The Lumos dissipated harmlessly into Granger’s robes, but her shock was nevertheless evident.
“That was unnecessary,” she gasped, a hand at her breast.
Draco made his way towards Granger’s office with a bit of a saunter. “I promise you other spells wouldn’t be so friendly.”
“No one’s going to be casting unfriendly spells at me for no reason,” said Granger, following him.
“They don’t have a reason now, but if your Big Breakthrough is as significant as Shacklebolt thinks, and if – when – it gets out, then…” He turned to her again, his wand raised.
She was readier this time and spat out a Protego.
“Better,” said Draco. “How’s your resistance to the Imperius Curse?”
Granger grew still, her hand gripping her wand. “If you cast that on me in my own laboratory, I shall drown you in Sanitatem and enjoy the irony.”
Draco glanced above him. Every vial of Sanitatem had levitated off the benches and was hovering over his head. In a real situation, he’d Vanish the lot and blast Granger through two walls for the cheek. But, nevertheless – it was an impressive bit of nonverbal magic.
“I’ll concede that your research is more-or-less safe, physically, from most wizarding intruders,” said Draco. The vials settled back into place. “But it all lives in your head and can therefore be read – or tortured – out of you, or any of your staff.”
“I’m the PI on the project in question. My staff consists of five undergraduates and eight graduate students whose combined understanding of the project is probably fifteen percent, scattered through thirteen minds. They aren’t much of a vulnerability.”
Draco gave her a hard look. “Then you’re the vulnerability.”
She, predictably, looked offended.
“How’s your Occlumency?” asked Draco. The question was accompanied, of course, by a friendly bit of Legilimency.
Draco was granted a clear view of Granger’s perception of him at that precise moment – tall, arrogant ponce with good hair – and then he was mentally slapped out of her mind.
He pressed a finger to the centre of his forehead; this witch was making his brain sting. Meanwhile, Granger looked like she wished to double down and slap him in the material world for good measure – and wouldn’t that just be a lovely throwback to their school days?
“I thought we were assessing my laboratory, not me,” said Granger, her eyes flashing at him.
‘We’re assessing risk exposures,” said Draco. “And it’s quickly becoming obvious that you’re a significant one. Is your home warded?”
“Moderately. I can enhance it.”
“I’ll enhance it,” said Draco. “How do you travel?”
“Floo, Apparition...”
“Those are trackable, you know. Broom?”
“I detest flying,” said Granger.
Draco made a valiant effort not to curl his lip. What a terrible position to take. What a dreadful thing to hate. What a sad circumvention of one of the greatest joys of being Magical. Granger fell in his esteem quite irredeemably.
“Since when is Apparition trackable, other than the Trace?” asked Granger.
“Top secret,” said Draco, now in Granger’s office. He riffled through the various stacks of paperwork and books, encountering, again, nothing but that highly specialised, utterly incomprehensible Muggle jargon, and no sign of recent developments, note-taking, record-keeping, or anything of a useful nature that might point him to Granger’s precious findings.
There was another computer in the office, which Draco eyed with a resigned kind of vexation. How stupid to be flummoxed by a device that any Muggle off the street could probably operate. Perhaps he should’ve kidnapped the porter at the gate and brought him in to assist – Statute of Secrecy notwithstanding.
He stared at the computer intimidatingly, waiting for it to confess its sins, but it merely offered him wobbly lines.
art by Ghoulsed
As Draco snooped, scanned and searched for interesting magical giveaways in the rest of the office, Granger pulled off her Healer robes and dropped into the chair that Draco had occupied upon his first visit. She let out a sigh of unadulterated fatigue.
Draco glanced at her. Muggle clothing again, underneath. This time a long-sleeved top and some trousers that barely merited the name, more like opaque black tights, really. Was this decent public attire by Muggle standards? Shocking. He could see the precise outline of her calf and the exact shape of her knee.
He didn’t spend too long musing upon the foibles of Muggle fashion, however, as the witch herself was a bit of a concern. He could see now how thin she was, how her collarbones shadowed, how her neck seemed too dainty to hold the mass of hair pinned upon her head. She was pale, peaky, and generally looked overdrawn.
“What’s your schedule like, Granger?” Draco asked, as though continuing his querying about her travel patterns, but really wanting to get a sense of what exactly this woman did with herself, day in and day out.
Typically, Granger had a schedule ready – colour-coded and planned to the hour. She waved her wand in the direction of her desk and the schedule floated to Draco and deposited itself into his hands. Using his wand as a makeshift quill, Draco drew circles around her moments of exposure, when she’d move between places and be most vulnerable to attack.
And there were many – Granger was everywhere and did everything. She had dedicated laboratory hours, clinic hours, teaching hours, volunteering for a horrid amount of Good Causes, tutoring sessions, mentoring sessions, Healing at St. Mungo’s and what sounded like a local Muggle surgery, one (1) pub night every fortnight with Potter and Friends, College dinners, something called “yoga” at unholy hours in the morning, something called “Crooks Vet” that recurred every three months, and then occasional days, here and there, marked only with an asterisk.
“What are these?” asked Draco, pointing at one of the blocks with an asterisk.
“...Holidays,” said Granger.
“Your Occlumency might be passable, but your lying isn’t.”
“They’re days off.” Granger grew snippy. “And I shan’t be divulging more details of my personal life than I already have, thank you.”
Draco dropped the subject – and the schedule, back onto her desk. Overdrawn wasn’t even the right word for Granger: exhausted, or depleted, maybe. Draco recalled some vague rumour that young Granger had been granted a Time-Turner during their Hogwarts years, to squeeze more classes into her school days. Potter and Weasley had quickly dismissed that bit of Auror lunch-hour chatter.
Looking at the overzealous, overachieving, overtired witch before him, Draco found himself rather inclined to believe the tale.
He continued his search, though he doubted there would be much else to find. The wall at the rear of the office was covered in frames of various sizes, certificates, diplomas, awards…
“Nice mosaic,” said Draco.
Granger gave him a look. Well, he found himself funny, even if Granger didn’t.
The mosaic informed Draco that Granger didn’t quite have twelve doctorates, but her combination of Muggle and Magical diplomas probably approached that number. Again, the Muggle ones were a mystery, awarded by Muggle universities he hadn’t heard of: Bachelor’s in Biomedical Sciences, Master’s in Microbiology and Immunology, joint M.D.-PhD in Oncology, some minor certificate in Genetics. He recognised the Healer’s Seal, at least (Cambridge, specialising in Magical Diseases). Her other magical certifications were a Master’s in Transfiguration (Edinburgh; an earlier degree, just after the War, probably) and a Specialised Study in Healing (Blood Magicks) from the Sorbonne.
A smattering of other certificates and qualifications completed Granger’s educational oeuvre. A box on a low shelf revealed a few dusty older frames. The things he knew her for in her brilliant Hogwarts days – the record-breaking O.W.L.s, the absurd amount of N.E.W.T.s – didn’t merit a place upon her wall of adult achievements. He spotted an Order of Merlin, First Class. Potter had similar, proudly hung upon his cubicle wall, but Granger hadn’t the room, apparently.
Granger excused herself to make tea, and, in a show of civility that appeared moderately challenging to verbalise, asked if he’d like a cup. Draco said no. Granger looked relieved.
After she’d left, Draco, being a pragmatic and sneakish kind of person, took advantage of the moment to cast a few discreet tracking spells upon a handful of her personal items: the trainers under the desk, hairpins (the blarmed things were everywhere), a half-finished mug of tea. He rifled through the paperwork on her desk and found nothing of interest (conference invitations, Muggle grant application results, notes from students. Useless tat).
The computer made a sound like a small ping. Draco turned to it. Its dark surface and wiggling lines challenged him to touch it and die of Elektik Shocks.
Then Draco gasped and said, “Hang on!”
“What?” asked Granger, who had just reentered the room.
“This whole place is so Muggleish that I hadn’t even thought to ask, but – how are these computers working? We’re in a magical building.”
“Oh, that,” said Granger. She made what Draco presumed was meant to be a casual shrug (it wasn’t very casual). “I found ways to circumvent the issue.”
“How?”
“Ways,” said Granger.
“What ways?” asked Draco.
She stared at him as though assessing his worthiness for this knowledge. In the face of her open eye-contact, Draco was sorely tempted to attempt Legilimency again. Just as the thought passed his mind, her eyes lost some of their sparkle. She was Occluding.
“I found a solution,” said Granger with another vague gesture. “I couldn’t possibly work with only quills and parchment; that’s positively archaic. Not to mention the hundreds of thousands of calculations and projections I’ve needed to do… Anyway, you needn’t preoccupy yourself with it. I can assure you that it’s nothing dangerous.”
Draco stepped closer to the computer, observing the various gadgets connected to its periphery by long smooth fibres. Only a few things weren’t connected to the Principal Organ (as he named the glowing box part), including three smallish metallic pucks set around the thing.
Rather how one might set up a perimeter, really. To keep things in or out.
He strode to the collection of computers in the laboratory proper, Granger following with a kind of polite curiosity.
There, too, were the metallic pucks. Six of them, this time, creating a jagged circle.
“I’d be careful handling those,” said Granger.
Draco, whose hand had been hovering above one of the pucks, pulled back.
“It’s not dangerous, but you won’t like the feeling.” She came beside him and held one up. “I’m calling it an Anti-Magical Forcefield, for lack of a better term. Rather challenging to create, but it serves my purposes.”
Draco stared at her. Blocking magic was a tricky bit of work – a thing mostly relegated to abstruse theoretical discussions. The handful of magic-inhibiting artefacts he’d heard of were things of distant legend, lost to the passage of time. And yet…
“I got the idea from wifi hotspots in cafés and airports, only, of course, this is the contrary,” said Granger. Then, seeing from his face that that explained nothing, she said: “Never mind.”
“I’m not entirely certain that those are legal,” said Draco, looking at the pucks.
“Better report me to Shacklebolt,” said Granger.
Her eyes met his, unfriendly, unafraid. Draco decided that Granger had balls, possibly rivalling Tonks’ enormous pair.
The beginnings of a Plan were germinating in his head.
“I need a copy of your schedule,” he said, leading the way back to Granger’s office.
A quick Duplicatus sorted that, paired with a Protean Charm to ensure that changes to her version would be reflected on his.
“Right. I shall prepare a tidy little report with some recommendations to ensure Healer Granger’s continued safety and well-being,” said Draco, scribbling out a few notes. “I’m also going to see what I can do to reassure Shacklebolt that you’re not going to be murdered tomorrow, and that I needn’t be your minder on a daily basis.”
“A relief for all parties,” said Granger.
“Watch for my owl in a few days. Also, please stop giving him treacle tart, it makes him unruly.”
“Understood,” said Granger, looking only slightly abashed. “Is the test over, then?”
“Yes.”
“Finally,” said Granger. Then, because she was a normal, well-adjusted individual, she sat down at her desk to work some more.
Draco saw that he had, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist, and decided to show himself out without further ceremony.
“Mind the tile just in front of the door – Quicksand Curse,” said Granger absently. “It was to catch the baddies on the way out.”
“Saw it, Granger.”
“Of course you did.”
~
A few exchanges with Shacklebolt ensued, during which Draco outlined his Plan and convinced the Minister that it was the correct approach, and that, moreover, no other approach would do because the Principal would be too uncooperative.
Draco studied Granger’s schedule in quiet moments, puzzling over the asterisk “holidays.” His first thought was that the days were a personal indicator of some private thing. They were too scattered to be a reminder for her period. The pattern wasn’t lunar, either – good to know Granger wasn’t a secret werewolf.
Dates for some romantic entanglement, perhaps? Was that why she hadn’t marked down details? Was he looking at Granger’s sex schedule? Would she really take entire days off? Draco felt that he ought to shake the hand of the man responsible.
He also surreptitiously checked the off-day requests book at the Auror Office, and neither the Weasel’s nor Pothead’s upcoming holidays coincided. The mystery endured.
Draco spent a few days tinkering with the key element of his Plan. And by ‘tinkering,’ we do mean, of course, mucking about with ancient magicks best left untouched.
~
“Recommendations,” said Draco, slapping a roll of parchment onto Granger’s desk. “Fairly standard stuff for fairly obvious vulnerabilities. I’ve run them past Shacklebolt. He’s agreed to withdraw the protection request if you comply with them.”
Granger unrolled the parchment and found that it reached the floor. She gave him a slow blink. “Anything you’d like to draw my particular attention to, in the interest of saving time?”
“Yes,” said Draco. “Item fifty-six.”
Granger ran down the list to the line in question. “The Principal must agree to wear the Ring at all times, until completion of the Project.”
“That’s the one,” said Draco.
“What ring?” asked Granger.
“This one,” said Draco, tossing a ring towards her. The small silver band landed on the parchment, spun once, and was still. “I don’t care to train you on Imperius and Veritaserum resistance, or personal protection magicks, or Advanced Occlumency, or drill you on physical self-defence (gods forbid; you look like your punches might concuss a gnat, at best) – and nor, I think, do you want to endure these things.”
“Correct,” said Granger, her suspicious look moving from the ring to Draco.
“Nor do I want to stand sentry at your door like some glorified bodyguard, waiting for whatever Shacklebolt expects to happen, to happen.”
“Yes,” said Granger with enthusiasm. “Continue.”
“So I presented Shacklebolt with this option, which will allow me to – in essence – be alerted if anything were to happen to you, and Apparate to you instantly. I can find better uses for my time, and you can carry on with your – distressingly full, by the way – schedule, unimpeded.”
Draco waited to be praised for the simple elegance of this brilliant solution. Instead, Granger poked the ring with her wand.
“It isn’t going to kill you,” said Draco.
Granger met his eyes seriously. “My dataset is, admittedly, rather small, but I saw the aftermath of the last piece of jewellery that Draco Malfoy handed out, and it was – alarming. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t immediately put this on. I’d like to analyse it.”
Ah, yes. The Katie Bell Incident. If Draco had any feelings, they would’ve been a little hurt, probably, by this display of mistrust stemming from the actions of an idiot boy being manipulated by the Darkest wizard of the century, a decade and a half ago. But he didn't, so the point was moot.
“I’m happy to see that you've got some self-preservation instincts,” said Draco. He swept his hand towards the ring. “Analyse away.”
Granger cast a few revelation spells, which set the ring aglow with slow-rotating, translucent spellwork. “So – what’s all this?”
“Telling you would rather spoil the fun, wouldn’t it? You tell me,” said Draco. And with that, he settled back into his chair into a relaxed pose. Now it was his turn to watch her unpuzzle a thing.
She flicked through the spells with some adeptness, quickly picking out the more critical ones. Draco supposed that diagnostic magic would come easily to her as a Healer.
She listed her findings. “A Locator Charm, miscellaneous protective runes (thoughtful, thank you), a distress beacon, heart rate monitoring...”
Now her lips quirked.
“What’s funny?” asked Draco.
“You’ve invented a Wizarding FitBit.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Unless he was misunderstanding, Granger was suggesting that his exceptional creation was a knock-off of a Muggle thing? What?
“Never mind. What’s this unfinished mess here?” asked Granger, holding her wand-point to a ghostly green knot of Arithmantic calculations.
Draco felt his nostrils pinch: that unfinished mess was the result of many frustrating hours of work. “I haven’t got round to finishing that yet.”
“What was it meant to be?”
“Portkey. For moments when you couldn’t Apparate, or if you were trapped in an Anti-Apparition Ward. I haven’t worked out the calculations.”
Granger looked mildly impressed. Draco supposed that she was surrounded by the nation’s greatest magical brains on the daily, and that he ought to be pleased that she was mildly impressed by a mere Auror’s paltry creation.
“An on-demand Portkey would be something,” said Granger.
“Portus is a pain in the arse of an enchantment,” said Draco, trying to sound resigned, rather than sullen.
“Have you ever thought of making more of these rings? You could monetise these easily,” said Granger, holding the ring aloft.
“Do I look like I need money?” asked Draco.
Granger levelled a stare at him. Her back straightened. They had been dangerously close to lapsing into a civil conversation and she seemed to have forgotten who she was talking to. She sniffed in lieu of responding.
“Anyway, I can’t mass-produce the ring.”
“Right.” Granger was weighing the ring in the palm of her hand. “Because this isn’t just some trinket you put a few neat charms on.”
“No.”
“This is an Artefact.”
“Indeed.”
“A family heirloom, if I were to hazard a guess.”
“Yes.”
Of course she’d spotted the concealment charm that made the ring look like a plain silver band. Now she tapped her wand to reveal the ring’s true appearance – an ornate silver ouroboros, ever eating its own tail. And on the inside, the family motto: Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. Purity will always conquer.
“You’re certain this ring won’t immediately attempt to amputate my finger? I’m not Pure, after all,” said Granger.
Draco felt that the temperature in Granger’s office had dropped rather suddenly.
“Did you see a sign of Dark magic?” asked Draco. Too quickly – he’d sounded defensive. Blast.
“If there was Dark magic, it’s gone now,” said Granger.
She tapped the ring again, reverting it back to the plain silver band. She looked thoughtful.
“I’ll need some time to go through this extremely comprehensive list of recommendations,” she said at length.
“Take the time you need,” said Draco. “But know that the alternative is Shacklebolt setting up a camp bed for me, for overnights in your laboratory.”
She eyed him, then seemed to decide that he must be joking. “I’ll need to think about item fifty-six in particular. Do you want the ring back in the meantime?”
“Keep it,” said Draco. “Have your friends analyse it – isn’t one of the Weasley brothers meant to be good at that stuff? – and when you’ve quite settled any doubts, owl me, and we can get on with our lives.”
Granger perked up, as though getting on with her life without a Draco-shaped barnacle attached to her was the kindest hope he could’ve offered her.
“I will,” she said.
Two of her students, kitted up in their strange white cloaks and goggles, knocked at the door, excited to share some new development with dear Professor Granger.
Draco rose to leave as Granger donned her own white coat to join the students in the laboratory. There was an awkward, conflicted look on her face.
Draco, never one to make things easy, merely raised an eyebrow at her.
“I suppose I want to say thank you. For working through this as you are. I haven’t exactly been pulling my weight trying to find a solution to Shacklebolt’s request. The ring is a good idea.”
“I think you’re more than pulling your weight elsewhere,” said Draco.
He left; she muttered something that might’ve been a goodbye.