he’d ever admit such a thing.
“I need someone who doesn’t know her as well as I do.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “You’re worried you’re going to see her doing the dirty with Weasley?”
Potter rubbed at his forehead. “No. Despite those things, it’s far too intimate for me to do it. I need someone who doesn’t know her, doesn’t care what they see, and can find me the information I need.”
“Have you considered just asking her?”
Potter splayed his hands with his frustration.
“Well, thought it was worth asking. Sometimes I’m not sure if you can keep up with the rest of us. You have died before, you know. Heard it can turn the brain to mush.” Draco thinned his mouth as he thought. “Why not send Singh, he’s a fair Legilimens.”
Potter’s mouth pulled down. “I can’t; she likes Singh and I don’t want to ruin that.”
Draco turned so that he faced Potter entirely front on. He scrunched his expression. “Then send Vincent.”
“Same reason.”
“What are you getting at Potter?”
“What I’m trying to say is that she already thinks very little of you. If Hermione ever found out you were the one trying to forcibly get something from the dark reaches of her mind, then there’s a chance she’ll hate you, and that wouldn’t be a loss for you, would it?”
Would it? Draco didn’t know what to think there. On one hand, he didn’t care what anyone thought of him, he knew his worth; on the other hand, he wanted everyone to love him, because, well, he was Draco Malfoy. But it was Granger they were talking about. She was nothingness. Less than nothingness. A little more hate from the bushy-headed Gryffindor brat wasn’t going to mar him at all. In fact, with all of his do-gooding since the war to mend the Malfoy reputation as a not really (only slightly) dark (only when truly needed) wizard, maybe it would be fun to provoke someone again.
“Fine,” Draco said. “I’ll need the usual background info: locations, routines, anything you can provide—”
“Done.” Potter outstretched a folder like any other job. “Everything you need except a photo. I take it you still remember what she looks like.”
“I’m not thick, Potter.” He snatched the folder, flipped it open and at first glance saw the words ‘Muggle’ and ‘bar’ together. “I can already tell you’re going to owe me.”
“Yep, your usual salary.”
Draco shook his head, continuing to look down at the routine and list of upcoming events. “I’ll send an owl when I decide on what my bonus will be.” He had made it to the door when Potter called out.
“And Malfoy, don’t tell anyone that I ordered this. Not another Auror, not your house-elves, not even your diary; and definitely not Hermione.”
“Fine,” he said. “But within those parameters I can still add it into my Weird Sisters fan fiction.”
“Malfoy—” He clipped the end of Potter’s irritation, closing the office door behind.
•·················•·················•
Apparently in an effort to complete this ridiculous case, Draco would have to learn about Granger. He had fibbed when he told Potter he went out of his way to ignore her. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought of her enough to even consciously ignore. He might’ve seen something written about her once or twice, and always in the context of the Ministry. But as he soon came to learn, she’d given that away fairly early on. No wonder he hadn’t had the displeasure of bumping into her in the hallways.
Granger had instead moved on to healing, working at St Mungo’s, and supposedly a pioneer in her field of research. And here Draco was, assuming she’d just been playing house with Weasley, popping out several more unnecessary red-haired and freckled children for the world. Turns out, the background information hadn’t noted a current nor recent relationship. Though there were several exes, including Roger Davies (fine, he had that jaw), Ron Weasley (what was she thinking?) and James Dawlish (now wondering if she needed glasses).
This would be easy. According to the file, Granger was an important and upcoming witch in the healing field, and that came with some public responsibilities. She also appeared to have plenty of friends and social occasions, despite him thinking she was annoying enough to drive absolutely everyone away. Finding her alone would have been a task—particularly without being noticed—and probably needlessly terrifying for her. Instead, Draco had decided he just needed to pick one of Granger’s public events and then, hidden in the crowd, he could have a quick rifle through her brain and be done with it. Potter’s file said he just needed a memory about a recent research discovery she was keeping tight-lipped about. Easy. But what if she was a lightweight? Maybe she’d fall over or faint? Whatever; not his problem to deal with. Truthfully, he wasn’t giving himself enough credit. Draco was a nonverbal Legilimens; he knew he had a delicate touch and was confident he would be able to avoid a scene.
Patil Party. That was the next public event in Granger’s diary. He needed intel. He needed to feel out the situation before he infiltrated Granger’s mind. She wouldn’t think twice if she ‘randomly’ crossed paths with Draco after all these years. After all, he’d seen every other stupid Gryffindor. Dean Thomas had become chummy with Blaise, and Dennis Creevey worked at the Ministry floor below.
The Patil party was at Oliver’s, a poorly lit basement bar in London that played up the dingy look with peeling paint on the walls and worn leather furniture. Fortunately Draco had frequented it many a time and knew the layout. Though it was owned by a wizard, it was in a Muggle part of town so they typically overran the place and consequently, he hadn’t been there in some time. Draco, in all black, Apparated directly into a stall of the men’s bathroom. Empty, luckily. The persistent bass bounced at the stall door and then seemed to double in volume as he opened it and walked past a confused Muggle at the basin.
Draco hadn’t a clue what a Patil Party was. From where he stood at the bar, it looked like a typical Saturday night for the establishment. Men and women were pocketed in the tables in shadowy corners, and all the heathens danced in their centre of the floor. Draco couldn’t understand it. He could consume an entire bottle of Firewhisky and still not feel the need to move his body in that way.
Soon, Draco had spotted the namesake of the party and it all made sense. In fact, he spotted two. The Patil sisters he vaguely recalled from Hogwarts. Urgh. One of them was dancing with Weasley, if you call that dancing. More like gyrating. Draco made a mental note to report his co-worker to Potter for gross assault of his eyeballs. Certainly a workplace hazard.
Though, where was Granger?
Draco downed the rest of his vodka neat and stalked towards the dance floor for a better view, edging away from Weasley’s vicinity. The lights were frenetic, pulsing with the beat of the music, and the faces in the crowd came to him in fits and bursts. He parted the dancers with zero effort, the sweaty and intoxicated people at his left and right repelling away as though he held a force. As the white light flashed down in his direction, he found exactly what he was looking for. Or at least he thought he had. Granger in a thin-strapped short and green fitted dress, matching heels and sleek wavy hair. As she approached, she had a smirk set upon her expression. It was almost as though she had expected him.
They passed each other in the middle of the writhing, dancing bodies, both without time to spare for each other and far more important places to be without one another.
“Mudblood,” Draco said in passing, a knee-jerk reaction.
“Ferret-boy,” replied Hermione, venom on her tongue.
Draco kept walking until he was outside Oliver’s and on the London street, drinking in the crisp air. Then he rounded a corner and Apparated. That had been enough; more than enough. Perhaps even too much. He had only needed to observe her, and he probably shouldn’t have spoken to her.
Oh well, that was future-Draco’s problem. With the vodka in his system and the gin pick-me-ups from earlier in the night, he longed for his bed. He slept well, drifting away with the thought of how easy this little Grey Case would be. Then, with the morning sun barely ready to peep through the heavy blinds, he awoke with the image of green-dressed smirking Granger on the backs of his eyelids, the imprint of an entirely unwanted dream.
He swept a palm up his forehead. “Fuck.”
•·················•·················•
Draco entered Potter’s office without so much as a grunt and chucked Granger’s folder onto the desk right before him. “Can’t do this—actually, won’t do it.”
Potter stood. “Has she threatened you already?”
“In a sense.”
“What?” He screwed up his expression. “Just tell me why you can’t do it.”
“It’s Granger, that’s why.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I have my reasons.”
“And I have mine.” He picked up the folder. “You need to take this, Malfoy. You’ve stuffed up the last two assignments due to complete inattention on your part. I need you to show me why you should still be here, or Fawley is going to make me fire you. And as much as my thirteen-year-old self would love that, I don’t fancy making my life more difficult. We don’t have enough Aurors as it is.”
Would it be so bad if Draco no longer had this job? No —Europe. Sun. Women. Remember? Would it be somewhat pathetic if everyone learnt he was fired? And fired by Potter at that? Well, he didn’t like the answer to that question. Draco straightened his spine. “Grown soft on me Potter?”
“Look, we both know you don’t need this job. This—” he proffered the folder— “is key to whether someone else makes that decision for you.”
To be perfectly honest, Draco returned to his manor and had a pathetic whinge to himself. Then he thought of some belated curses (both verbal and magical) for Potter, and a neat suggestion for where he could stick Granger’s folder. As he reclined back along the green velvet sofa and his glass on the occasional table replenished with another gimlet from the kitchens, Draco considered how sometimes he felt anchorless, floating around without knowing which way to go. With his father long gone and his mother not around to force him out as England’s Most Eligible Wizard Bachelor, he was not certain what was to come next. The whole wife and child thing hadn’t appealed. The Auror work as of late was a mediocre use of his time. Then what? What was the use of all this money and youth and charisma if it was wasted with monotony and misdirection?
Draco sat up and downed his gimlet in one. He was not going to find any answers to his questions in this manor. He flipped open the Granger folder and searched for today’s date.
“Ah,” Draco said.
It was an event he had previously declined. Although he was often invited to everything thanks to the diligent work on his part to rectify the Malfoy name, he rarely accepted anything these days. He’d done his time. Fortunately this event seemed relatively meaningless, and they probably wouldn’t care if he decided to show without an RSVP. And best of all, there would most definitely be no thumping bass or gyrating Weasley at this one.
After a shower, shave, and scented in his most expensive cologne, Draco dressed in pristine black wizarding robes and set off for the Floo. Tonight was the night the little Grey Case was put to bed.
The venue was the manor of Delius Selwyn, a wizard he had met in passing a few dozen times. Ever since his Death Eater son had disappeared following the war, their family had done all the right things and now appeared fairly innocuous. They were Purebloods welcoming of Muggles, and oddly happy to part with their money. In fact, Draco arrived just as little balding Selwyn had finished an announcement for the funding of something or other at St Mungo’s.
In the large golden ballroom, the hundred or so people clapped politely as Draco loitered at the back wall. This was Granger’s Healer crowd, all extremely academic looking (read: staid), their ball dresses and robes mostly fine, some ill-fitting and threadbare. He hadn’t spotted the target yet. Even still, he flitted in and out of the minds of the people before him. Despite their straight appearances, there were some atrociously devious thoughts about what certain people wanted to put in other guests. Draco pulled his mouth with disgust and then moved along the perimeter of the ballroom. For some reason, he searched for green. Maybe because it was annoyingly stapled to the back of his eyelids.
His eyes caught on stark blood red. A long gown trailing along the parquet floor hugged a perfectly round behind and sported clipped sleeves at the shoulders. The wearer’s hair was brown, yet not bushy in the way he had expected of Granger. Though, last event she had magicked it slick and straight, so what was he to expect?
The woman in red turned just enough that he glimpsed a slither of her visage. It had been so dark the last occasion, the dance lights so stroppy, that he hadn’t captured the entirety of her. Granger was fairer than he remembered. Her lips had been painted red to match her dress, perhaps making them appear plumper than they truly were. She was not the worst sight he had seen.
Draco pulled back behind a group of people so that Granger couldn’t see him. He should have transfigured his nose and hair—changed anything —what was he thinking? Weasley’s previous remark after their last debacle of a mission resurfaced in his mind (“lazy git”) and he tamped it down. He was just ill-prepared, that’s all. And what was the reason for his ill-preparedness? Laziness . Draco inwardly scolded himself. If he had to attend another one of these stupid things because of his crappy planning… no, now wasn’t the time to think about that.
Draco angled to see past the people. He spotted Granger’s elbow. Dainty, he realised. Then her arm came into view, her slender fingers holding a champagne glass, and her breasts pushed high in the red dress. Draco scrunched his eyes tight. Stop that. He rearranged himself so that he viewed only the back of her head, the hazel curls spilling over his shoulders, then he came gently-gently towards her mind. So delicately.
Nothing.
Nothing was there, or otherwise nothing was happening, he couldn’t tell. He pulled back then nudged in again and felt as though he hit something hard.
“What…”
Draco walked around to the other side of the milling people to readjust his view, but there was a blockade in his way. A blonde witch.
“Draco Malfoy,” she said, her eyes salacious.
Bugger. This wasn’t something he had considered either. He was Draco Malfoy and of course he was going to be recognised.
“Rose,” he said evenly.
“I haven’t seen you in some years. I had been thinking of you again recently, so how funny that I should see you tonight—”
“Apologies, don’t have the time to chat,” Draco said, brushing past the witch. Any other time, he would have jumped at what was shaping up to be a reasonable offer, but not tonight. He needed this done with.
But as Draco pushed on around the group of people before him that had seemingly gained more individuals and split into two larger hordes, Granger’s red dress was nowhere to be seen. He needed to undertake a full survey of the room. He weaved between the witches and wizards hearing snatches of boring conversation. Maybe she had left? There wasn’t a spot of red to be seen anywhere.
Then, a group parted and revealed Granger in the middle. She laughed at something a wizard had just said, pushing her head back and revealing her throat in the slightest, all the while the wizard pushed into her space, laying his hand to her elbow. It was like watching animals in the wild. Draco mussed his mouth. It was a bit sickening. He wasn’t here to watch her fawn over stupidly handsome men.
Again, he tried to pry into her mind. He came harder this time and nothing. Again . Not even a stupid memory about books or studying or her many accomplishments.
Granger’s eyes swept along the crowd and Draco held his breath and pulled back behind a man wide enough to hide three of him. He spotted the small red train of the dress sail across the floor between the gap in the portly man’s legs. Granger must have excused herself.
She was on the move.
Granger made her way through the double doors and had rounded the corner before Draco could even dart around the crowds.
Outside the ballroom, he took a sharp left into a hallway adorned with red baroque wallpaper and tall black wainscot. There was a couple loitering against the wall further down, and beyond, the red dress trailing along the dark carpet runner. Draco passed several gold egg-and-dart frames and the witches and wizards inside whispered or smirked as he went. Then, nearing the end of the hall, Granger had seemingly entirely disappeared. Draco looked left and then right at the walls. Just as he noticed the seam of a wallpapered door opening, something had tightened around his wrists. His ankles felt as though they were strapped together.
He was falling.
Falling through an opened door.
He braced for a rap of pain as his back met the tiles; instead, Draco floated down gently. Perhaps even gentler than if he were to lower himself down.
The door shut firmly behind and Granger stood over him, eyebrows firmed and wand drawn. With the invisible restraints suddenly disappeared, Draco clamoured up and back, pulling his wand from his thigh holster and pointing it at Granger.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shot.
Granger pointed a silencing charm at the door, and he realised he’d fallen into a washroom and he was far too close to the toilet for his liking. He righted himself onto his feet and brushed a hand down each arm, then looked into the mirror at the back of his robes.
“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Granger. It hadn’t come out angered like he had expected. It was a legitimate question.
“The floor of a bathroom, Granger. Why would you do that to me?” He pointed several cleaning charms to his robes before turning to take in sight of Granger, who had now crossed her arms and waited impatiently.
“Are you done with looking at your own reflection?”
He could just bind her and get it over with, get that memory here and now. But Draco couldn’t seem to lift his wand to point it at her. He tried to enter her mind covertly, looking her deep in the eyes without uttering a word, and again, he met a wall.
Draco firmed his jaw. “You’re an Occlumens, aren’t you?”
Granger lifted a brow. It was as good as a yes.
“Since when?” shot Draco.
“Since Harry taught me. He thought it would be quite handy to occlude, and I could never deny learning a new skill.”
Draco frowned. “Potter?” He not only knew she was an Occlumens but he had taught her the skill, and somehow it had failed to make her file. “What is going on?” Draco narrowed his eyes. He had a terrible sinking feeling alongside the suspicion that he was being played by the idiot who was supposed to be his boss. What an abuse of power. Draco heated. “What is Potter not telling me?”
“Plenty, I can imagine.”
“Why did he really put me onto you?”
“Look,” began Granger, tilting her chin down, and it was a glimpse of who she had been as a child. She was about to explain something as though it was a passage from a book that everyone else was too simple to understand. “I need a Legilimens, that much is true.”
Draco swept his glance away, suddenly considering all the ways he was going to get back at Potter: Jelly-Legs Jinx first thing tomorrow morning; igniting the pile of folders on his desk; telling his wife about the dead wench he needed to hide.
“And well, to put it succinctly, I need your assistance.”
Draco furled his brows. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, Granger, however I work with your friend—best friend, I’ve been told. We share an office. You simply could have walked in and said, ‘Draco, may I speak with you.’”
Granger scoffed.
“Or there’s this magical way of sending letters: owls, not sure if you’ve heard of them. That was also a choice that could have been made prior to whatever this is.”
Granger sent him an unimpressed look. “Truly, if I’d walked into your office and requested a meeting, you would have said yes?”
“I didn’t say that at all.”
Granger rolled her eyes. “Exactly. Not to mention that the first time we crossed paths after the war you called me a Mudblood. How else was I supposed to bypass your initial hostility?”
“Any other way, Granger.”
There was a protracted silence in which Draco and Granger took stock of one another. It was as though they had both just realised they were cloistered in a bathroom together in the most unusual circumstances. Why have a normal conversation and exchange adult words when you could bind and accost someone in a small space following a roundabout ploy? Draco flicked his sight down the length of Granger. All that aside, red suited her.
“Besides,” Draco said, “I don’t make a habit of using that word anymore. It was almost a reflex when I spotted you the other night. Truthfully, I have an image to keep up now, and it’s a bit of a conflict.” He lifted a shoulder. “And I don’t know why Potter can’t provide you with whatever you want. In fact, I’m going to ask him first thing tomorrow.”
“I can’t use Harry,” Granger said. “In case you haven’t noticed, he’s mainly behind the desk now. Ginny wanted him to pull back on the whole risking his life thing now that he has two little ones.”
“Then I’ll get Singh onto it.”
“Malfoy, it doesn’t matter how many names you produce for me, it won’t work because I need you.”
Draco was struck by that sentence. Anytime a witch had previously said it to him, she was naked in his bed. It shouldn’t have done anything in fairly normal conversation—certainly not from Granger—but here he was readjusting his footing for the entirely out of place shift he’d felt down there.
“I need a proficient Legilimens Auror, someone who can hold their own and can straddle the dark and light wizarding worlds.”
Draco thinned his lips. “That’s not where I thought you were going with that.”
Granger held the tip of her finger to her forehead as though in exasperation.
“What? I’m a particularly good horse rider. Rider of anything, actually.”
“Malfoy, please. Be serious for once in your life.”
He wanted to say he’d had enough seriousness for a lifetime. The war was serious. The aftermath and fallout serious. He never wanted to go back to that. Draco supposed that was one reason he continued with this Auror business; he couldn’t go back.
“Will you at least tell me what this entails?” Draco asked.
“I need you to say yes.”
Again with the quirk downstairs. What was wrong with him? Apparently it took nothing these days, he may as well have been fourteen again. Actually, he knew what the problem was. Draco hadn’t had a fuck in at least two weeks, hadn’t even touched himself in one. That was his night sorted.
“Sign this,” pressed Granger. She had procured something from her small red handbag.
“A blank piece of parchment? You don’t have anything more binding? I had been told you were extremely clever.”
“No Unbreakable Vow needed,” she said. “I’m not sure that I think this is worth your life just yet. Nor do I think you’re clever enough not to blurt it to someone and get yourself killed…or put it in your Weird Sisters fan fiction.”
Draco cocked his head. “Great. Suppose Potter told you about my diary too.”
Granger’s red-painted lips spread into a smile, and to be honest, it felt even more exciting than the quirk in his trousers. What the hell was wrong with him? Even still, Draco teetered on a no, simply because it was swotty Granger. Then he thought of how Potter probably set him up to fail, to make sure Fawley could dismiss him without taking any responsibility himself. He despised the thought. He was done with that four-eyes always having one up on him. If he wanted to, he could take his job; and he wanted Potter to know that.
Also, Granger had said she needed him. For some reason, Draco revelled in the thought.
He snatched her quill and signed his name on the parchment. He needed to get out of here before he had any other stupid thoughts involving liking things that came from, or had to do with, Granger’s mouth. “Fine—there.”
“If you tell anyone about this alliance or this mission in any form—any form at all, I’ve cursed various types of phrases—you’ll develop boils all over your face. I know how deeply you care for the way you look, so keep in mind that Marietta Edgecombe still has her scars from fifth year.”
“You’d only be depriving the people who have to look at me, Granger. And what a shame that would be.”
Granger rolled up the parchment and inserted it into her handbag. Then she turned and looked at him sidelong. “I’m really quite surprised how quickly you trusted me there. Perhaps I could have just attended the office.”
Draco gave Granger a look of acrimony.
“I’ll contact you,” she said, turning for the door.
“How? Owl or secret double-crossed rendezvous?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Draco was none too pleased by the fact that his eyes latched to Granger’s behind like a magnet as she departed. Immediately afterwards, he Apparated directly to Wendy from the week earlier, desperate to get out this pent-up urge.