The wall clock ticked away with the same anxious urgency as Ron Weasley rushing to hand in his exam parchment.
The wind from Ron's robes as he bolted out of the examination hall ruffled a sheet of parchment on Draco Malfoy's desk. The young man stretched out long, pale fingers and pressed the impatient parchment flat, then glanced briefly at the clock.
He twirled his anti-Cheating quill between his fingers, lips pressed together, keeping a careful eye on the girl a few seats away as she scrawled furiously through her last few answers.
She finished in a rush, breathed out, and set down her quill. At that exact moment, Draco smiled, stood, and handed in his paper one step behind her, leaving the examination hall for the History of Magic corridor.
"Wait—I need to check those answers!" Hermione dropped onto a bench beneath the wisteria trellis outside and began frantically leafing through her History of Magic textbook. "I'm sure I left out a sentence. Oh, there's no time to go back over it now."
"Take your time," Draco said, amused, watching her turn pages with frantic precision.
He glanced up from her muttered recitations and surveyed the grounds, spotting Viktor Krum walking with his parents in the distance. His grey eyes fixed on them with quiet wariness, though his voice remained surprisingly mild. "I'm a little surprised Ron was the first to hand in his paper. Since when is his History of Magic that good?"
"His mother and brother came to see Harry today. He probably wanted to finish early so he could go and say hello." Hermione turned another page without looking up. "I'll have to go say hello to Mrs. Weasley as well, later."
Mrs. Weasley.
Draco sighed quietly, letting his gaze drift away from Krum.
He knew the Weasley family would be at the Gryffindor table today, gathered to cheer Harry on. And in his memory, Mrs. Weasley's feelings towards anyone bearing the name Malfoy had never wavered.
In his previous life, he had encountered her disdainful looks on the platform at King's Cross, in the streets of Diagon Alley—indiscriminate, like weather. As a child, he had never quite understood why he deserved them. He was used to looking down on others. How could anyone look down on him?
He had simplistically concluded, back then, that her contempt was nothing more than the petty resentment of the lower classes. It was only now, with a different kind of understanding, that he grasped how absurd that reasoning had been. The opening of the Chamber of Secrets had been his father's doing—Lucius had slipped his diary into Ginny Weasley's old schoolbooks. Mrs. Weasley, who had nearly lost her daughter, had every reason to despise the name Malfoy.
In this life, just as in the last, she never concealed that dislike. Draco had come to accept it. He had thought it wouldn't trouble him.
But once she found out about Hermione...
"Do you like Mrs. Weasley?" he asked suddenly.
"Mrs. Weasley has always been very kind to me," Hermione said with a bright smile—pleased, clearly, to have found no gaps in her revision—and looked at him. "I stayed at the Burrow during the summer, and she took wonderful care of me. Remember the Quidditch World Cup? Mr. Weasley didn't have enough tickets, so she gave hers to me."
"Oh," Draco said slowly. He paused. "I didn't know that."
He hadn't considered it before. A Grand Quidditch World Cup, right on the doorstep of the British wizarding world, something no witch or wizard would willingly miss—and yet she had given up her place without hesitation.
So that was how it was. This formidable woman had surrendered her seat in the Top Box to Hermione.
Draco studied his girlfriend's profile without meaning to. She was walking happily beside him, smiling, apparently unconcerned about whether their relationship had everyone's blessing. He, however, found he couldn't stop worrying about it.
He had told himself, for months, that he didn't care about others' opinions.
Yet now he found he cared whether her face would show awkwardness—whether she would ever look embarrassed, as if ashamed to introduce him to someone she loved.
It was because of this that, before they reached the Great Hall, Draco came to an abrupt halt and said, with some difficulty, "Hermione—you go in ahead, would you? I need to see Professor Snape about something."
Hermione, still mentally rehearsing History of Magic questions, barely registered his expression. "Of course. See you in a bit." She went in without a second glance.
Draco, naturally, had no intention of going near his Head of House—Professor Snape had lately developed an alarming enthusiasm for experimental Potion modifications, and had taken to barring anyone from approaching his cauldrons while he worked. Draco had no desire to be drafted as an impromptu assistant on the day of the final task.
He circled back through a side stairwell, thinking, and was nearly to the entrance of the Great Hall when he ran into Cedric Diggory.
The Hufflepuff champion was leading his smiling parents up the other staircase—towards the brighter passage near the Hufflepuff common room—and looked up at Draco's approach with the same easy, polished friendliness he always wore.
Cedric nodded. "Hi, Malfoy."
He was showing off for his parents. Clearly. Draco had no intention of rewarding it.
He gave a stiff nod in return, said nothing, and turned to look elsewhere, resuming his position against the wall with studied indifference.
Amos Diggory snorted. He had noticed the Malfoy boy—it was difficult not to. He remembered him from the night of the World Cup: platinum-blond, insufferably arrogant, rude to Ministry officials without flinching. He also remembered the Muggle-born girl—Granger—who had stood up for the boy when Bartemius Crouch had taken aim at him because of his family's Death Eater history. A complicated boy, this Malfoy. One whose allegiances you couldn't quite place.
"Cedric," Amos said, displeased, "how can you greet a Malfoy? Are you two on friendly terms?"
"Oh—we've played against each other on the pitch a few times. He's Slytherin's Seeker," Cedric said with an easy shrug.
"His rival, then! That explains his charming manner," Amos said, loudly enough to carry, as they entered the hall. "I've never cared for Slytherins. They never seem to know how to respond to a civil greeting."
Draco listened without blinking.
He was not, in truth, thinking about Amos Diggory.
He was thinking about the graveyard.
In his previous life, on this very night, Cedric Diggory had died. His father—once so proud—had been shattered by it. Would it happen again?
He heard Amos say to his son, with paternal satisfaction, "A man should learn to tell his true friends from his useful acquaintances, Cedric."
"I'm not sure I always can," Cedric replied, in a tone that was noticeably less agreeable than usual. "I think he could be a loyal friend."
In that moment, Cedric was thinking of the odd, sharp-edged boy who had questioned his reasons for helping Harry Potter on the pitch—who had expressed his concern for Harry's safety in the most hostile, roundabout way imaginable. And he was thinking of the way that same boy, standing in the pouring rain on a sodden Quidditch pitch, hair plastered to his forehead and robes soaked through, had bellowed at two Slytherin Beaters who were sprawled on the ground with defeated expressions: "What's missing? An arm or a leg? You just need practice! Again! Do you hear me? Stand up and do it again!"
"A man who wants to be everyone's friend can be no one's true friend," Amos said comfortably, guiding his son forward. "You're popular because you have basic courtesy, Cedric. I've heard nothing but praise—"
"They're being kind to you," Cedric said.
"You're too modest. But don't repay every slight with patience—you're allowed to show your temper sometimes." Amos smiled. "That Malfoy boy, for instance—"
"I don't deny his manner is cold. And I know very well he doesn't consider me a friend." At the threshold of the hall, Cedric glanced back at the boy still leaning against the wall, and said quietly to his father, "But there's one thing I'd say without hesitation: on the pitch, he's a respectable opponent."
A respectable opponent.
Draco had turned at the last moment, wanting to catch whether there was any sincerity in those words—only to see the tail of Cedric's black robe disappearing through the doorway.
A black robe. Like Professor Snape's.
The only time Professor Snape had ever removed his black robe, in Draco's previous life, was to lay it over Cedric Diggory's face in a rain-soaked graveyard.
Draco had never fully shaken Cedric Diggory's death from his memory. It had unsettled him in ways he hadn't expected. His death had been, in a sense, the first signal flare of the Dark Lord's return—the proof that Voldemort had no regard for blood purity, lineage, or potential. He killed as easily as he breathed, simply because Cedric had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
In the smoky drawing room of Malfoy Manor that summer, he had heard his parents speaking in low voices late at night.
"That poor boy should have had a fine future ahead of him," his mother had said softly. "Champion of the Triwizard Tournament, excellent academic record—he would have had a position at the Ministry by the autumn."
"He was in the wrong place at the wrong time," his father had said uneasily. "He got in the way."
"But he was a pure-blood wizard, Lucius. His family had a Minister of Magic in their history—"
"Which means we must be careful," Lucius had hissed. "If he kills where and when he chooses, he won't make exceptions for us. Not for our bloodline. Not for anything."
Draco had not understood his parents' fear at the time. Now he did. They had believed their name, their lineage, their wealth, would protect them—would grant them some privileged position in the Dark Lord's camp. They had been wrong. Cedric Diggory's death proved it. The "Sacred Twenty-Eight" meant nothing to a man who cast the Killing Curse the way another man might pour a glass of water.
Cedric Diggory had died pointlessly. It was a shame.
Standing in the warm June sunlight, Draco exhaled quietly.
He had been wrestling with this question for months, and he was still wrestling with it now: should he do something? Say something? One word in the right direction could change a great deal.
He had already talked himself out of it. But Hermione's discovery about Bertha Jorkins had left him uneasy in a new way—if the Dark Lord had access to Ministry intelligence, the volatility of tonight multiplied considerably. A single well-placed hint to Diggory could cost nothing and possibly save everything.
The trouble, of course, was how.
He couldn't tell Cedric the truth. He couldn't say: there may be a Portkey in the maze that sends you to a graveyard where Voldemort is waiting. Dumbledore and Sirius had given clear instructions—no operational details were to be discussed openly. And even if he did say it, Cedric would likely dismiss him, or worse, mention it to someone who shouldn't hear it.
What he needed was to plant an idea—subtly enough that Cedric wouldn't question its source, specifically enough that it might actually save his life.
And there was only one way Draco Malfoy had ever planted ideas in people he despised.
Reluctantly, against every instinct that told him this was unnecessary and excessive, he stepped into the noisy Great Hall.
---
After a long and tedious internal argument, Draco sat at the Slytherin table, poured himself a glass of apple juice, and resolved to do what he did every day at mealtimes: observe his girlfriend discreetly from across the room.
Hermione.
She seemed to love the Weasleys. She'd spent the whole summer with them. She was clearly entirely comfortable among them—laughing, chatting, her eyes bright, barely glancing across the hall at all.
Which was, Draco noted with a private twinge of jealousy, somewhat disappointing.
He picked at his apple pie without enthusiasm. In the past, her gaze would find him reliably through the crowd. Today, she was absorbed entirely in the noise and warmth of the Gryffindor table, hardly looking up.
Perhaps she had realised how unwelcome a Malfoy was at the Gryffindor end of the room. Perhaps, with Mrs. Weasley sitting right there, she had decided it was easier to simply not look at him.
He tried to smile nonchalantly. It came out looking more like a grimace.
He shouldn't have stepped back. He should have appeared at the Gryffindor table with her, made their relationship plain—instead of hiding himself away in some ridiculous show of consideration that she hadn't even asked for.
He took a large bite of pie. The sweetness and cinnamon did nothing for his mood.
And then—Hermione's expression changed.
The animation left her face. Her smile lines disappeared. She had gone somewhere else entirely, somewhere troubled and preoccupied.
Draco's fork stilled. He watched her more carefully. Ron's little sister leaned over and whispered something in her ear.
Hermione's eyes found his across the room immediately—and everything in her expression shifted at once. Her eyes were alive and direct, and she was smiling at him with nothing hidden in it.
In that instant, the whole of his earlier spiral dissolved.
Her feelings for him had not changed. She was not distancing herself. She was not ashamed.
She was, in fact, a bright and dazzling comet—crossing the Gryffindor table in broad daylight, streaking through the middle of the Great Hall, and landing, without ceremony, at the Slytherin table. In his palm.
He smiled.
She stood before him and looked at him as though the rest of the hall did not exist—as though he were the only one in the room worth talking to.
He stood, extended his hand to her, and invited her to sit.
Across from him, Blaise and Pansy stared like two scandalized Puffskeins on the verge of a scream. Every Slytherin at the table made some variation of a strangled noise. The other tables coughed in waves. He didn't care. He pulled Hermione down to sit beside him and said, with a smile that could only be described as triumphant, "What? Finally tired of those redheads?"
Hermione ignored the joke and the stares entirely. Her expression was serious. "Draco, I can't wait to—"
He speared a strawberry and placed it against her lips.
"Try it first." His grey eyes watched her with obvious satisfaction.
She blinked at him, caught completely off guard, and he took full advantage of her momentary bewilderment.
"Come on," he said, with the same tone he reserved for persuading her into things she'd later agree were good ideas. "Open up."
Before her brain could fully process the sequence of events, the strawberry was in her mouth, and she was blushing.
This wasn't the first time he'd done this. He'd used the same cajoling tone in the attic of the joke shop that slow summer afternoon, pressing cherries on her until she'd eaten her fill, and then—he'd said, with absolute shamelessness, that he wanted to taste the cherry. He'd kissed her with the juice still on her lips and called it collecting interest.
Hermione chewed absently, echoes of cherries mingling with the fresh taste of strawberry, and realised she'd temporarily forgotten what she'd been about to say.
"Is it good?" he asked, tilting his head.
"Delicious," she admitted.
"Good." His expression turned smug. "Now—you were saying? You couldn't wait to do something?"
That brought her back at once.
The warmth drained from her face, replaced by focused urgency. She glanced around at the watching eyes nearby, drew close to his ear, and spoke in a low, careful voice.
Draco felt his ears redden and caught Blaise and Pansy exchanging pointed looks across the table. He shot them a withering glare—they responded with exaggerated innocence.
Hermione was oblivious. She said, "Do you remember the woman Harry dreamed about—the one who was killed? I just heard from Mrs. Weasley that a Ministry employee has gone missing. Her name is Bertha Jorkins."
Draco went still.
"You think she's the same woman?"
Hermione nodded. He set down his fork and gave the matter his full attention.
He had to admit—this angle had not occurred to him. In his previous life, he had paid Bertha Jorkins no particular attention. Some unremarkable Ministry worker had gone missing, Rita Skeeter had written a few breathless column inches about it, and that had been that. He had been far too preoccupied with tormenting Harry Potter to care about the internal affairs of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.
But now, threading back through his memories more carefully, he recalled something his father had let slip—that the Dark Lord, before his resurrection, had captured an unfortunate traveller in Albania: a Ministry employee who had been passing through at precisely the wrong moment, and from whom he had extracted a great deal of useful information.
Had that person been Bertha Jorkins? He couldn't be certain—his memories of that period were patchy and grim.
Draco poured Hermione a glass of apple juice, thinking. Aside from a gossip journalist like Skeeter, who would think to connect a missing Ministry secretary to the Dark Lord's movements? Most witches and wizards were far more interested in the funeral arrangements for Bartemius Crouch Sr.
"When exactly did Bertha Jorkins disappear?" he asked, his light tone gone. "Can you tell me more?"
Hermione relayed everything she had heard from Mrs. Weasley in full, and he listened without interrupting.
"It's not a coincidence, is it," she said quietly, taking a sip of juice. "The timeline overlaps with when Harry was having those dreams."
"It's plausible," he said, watching her with a slight frown. "What did Harry say when her name came up?"
"He didn't seem to register it at all. He was eating." She glanced at Harry's retreating form across the room—he was already on his way out, face slightly pink, apparently saying something to Mrs. Weasley, entirely unaware. "I don't think it would be right to tell him today. Not tonight."
"No," Draco agreed, eyes on Harry's back. "He needs to be entirely focused on the task. But we can't sit on this either—the sooner we confirm it, the better."
"If it really is her," Hermione said carefully, "she'd have access to an enormous amount of information. She'd been in multiple departments—and from the sound of her, she was the sort who noticed things she wasn't supposed to."
"Exactly." Draco's lips pressed together. "If she's been in his hands for any length of time, and he's had the chance to extract what she knew—the number of things he might have learned in advance is significant."
"Which means everything tonight becomes harder to predict," Hermione said.
"Yes." He exhaled quietly. "Tonight is more than just a task."
The Dark Lord would try something. Whatever plans Dumbledore and Sirius had laid, the Dark Lord now potentially had information he hadn't had before—new channels, new leverage. Finding out what Bertha Jorkins knew was crucial.
"Though I should say," Hermione added reluctantly, "this is still only a guess. Harry didn't react to her description at all. It might not be her."
"We should get a photograph of Bertha Jorkins before tonight," Draco said. "Show it to Harry briefly—if he recognises her, we act. If he doesn't, we say nothing and let him focus."
"That's sensible." Hermione nodded. "But where would we get a photograph quickly? Mrs. Weasley doesn't seem to know her well enough."
"I know someone," Draco said, in a tone of studied casualness, pushing the plate of Avalanche Strawberry Cake in her direction. "Eat something first. You've barely had anything all meal. I can handle this."
Hermione realised, only then, just how hungry she was. The History of Magic examination had taken everything out of her, and she had sat at the Gryffindor table in a preoccupied haze, eating a few forkfuls of apple pie and scarcely more.
She picked up her fork.
"How did you know I hadn't eaten much?" She looked at him. And then, meeting his gaze, she understood. He had been watching her the whole time.
He always watched her. Even from across the room.
She didn't say anything more about it, just took a bite of cake, and found herself smiling at the boy beside her.
They so rarely got to sit side by side. Usually it was stolen glances across a crowded hall. This—whatever the circumstances that had led to it—felt unexpectedly nice.
Wait.
She had been sitting at the Slytherin table for the past half hour.
The realisation landed on Hermione like a bucket of cold water.
She looked up. The subtle, curious, and occasionally hostile gazes that had been surrounding her since she sat down suddenly made perfect sense. She—in Gryffindor robes, gold and scarlet trim—had walked straight into the silver-green domain of the Slytherins and installed herself beside their most prominent fourth-year, with all the subtlety of a Niffler in a jewellery shop.
"Draco, I should go—" She made to stand. He pressed her back into her seat without even looking up.
"You're not going anywhere until you've eaten," he said, his tone remarkably unreasonable for someone delivering what was, essentially, a kindness. "You've been here long enough that leaving now would only make things more awkward. Stay put."
He had noticed Mrs. Weasley's pointed looks from across the room. At this point, returning Hermione to the Gryffindor table would be walking her directly into that. Better to keep her where she was.
"There's no rule that says a student can't sit at another house's table," he added smoothly. "I checked. It's not in Hogwarts: A History. The established habit isn't a law—it's just cowardice."
Hermione put her head in her hands. "They're all looking at us."
Draco swept a cool, authoritative gaze across the Slytherin table. Most of the stares dropped immediately. He turned to the Hufflepuff table and found Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Hannah Abbott craning around in unison, watching them with naked interest.
He rolled his eyes. These Hufflepuffs. Ernie had learned the Patronus Charm from him two months ago and had apparently decided this made them friends—he kept talking to Draco in that breezy, familiar way that made Draco's skin crawl.
He abandoned any attempt at a staring contest with Ernie and redirected his attention to Hermione. "Feeling any better?"
"Marginally," she said, still mortified, and took a hasty sip of apple juice. "Who is this person you know? For the photograph?"
"Promise you won't be angry."
Hermione gave him a look. She had been in his company long enough to know that when he led with that, it was either because the answer was surprising, inadvisable, or both. She nodded with great reluctance. "Fine."
"In an emergency," Draco said carefully, "I'm thinking of making a trade with Rita Skeeter."
"That—" Hermione lowered her voice sharply and looked at him as though he had suggested something involving a Blast-Ended Skrewt and a potions cabinet. "Are you out of your mind? She's ruthless, she has no scruples, and she just published that nonsense about Sirius!"
"Which is precisely why she's useful," Draco said. "She gets photographs of anyone she's interested in—quickly, and without caring who she inconveniences. We should take advantage of that."
"Use her?" Hermione's brow furrowed. "Why would she cooperate with you?"
"Because I have something to offer her that she hasn't found yet." He said it lightly. "The disappearance of Bertha Jorkins—she hasn't touched it. Skeeter would be delighted to dig into a missing Ministry employee with that many departmental connections. We trade: one photograph of Bertha Jorkins for an anonymous tip on a story she'll want."
Hermione stared at him for a moment. Then she said, slowly, "How exactly are you on terms with Rita Skeeter? Is she a friend of yours?"
"Not remotely," Draco said. "She's dealt with enough Slytherins over the years—graduated and otherwise, including my mother. I've had limited contact with her. Personally, I find her deeply unpleasant."
He kept the fuller picture to himself. His previous dealings with Skeeter had involved a degree of mutual leverage that Hermione couldn't yet know about—threats and counter-threats, neither party entirely in the other's pocket. It wasn't something he could explain now.
"If she's not your friend," Hermione said, frowning at him, "you shouldn't be dealing with her casually. She's not someone to play games with. Look at the chaos those articles have caused—you're playing with Fiendfyre."
"There are no permanent friends," Draco said, "only permanent interests. The most disagreeable person becomes useful when they have something you need. That's just how it works."
Hermione was quiet for a moment. Her fork moved absently across her plate.
She didn't agree with his approach—not entirely. It was too utilitarian, too indifferent to means in pursuit of results. And yet.
Tonight, Harry would be in that maze. Tonight, the Dark Lord might be making his move. And she needed that photograph.
If someone asked her right now whether she'd be willing to steal it from Skeeter directly, she suspected she'd have to think about it for a shorter time than was entirely comfortable.
"All right," she said reluctantly. "I'll come with you to the Owlery. You're going to send her a letter, I assume?"
"Yes." Draco nodded, then added quickly: "And before you say it—just this once. I know."
"Just this once," Hermione said firmly.
His grey eyes met hers, warm and bright, with a trace of relief.
"Of course," he said. And smiled.