Colin Creevey was about to do something momentous. He wanted to start a Hogwarts school newspaper.
"How can such a great and ancient school of magic have no decent paper of its own? Students shouldn't have to rely on the Daily Prophet, which is half rumour and half rubbish." He said this to his brother Dennis at the Gryffindor table on the morning of Hogsmeade's open day. "My idol Harry Potter has been a victim of it himself."
"That's right — no one should have to listen to what that awful reporter makes up." Dennis enthusiastically supported this position, reaching for a small round roll from the tray in front of him. "That despicable woman even used you against everyone last time, twisting one of your throwaway remarks —"
"Yes, and it caused Granger to be misunderstood by the whole school — everyone thought she was two-timing Harry. My study partner Ginny Weasley barely spoke to me for weeks," Colin said, with a look of deep shame. He stole a glance at Hermione across the table — who appeared to be staring intently toward the Slytherin table — entirely oblivious to the conversation. "Back then everyone thought Granger was playing with people's feelings, which was terribly —"
"But didn't you already explain it to everyone?" Dennis spread a thick layer of apricot jam into his roll.
"It's not that simple," Colin said dejectedly. "A single sentence in the Prophet took me nearly six months to partially correct, and even then it was only within Hogwarts. What about readers outside the school? I can't reach them. They'll probably misunderstand forever."
"Oh, I see." Dennis placed his jam roll into Colin's hands with an expression of genuine sympathy. "Here, brother. Remember what Dad says — don't cry over spilled milk."
"Thank you, Dennis." Colin chewed thoughtfully. "Malfoy was right about one thing — it's incredibly easy to spread a rumour and almost impossible to undo one. I can't correct misunderstandings on my own. Hogwarts needs its own voice." He straightened up. "So I'm going to start a newspaper."
"Wow!" Dennis's mouth fell open. A few seconds passed. Then: "Brother, you're even more impressive than the giant squid in the Black Lake!"
"Exactly what I thought," Colin said, looking extremely pleased with himself. "I think I can manage at least a little better than Rita Skeeter. At minimum I can promise one thing: stick to the truth. Do you agree?"
If someone as unprincipled as Rita Skeeter could write news, why on earth couldn't he?
"I completely agree!" Dennis said, practically bouncing. "I believe in you, brother! Dad will be so proud! But where do we begin?"
"I've already submitted an application to Professor McGonagall to establish a school newspaper, and I've received some encouragement from the school," Colin confided, sounding quite pleased.
He recalled Professor McGonagall's words from the day before, delivered with characteristic severity: "I have reservations about this, but Professor Dumbledore considers it an excellent idea. However, you must first produce one or two sample issues to demonstrate your ability. If the quality is satisfactory, Hogwarts may consider providing funding."
"Wow!" Dennis's eyes went wide. "The school agreed!"
"Not quite — I still need to gather material and prove myself first." Colin scratched his head.
"Wow! They're letting you make actual papers!" Dennis exclaimed.
"That's not exactly — oh, never mind." Colin thought about it and gave up. "You're not entirely wrong. In any case, I'm trying to figure out where to begin."
"Use the new camera Dad gave you," Dennis said admiringly. "Take some photos. What about Hogsmeade Village? I've always wanted to go, but I'm too young. Half my year is the same — everyone's curious about it."
"Brilliant idea!" Colin's eyes lit up. "Why not make the first issue a special on Hogsmeade Village?"
---
It was a warm, clear open day in Hogsmeade. The April breeze had thinned the Hogwarts students' heavy winter cloaks into colourful Muggle sweatshirts, cardigans, and light school robes.
On the winding main street, Draco Malfoy observed the crowd with an expression of mild annoyance.
He had never especially enjoyed noisy environments. Hermione, however, was looking at everything with great animation, her eyes moving from shop to shop.
There was little he could do about it. Since she liked it, he simply kept his arm around her and continued along the busy street, his expressionless face methodically scanning any reckless pedestrian who might barrel into her path, his cold gaze efficiently clearing those impolite footsteps before they could become a problem.
For example, Colin Creevey — who went everywhere with a camera, never watched where he was going, and possessed an exceptionally loud voice. Draco's gaze darkened. He directed a particularly withering look in his direction.
Colin was planning his special issue on Hogsmeade Village. He intended it primarily for younger students — especially Muggle-born ones — who had never set foot in a wizarding village and had no frame of reference for what they might find there. He had high hopes for its reception.
Unfortunately, while he was happily moving through the crowd collecting material, he found Draco Malfoy's glare in his camera's viewfinder, and it nearly froze him solid.
He scrambled hastily out of the way, not even realising he'd accidentally pressed the shutter.
Every single time he saw that arrogant Slytherin boy walking past him with the cleverest girl in Gryffindor, Colin's mind produced approximately a hundred different thoughts in rapid succession.
Senior Granger's taste was truly extraordinary. Malfoy was not, by any reasonable measure, approachable. He was a cold, domineering Slytherin who looked as though he might cast a Jinx on someone without particularly raising his voice. He was neither gentle nor obviously considerate — the exact opposite of what Colin's mother had always said girls were supposed to like.
He genuinely could not understand why Senior Granger liked him.
For his part, Colin had received a very threatening lecture from Malfoy over the newspaper incident — terrifying, frankly.
There was a persistent rumour within Gryffindor that Granger was with Malfoy under some form of duress, and that Professor McGonagall had once hauled Professor Snape into the staff room to demand he discipline his students over it —
"It's entirely plausible," Colin thought seriously, recalling the look Malfoy had given him just now. "With a glare like that, you'd believe almost anything."
Then he looked down at the photographs that had unexpectedly come out of the camera.
He stopped walking.
He'd been so focused on Malfoy's glare that he hadn't noticed what the rest of the photo was showing.
The Draco Malfoy in the photograph was doing something entirely different from what Colin had expected:
He kept his arms slightly raised on either side, carefully shielding the smiling girl at his side — who was looking around happily, oblivious — preventing anyone in the crowd from bumping into her. And when he glanced down at her, his expression changed completely.
Soft. Colin stared, then blinked. That was the word. When Malfoy looked at her, his expression softened. It made him look, honestly, considerably less terrifying.
Colin examined the photograph for a long time before slipping it carefully into his pocket. It had nothing whatsoever to do with his current project, but he made a mental note: perhaps, one day, a special issue on campus couples would prove interesting.
He continued up the street, his thoughts rather busier than before.
A truth he had never seriously considered was beginning to emerge from that photograph:
Contrary to everything rumour had suggested, Granger wasn't with Malfoy because he had something on her. She almost certainly liked him. His attitude toward her was unmistakably particular — and she looked comfortable in his company in a way she rarely did in public. More relaxed. More herself.
Perhaps the two of them were rather different in private than either of them appeared.
Colin turned the camera over in his hands, thoughtfully.
---
On his end, Draco Malfoy was entirely unaware that his unguarded display of protectiveness had been caught on film by the gossipy Colin Creevey. Had he known, he probably wouldn't have cared.
His attention was entirely on Hermione.
"Shall we go to the Three Broomsticks?" he asked.
"Could we look in at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes first?" she asked, watching him carefully.
"Of course. Why not?" Draco said, cheerful and entirely unsuspecting.
They turned down the road behind the Three Broomsticks, past Mrs. Partridge's Tea House and an elegant robes shop, and stopped in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, which was bustling with customers.
"Quite a crowd," Hermione observed.
"Yes — one shop assistant is nowhere near enough for this volume," Draco said, frowning slightly.
He would have to mention to the twins that they needed to take on more staff.
Hermione glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.
His perspective on the matter was rather surprising. Most people walking into a busy shop simply noticed the queue. Who thought to consider it from the angle of staff management?
"Let's go in. It looks like Harry and Ron are here too," she said calmly, smiling at him as she tucked her curiosity neatly out of sight.
They stepped inside and found things somewhat changed from their last visit.
The twins had placed their newly arrived Peruvian Darkness Powder in the most prominent position in the shop, drawing an excited crowd of boys who were clustered around reading the product descriptions.
Hermione immediately spotted the pair of dark-haired boys near the back. Harry and Ron were gazing up at the product catalogue hanging from the ceiling with expressions of deep fascination.
Fred squeezed through the crowd and appeared at Draco's elbow. "Didn't expect to see the young Malfoy heir today. George was just about to look for you."
Draco glanced at Hermione.
"Go on," Fred said easily. "I'll show her round."
"It's fine — I can look at the women's section on my own. Go ahead," Hermione said, keeping her voice light.
In truth, she cared rather a lot.
She had long suspected there was something going on between Draco and the Weasley twins that he'd never explained. Now she was more certain than ever.
To uncover it, she needed to create the opportunity — let them talk without her hovering — and then watch for where the threads led. Asking Draco directly was pointless. He was extraordinarily good at fielding questions, redirecting conversations, and leaving her no clearer on the matter than when she'd started.
She was going to conduct a Hermione Granger-style investigation.
The prize, if she worked it out, would be Draco Malfoy having to explain himself. Quite possibly the most satisfying outcome she could imagine. She tracked his figure out of the corner of her eye until he disappeared somewhere behind the shelves.
Despite the busy shop and the blonde shop assistant working flat-out at the till, Fred accompanied Hermione around as he'd said he would.
"Anything catch your eye? I can set something aside for you," Fred said, hands in pockets, with an easy smile.
"Oh, no thank you. I'm just looking," Hermione said.
Just then, a small boy came running over, holding up a little bottle of ointment. "How do I use this?" he asked, looking up at Fred.
Hermione glanced at it. A yellow, viscous paste with a sharp Muggle petrol smell. Something about it nagged at her.
Then, quite suddenly, she placed it.
The summer before third year. A wizarding spa in Bath. Draco had applied something with exactly this consistency and this smell to her red and swollen eyes.
"Just apply it around the eye socket — nice thick layer," Fred said, crouching down to the boy's level and winking. The boy ran off, delighted.
As Fred straightened up, Hermione asked, with her most guileless expression, "What is this, exactly? It has a very unusual smell."
"Anti-swelling ointment — part of the Punching Telescope set." Fred looked mildly proud when discussing his own products. "Strong scent, I know, but the effect is excellent. George and I developed it ourselves. You won't find it anywhere else."
"Does it work on ordinary red, swollen eyes as well?" Hermione asked curiously.
"Absolutely — though it'd be rather a waste." Fred shrugged. "The stuff isn't cheap. Who'd spend that on something that'd sort itself out in a day or two?"
"That's true." Hermione turned to examine the Punching Telescope with renewed interest. "This was developed quite a while back, wasn't it? When did you first start selling it?"
"Didn't know you had a soft spot for joke products," Fred said, warming to the topic. "We actually finished the Punching Telescope ages ago, but we didn't sort out the final formula for the anti-swelling ointment until the summer before last."
"It must have taken a lot of effort," Hermione said. "Behind each little sample bottle there must have been dozens of failed attempts."
Fred looked pleased to be talking to someone who appreciated the work. "You have no idea. We punched ourselves with the thing more times than I care to remember before we got the formula right. We practically went bald over it." He said this with evident pride. "It really is the culmination of tremendous effort."
"And once you had the sample, it must have been a while before you could get it into full production," Hermione said, eyes bright with interest.
"Exactly — R&D is one thing, mass production is entirely another. You need stable raw material suppliers, consistent quantities. It wasn't until we opened last year that we managed proper production and got it onto the shelves," Fred said.
Hermione's mind was working quickly.
The timeline made something very clear: when the Weasley twins had only just finished developing their ointment — when they had a single precious sample and nothing else — Draco had already acquired it. And he had used that rare, expensive, one-of-a-kind sample generously on her red and swollen eyes without a second thought.
"You're both remarkable," Hermione said, and meant it entirely. "Every product represents an enormous amount of work, and you're managing the whole operation at the same time. Not everyone could do that."
"It's our passion, and our dream. And we're lucky — we've never lacked good help," Fred said with a grin. "How about the ointment? For those eyes of yours?"
"Oh no, you said yourself it would be a waste of talent," Hermione said.
"If it's for you, take whatever you like —" Fred shrugged.
"Fred, honestly. You've got a shop to run." Hermione smiled at him. "I can wander about on my own."
She would much rather, if she were being truthful, have slipped quietly around the shelves to eavesdrop on whatever Draco was saying to George.
The two of them were standing in a corner of the shop, looking casual — but Draco's eyes were serious. His expression was the careful, focused one he wore when something actually mattered. And he was glancing over at her every few exchanges, with the instinctive radar of someone who always knew exactly where she was.
Hermione gave him a guileless smile when he looked. Indicating she was having a lovely time. Absolutely not listening.
Fred was, by now, plainly needed elsewhere. The shop assistant at the till was calling his name with escalating urgency. He scratched the back of his head and gave Hermione an apologetic look.
"Go, go," Hermione said with a laugh. "I won't wander off."
So Fred, in a single fluid motion, reached over the heads of a cluster of boys, plucked two Peruvian Darkness Powder canisters from the shelf, and pressed them into Hermione's hands without ceremony. "Taking off. Sorry I couldn't look after you longer — these'll make up for it. Best thing in the shop for a quick escape."
From across the room, Ron muttered to Harry with a mixture of complaint and envy: "He's never that generous with his own brother."
Hermione was slightly mortified. She tried to return the items, but Fred had already moved away in three enormous strides, unreachable. She couldn't get them back onto the high shelves, and she couldn't very well drop them on the floor.
She was standing there with a smoke canister in each hand, looking somewhat at a loss, when her boy finished his conversation and came over.
"What's the matter?" He smiled at her expression.
"Fred gave me these." She spread her hands helplessly.
"Keep them." Draco was entirely unruffled. "He'll put it on my account. It's fine."
"But they're no use to me —" Hermione said, somewhere between amused and exasperated.
She looked entirely baffled by the smoke canisters, which made her look slightly ridiculous, and rather adorable.
While Hermione had been with Fred, Draco had spent a few minutes with George — quickly covering the question of hiring additional shop assistants, and asking after Lupin's situation.
Everything was quiet on both fronts.
"The Bagman business — how is that going?" he asked, keeping his voice low and his eyes on Hermione across the room.
"Oh, you know about that." George gave a dry laugh. "He's not paying us back. He's all but disappeared — Percy says he hardly comes into the Ministry anymore. He owes money everywhere. We think he's hiding."
"Sell a few more canisters and you'll recover it," Draco said, without particular concern. He watched Hermione pick up a Punching Telescope and examine it. "Think of it as tuition."
"Yeah, I suppose." George brightened. "Speaking of which, we really should be restocking the Darkness Powder more aggressively."
Draco smiled slightly but said nothing more.
Fred had already gone back to the counter, Hermione was standing there looking confused, and so he ended the conversation and went to find her.
Then came the helpless smoke-canister situation.
At Draco's quiet insistence, Hermione tucked the canisters into her bag, feeling increasingly unsettled.
Something was going on between him and the twins. She was quite certain of it now. Ron's barely suppressed jealousy at how easily she'd been given expensive products; the way Draco had received Fred's casual generosity as though it were perfectly normal; the way he'd spoken to George with quiet authority about the Bagman situation — these were not the interactions of a passing acquaintance.
She was missing something important.
She turned it over absently as Draco steered her out of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, only distantly registering his hand at her waist.
---
At almost exactly the same moment, in the underground kitchen Draco had never had cause to explore, Sirius Black caught a glimpse of the couple leaving the shop through a small high window — and made a thoughtful sound.
His old friend Remus Lupin was pouring Butterbeer into two glasses at the table. He looked up. "Something wrong?"
"I've seen them together a number of times now, and it still catches me off guard a little," Sirius said, turning from the window and settling into the chair across the table. He took a long drink of Butterbeer. "Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. Remarkable pairing."
"Draco's just been in?" Lupin asked, conversationally.
"Draco?" Sirius's eyebrow went up. "You're on first name terms?"
"He was my student," Lupin said mildly. "Is that so strange?"
Sirius looked at him with open scepticism.
He would not have been especially surprised to hear that Remus knew any Gryffindor student well. But Draco Malfoy was a Slytherin — and not an ordinary one. Last year, during Lupin's werewolf transformation, Draco and Hermione had nearly been killed. Sirius had always assumed the relationship between them was, at best, one of mutual cold disregard. At worst, open hostility.
And yet Remus had said his name with perfect ease, as though it were nothing at all.
"Don't you find them reminiscent of someone?" Lupin said, pouring himself a glass. "Watching the two of them — there's something familiar about it. A pure-blood boy, the most brilliant witch of her generation..."
"Don't even think about finishing that thought," Sirius said. "Draco Malfoy and James are not comparable. Not even slightly. James was warm, gregarious, always in the thick of things. Draco's got about three expressions and one of them is contempt."
He's cold on the outside, warm underneath, a bit reckless, possibly a touch mad, definitely a Black in some ways — but he's not James. Nobody was James. Not even Harry.
"I meant the blood status parallel," Lupin said patiently. "A pure-blood wizard choosing a Muggle-born witch."
"Yes, but Draco comes from Slytherin, and you know his family's beliefs better than most. James's parents were open-minded, welcoming people. The Malfoys are the exact opposite. This pair won't have a smooth road," Sirius said bluntly. "They'll face real obstacles."
Draco might very well end up having a spectacular row with his parents and running away from home, in fact. Much as Sirius himself had done at roughly the same age.
"Perhaps," Lupin said. "But I have confidence in him."
"Where does that come from?" Sirius said, with faint pessimism. "The passionate convictions of teenagers have a way of curdling under the cold weather of reality. They might give up when it gets difficult."
"Sirius," Lupin said calmly, "love and fear can reinforce one another, sometimes."
More than confidence in Draco's love, it was confidence in what Draco feared most. That Boggart had said a great deal about him. This boy was not simple. He would do what was necessary.
Sirius looked at his friend, puzzled by the certainty in his voice, then shook his head.
"You still haven't told me who actually owns this shop," he said.
He had discovered Remus's involvement here entirely by accident — bumped into him at the Three Broomsticks when Remus was buying Butterbeer, secretly followed him, and pieced together the carefully concealed new job.
"The Weasley twins," Lupin said.
"Remus." Sirius leaned forward. "The Weasley twins are enormously talented and full of ideas. But they lack the one thing required to open a shop this large, on this scale: capital. Someone is backing them. And that same person apparently hired you as well." He watched Lupin's expression. "Someone who knows you, knows the twins, and has the means. I've had the distinct feeling it's someone connected to Hogwarts."
Lupin coughed, looking uncomfortable. "Don't ask. I've signed a magical contract. Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn't."
"Can't I simply guess for fun? I'm not asking, I'm speculating." Sirius studied him. "On a different note — where have you been spending your full moons? The Shrieking Shack?"
"I've been taking my potion," Lupin said.
"The Wolfsbane Potion?" Sirius's eyebrows shot up. "Who brewed it for you? I certainly don't believe Snape did it out of the goodness of his heart."
A faint smile crossed Lupin's grey-green eyes. He shook his head. "Certainly not him," he said, and turned his attention back to the old wireless set he'd been tinkering with.
"There are more and more mysteries surrounding you." Sirius eyed him with deep suspicion.
Could it be that the same mystery benefactor who owned the shop had also been providing him with Wolfsbane Potion every month? The only Potions Master who could conceivably be associated with both Remus and the Weasley twins — and Sirius resented even thinking the name — was Severus Snape.
But Remus had just ruled him out.
Which made the whole thing considerably more interesting.
"In any case," Sirius said, setting it aside for now, "I'm glad to see you're doing well."
Some riddles required patience and luck and a long chain of small revelations. He could wait. He reached out, clinked his glass against Lupin's, and smiled. "Thanks for the Butterbeer."
"My pleasure." Lupin smiled back, in genuinely good spirits.
He could finally treat his friends to drinks when he wanted to, without the old familiar awkwardness of being perpetually broke. For most able-bodied witches and wizards, having steady work and a salary was unremarkable. For a werewolf navigating a world that actively discriminated against him in employment, it was something he had once barely dared to hope for.
"Who is it, though?" Sirius murmured, half to himself, staring into his glass.
You're very perceptive, Sirius — but you'll never guess, Lupin thought, sipping his Butterbeer.
The mystery benefactor of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes — who also quietly arranged and delivered Wolfsbane Potion every month — was none other than your own beloved nephew, Draco Malfoy, with his identical grey eyes and his Black blood and his endless complicated plans.
"Give up, Sirius," Lupin said pleasantly.
"Give up?" Sirius said, with great indignation. "Absolutely not."