As a man of means, Draco Malfoy could have chosen to live a life of leisure, political meddling, and casual blackmail, like his father before him. However, his acquittal by the Wizengamot was accompanied by strong recommendations that young Mr. Malfoy strive for such laudable pursuits as the Common Good, Altruism, and Redemption in the Public Eye.
And so, after a few years of sowing his wild oats (and a great many curses) on the Continent, Draco had returned to London, where he made short work of the Auror training programme – three years down to one and a half, if you please – and joined that noble Office. Draco had been strategic in his choice of career, of course: being an Auror offered just enough heroics for positive coverage in the news and just enough Ministry-sanctioned murders to keep him interested in the job.
Draco was an excellent Auror – something about very nearly becoming a Dark wizard himself gave him rather useful insights into the minds of naughty wizards and witches. The problem with competence, however, was that it was rewarded with increasingly complex cases by the Head of the Auror Office, a certain Madam Nymphadora Tonks.
And so, our opening scene: a Monday morning, sometime in January. Amidst the greying cubicles of the Auror Office, Tonks was doling out the month's Class A assignments to her top Aurors like a vindictive Father Christmas.
"Montjoy – you're off to Hethpool. Three Muggle children found dead with their livers removed. That hag coven from Stow may have regrouped." A folder containing the case material was slapped onto Montjoy's desk.
"Buckley – suspected necromancy and other foul play, Isle of Man." Buckley accepted the proffered casefile with a grimace. "You're to take Humphreys with you. Mind you be a good mentor and don't traumatise her too much."
Tonks rounded the corner to the next cubicles. "Potter, Weasley – you're to continue with the vampires in the Dales, but if you don't make further headway, I will get personally involved. Half of Yorkshire will be sucked dry at this rate. Goggin – some idiot is experimenting with Transmogrifian Torture on Muggle prostitutes in Glenluce. I won't notice if you bring him in with a few missing appendages."
Tonks now came to a halt in front of Draco's desk. "Malfoy. Since you did so well with the Lanark Lunatic last week, I'll let you pick your poison."
Draco eyed Tonks guardedly – poison was unlikely to be an exaggeration. "What are my options?"
Tonks dropped two files onto Draco's desk. "Option one, a wizard accused of inappropriate acts with trolls – a real delight for the senses, that one. Or, option two – a request from the Minister for Auror protection of a high-profile target."
"Inappropriate acts?" repeated Draco, pulling the folders towards himself.
"I don't know about your tolerance level, but I've quite lost my appetite." Tonks jutted her chin towards the rightmost folder. "There are photographs for your edification."
Draco made the mistake of opening the troll folder. He closed it again with a strangled sound of disgust. "I'll take the protection assignment."
"Right-o," said Tonks, swiping the troll folder and its hideous contents from Draco's desk. "The troll-buggerer will go to Fernsby. Fernsby! Come here."
Fernsby emerged from a distant cubicle. Tonks slapped the folder into his chest. "You are off to Morpeth. I hear the North Sea is lovely this time of year."
If Fernsby had reservations about the loveliness of a January sojourn by the North Sea, he kept them to himself. Tonks was rarely worth arguing with.
"Progress reports on my desk by Monday morning," called Tonks to the office at large. A grumble of assent from the Aurors followed the request.
Tonks gave Draco a sharp look. "Looking forward to yours, Malfoy. I've a degree of curiosity about that one – the target is working on some top secret project. They wouldn't even tell me what it's about."
Tonks made her way back to her office, managing to tread on an unsuspecting colleague's foot only once.
Draco, now rather curious, pulled the folder towards himself. The protection request came straight from the Minister's Office and Shacklebolt had requested a security audit, defensive warding, every confidentiality-enhancing measure known to wizardkind, escorting, if you please, and protective surveillance – in sum, the bloody works.
Draco was preemptively irritated – this sounded rather a lot like effort.
And who, pray, merited this extravagant treatment?
He flipped over a few more pages of Ministerial demands to find, finally, the Principal.
And it was Hermione. Bloody. Granger.
Her photograph was pinned to the top of a brief biographical note – as though anyone alive today didn't know her and her hair. She looked seriously at Draco, blinked at him once, then left the frame.
Draco seized the folder and headed for Tonks' office. She was rarely worth arguing with, but this casefile merited an especial attempt.
"Tonks – I can't take this one. You'll have to give it to someone else."
Tonks looked up from the parchment she'd been attacking with a quill. Her hair turned a quizzical mauve. "Whyever not?"
"It's Granger. That's the Principal. Hadn't you seen?"
"And?"
"We don't exactly get along," said Draco in a vast understatement.
"Are you telling me that some school-time unpleasantness from fifteen years ago will interfere with your ability to carry out this assignment?" asked Tonks.
In the Foe Glass behind her, shadowy silhouettes clustered about, as though keen to eavesdrop on the drama.
"We have a rather unhappy history," said Draco.
"Worse than you and Potter?"
This, Draco considered for a moment. Finally, he answered, "In some ways."
"Fine," sniffed Tonks. "Swap with Fernsby. I'm sure he'll only be too happy to change out a cushy protection jobbie for the troll aficionado."
"...Isn't there anything else I could take?"
Tonks gave him a quelling look, emphasised by her eyes turning a dangerous, hawkish kind of yellow. "I've just assigned the month's missions, Malfoy, and I won't have your complex about Granger domino its way through the entirety of it."
"I don't have a complex about Granger."
"Good. Then you'll do fine. Off you go."
Tonks waved her hand and her office door closed slowly, squeezing Draco out.
Draco strode back to his desk, half intending to ask Fernsby for the swap – however, the gurgle of horror emanating from Fernsby's cubicle was sufficient to change his mind.
Fine. He'd do the Granger thing. It was, at any rate, not troll pornography.
-
Draco sent Granger a coldly professional note stating that he would be pleased to meet with her at her earliest convenience to discuss the Minister's protection request.
Granger sent back an equally cold note indicating that the Minister's request was an overblown reaction on the Minister's part and that she would be dealing with it shortly, and to please disregard it.
Draco did not respond, but enjoyed an afternoon off instead of informing Tonks of this fortunate development immediately.
Then Granger ruined everything by writing again, indicating that, to her disappointment, the Minister had not changed his mind, and was forging ahead with this (disproportionate and illogical, in her opinion) plan of action. Would Draco be available to meet at nine o'clock this Thursday? The Granger Laboratory. Trinity College, Cambridge.
As he tossed the missive into the fire, Draco thought, Cambridge, of course. How could we expect anything less from Hermione Granger?
-
That Thursday, Draco arrived at Trinity College at the beastly hour of nine o'clock. The porter at the gate didn't glance twice at his robes – many of the Muggles wandering about were wearing long black gowns – but he did give Draco a sharp look when he said he was there to see Granger.
"Doctor Granger," said the porter. "Have you got an appointment, sir?"
"Yes."
"Name?"
"Malfoy," said Draco.
The porter consulted a chart. He found whatever he was looking for, apparently, because Draco was waved in towards the verdant quad at Trinity College. ("It's not a quad, we call them courts at Cambridge," said the porter to some tourists, but Draco paid him no mind – he knew a quad when he saw one.)
Granger's note had included a few directions on how to enter the wizarding part of the College, which brought Draco to a magically concealed door at the south end of the quad. A Muggle plaque indicated that King's Hall had once stood here, but that it had been destroyed in the sixteenth century. Draco tapped the bronze plaque with his wand, as instructed by Granger, and the ostensibly destroyed King's Hall appeared before him. Draco decided that Granger earned a two out of ten in his initial security assessment – at least rogue Muggles wouldn't immediately be able to find her. And, with that generous thought, he strode into Magical Cambridge.
At nine o'clock on a weekday, King's Hall was a roiling bustle of scholarly witches and wizards, off to advance magical knowledge. Draco had spent years at the Université de Paris to earn his Bachelor's in Alchemy and his Mastery in Martial Magic (Duelling), but he'd never set foot in an institution of higher learning in the UK. King's Hall retained its sixteenth century ambience – dark, an excess of over-carved wood, and candlelight – and vacillated somewhere between pure Gothic and early Renaissance in décor.
As he surveyed the crowd before him (varyingly studious or eccentric-looking), Draco wondered how much of wizarding Britain's brain power was located within these hallowed halls. At any rate, there was at least one big brain on the premises. Quite lost amongst five staircases on the first floor, he decided to enquire for directions towards that brain.
"You there," said Draco, jutting his chin towards a spotty youth. The boy looked about twenty-two, serious, and clutched a text on Advanced Theoretical Arithmancy to his chest.
"Yes?" asked the youth.
"I'm looking for Granger," said Draco.
The boy frowned at him. "Professor Granger. Her offices are on the third floor, with the other Fellows."
"Cheers," said Draco, wondering how many more times he was going to be corrected regarding precious Granger's title today.
He climbed the stairs and passed corridors where he spotted a variety of interesting things: classrooms, lounges, reading rooms, offices, an apothecary, a café, and what appeared to be a small zoo. Finally, he came to a door which simply said, "GRANGER. Ring for attention."
See? There. No overzealous titles.
Draco rang for attention.
Then he peered into the narrow window that flanked the door and almost turned around to leave again, because the laboratory beyond seemed decidedly Muggle and he must've taken a wrong turn somewhere, only it said "GRANGER," right there.
His ring was answered by a Being in a bright white coat and strange translucent face-coverings.
"Can I help you?" asked the Being.
"I'm looking for Granger," answered Draco.
"Healer Granger doesn't take walk-ins," said the Being, with a rather stiffened back. "Is she expecting you?"
"She is," said Draco, adding this new title to the increasingly ridiculous running list.
"All right," said the Being, with what was probably a suspicious look, but Draco couldn't tell behind the goggle-things. "Her office is down to the right."
The Being moved out of the way. From the voice, Draco, was now relatively certain it was a human female, but the accoutrements made it difficult to say. In any case, Draco was in. His initial assessment of Granger's security measures plummeted to a strong one out of ten.
It pleased him to give Granger a well-deserved horrid mark; it didn't please him to think of the work that would be involved bringing this place up to snuff.
He knocked on the office door.
"Come in," said Granger's voice. A blast from the past – crisp, prissy, impatient.
Draco entered the office. Granger was sitting behind a tidy, if over-stacked, desk.
They stared at one another in a decidedly Awkward Moment, something that Draco, now a fully qualified and rather dangerous Auror, was not used to anymore – and perhaps, judging by the unhappy set of her mouth, neither was Granger.
Time heals all wounds, but between himself and Granger, there were a great many to heal, and right now, fifteen years felt like a rather short time since they'd been children fighting each other on opposite sides of a war. Draco couldn't recall when he had last spoken to her directly, and he certainly knew he'd never been alone in a room with her.
Granger rose to greet him with the following display of eloquence: "Malfoy."
"Granger," said Draco, with equal eloquence.
She gestured to a chair across the desk. As he stepped towards it, Draco found himself being assessed by her. Her gaze flitted from his hair to his face, to the Auror insignia on his chest, and down his black robes to his boots.
Seeing that they were dispensing with the niceties, Draco shamelessly assessed her in return: the hair (a curling pile coiled high at her crown), the face (thinner, more severe than he remembered), the same strange white cloak as the Being, the black jeans (so Muggle), the casual trainers.
Draco opened his mouth to make a few vague opening remarks – some chatter about Cambridge, or Potter and Weasley, or other such fluff – but Granger jumped straight to the point.
"This is an absolute waste of Auror resources."
The lack of finesse was quite typey for Granger. Some things didn't change.
Draco settled himself into his chair. "Give me a bit more to go on and I can make a case to Shacklebolt to withdraw the request. I've no more desire to be here than you."
Granger pursed her lips at him. Draco wondered when McGonagall had Apparated into Granger's chair, and where Granger had got to.
"All right," said Granger at length. "A fortnight ago, I updated Shacklebolt on the progress of a certain research project. A research project which is not under the Ministry's purview, nor funded by it, by the by. I was sharing what I thought was a bit of good news with a long-time friend and mentor – who happens to be the Minister of Magic. Apparently, the news was too good. Shacklebolt fears repercussions, as the project will have implications for a certain segment of the population."
"What implications?" asked Draco. "Which segment?"
"I'd rather not say, as my hope is that you won't be involved any further than this meeting. Shacklebolt is overreacting. I shall speak with him again this week and convince him that putting me under Auror surveillance is utterly unnecessary."
"Auror protection," corrected Draco. Aurors of his calibre weren't assigned to two-bit surveillance jobs, thank you.
"Call it what you will," said Granger.
"Shacklebolt has his flaws, but a propensity for overreaction isn't one of them," said Draco. (There wasn't much love lost between himself and the Minister, but there was a certain respect.)
"No, it isn't one of his propensities. Which is why I was rather surprised – dismayed, really – by his decision to involve your office."
"Is it possible that he isn't overreacting?"
The look Granger levelled at him was decidedly unfriendly. "No."
"You don't think that this – breakthrough, or discovery – of yours is putting you at any new risk whatsoever?"
"Not at the moment. First, no one knows about this development, other than Shacklebolt himself and – to varying degrees – my staff, all of whom I trust implicitly. And, secondly, though I've made a breakthrough, I haven't quite solved the issue yet. That will be the work of at least another year. I won't be on the front page of The Prophet asking to be murdered tomorrow."
Draco's eyebrow twitched upwards. "Shacklebolt thinks you're going to be murdered?"
"He thinks – probably rightly – that some people won't be pleased about my breakthrough."
Draco decided that he needed to speak to Shacklebolt. Perhaps he'd be less cagey than Granger and disclose something useful to the Auror assigned to her. He found himself truly curious, now, about the nature of this Good Discovery.
His next question was carefully phrased. He didn't want to cast aspersions on Granger's heritage (gods forbid; he was already on thin ice everywhere on that front), but there were things she mightn't know, as a Muggle-born. "Might Shacklebolt be aware of certain wizarding predilections or biases that you aren't, that would be a cause for concern?"
Granger took a breath, as one might if one was summoning one's remaining patience. "If I told you I'd solved world famine, or something equally wonderful, would you pause to worry about the actions of a few naysayers?"
"One naysayer would be enough to dispatch a do-gooding researcher, especially one who keeps her laboratory secured with a third-rate locking charm and some chicken wire."
One of Granger's knees began to bounce. It brought to mind a cat twitching its tail in annoyance.
"So have you?" asked Draco.
"Have I what?"
"Solved world famine."
"Nothing so grand. That was an example."
"Where do you keep your findings?" asked Draco.
Now it was Granger's turn to raise an eyebrow, which was the entirety of her response.
Draco gestured to the office around him and the laboratory on the other side of the door. "I've identified a dozen vulnerabilities already – and that's only what I saw in the five minutes it took to walk up here. If I wanted to work it out, I rather think I could."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
Seeing Granger smirk was... something. However, it rapidly disappeared. "If we're talking of physical security, I haven't exactly had a reason to increase it beyond the usual measures until recently. I can assure you that I'm capable of warding my laboratory beyond a locking charm – and keeping my data safe."
"Perfect," said Draco. "Proceed with that. I'll be back in a few days to do a penetration test. If you satisfy that – and implement any additional measures I recommend – we may be able to convince Shacklebolt that you and your research are safe, and we'll be able to put this behind us."
This challenge was dolled out with a – quite laudable, Draco thought – minimum of arrogance on his part.
Granger's eyes grew hard: the challenge was recognised and accepted. "Fine. And when will this penetration test take place?"
"I'm not giving you a warning," said Draco, rising. "Do you think a real-world threat would?"
"Brilliant," said Granger, rising too. Sarcasm roughened the edge of her words. "I do love surprises."
They did not shake hands and she did not see him out.
-
Draco scheduled a visit with the Minister of Magic later that week. He sauntered past the Minister's sour-faced assistant on the designated day, wondering who had pissed in her Pixie Puffs.
Shacklebolt was as reticent with the details as Granger had been, but impressed upon Draco the importance of keeping Granger safe to complete her project, for the benefit of all wizardkind. It was all very grand and extremely vague.
The only positive was Shacklebolt's evident pleasure that it was Draco who had ended up with the assignment. "I know you won't hesitate to get nasty, Malfoy, if any malicious individuals were to make a move against her."
Draco accepted the backhanded compliment with a mock bow. "You're warming the cockles of my heart, Minister."
Shacklebolt returned the bow with an inclination of his head. Then he grew sombre. "She could change the lives of hundreds – thousands – for the better."
"And yet, neither she nor you will tell me what the project entails. Did she make you take a bloody Vow of Secrecy before she disclosed anything?"
Shacklebolt raised his hands, not responding one way or another, and thus gave Draco his answer.
"She would have the foresight," said Draco, throwing a fistful of Floo powder into Shacklebolt's fireplace. "Cambridge."
This was it. He'd given her long enough to prepare.
-
It was late on Monday evening. King's Hall was quiet. Draco supposed that Granger was off having dinner or browbeating innocent undergraduates. He stood at the door of her laboratory, tapping his wand to his chin thoughtfully. However, before he had cast any kind of revelation charm or begun any sort of snooping, Granger rounded the corner.
"Malfoy," she said, looking a little dishevelled and out of breath. Draco filed her timely arrival away for future analysis. She was too clever for it to be coincidence – and yet, he hadn't cast a single spell that would've made his presence known.
Granger had forsaken her Muggle clothing for green Healer robes. She looked both irritable and impatient, and quickly confirmed both of those conditions by asking: "Time for your vaunted test, is it? How long will it take?"
Draco did not appreciate her tone, which suggested that this might be an affair of several hours. "That depends on your warding – I'm thinking a quarter of an hour at the upper end."
Granger's eyebrow rose at the cockiness of this rejoinder. "Good. Just did a shift at A&E and I'm positively knackered."
She waved her wand and, with a rather impressive display of Transfiguration (not that Draco gave any sign that he was impressed), she transformed one of her hairpins into a glossy wooden chair, upon which she perched herself to observe him.
Draco didn't mind an audience, especially when he was going to systematically dismantle the audience's attempts to keep him out, and teach her some humility.
Draco turned his attention back to the door. "A&E? I thought you were a researcher."
"The MNHS is chronically understaffed. I take shifts at St. Mungo's to help out. Keeps my Healing skills sharp."
"Good of you."
"Mm."
After a few revelation spells, Draco had to hand it to Granger – she'd done her homework. Not a surprise, really. The protective enchantments that now warded the door to her laboratory were many, quite complex, and well-cast.
Draco got to work, but not without taking the piss just a little. "Caterwauling Charm? Insulting."
"I've learned to work from the lowest common denominator up," was the dry response.
The basic intruder charms that followed were dismissed with a few wand waves. The Salvio Hexia was a good warmup. Then Draco got into the good stuff: Foribus Ignis, Custos Portae, a hair-trigger Confundus aimed directly at his head, revealed only when he'd peeled away the other two wards, a sneaky Blinding Hex that just seemed mean, a Balding Jinx that was decidedly unsportsmanlike, and a concealed Confringo on the door handle itself for anyone stupid enough to touch it.
Draco disarmed the latter – a little touch and go, admittedly, and he did break a sweat – telling himself that at least if his face was blown off, there was a Healer nearby who would be able to assist.
The door unlocked. It had taken all of four minutes. And yet, Granger looked unimpressed.
Draco swung open the door to reveal – a stone wall.
"Funny," said Draco.
His face showed none of his disquiet, but he'd been wasting his time on an absolutely impeccable decoy. He waved his wand a metre further down the wall and the real door to the laboratory appeared.
Granger shrugged. "I needed my staff able to get in. They aren't experts at disarming wards, but they can handle a Finite Incantatem."
Draco entered the laboratory to continue his assessment, his neck rather stiff. His audience waved her chair back into a hairpin and followed.
"Normally I would insist upon us donning the proper PPE, per Trinity's wet laboratory protocols," said Granger. "But we've tidied for the day. I don't think you can hurt yourself on anything."
Once again, Draco didn't care for her tone, which, this time, suggested that he might otherwise off himself by accident.
He ignored the sterile white and steel surfaces that made up most of the space and moved to the shelves and cupboards at one end of the laboratory, which looked like a likely place for an active laboratory to store data. However, the well-organised contents were useless – it was mostly Muggle scientific literature, including some of Granger's own publications. Words jumped out at Draco without meaning: cytokines, monoclonal antibodies, chimeric antigen receptors, T-cells...
"I realise the purpose of this test is to see how far you'd get and what you can discover about my research – but do put things back in an orderly fashion," came Granger's voice, irritation lacing her words.
Draco, his back to her, permitted himself a healthy roll of his eyes – one text was half an inch out of place. He pushed it back in. He waved his wand at the entirety of the collection to uncover Transfigurations or concealment spells, but there were none. Then he systematically did the same with the rest of the laboratory, seeking any hidey holes or caches or – as he grew annoyed – any magical trace whatsoever. There was nothing magical except the contents of the various vials and test tubes clustered in tidy groups along the laboratory's workbenches.
"If I stole these and had them analysed, what would I discover?" asked Draco.
The glow of his spell illuminated the vials of interest. Granger walked towards them and pointed. "Gamma delta T cells. Antigens: MART-1, Tyrosinase, GP100, Survivin. All of magical provenance, which is why your spell is revealing them, but not otherwise noteworthy."
"I see," said Draco, who did not see at all.
"I don't know who your hypothetical analysis would be conducted by, in the event that these were to be stolen to uncover what I'm working on, but I should tell you that very few people in the UK would be able to pull meaningful conclusions out of this."
Draco felt the false modesty in the words; by very few, she meant none at all – I'm surrounded by idiots and I'm the only one who can make sense of any of these horrifically named extracts.
"And those?" asked Draco, pointing to larger, rather more familiar looking vials along the back row.
"Your hypothetical analysts would discover perfectly brewed Sanitatem," said Granger. "That's a healing potion," she added, quite unnecessarily.
"A find of critical importance, in the laboratory of a Healer," said Draco, his annoyance lapsing into sarcasm.
There was the tiniest quirk at the corner of Granger's mouth – amusement, rapidly stifled.
Draco was doing his own stifling, but in his case, it was exasperation. She had wasted his time on a wild goose chase with those door wards, knowing that there was nothing of real use in the laboratory itself, unless one was in possession of about twelve doctorates to put it all together.
But she had to be recording findings – she was too methodological and meticulous not to.
Now Draco turned to a corner of the laboratory that he'd ignored as a matter of course. It was the most Muggleish area of the entire place – a corner desk cluttered with glowing boxes of light. Granger might as well have cast a Notice-Me-Not on the lot. Had she? No, his detection spells showed nothing. That had been a feature of his own built-in habits – his eyes almost naturally averted themselves from the unmagical, the Utterly Mundane, the Terribly Muggle. He'd have to watch that – clearly, a weakness.
He walked towards the desk. And, for the first time since Draco had entered the laboratory, Granger actually perked up and looked interested in the proceedings. Now he was getting somewhere.
"Computers," said Draco, pulling up some distant memory from Muggle Studies.
"Well done," said Granger, with the tone one would take to praise an especially slow child who had correctly identified a barn animal.
Draco favoured her with a dark look. Her face was impassive, but her eyes betrayed her – she was curious about what he was going to do next.
And, of course, he hadn't the faintest sodding clue where to go from here, other than jinxing the computers into submission – but from what he recalled, these devices weren't sentient. He stood before the glowing boxes, upon which slow lines were moving in random patterns.
"...I'd need to bring in a Muggle-born," said Draco at length.
"O, yes, that would be a start," said Granger. She looked at her nails. "You'd want to find one who is a decent hacker, too. I'm not sure many of those exist amongst wizardkind, but perhaps one or two in the UK."
"A Hacker."
"Yes," said Granger, offering no further explanation of the violent term.
"If – as I suspect – your findings are in these things – what's to stop me, a baddie, from destroying the lot, and stopping your research in its tracks?" asked Draco.
Granger shrugged. "It wouldn't matter. It's all in the cloud."
"The cloud."
"Yes. I'd be out the cost of the equipment, that's all."
"So your bog standard Dark wizard, up to no good, wouldn't have much to discover here."
"I'm afraid not," said Granger.
"The wards at the door were an amusing puzzle. Thank you for wasting my time."
"I wanted to see if you're as good as they say."
Draco gave her a quick look, wanting to know who they was, because he did like to hear how good he was.
Granger did not indulge him.
"I had a few other ideas for other hexes and things," she said, gesturing to the door, "but I hadn't the time."
"So, no evidence of concealment, no written findings, computers, clouds..." Draco looked at Granger. "If I'm a baddie who needs information, what do I do next?"
Granger looked at him inquiringly. "What do you do?"
"I go after you," said Draco.
He raised his wand and, a split second later, his spell hit her in the chest.