Two (of Three)

Don't get up. I didn't mean to dig up the past. You have to know I didn't mean any of it...okay, that's not true. I meant all of it, but I meant it in the moment. That's got to count for something, right? Everything comes in degrees; it's not all black or white. That's why manslaughter's not murder, not that what I did was a crime. And if it's any consolation, you gave back as good as you got. I vomited all those hateful words out of anger and right now, right here, in this moment, I regret it. I do. But let's be fair here. You can't have it both ways. You said you wanted full disclosure from me. Well, here I am, wholly uncensored for your viewing and listening pleasure...and no, you can't mute me.

The truth is you'd struck a nerve with that throwaway line about Pansy. On any other day, it would've slid right off, another perfunctory insult, but that morning, I was still raw from having rejected her and from her having rejected me. Yes, it was my fault for leaving her at the altar...I jolly well know that...but she'd given up on me, too. Call it a damned self-fulfilling prophecy. Illogical as it may be, her walking away cut a scar which was still scabbing over when you decided to sink your teeth into it. But even you've got to admit this was the turning point in our theretofore nonexistent partnership. I would even go so far as to say it was necessary to soak in the insults we'd slung at each other and find the kernels of truth in them.

When I came back that night, you were waiting for me. Before I'd even taken one step over the threshold, you'd hexed me until the world tilted black. I woke up bound to my chair.

When I could see again, you were peering down at me. "You crazy bitch..." I managed hoarsely, and then you sighed and Conjured a gag.

"Malfoy," you began, my name sharp as blades, "I hoped you'd come in for your shift. Save me the trouble of hunting you down. You had some words for me earlier."

I tugged violently at the bindings around my wrists and legs, but like the way you did all things, they were perfectly fastened.

"Then like the spoiled ingrate you are," you continued, "you ran away before I could respond. You accused me, of all ridiculous things, of being envious. Now jealous of Parkinson, I could maybe understand. It's not as though you know the first damn thing about me." A perverse part of me enjoyed hearing you curse. I liked thinking that beneath all those self-righteous, grumpy layers, some of my disgrace had smudged on you. "But jealous of you?"

You shook your head, pitching your voice lower as if I were a sad head case, a creature to be smothered with pity. "That stretches reality to the breaking point. It's . . . well, it's laughable. And that's what I did. Laugh. After I got over the urge to disembowel you with a fork, that is."

Had you untied my gag then and there, the ranting invective slamming around in my head would've shamed a Scottish sailor. I plotted vengeance.

"It's interesting how fast you forget a negative report from me goes a long way toward sending you back to Azkaban." Twirling your wand between your fingers, you paced back and forth, sweeping your gaze around the room as you spoke. "But unfortunately, I just don't have it in me to be vindictive. You should take notes, Malfoy. This is what's known in the civilized world as being a decent human being. But that's not even the point. It's not like I'm holding my breath waiting for a crumb of humanity from you. I mean, we both know I'd have suffocated long ago. But I did expect you not to be a raging nutcase."

You sighed, tucking back a chaotic strand of brown hair. "But I guess I'm doomed to be disappointed. Not only are you apparently deaf and blind, in addition to inbred and thick, you can't distinguish between having a sense of integrity and being a middle-aged spinster. Not that the ravings of a prejudiced prick matter, but I thought I'd clear something up. I've never lacked for," you paused, weighing your words, "romantic interests and unlike you, I didn't have to ensnare them with poisoned promises and piles of gold. But that, too, is beside the point. I can't help your rampaging around like a crazed animal, but I can and will solve this case."

You fixed an imperious stare on me. "It's the first house-elf homicide in ages, and I won't botch it up just because you'd rather turn a blind eye to your cronies. Got it?"

I grunted some more curses and made another futile attempt to dislodge the ropes. You rolled on the balls of your feet, apparently undecided, but at long last it occurred to you that you couldn't keep me gagged and trussed up in our cupboard of an office forever. Glancing upwards in a silent appeal for heavenly intervention, you pulled off the gag with a weary let's hear it, then look. I narrowly quashed the temptation to bite your fingers, but only because you'd accused me of behaving like a crazed animal, and I am nothing if unpredictable.

"Waited all day to recite that little speech, did you?" I said nastily. "What was that? Draft ten?"

"Malfoy..."

"Flattering. Really, it is. Except I'd rather you'd just gone ahead and blown out my eardrums."

"Malfoy..."

"I think I'm beginning to understand the permanent dumbstruck expression on Weasley's face. It's from your incessant preaching clobbering him upside the head until you'd concussed him stupid."

"All right! You hate me, you hate Ron, you hate everybody. The world got that memo in first year when you decided to bully anything that moved," you snapped. "Now that we've cleared the air, are you going to help me with this case or continue being such a jumped-up bastard about everything? Honestly, I don't even care, Malfoy. You want to go back to lock-up? Good on you!"

I ground my teeth together. "Are you threatening me?"

"What, you think only Slytherins can play hardball?"

"No. But we're smart enough not to make threats we can't back up."

"Oh, believe me, I can back this up. Your evaluation's in the post. And if I don't write every three days to keep it from being owled, it's going to find itself in the hands of the Rehab Committee. Go ahead. Have the last laugh . . . if you want it behind bars!" you said.

And wasn't that just fucking checkmate.

"You'd better keep me tied up, Granger. I'm going to smash you to bits when this is over." I swore on every worthwhile thing in my life that I'd make you eat dirt before long.

"Why must you be so dramatic about everything? You lost this hand. Buck up and take it," you sighed. Turning, you plucked out the drawing of the ring from the stack of dusty books on your desk. "This ring is so much more important than continuing our little spat. In fact, I think I've found it."

"What?"

"Well, maybe not found exactly, but I think I know who it originally belonged to." You reached for the biggest tome, juxtaposing the cracked, yellowed book with the drawing. "See? The Zabinis are descendants of the Borgias. It can't be a coincidence. This has to be Lucrezia Borgia's poison ring."

The sketches were uncannily similar. Both bands appeared to be silver or white gold with a huge teardrop ruby in the center that was framed by diamond shards. "The ruby isn't actually as big as it looks," you explained. "There's a small catch here, an invisible hinge. Historians believe that's how some of Cesare's assassinations were carried out, with belladonna hidden in the stones of their poison rings."

"They're locket rings," I said, more than a little sore that I hadn't been the one to make the connection. "Poison rings are for Muggles. Just because the only thing they could fit was poison doesn't mean we should take their name for it. In case it's slipped your mind, we can shrink anything."

Exasperation lined your face and you sighed. "Fine. Locket rings, whatever. The point is there must've been something in it. A Dark spell of some kind. Maybe opening the ruby triggered it."

I laughed, raspy and sharp. "The love of her life...poor Lucretia. The bastard wasn't giving her a gift. Knowing her penchant for jewels, he was trying to do her in."

"The lover her husband drove off?" you pondered, wrinkling your nose. "But I thought she said he was her father's caretaker. Where would he get an heirloom like this?"

"Maybe he stole it from her father. I wouldn't put it past any pureblood patriarch to hide a few valuables here and there for emergencies. Besides, any shiny rocks would've been snatched up by Lucretia the instant she knew about it. You heard what she's like, a veritable niffler of a woman."

"Then it's a good thing she never got curious enough to pry out the stone," you said, lowering your eyes, grim.

"I suppose cloying sentimentality does have its uses. Although a prematurely dead Lucretia would mean a world without Blaise," I said, casting my mind to the possibility. "There have certainly been days I wouldn't have minded it."

Other than Crabbe and Goyle, he'd been the only friend worth having at Hogwarts. There was no telling how many of my mannerisms or views had been influenced by him. Without Blaise, I'd likely have relied on Nott for intellectual companionship, and with his aloof nature and aversion to the Dark Arts, who knows if I would've been so eager, desperate even, to impress everyone by champing at the bit to join the Death Eaters. No doubt I would have eventually, but I might not have been roped into the sheer hellhole that was sixth year. That's the problem with what-ifs – once you get caught in its spiraling tangles, the best outcome is a bitter aftertaste of regret.

"No Blaise Zabini swaggering about seducing anything bipedal and insulting Muggle-borns? Perish the thought," you muttered.

"Every time I forget your hypocrisy for so much as a second, you bludgeon me with it again. When I poke harmless fun at your friends, you start shrieking, but I'm supposed to let you insult my friends without comment?"

"If the so-called insult is a statement of fact?" you said snootily. "Yes."

"Then so long as we're on the subject of facts, how about you untie me before I lose all circulation and you have a corpse to explain to the Aurors?" I mocked your shrill voice, "But, sir, Malfoy was teasing me and he's such a big, mean bully! If he'd just stuck to facts I wouldn't have let him die."

"Cute." A scowl curved one corner of your mouth. "We have an understanding, then?"

"Sure," I drawled. "I'll help you. Wouldn't want the blasted ring to splatter anybody else into the walls. Unnecessary trouble and all for Blaise. You can even exorcise the damn trinket if you want, but I'll be returning it to him." At the flaring protest in your face, I continued, "I thought you were a stickler for the rules. Shouldn't you be tripping all over yourself to return his property?"

You fixed me with a hard stare. "Right. Because the Ministry isn't the least interested in confiscating Dark artefacts."

"Okay. So we'll cross that bridge when we get there. First order of business," I said roughly, "is to fucking untie me before I lose all sense of self-preservation and decide AK-ing you would be worth an eternity in Azkaban."

You eyed me shrewdly. "Just to be clear, Malfoy, the only reason I'm not reporting your racist arse to the Committee is because I need your help figuring out how Zita got into the vault, smuggled the ring out and somehow locked herself inside. Zabini won't confide in me. Our priority here is capturing whoever else is involved."

"And sharing the glory when we bring him in."

"Personal gain," you said, rolling your eyes, "of course, that's your first consideration. Yeah, okay, fine."

I rocked the chair on its hind legs, drumming an impatient beat against the wood floor. "When I said 'first order of business,' I didn't mean let's talk out our grand plan of action, banter some more, exchange pithy threats and then untie me. I meant do it fucking now."

"Prick," you murmured before Vanishing the bonds.

"Bitch," I returned and sprang from the chair in an explosive motion.

I snatched your arm in a vice grip, twisting harshly back until you dropped the wand with a startled gasp of pain. Hooking one foot behind an ankle, I swept your legs out and toppled you hard onto the worn cushions of the puce couch. When you shot up to claw at my face, I shoved you back down, pinning your arms beneath my elbows and locking your legs between my knees.

"Mal...!"

"Shut. Up," I breathed onto your flaming cheeks and wide, fury-spitting eyes. "Did you really think I was going to play detective with you after tying me to a bloody chair?"

"Evaluation. In the post," you snarled back, twisting in my grasp until your hair was rioting with static and I was pushing my full weight on you to keep you from kneeing me in the groin.

"What makes you think I give a flying fuck anymore?"

"Gee, I don't know. Your unfailing cowardice maybe?"

I made a disbelieving noise. "You just keep shooting your mouth off, Granger. See where it gets you." I dug my fingers into the back of your head, forcing you to face me, and my heartbeat drummed in unison with the pulse in your neck. For all your defiant cracks, the uneven pounding against the sides of my wrists betrayed you. "It's not very smart trying to provoke someone who could snap you like a twig."

"The notion that you're remotely dangerous," you taunted softly, "is even funnier than you being a catch."

That's when it happened. Don't ask me what aneurysm of lunacy burst in my brain in that splinter of a second.

One moment, visions of choking your words down your throat were skidding across my mind, and the next I was running the back of my hand along your collarbone and pressing your cheek into the scratchy fabric of the couch to expose all the smooth skin trailing down the column of your throat. "Don't," I said. I had no idea what I meant.

They say that madness can be fleeting; that sometimes, it bears down on you without warning to slip through the cracks that deranged moments like these leave in people pushed beyond endurance. Well, they're not wrong.

I found myself leaning down to whisper something, and I would swear that's all I meant to do, but instead I breathed wordlessly in your ear, blowing hot air that jolted shivers down your frame. I savored them...yes, they were an uncontrollable reaction, I know...and fixated on the heartbeat thudding beneath your clenched jaw. I wanted to brush my fingers over it, touch the rhythm of you, and see that you were just as vulnerable as I was, just as much knitted flesh and thrumming blood despite all the recriminations and slicing glares. My hands were full of holding you still, and I didn't realize I was bending to press my mouth over that thudding heartbeat until it was far, far too late.

At the contact, you startled violently and sunk into the couch, inadvertently revealing more of your throat. Maybe another man...the kind of bloke who'd find out your favorite flower and take you to drowsy cafés...wouldn't have taken advantage and snagged that delicate skin between his teeth, sucking on the pulse point, and tracing the flushed warmth with his tongue while your chest hitched with gasping breaths, but I sure as hell wasn't that man. Because I was finally, finally giving into the desire to mark you black and blue. I don't know how long I kissed the crook of your neck, how many interminable beats I counted with my tongue, but the instant I realized you'd stopped struggling, my psychotic break lifted.

I hurled myself off like you were on fire...or maybe I was...stumbling to put as much distance between us as the cramped quarters allowed. You stared after me, mouth slack in shock, frozen in a posture of burrowing into the cushions, your rumpled jumper pulled over one shoulder, revealing an expanse of welling red over the spider web of veins in your neck. For once your darting, wide-eyed gaze focused entirely on me, trying to absorb my every chink and edge and pare me down into lines you could redraw into a legible blueprint. I wished you luck.

"What...why," you stuttered.

I swallowed hard, the roof of my mouth suddenly dry. "That wasn't...it was just payback." Your eyes widened, even more bewildered. Desperate, I kept going, "To see how you'd like being the one made helpless."

I saw your lips part to form words, but all I could hear and feel were my harsh breaths and the pressure of my lungs pushing ridges of bone into the inside of my chest, an unbearably tight sensation. I was lightheaded from the sheer intake of air...only minutes before black would fringe my vision...and still, I couldn't make myself stop.

I fumbled like a drunkard for the door. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" you said, expression still stunned.

My answer was the banging of the door as it swung on its hinges in my wake.

Admittedly, not my most suave exit.

You wanted to know when it began, well, that's it; that was the moment. I'd noticed you before...how could I not when I'd taken such a careful catalog of you in school, desperate to figure out what made you so special, so fucking different...but this night started a torturous awareness of your every motion and word and inch of bare skin. You think I'm exaggerating? Well, I'm not. Somehow, I'd developed a preternatural sense of you, and only you; all you had to do was walk anywhere near me, even one step into a room I was in, and I'd know you were there. I waged an internal war scrapping like a back alley bruiser not to show it. The thought of you knowing all this hung about my neck like a noose, even more scorching than the parson's one I'd so narrowly escaped.

But now you do know, and I don't know which blighter came up with the idea that confessions are supposed to make things easier because they aren't any fucking easier or simpler or less complicated. You're looking at me like I just stripped and announced I was taking a dip in the Thames. Which I have to say, I don't much appreciate. If I were going to jump off the trolley I'd certainly do it with more panache and style than a jaunt through putrid water. Of course I've surprised you...have you somehow missed the entire point of this conversation? If I thought you already knew all this, would I be rehashing my madness so you could give me another blistering set down?

I'm fairly certain I would've downed every last drop of liquor at the Château the next day had you let me. Don't get me wrong. It's not as though I fell for you that night. It's me, remember? I never do anything by half measures; it's all-in or nothing, and I sure as hell wasn't ready to leap to flights of loving fancy when I'd barely just cleared muted resentment gnarled up with a palpitating fear of my own inadequacy – how many times had my own father reminded me that a Muggle-born outshining me was the plainest proof of all that I was little better than a squib? Let's just say I wanted you after that night, and that was it. No queasy declarations or the urge to break out into song: just a slow-burning mesmerizing attraction.

When your pesky owl woke me the next morning...and pecked my knuckles something awful, I should add...I almost threw your letter in the fire. But your neat handwriting on the envelope spelled out my name in a looping schoolteacher script, even including my given name. And really, who am I trying to fool here? I've already chucked every last vestige of pride out the window, so I'll admit it: It was seeing 'Draco' in your hand that did me in.

Your letter was short and pointed:

Malfoy,

Neither of us were ourselves yesterday. Let's just forget it and do our job. I found a lead.

H. G.

And wasn't that rich, because I'd fully intended to say the same to you. The fact you'd got there first, instead of banking the coals, only made me burn harder to show you my freezing indifference.

Later that morning, I put on my most bored face, the aristocratic one you hate so much, and sauntered into the office. I swept a perfunctory glance in your direction before tossing myself atop your puce couch, arms behind my head, and stifled a yawn. You were decked out in another of those obnoxious wool jumpers, a turtleneck this time, and I refused to gratify you by trying to suss out the spot on your neck I'd marked while unimpeachably insane, and which was no doubt perfectly unblemished now. I imagined you still bruised; that made it easier to concentrate.

I assumed a post of unruffled presumption. "What've you got?"

You leveled a penetrating stare on me, sitting prim and proper at your desk. "An address," you said curtly, apparently deciding that so long as I was faking amnesia it might as well be catching.

"For whom?"

"Gaston Morel. I owled the French Ministry and they sent over the old Auror case file for his disappearance."

I arched an eyebrow. "How efficient of you, Granger. It's a wonder Weasley can button his shirts when you're not around. Speaking of, you might want to see to that. He obviously attempted it himself this morning given that he looks like he lost a wresting match with a gnome."

You stiffened, curling your fingers around the armrests. Your voice cracked the air. "When did you see him?"

"In the lift. Settle down. I won't accuse him of being bollocks at hiding closet sex hair if you'll spare me the disgusting details."

"For the last time, we are not..."

I directed my attention to the folder in your lap. "Look, are you going to show me the file or not?"

You flung it at my head. It was a good thing I was marvelously talented at Quidditch because avoiding that nasty paper cut to the temple was a very near thing. The folder contained several sheets of a standard missing wizard's report spelled to appear in English. There was also a glossy photo of a hawkish looking man with slicked-back brown hair and arctic blue eyes. He faced the camera and nodded once before turning away, over and over.

"Pretty standard so far." I flipped through the investigator's notes. "Don't tell me you dragged me out of bed for the French equivalent of, 'We don't know shit all.'"

"Last page," you barked.

It was a laundry list of Dark artefacts that would've made the proprietors of Borgin and Burkes salivate. According to the report, they'd been recovered beneath an enchanted floorboard in the caretaker's cabin. I let out an appreciative whistle. "Impressive."

You gave a disgusted snort. "Try not to swoon from admiration. Gaston was clearly working on something Dark. It may have been the ring."

"And what are you proposing? That we Floo to France and requisition the goods?"

"They're no longer impounded." Your arms crossed, disgruntled. "It's policy to torch all confiscated Dark artefacts in unsolved cases."

I thumbed through a few more pages, examining a map of the grounds. The caretaker's cabin was a speck on the vast estate. "So another dead end."

"Not necessarily. There's no reason to assume the Aurors found everything. They never searched the place again after that initial sweep, and whatever spells Gaston used to hide his things would be weaker now, easier to detect."

"Another field trip?" I drawled. "And here I thought this was a desk job. So much for truth in advertising."

You indicated the stack of forms on my desk. "Then stay. Shuffle papers. Have at it. Wouldn't want you to overexert yourself," you said, viciously sweet.

I snorted. "And let you break our bargain? That's the funny thing about self-righteous bints; you always forget you're bound by the same rules you try to ram down everyone else's throats."

"Don't be ridiculous..."

I stood, tucking the folder beneath the crook of my arm and headed for the door. "When we find the ring and whoever killed that house-elf, we're bringing him in together. Then the Committee can see what a good little trooper I am and we can both get on with never seeing each other again."

"Amen," you muttered.

The hallway was empty but when the lift doors slid open, those Ministry drones disembarking were less than tactful with their speculative looks as they careened around us, more than one showering you with sympathy. I'd yet to meet a single bureaucrat who didn't know I'd been dumped here as part of my probation...goddamn Daily Prophet was no better than a gossip rag...but being partners on paper was an altogether different thing than being seen in public. You stayed behind me as usual, and I tamped down the instinct to whirl around and commit some atrocity to shock you out of your wits, also per usual.

Queuing up to the fireplace that connected to all the other Ministries, I ignored the tittering women who spotted us and darted me looks about as subtle as an anvil to the face.

You followed my glowering line of sight and a rueful smile touched your lips. "At least it's not hero worship. Every time the anniversary of the Final Battle rolls around, Harry has to take a 'vacation' to avoid getting mobbed."

"Right," I said, brusque. "Because universal adoration is such a trial."

"It is when you didn't ask for it."

"That line works better on people who haven't seen Potter lap up all that attention firsthand. Not to mention, cashing in on it with every professor, Auror or fangirl in a ten-mile radius."

"Lap up..." you repeated, outraged.

I hurled a handful of Floo powder into the flames. "French Ministry of Magic."

The French Atrium gave one an immediate impression of elegance, the welcoming chamber curving outward like an upside down thimble lined with rows of blazing fireplaces. I felt your presence behind me like a thin blade of heat through my abdomen, a feeling I would come to savor and curse, but I refused to give you the satisfaction of discomposing me, so I didn't move and remained squarely in your way. Then I felt the tingling of a spell sweep over me. "What the hell are you doing?" I snapped.

"It's a translation spell, Malfoy," you said, brow arched as though I were hard of hearing or had oatmeal for brains.

"And what the hell makes you think I can't speak French?"

You tilted your head in consideration. "I don't know. My firsthand knowledge that your much-vaunted superiority has no basis in fact?"

With that parting shot, you clipped past me and smiled at the welcome witch behind the help desk. "Hullo, we're looking to Floo to Périgord."

"Take the eighth hearth," said the bored welcome witch, who glanced at the next wizard in line.

You barreled around me to the indicated fireplace, calling over your shoulder, "Are you coming or not?"

"After you." I waved you ahead with a mockery of courtesy.

I vaguely remembered the summer I'd spent a day and night at Château de Cazenac. It was one of those drafty old properties which appeared pleasant enough aesthetically but was dashed uncomfortable to live in. Sandwiched between two rivers, it was a merry enough place if wholly unsuited to Blaise's urbane nature. He had the right of it to live in his thoroughly more modern lodge. As far as provincial went, it wasn't quite as decrepit as I'd expected after years of abandonment and postwar fines. Blaise was apparently even wealthier than I'd suspected. Such things were always worth remembering, and I filed that tidbit away.

The sitting room we emerged into was dark, only a few stripes of light peeking out from between frayed curtains. The fire died immediately after we stepped through. White sheets covered most of the furniture, and the room slumbered beneath a fine sheen of dust. "I take it you didn't inform Blaise we would be stomping through his childhood haunts," I murmured.

"And let him snatch up anything Gaston left behind ahead of us? Not a chance."

I refrained from pointing out that as this was his property, everything on it already belonged to him. Briefly, I considered Firecalling but in the end, self-interest won out. I wanted to see the lost Zabini treasures for myself, and if I found anything truly valuable, there was no reason I couldn't suggest a reward for my vigilance and quick thinking in keeping it out of the Ministry's grubby hands.

"This way." I made my way through the doorway into the even danker hall. "The caretaker's cabin is in the north garden."

We hadn't taken more than three steps before a house-elf blinked out of thin air right in our path. He was a wobbly creature, old with drooping ears and spots on his hands, in which he clutched a meat cleaver. "Identify yourselves," he croaked.

I had my wand out and ready to decapitate, or at least wreak magical mayhem, within a breath. You brushed by me and yanked my wand-arm down. "I'm Hermione Granger. And this is Draco Malfoy. We're from the British Ministry of Magic on official business," you said, voice soft and placating.

The pruned house-elf lowered the wickedly sharp kitchen implement and peered into her face. "You is not here to steal?"

"No," you said. "Just, er . . . to follow up on a missing person's report."

"Warren is sorry, miss." He gave a trembling bow. "Warren is not meaning to jump to conclusions."

"That's all right. It's perfectly understandable," you said with more friendliness for a total stranger of a magical creature than you'd shown me in eight years.

It was a sobering thought that the totality of our relationship amounted to less shared affection than one could squeeze on a teaspoon.

"What do you know about Gaston Morel?" I said roughly, no longer in the sleuthing spirit of things.

Warren turned to me and his big, dewy eyes swiped up and down. "You is young Mr. Malfoy, sir?"

That threw me off. "What?"

The house-elf bowed again, knees knocking together. "You is visiting the young Master once and being partial to lemon custards."

"Oh. Uh, right. But that's not why we're here now."

"How can Warren be helping sir and miss?"

You looked torn between wanting to press the ancient house-elf into a chair before he fell over and pouncing on him with questions. Curiosity won out. "What can you tell us about the old caretaker, Mr. Morel?" you asked kindly.

"He is missing since Mistress is leaving the main house, miss," said Warren.

That seemed to hang together with Lucretia Malfoy's version of events, albeit a far cry less melodramatic. The danger of hacked-off limbs apparently averted, I tucked my wand back into my robes. "No one ever saw him again after that?"

"After Mistress is gone, he is coming back and being injured. He order Warren away and locks himself in his cabin, sir, for three days. That is last any of us sees him, sir."

We exchanged this is it glances and I nodded. "Show us where his cabin is."

"If sir and miss please to be following Warren." He hobbled painstakingly down the hallway through the ghost of a house to the main entrance.

I began to think there was something to be said for your insistence on a mandatory retirement age. Warren was a veritable moving fossil.

It was starkly sunny outside. That was the problem with using the Floo everywhere; you start to misplace your hours and any scraps of the outside world you glimpse are filed away as dilatory reminders of the intervals between meetings and appointments and deadlines. The grounds were overrun with weeds and appeared as a wild as a tundra. I remembered a clear morning long ago when Blaise and I'd raced on brooms from one river edge to the other, circling the waters bordering his lands.

The cabin was in far worse shape than the main house, strings of ivy snaking up to the roof, mostly a jumble of shingles, and one window missing several panes.

"Thank you, Warren," you said, struggling not to give into your inner meddler. As that was always a losing battle, you foraged on, "Are you alone here? Isn't there anyone to help you?"

He pulled himself straight, a ridiculously proud gesture for a creature nearing his bicentennial. "Warren is not needing any help, miss. If you is not needing anything anymore, there are rabbits eating Warren's carrot patch."

You looked uneasy, caught between satiating your curiosity and tackling the worn house-elf and tucking him into bed with a cozy and crumpets. "Er . . . yes, that's all. Thanks."

I drew my wand and turned the rusty doorknob. The hinges groaned as I opened the door, streaming sunlight illuminating all the dust motes in the air and the glistening spider webs overlaying the wood furniture. "Lumos!"

The front room was furnished pragmatically if unfashionably with its bare walls and a ragged, serviceable settee. The place looked utterly unassuming, drab and dirty even. "Well, this is disappointing," I muttered.

You scooted in after me. "It would have to be if you wanted to hide something, right?"

I cast my wand's light into the next room, a fancier parlor barely tasteful enough to entertain. A crumbling office stood across the hall, and here, it was clear the Aurors had been thorough. Papers and shelves were strewn all over the room, the walls stripped bare to reveal any safes or hidden compartments. I thought about the most unlikely place to hide a secret workshop or a stash of Dark artefacts, and I found myself wandering into the cramped kitchen. There was a larder squished in the corner, its shelves emptied of all cans and goods. I very nearly overlooked that pantry when it abruptly occurred to me that if I were going to hide a secret passageway to a Dark laboratory, I'd do it in a cheerfully domestic room.

I heard your footsteps shuffling behind me in the bedroom. Satisfied that you were preoccupied, I ran my fingers along the wood shelves, feeling out its width and depth. Then I aimed my wand at the corners of the pantry. "Revelio."

The top two corners yielded nothing but the bottom left shimmered for a split second, a network of gold strands stretched over wooden plank, before vanishing. "Got you."

Feeling around my pocket, I pulled out what was ostensibly a cologne bottle and sprayed the air. The moment the mist came into contact with the concealment spell, it dyed the magical threads I'd glimpsed blue and red. At the center of the web glowed a taut white string drawn across the diagonal length of the pantry, nestled between an enmeshment of blues and reds. This was the master wire of the spell; sever it and the entire incantation would collapse on itself. The trick was getting to it without tripping any of the other strands. It was impossible to predict what fail-safes had been woven into the concealment spell, and any thief worth his weight in gold...or who had once had the misfortune to experience an Antler Hex...proceeded with caution.

I pocketed the cologne bottle and unhooked my wristwatch, popping open the back. A small shard of cat's eye glinted between the gears. I pressed the knurled knob on the side and thrust it into the glowing web. The yellow jewel hummed and flared to match the glowing web.

The threads around the watch bent, warping away from my hand, repelled as though around an invisible curved field. I pushed my wand through the opening. "Finite Incantatem."

The white wire snapped and the web flickered once, twice and dissipated. The pantry shuddered and shape-shifted. It reformed into a flight of stairs. "What are you doing?" you called from the hall, voice ringing with suspicion.

"Our job," I replied, reigniting my wand. I began the climb down.

"Wait!"

The stairs twisted left six steps down and curved steeper. At the bottom, I found myself in an earthen cave, moss on the ceiling and clinging to slanted rock walls. It didn't look anything like one of those secret workshops you read about in the fiction aisle; it was too gritty not to be real. Magic circles drawn in chalk littered the ground and the two workbenches overflowed with stoppered flasks and ashy potions ingredients.

You thundered down and narrowly avoided barreling into me at the foot of the stairs. "What is this?" you breathed.

"What does it look like? I'd say we've hit jackpot."

"I can't believe..." You stopped when you saw that the jewel in my watch was still gleaming, fingers curled as if you wanted to snatch it and coo over its intricacies. "Where did you even learn how to do that?"

I slanted you an annoyed look. "Where do you think, Hogwarts? As it turns out, Azkaban wasn't completely useless. Rooming with thieves and murderers was a more formative experience."

"Not enough to make a dent in your personality," you muttered. When you saw I had no intention of answering, you cleared your throat. "Fine, keep your secrets. There may be other spells lurking around. We should be careful."

I strode between the two workbenches and noted the myriad candles waxed onto their surface. "Incendio."

Their wicks caught fire and bathed the cavern a flickering sick yellow, chasing away the shadows. I spotted a shelf in the corner laden with sooty volumes, vaguely familiar. When I got a closer look, I recognized more than a few from the Manor's own forbidden library, tucked unobtrusively beneath the marble staircase where countless Aurors had never thought to look.

"Shit," I said. "He wasn't playing. These books are levels of Dark miles above the average dilettante."

"What do you mean?" I felt rather than saw you sidle up beside me. The light of your wand fell over the cracked spines. "The Thirteenth Use of Dragon's Blood. Demon Summons. A Sorcerer's Magicks. My God, you weren't joking. I thought these books were myths."

I cursed. "How the bloody hell did some nobody caretaker get his hands on these? They're worth...don't touch that!"

I caught your outstretched fingers an inch from brushing a book with its cover so faded, the title was illegible. "What?" you asked, startled.

"These are clearly the most valuable things here. I wouldn't put it past Morel to guard them. Lethally."

"Oh, right," you murmured.

I extinguished my Lumos and retrieved the cologne bottle. You watched with ill-concealed fascination as I sprayed the length and width of the bookshelf. Before the mist could touch the books, it set off a kaleidoscope of colored threads, a rainbow web wrapped over the entire shelf. Every book was encased in this cage of spells. The grim realization that we might've met a similar fate to Blaise's house-elf settled in the pit of my stomach.

Your eyes riveted on the cologne bottle. "What is that?"

A serrated smile touched my lips. "This? A Detector Potion. Rule the first of sneaking and general thieving: come prepared."

You snagged your lower lip between your teeth, amusement warring with reproach. With a rueful sigh, you said, "All right, duly noted. So how are we going to untangle this mess?"

I squinted at the gnarled glowing strands. "Well, when you layer on protection like this, there tends to be a keystone spell. Something to hold it all together."

Your brows furrowed in remembrance. "A Collating Spell?"

"Exactly."

"I've never seen anything like this before," you said, a tinge of awe in your voice. "What do the colors mean?"

"The potency of the spell. The darker it is, the more dangerous tends to be the rule of thumb."

You sunk to your knees and peered between the gleaming gaps at the sliver of dirt between the shelf and the periphery of the cage. "What about that white knot? That one where all these strands tie together?"

I followed your gaze to the layers of glowing string wrapped around the top and bottom of what looked like a spindle. The core of it was a thick white braid bundling the spelled cage around itself. "Sharp eyes, Granger. That looks like a collator, all right."

"Will your watch work on that?"

"I doubt it. This isn't your everyday security spell. And I'm not too keen on sticking my hand in there to test any theories," I said dryly.

Brows slanted in concentration, you scrutinized the contents of the room and smiled at something in the cauldron. You flicked your wand. "Accio ladle."

A grimy piece of wood sailed across the room and I caught it instinctively. "Give me your watch," you said.

I gave you a speaking glance. "Why?"

"Turn the jewel thing on and put it in the spoon. We can slip it through that crack." You pointed at a small opening between the edge of the cage and the next thread above, inches below the white spindle. "If we unravel that Collating Spell, maybe it'll all come apart at the seams."

"Maybe? Not your most reassuring plan."

"Fine," you rolled your eyes, "I'll do it."

"No." I held up a hand to forestall you. "You're about as coordinated as a one-legged duck. I'll do it."

I opened the back of my watch and pressed the side knob. The cat's eye burned from its proximity to the morass of potent magic. I placed it on the ladle and bent down to rest flat on my stomach. Slowly, I stuck it through the tiny gap between the bottom of the cage and the next strand of its body, nearby threads wavering as the watch passed through but not exhibiting any other observable effect. "It's no use. It's not powerful enough to repel Dark magic."

"But a Collating Spell isn't Dark," you argued. "See if you can't get it any closer."

My watch clinked on the ladle as I maneuvered it painstakingly to avoid contact with any magical threads. There was no way to know if touching any of them, even with an inanimate object, would trigger whatever spells crisscrossed the air. The white spindle flickered and tilted away from the cat's eye, shaking a few strands loose. The moment they disconnected, they snapped and wilted into nothingness. "Here goes nothing. I've got one shot left in this stone." I aimed my wand. "Concito!"

The gears around the cat's eye whirred and the yellow jewel pulsed once, twice and then shattered. Its concussive light shredded the white strings tethering all the bars of the cage to the spindle. I dropped everything and shot to my feet, grabbing you a split second before the air exploded. The resulting blast from layers of Dark magic collapsing in on itself flung us across the room and we skidded along the dirt floor into a sprawled heap beneath the stairs. Heat lapped against my back and I tightened my grip, draping over you like a too-large cloak.

"What happened?" you gasped in my ear.

I chanced a look behind us. The fireworks faded and amazingly, the shelf seemed wholly untouched. "You know what happens to a bridge when you take out the keystone?" I felt you nod into my shoulder. "I'm thinking these spells worked the same way."

We remained still for a long moment, drinking in the silence. "Malfoy . . . you can get off me now," you whispered finally.

I stared down into your dark, wide eyes and didn't move. I couldn't because I had finally seen what I didn't want to know. The sleeve of your turtleneck had snagged beneath my elbow and the neckline was pulled down far enough that I couldn't mistake the petal of a bruise dabbing the side of your neck. I ran a callused thumb over it, and your heartbeat convulsed at the touch. "You didn't get rid of it," I murmured.

"I-I was getting to it. There were so many other things to do...and I f-forgot," you stammered, shifting nervously beneath me.

I cupped your face and made you meet my gaze. "You're a horrible liar," I breathed.

"It means nothing!"

A rueful smile touched my lips. "No? Then why are you being so jumpy?"

You tensed, chest caving with the effort to breathe normally. "No more than you were yesterday!"

I chuckled, glorying in this fleeting moment that finally I had the advantage after years of your knotting me up with only a glance. "We aren't talking about me. You could've healed it, but you didn't. Why?"

"It wasn't worth the bother!"

"No. I don't believe you." A rosy blush flushed down your skin and I tugged at your turtleneck, enthralled by the evidence that you weren't, and maybe had never been, indifferent. "You kept it but you didn't want me to see. Why? I thought I repulsed you."

"You do. You absolutely do," you said fervently, eyes darting from my face to the fingers prying your jumper over one shoulder.

My heart smashed against my ribcage when I saw you linger on my mouth for just a beat too long. A need at once foreign and so, so familiar became piercing pain that sung until all the blood in my body tried to burst from my veins and a fierce ache spread in the marrows of my bones. "Granger," I said, painfully winded. "Tell me no."

"What?" you asked, just as breathless.

"Not good enough." I lowered my head and kissed that same spot over your thudding pulse. You let out a drawn breath as though you'd been waiting, terrified you knew what was coming but not enough to stop wanting it, and fisted your hands in my robes, pulling as I bit down lightly. Then you arched against me and I lost all coherent thought.