Chapter Text
Part One: The Fierce Fairy and the Big Bad Blaise
Hermione would rather be anywhere on earth than on this detestable date.
Given the choice, she would readily sign up for a hospital shift during a mass Pixie Flu outbreak. Symptoms including (but not limited to): Projectile vomiting, sour body odour, and hazardous loss of motor control resulting in coworkers getting socked by jerking limbs.
She’d rather be cramped in a tent with Harry and Ron, heavily dissociating while they gush over the same bloody Quidditch match for the hundredth bloody time.
She’d even prefer to spend her evening chasing Crookshanks around her flat to administer his annual Black Cat Flu Vaccine, resulting in deep lacerations on her person—an outcome preferable to waking up to wet sneezes sprinkling her face each morning.
But no. Here she was, in this pretentiously hip bar off Diagon, sitting across from a sandy-haired wizard named Bernard who had the countenance of an elderly Basset Hound.
Boring Bernard.
Last week it had been Unremarkable Mark. Last month, Humourless Hugo.
The steady stream of bad dates left her longing for the single wizards across the Indian ocean. Although the Australians did have the unfortunate habit of crudely using 'cunt' as a term of endearment, at least they excelled in playful banter.
It was decided. Never again would she let her busy-bodied friends coerce her into blind dates. One of her chief takeaways from her many years abroad was that British men were decidedly not her cup of tea.
As Boring Bernard expounded on every mind-numbing detail of his job in Transport Logistics, Hermione mentally rehearsed the Howler she’d send Ginny first thing in the morning. The glimmer of conversational hope had been singular—perking up at the mention of Floo collision prevention—but her question about collision injuries had been ignored.
Eyes glazing, she stubbornly ignored the unseen person who’d been intermittently hissing her surname for the last fifteen minutes.
To top the disastrous date off, she couldn’t even sit back comfortably. Hermione Granger (reputable Healer and British public figure), was in a bar on a bad date, wearing fucking fairy wings and a flower crown. Not her usual garb, but the result of being in acquaintance with one Luna Lovegood. Today marked Luna’s annual summer solstice party. The eccentric host had ceremoniously donned each guest with wings and an elaborate crown of flowers.
Hermione had made her discrete exit from the festivities before the nude dancing commenced at sunset. She'd only noticed the complex industrial-grade charmwork fixing the wings and crown to her person as she made her way to the date.
“Granger!” came the mysterious hissing for the eighth time.
“Er, I think someone might be looking for you, Hermione?” droned Boring Bernard, finally mastering the art of environmental awareness.
“Probably just a press photographer, they get more Galleons if they capture eye contact,” Hermione said with a cynical eye-roll. “Anyone who actually knows me would approach me like a civilised adult, instead of hissing my name like a child.”
“I see,” Banterless Bernard said with a dopey grin. He looked around, puffing his chest like a pigeon for any unseen photographers. “Lucky me, dating one of the most famous witches in Britain!”
Hermione’s jaw clenched, not bothering to correct his choice of presumptuous linguistics. This would be a singular ‘date’, certainly nothing to warrant their mutual participation in ‘dating’. She would rather suffer a Floo network collision.
Hermione determinedly drank the rest of her pink cocktail through her straw.
“Oh, is that the time?” she asked with a quick glance to her wrist. Although she wasn't wearing a watch, she figured he wouldn't notice since he hadn't even registered her odd costume attire. “Best be off.”
Boring Bernard stood. “Oh? So soon?”
“Early morning shift,” Hermione lied. “You know how it is.”
“Well we should do this again—”
“Ah, yeah, maybe. Cheerio!”
Hermione slung her bag over her arm, nearly tangling the leather strap in the blasted wings. She bid farewell with a hasty air kiss befitting of an ethereal fairy—mainly because any hugs from a man who gave limp handshakes would make her physically recoil.
She stalked toward the exit, glad that her flat was only a few doors down. She paused midway, side-stepping into a crimson velvet curtain to dodge a floating tray of overpriced cocktails. As Hermione waited, she pushed a generous glass of wine and a hot bubble bath to the top of her evening agenda. She deserved it after that complete blunder.
Draco observed as Blaise Zabini—apparently a fucking Werewolf—paced frantically before a velvet curtain.
Blaise the Werewolf scratched at his muzzle, then fixed his predatory gaze on Draco.
Draco couldn’t help but flinch back; each time they locked eyes, Blaise’s dark fur would thicken, teeth elongating through his gums. It was as if Draco were the full moon, causing the shift before his eyes.
He shuffled closer to the wall, hoping his friend wouldn’t attack. His hand leapt to his throat—Greyback had a thing for throats. His fingers grasped the wedding tie, tight like a noose.
The Werewolf parted the curtain and peeked outside, jolting as he saw something.
A hand suddenly flung through a gap in the velvet curtain, roughly grabbing Hermione. She barely had time to draw her wand, as she was jerked roughly behind the curtain. A hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream. She blinked in bewilderment, suddenly finding herself in one of the bar’s dimly lit private sections.
Pulse thrumming, her first instinct was to survey the room, in case she’d need to report her present predicament to the Auror Office. The backroom was painted entirely black, giving the impression of a seedy strip-club. Twin sconces bathed the space in a sickly yellow light, muting the crimsons of the antique sofa set along the back wall. A low table with a pair of crystal tumblers lay in the centre of the room, one glass filled with a finger firewhisky, the other tipped over. Amber liquid pooled across the table surface.
As her anxiety spiked, the vice-like grip around her arms loosened, spinning her around. Blaise Zabini stared down at her, visibly irritated and anxious.
Draco glanced up from his safe nook on the floor, roused by the sound of ruffling fabric and scrambling feet. He blinked, confused, as Blaise the Big Bad Werewolf caught some fresh prey—an ethereal fairy. A fairy with a riot of lustrous curls and a circle of sunflowers crowning her head.
She was a furious little thing. With his furry hand pressed over her mouth, her big eyes scowled up at Blaise, wings flapping in a threatening flutter.
Blinking quickly, Draco pressed his face into his knees and squeezed his eyes shut again. Too fucking weird.
“Easy, Granger. No need to cause a scene,” Blaise drawled.
Hermione stared incredulously at Blaise, who loomed over her. Chest heaving, she slowly drew her wand from her pocket, and aimed it at his throat in a threatening jab.
“I just need your help with something,” Blaise said, side-eying the tip of her wand, then frowning at her wings. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
Hermione murmured into his clammy hand, spluttering when he released it.
“What the fuck Zabini!”
“Easy now!” Blaise said, raising his hands. “I’ll ask that you lower your tone. We have a delicate situation here.” He nodded his head behind her.
“You’re asking me to watch my tone, after you just fucking manhandled me—” Hermione admonished as she spun around, gaze landing on an unfamiliar wizard. Shrouded in shadow in the corner of the room, he sat crouched on the floor, partially hidden by a large fern plant.
The wizard hugged his knees, his body trembling. Hermione's brows furrowed at his swanky attire; he was rather overdressed in black tailored dress robes with a white silk shirt and tie, quite obviously high-end. The shine of his shoes gleamed brighter than the polished floor.
“Oh,” she breathed quietly, tilting her head.
The mousy-haired wizard stared back with startled eyes, peering through the fern leaves. He rubbed his eyes and hid his face behind his knees, rocking on his heels. Hermione caught the subtle shimmer of a reasonably advanced glamour charm, only visible when she focused on the leaves of the obscuring plant—a glamour presumably enacted to protect their identity.
She wheeled back to Blaise.
“What have they taken?”
Blaise let out a dry laugh. “You really must be as good as they say—”
“Save it, Zabini. What potion are they on?”
Blaise scowled and rubbed the back of his head. With a petulant sigh, he reached for his wand and cast a Muffliato. Hermione’s eyes narrowed.
“Ah, it’s not a regulated potion,” Blaise mumbled.
Hermione swore under her breath.
“And I presume you saw me and thought, ‘Oh there’s a Healer! She’ll know what to do for my friend who is suffering the negative effects of an unregulated potion’. For which there is likely no known antidote, no known interactions with other potions—including Sobriety potions—”
Hermione unleashed her rage as if the man were solely responsible for the current epidemic of black market recreationals across Great Britain.
She wasn’t discouraged as Blaise flinched back from her as she continued her tirade. Rich wankers like Blaise were part of the issue, hunting out the next designer high like reckless and irresponsible thrill-seekers, glamourising the use of unregulated potions. All the while, filling the vaults of criminals and contributing to the cycle of social harm.
Hermione, on the other hand, saw the ugly side of the Potions crisis. Patients admitted to Mungo’s suffering nightmarish hallucinations. Adults reduced to skittish creatures. Patients unknowingly succumbing to violent impulses, requiring physical restraint as their minds morphed into hellscapes.
To add to the chaos, there were no known or clinically tested antidotes to the bespoke concoctions. Holy grail remedies like Sobriety Potion were known to put people into antiepileptic shock, Sleeping Draughts had put patients in long comas, and Calming Draughts exacerbated hallucinations. Because of these risks, patients simply had to ride it out. Trained professionals were reduced to glorified babysitters, placating witches and wizards through their bad trips.
The Potions crisis had led to a burden on the health system. On top of dealing with the usual Magical ailments of the general wizarding population, Healers were faced with an influx of patients suffering from potion-induced psychosis.
Hermione seethed. She was half in mind to summon Harry to the scene, so he could give Blaise his own verbal lashing on behalf of the Auror Office.
The furious fairy verbally admonished Blaise in a muffled, feminine murmur, waving her hands passionately. Her hair coiled like shining tendrils, bouncing with her movements. Draco was in awe of the fantastical fairy. A lively little creature, taking on the Big Bad Blaise.
“Yes, I am well aware of this Granger,” Blaise gritted. “But I have no choice but to ask for your help anyway. Can you do something?”
Hermione glanced at the mousy-haired wizard, who continued to study her with wide eyes, the effect exaggerated by his chemically blown pupils. She dropped her hands from her hips in surprise.
“Is that—is that Malfoy?”
Blaise’s resting-haughty-face dropped. He spat something in Italian, presumably a curse.
“What gave it away?”
“The extremely conspicuous signet ring, for starters.”
Blaise cursed again and glowered at Hermione.
“Yes,” he ground out, “it’s Draco.”
“Why on Earth is he glamoured?”
“Because, Granger, we are currently in the middle of a PR crisis and he can’t be recognised,”
“So you get him high and take him out in public? Well done.”
“Just as pleasant as you’ve always been I see,” Blaise sneered.
“Just as lazy as you’ve always been, I see,” Hermione shot back.
She had never liked Blaise.
Back at school, the rest of the Slytherin lot at least had the guts to slander her directly. Blaise, on the other hand, had always been more covert. She’d once caught him surreptitiously Scourgifying her Ancient Runes textbook, which she’d lent him during class. His concerns about its contamination had caused the ink to blur; she’d had to order a new copy.
Bigoted Blaise had administered the silent treatment when they’d been tasked as assignment partners, meaning she had to do all of the heavy lifting. Now he was clearly at it again, outsourcing the heavy lifting for his supposed friend.
Blaise's expression softened, raising placating hands.
“Look, Grange—Hermione. I mean it, I need your help. He’s not in a fit state, I can’t take him to Mungo’s—”
“Why can’t you take him to Mungo’s?”
Leaning forward, Blaise lowered his voice. “What do you think would happen? He’s still on probation, he’ll end up back in Azkaban.”
“And why shouldn’t he?”
“Because, Granger, he didn’t technically know what he was taking…”
“You dosed your friend? ” Hermione yelped.
“Like I said, we’re in the middle of a massive crisis. I was only doing my part to support a friend in his hour of need. And in my defence, I was promised that the potion would be calming and euphoric… only mildly hallucinogenic.”
Hermione fought temptation to shove Blaise. Yet a wary glance to Malfoy, still cowering in the corner, forced her to compose herself.
“And why can’t you just take him home?” she hissed.
Blaise laughed dryly, rubbing the back of his head.
“Well that’s kind of the crux of the issue, which I’m sure you’ll read about in tomorrow's papers—he couldn’t summon the familial house-elves earlier today—I beg you Granger, now is not the time for your creature rights tirades.” Hermione rolled her eyes. Blaise lowered his voice to a whisper. “All signs suggest he’s been banned from the Manor.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, blinking in surprise. “What about your other friends? Could anyone else help?”
Blaise groaned. “Fucking hell, Granger, are you sure you’re a Healer and not an Auror? What’s with the interrogation?”
Armed folded furiously, Hermione glowered.
“They’re all dealing with crisis management—handling the Press and placating the families. I assure you, no one is available to help, including the Malfoy elves, and especially not his parents. I was tasked with looking after Draco but as you can see, I’m clearly not equipped to deal with him in his current state. He took one look at me when it kicked in, then this happened…”
Draco's eyes widened as Big Bad Blaise swung his lofty arm his way. Gritting his teeth, he peered away. He didn't want to see Blaise’s monstrous fangs elongating again, his nose stretching into a snout.
“...and you’re a Healer. I read you came back to Britain to help with the sodding Potions epidemic response, so I thought maybe you could find it in yourself to help a former school frien—school peer. In the meantime, there are other ways I could be helping him right now, beyond apparently scaring him,” Blaise finished, fixing Hermione with an imploring stare.
She sighed.
“Let me check on him first, and then we’ll talk,” she said tersely. “I don’t know if you have selective amnesia, Zabini, but Malfoy hasn’t been known to be particularly fond of me either.”
With a deep breath, Hermione relaxed her posture, painting a placid smile on her face. She paced slowly toward Malfoy with both hands visible, as if approaching a startled animal.
“Draco? Is it okay if I come closer?” the ethereal fairy called. Golden light shone off her curls, shimmering pleasantly as she floated into view.
Draco mutely nodded.
Yes. Yes, I like this fierce fairy.
She may come, the Werewolf may not.
Hermione crouched down on the ground, Malfoy tracking her movements with wide-eyed wonder.
“I’m just going to use my wand to check on you, is that okay?”
“I didn’t know fairies could command wand magic,” Malfoy mused in an awed tone. “You must be particularly clever.”
Blaise scoffed behind them. Hermione shot a mean glare over her shoulder. Blaise clearly wasn’t equipped for the current situation; he’d already broken the cardinal rule of dealing with patients undergoing bad trips: Always remain non-judgemental.
She returned her focus to Malfoy, softening her gaze.
“Finite Incantatem,” she muttered. The glamour dropped, revealing platinum blond hair and pale skin. A strong jawline and rosy pink lips. She could barely discern the colour of his irises around his dilated pupils.
“How are you feeling?” she asked calmly, casting a series of diagnostics around Malfoy. His heart rate was elevated, but seemed to be lowering somewhat. To her relief, his vital signs were within a healthy range. At least he didn’t appear at risk of organ failure from an overdose.
Draco peered at the fairy, now lit by a shower of dancing rainbows from the light show she’d conjured. Certainly a clever fairy.
Credit: the mighty talented KittenKaboom ISN'T KITTY AMAZING?!
“A bit better now,” he managed, nodding at the fairy. “I don’t want to be here though...”
He surveyed the dank interior of the room and grimaced.
Dark walls of his former Azkaban cell.
Antique velvet furniture of the Manor… the Manor…its floors darkened with blood stains…
Hermione studied Malfoy carefully as he scanned the room. His jaw clenched, skin draining of all colour, clearly beginning to spiral. She quickly intervened.
“Well that’s good, because I think I can take you somewhere safe.”
Somewhere safe. With the fearless fairy. Yes, Draco wanted that very much.
“But first, you should know that I’m not a fairy. You, erm, actually know me. We went to school together. I’m Hermione Granger, I’m a Healer. I can help you if you like, but only if you want me to.”
Granger.
He peered at her, now recognising the large brown eyes and brunette curls, streaked with citrine light. His existence shrunk down to her shining skin, lustrous like liquid honey.
The Golden Granger. A force of a witch.
With her, he would be safe.
“I’ll go with you,” Malfoy rasped, before adding with a comical sneer, “Not him, though. He can fuck right off.”
Hermione nodded, suppressing a grin. Blaise could fuck right off indeed.
“Good, that’s good. I’m pleased to hear it. I’m just going to talk to Blaise here for a moment. Can you wait for me?”
Malfoy nodded. Hermione fished into her handbag, pulling out a kitschy snow globe keychain—the spare key to her parents house in Australia, a tiny kangaroo in winter woollies in its centre.
“In the meantime, how about you take a look at this?” she said, shaking the globe. Malfoy snatched it with a bewildered expression, putting his eye to the glass.
Draco carefully ignored the creature which looked like an overstretched house-elf at the forefront of his vision. Instead, he stared, mesmerized, as Granger braved elements of the snowstorm, her visage crystalline, shining like a topaz among a shower of glittering snowflakes.
He didn’t know why Granger had fairy wings, but nevertheless enjoyed the sight of her flying away, off to put the Werewolf in his place again.
Hermione climbed to stand and paced toward Blaise, reinstating the Muffliato .
“See Granger? You’re perfectly equipped for this—”
“I’m only doing this on one condition, Blaise.”
Blaise crossed his arms and widened his stance, squaring his jaw. “Well?”
“You have to send an anonymous tip to the Auror Office first thing in the morning. You must tell them every detail about how you procured the potion, including names, locations, method of payment—”
“What! No!”
“Yes, Blaise. It’s the only way I’m going to help. Otherwise you’re on your own. Might I remind you that what you’re asking of me is a big deal? We have a man under the influence of a potion with unknown effects. For all we know he could get violent...abusive…suicidal—”
“I’ve taken his wand.”
“He’s still twice my size. I know restraint charms, but I’m still putting myself at risk." Hermione lifted her chin resolutely. "Anonymous tip-off, with every detail you know. Take it or leave it.”
Blaise glared as if trying to Incendio Hermione through sheer will alone. She crossed her arms and glared right back.
“You do realise that if Draco went to trial, he’ll likely be questioned under Veritaserum? Don’t you think the Aurors would be very interested to hear how he procured the potion, and the circumstances under which they were taken?”
Blaise raked a hand across his jaw, staring at Malfoy as he considered his predicament.
“Fine,” he said.
“Then we have a deal. I’ll look after your friend, and I’ll owl you once he’s rested so you can come collect him in the morning.”
“Where are you taking him?”
“To my flat. I live about a block away,”
“And do you live with anyone else?”
Hermione sighed. “No, so I can assure you this will be handled discreetly. Blaise, what happened today? What in Merlin’s name could have happened to make dosing your friend a good idea?”
“Now isn’t the time Granger,” Blaise said with a pointed look at Malfoy.
Hermione glowered. Blaise rolled his eyes.
“He ditched his bride at the altar. Pretty sure he’s been ex-communicated from his family.”
Hermione nodded, a pit sinking in her gut. After a day like that for Malfoy, this wasn’t going to be an easy night...
“And what are the other effects of the potion that you know of?”
Blaise avoided her eyes, and murmured, “Uh, well, I don’t think he’ll be able to sleep for quite a while...”
And it was also going to be a very long night.
Suppressing a sigh, Hermione spun toward Malfoy, who had apparently started rifling through the depths of her handbag which she’d left beside him. He was glaring down at a Galleon in his palm, the coin notably bereft of the usual ridged edges. Oh dear.
After more muffled murmurings, and a rather confusing message exchange with a sentient coin (which he’d found in another dimension within Granger’s bag), the fairy floated over to Draco again—no, Granger. Golden Granger. Gorgeous Granger.
“There’s something wrong with this,” Malfoy said, gingerly placing the coin in Hermione’s palm.
Hermione glimpsed the latest Protean charmed message shining on its surface: HAHAHAHA, how drunk are you right now? Someone’s been hitting the fairy wine hard today.
She placed the charmed coin in her bag with a grimace, wondering what unhinged messages Malfoy had sent out to the former D.A. members...
Lifting her chin, she sent him a practised smile.
“Are you ready to leave, M—Draco? Good. Here, take my hand,”
Draco grasped the soft, warm skin of her palm, calming as their fingers laced together. He lifted to stand, but flinched back as Blaise stared at him with his overstretched grin, baring frightening fangs, pointing a sodding wand in his face.
The bastard.
A glaze momentarily shimmered in the air, making Draco blink. Blaise passed something to Granger, which she carefully tucked in her bag before smiling at Draco quite beautifully.
“Now Draco, I need you to be brave for me,” Hermione instructed Malfoy's glamoured form. “We’re going to step through this curtain, where some other people will be. There will be music, and people talking...”
Malfoy winced, his fingers clenching Hermione's fingers.
“...But then we’re going to go outside, and walk down the street to the safe space I mentioned earlier. It will be a quick walk, just a few buildings down. If you feel scared, just squeeze my hand okay? And you don’t have to look at anything, just look at me if you need to. I’ll keep on talking to you every step of the way. But can you let me know if you need to stop?”
Draco hung on Granger's every word, imagining a crowd of leering faces, dark streets throwing ominous shadows. But he would be safe with Granger.
She reached into the other dimension within her bag, pulling out a pair of sunglasses. He stood still as she slid them onto his face, smirking up at him, her visage now tinted amber like an ethereal goddess.
“A little something to help you along,” she said. "You ready?"
Malfoy jerked a nod, staring at Hermione with soft eyes, a faint smile on his lips. “I’m ready.”
Hermione didn’t hesitate, gently peeling back the curtain. Smooth jazz and riotous banter from the bar washed in, along with the glare of bright yellow light.
“Just follow me,” Hermione whispered, giving Malfoy a bright smile. “It’ll be an adventure.”
Draco, bolstered by the words, puffed out his chest and stepped forward.
Hermione swore internally as several heads across the bar swung their way.
The optics weren’t ideal: a famous witch holding hands with a tall, anonymous wizard, who was standing exceedingly close to her. Fortunately, any panic in his eyes would be obscured by the shades. To everyone in the bar, they must surely look like lovers going home together. Blaise likely nonchalantly tailing in their wake, a sodding third wheel in the spectacle.
“This way, Draco, you’re doing so well,” Hermione encouraged, avoiding eye contact with the bar patrons. “They’re only looking at me because of the fairy wings, they’re not staring at you. Don’t worry.”
Draco clutched Goddess Granger’s hand, taking her advice to watch her, instead of the leering strangers. Their faces blurred, growing fuzzy, as he fixated on her bright face and bouncing curls, intermittently looking back with a smile.
They emerged into the night air. A cool evening breeze washed over them, the din of the bar breaking off.
Draco closed his eyes and luxuriated in the sensations, the sanctuary of silence.
Hermione, meanwhile, took the moment to let dread dawn on her. Fortunately Blaise didn’t follow them outside, so she had a moment to process the surreal situation.
She reminded herself that her efforts, practically babysitting a grown wizard—a former nemesis, no less—wouldn’t be for naught. If Blaise gave the Auror Office a tip-off, they might finally have a reliable lead. Typically, the patients who were interviewed by Aurors had selective amnesia about how they’d obtained the Potions—either due to an Obliviate, or forgetfulness induced by the Potions.
But with Blaise’s help, perhaps the Aurors would be able to gain headway in addressing the national Potions crisis. Send the Potion traders to Azkaban for shilling poorly concocted, dangerous wares, falsely marketed as designer recreationals.
“Feel nice?” Hermione asked, peering up at Malfoy's glamoured visage.
Draco nodded with a placid smile. He lifted the sunglasses to rest upon his head, so he could see her in full colour.
“You did so well just now, Draco. Are you ready to continue?”
Something warm and fuzzy writhed in Draco's chest at her praise. He found he quite liked pleasing her.
“Just another moment, the air feels nice. I’m glad that wretched Werewolf’s gone.”
Blaise stood inside the entrance of the bar, and peered out the window. Rubbing his jaw, he stared pensively at the pair stood outside on the street, illuminated in a dome of light from an overhanging streetlamp.
Granger angled her head up to talk to glamoured Draco, who stooped down, looking at her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.
A wave of inspiration hit, the perfect remedy to Draco’s PR crisis.
Confident that Granger was looking away, Blaise aimed his wand at Draco through the window pane, casting Finite Incantatum. He stepped out of view as Hermione craned her head around, looking for him, visibly irritated.
Next, Blaise grabbed an abandoned glass from a nearby table, scanning around to ensure no one was looking. He raised the glass, and smashed it hard on the ground in a cacophonous clatter.
Several pairs of eyes flew his way, and he threw up his hands placatingly.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, casting a quick Reparo on the glass fragments. He threw an apologetic glance to the scowling waitress. “Clumsy me.”
The plan worked. A pair of young witches began to titter beside him.
“Merlin’s left tit—look out the window, Rach. Is she with Draco Malfoy?”
“Wait, what? Isn’t he getting married today?”
“Well he’s certainly not with his bride, but he definitely looks dressed for the occasion. How dapper. Maybe something happened?”
“Surely… Do you think they’re going home together?”
“It definitely looks like it—just look at the way he’s staring at her!” The witch sighed theatrically. “I would die for someone to look at me like that. I mean, she’s amazing, it’s no wonder he’s all googly eyed. And look how handsome he is, what I’d do to have someone mentally undress me like that. Particularly a former bad boy—”
One of the witches laughed mischievously, lowering her voice. “Do you think he’ll ask for her to keep those wings on tonight?”
“Rachel! You’re terrible!”
The witches shrieked with laughter, and Blaise smiled wolfishly.
Well, that was certainly a promising test reaction to the duo...
He spun around and watched the pair recede down the street, Granger coaxing Draco along like some hot, eccentric babysitter in her fairy wings.
He waited a full five minutes before stepping into the night. He nearly whistled in his glee as he sauntered to the Apparition point, destined for Prophet HQ to confer with the late shifters. It was time to implement his clever new PR strategy.
Granger didn’t need to know that Draco had been nursing a little… thing for her for quite some time.
Draco had a tiresome habit of bringing up Granger's name when he was deep in the cups, confiding that he’d always thought she was pretty, or clever, or pretty and clever. This inevitably precluded his sad-man routine, when he spiralled into quiet self-hatred for being a mean little bully to the witch. When the Slytherin lot spied Pothead and The Ginger at public events, Draco was known to wonder aloud why she’d left the country, much to his friends' annoyance.
It was obvious that Granger had a certain allure to Draco.
And now, the entirety of Wizarding Britain was about to find out about his little infatuation.