Shiny Things

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at [Link]

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: F/M, Multi
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Original Male
Character(s)
Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Original Malfoy Characters (Harry
Potter), Original Black Family Characters (Harry Potter), Neville
Longbottom, Ginny Weasley, Theodore Nott, Harry Potter, Kreacher
(Harry Potter)
Additional Tags: Hogwarts Eighth Year, Draco Malfoy Has a Twin, sex as a coping
mechanism, Protective Siblings, Brothers, Brotherly Love, Trauma bond,
Family Drama, Family Issues, The Noble and Most Ancient House of
Black, Watch Me Play In The Fine Print Of Canon, Wolfsbane Potion
(Harry Potter), Classroom Sex, Sharing a Bed, Nightmares, Triad -
Freeform, No Twincest, Damaged Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger
Needs a Hug, Draco Needs A Mouth Hug, Healing Sex, Magical Healing
Cock, Possessive Draco Malfoy, Possessive Sex, Shameless Smut, The
Author Regrets Nothing, In This House We Say Dong, NSFW Art,
Denial of Feelings, Masturbation, Grey sweatpants agenda, Hermione
Granger Swears A Lot, Menstruation, Threesome - M/F/M, Sandwiches
As Aftercare, flawed Hermione, he falls first
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-12-12 Updated: 2024-12-12 Words: 66,468 Chapters:
10/?
 Shiny Things
by EvergreenTuesdays

Summary

Everyone knows Draco Malfoy has a twin brother who attended Durmstrang—everyone
except Hermione Granger. When she returns to Hogwarts for eighth year, she finds comfort
and healing in the most unlikely of places.

-or-

The triad fic we never knew we needed in our lives until Frau Blucher’s brainchild was
blessed into creation.

Inspired by Artwork by Frau Blucher

 Athena
Chapter Notes

For Frau 🖤
🖤
Thank you for bringing Corvus to life and giving me permission to run with him. Happy
Tuesday, friend

See the end of the chapter for more notes

This was a mistake.

Hermione chewed the inside of her lip to stop the muscles in her face from pulling down into
a frown. Arms crossed in front of her, she sat straight as a board in the Defence Against the
Dark Arts classroom while some Ministry-appointed know-nothing who’d watched the war
unfold from behind the comfort and safety of her desk prattled on over the new Board-of-
Governors-approved eighth-year curriculum. Ankles crossed neatly beneath her, the side-to-
side rocking of her right knee was the only thing belying her otherwise composed
appearance.

"In preparation for your N.E.W.T.s, today we'll be learning Bombarda Maxima,” the sad
excuse for a professor continued, “the strongest variation of the Exploding Charms. Now, this
spell is quite dangerous, so you’ll want to exercise caution when casting. Bombarda Maxima
is quite similar to Bombarda, except that it’s more . . .” She gestured erratically with her
hands. “Explosive."

The loud thumps of the woman’s high heels on the wood-planked floor as she moved to the
blackboard had Hermione’s molars grinding together. She poured her focus into the rhythm
of her bouncing knee before she imploded herself in an accidental burst of nonverbal
Bombarda Maxima.

They’d all been through literal hell on earth mere months ago. Every single one of the
returning Eighth Years had been touched by the war in some way, with most fighting right
alongside the older generations who should’ve shielded and protected them from such
horrors.

But sure.

Learning a variation of a basic exploding charm that they all could have mastered in fifth
year instead of having a true lesson in Dark Arts befitting their age and experience seemed
like an excellent use of her time.

Bombardas certainly had their uses, but they wouldn’t save you from a turncoat who’d
infiltrated your cause like a cancer. Or an evil soul shard whispering lies to you in your sleep.
They wouldn’t help keep your wits about you when your best friend is bleeding out and all
you have is a wand and some expired triage medicine rolling around in the bottom of your
dirty, rain-soaked bag.

Bombardas wouldn’t offer protection from the demons that haunt your dreams even after the
battle was finally over. When you’re forced to live with the decisions made under the worst
of human conditions.

With a screech of chalk, their professor underlined the name of the charm she’d written
across the blackboard in large, bold letters. Then, with a flick of her wand, the room divider
folded up against the back wall and the other half of the classroom revealed a brick wall,
shimmering under the protection of a containment charm.

“Alright class, for safety, we’ll form a single line and go at this one at a time. First, we’ll
practise our standard Bombarda, and after everyone has that mastered today, we’ll elevate to
the Maxima next time. Now, line up.”
She should’ve never bothered coming back. Should’ve stayed in Australia and started a new
life. Or taken any one of the jobs Kingsley had offered her. Enlisted for Auror training with
Harry and Ron . . . maybe she’d still be in contact with either one of them if she had.

As the rest of her class stood to shuffle unenthusiastically over to the other half of the room,
Hermione threw her bag over her shoulder and made for the door.

“Excuse me, Miss Granger, is it?” their instructor piped up, waving a hand in the air to get
her attention. “I’ll ask that you please queue up with the rest of us over here.”

Swinging her wand over her head, Hermione brought it down on the target, calling,
“Bombarda Maxima!” She exploded the brick wall into atom dust with a hit so strong that the
containment charm barely held. As the professor stood with her mouth gaping, blinking
through the acrid tang of smoke in the aftermath of her destruction, Hermione turned on her
heel and walked out with two fingers held up behind her.

| | |

Hours later, Hermione was curled up on the sofa in front of the fireplace, having skipped both
Herbology that afternoon and dinner in the Great Hall. Her time was much better spent
having the new, eighth-year common room to herself all day. Staring mindlessly into the
flames, she attempted to not feel the crippling loneliness that had crawled inside of her
months ago and made its home within her.

It was only when the door opened, and voices began filtering in that she turned her gaze from
the fire and her eyes fell instead upon Pansy Parkinson entering with Malfoy.

There was no mistaking that white-blond hair, though it had now grown out past his
shoulders. But that wasn’t the only thing different about him.

Draco Malfoy carried himself differently. He was loose and carefree, almost—happy.

A sideways smile pulled at his mouth, eyes lit up with a joviality she wasn’t sure she’d ever
seen in him. Though, she supposed if she grew up with a father like Lucius, she’d be thrilled
after he’d received the Kiss last month too.

Hermione anticipated the two would continue on without a backwards glance, but Malfoy
just stood there, feet planted and gawking at her with a wide-eyed appraisal, as if he was
seeing her for the first time. Pansy tugged his sleeve, her cackling laugh finally pulling him
from whatever odd moment he was trapped inside of, but before he’d turned away
completely, he did something he’d never done before.

Bringing his hand up in a sort of half wave, he smiled at her.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, her brows furrowed together with a frown as he and Pansy
disappeared into their respective suites.

The door to the common room opened again. “Hermione!” Neville’s face appeared in front of
her, as kind as ever. “Didn’t see you at dinner, so I brought this up for you.” He held out a
cloth napkin that Hermione opened up to reveal a green apple and two small bread rolls. “If
you want, I can ask the elves to send a full plate up.”

Hermione forced a small smile to her mouth, he didn’t deserve to feel any of her bitterness.

“I’m alright, Neville. Thank you,” she said as he filled the seat on the sofa beside her.
Hermione continued staring into the dancing firelight, the crackle of the heat muffling the
awkward silence between them.

“You walked out on DADA,” he finally said. “I didn’t see you on the train yesterday, either,
or at the sorting. And then you walked out on DADA, ” he emphasised again. “And missed
Herbology. And now dinner again tonight.”

Hermione tightened her lips and hummed her acknowledgement.

“Am I off base to be worried about you, Hermione?”

“I’m fine, Neville, truly,” she lied, looking up at the concern etched into his features. “I’d
rented a room at The Three Broomsticks this summer, so I was already here. And I just
wasn’t hungry tonight.” Hermione fidgeted with the napkin, refolding it securely over the
bread and fruit. “But thanks again, I might want to have some nosh a bit later.”

His warm, hazel eyes searched hers. The elephant in the room still hadn’t been addressed, but
he blessedly didn’t repeat what he was surely still thinking: Hermione Granger doesn’t skip
classes.

Perhaps the old Hermione.

The one who’d had a bright future mapped out in front of her; the Hermione who’d had a
family, and friends, and options.

But her parents would never remember her.

And Harry and Ron had moved on.

Everyone had moved on, and left her still sitting alone in the wreckage.

Hermione was still stuck in place with no support system, an empty bank vault, and nowhere
to live aside from the suffocating spare cot at the Burrow where Molly would be happy to
smother her for the rest of her life.

Even rotting alone on the decrepit sofa at Grimmauld for all of eternity was no longer an
option, as Harry hadn’t been able to regain access to it since a few weeks after the final
battle.

Hogwarts had been her only option. She was an adult now, both in the Muggle and wizarding
worlds. There were no resources for someone like her, no real future without a completed
education and competitive N.E.W.T. scores, despite Kingsley’s promises for an auspicious
career in the Auror pipeline for the Golden Trio.
A lucrative pull for Harry and Ron, perhaps, but Hermione had fought enough dark wizards
to satisfy her for multiple lifetimes.

“I know it’s probably weird here without Harry and Ron, but . . . I’m your friend too,”
Neville affirmed. “If you ever need anything or just want to talk . . .”

“Thank you, Neville, I really appreciate that.”

“Hi, Hermione!” Hannah Abbot appeared behind them, wrapping her arms around Neville’s
shoulders and pressing her cheek next to his. “I didn’t really get a chance to see you last night
after the feast, but I’m so excited we’re paired as roommates this year!”

“Yeah, that’s . . . great,” she said through a forced smile.

“Hey, listen . . . I wanted to talk to you. You wouldn’t mind if occasionally Neville stays over
with me, do you? Just to sleep, of course. And we’d silence the curtains around the bed, and
—”

“Yeah, no, that’s . . . it doesn’t bother me.” Why should she care that everyone else around
her is happy and has someone they care about to spend all their time with? “I’m going to
head to the library.” She stood, grabbing her bag where it still sat on the floor beside the sofa,
slinging it over her shoulder with her napkin full of food balanced in her other hand.

“Actually,” Neville stopped her, “curfew’s in five minutes.” He at least had the decency to
look remorseful.

It was then she noticed the shiny silver Prefect badge on his chest. “Oh, you’ve got to be
kidding me.” Hermione didn’t hide her irritated groan as she rolled her eyes and stormed off
to her shared suite, ignoring the stunned expressions on Hannah and Neville’s faces as she
left them on the sofa without so much as a goodnight.

Throwing herself onto the four-poster bed clad in red and gold linens, Hermione closed the
curtains around her and placed her own silencing charm over them so she wouldn’t have to
hear Hannah and Neville just sleeping later on.

Gods, why had she come back?

If the witches and wizards who were supposed to be teaching her couldn’t even keep her safe,
how was Hermione supposed to care about advanced magical theory? Why was she wasting
her time learning theories when she’s already proven herself?

Because you had no other conceivable options.

Last year she was powerful enough to fight alongside the Order, and this year she has a
fucking curfew.

She really shouldn’t have come back.

| | |
The Headmistress glanced down through her squared spectacles with a familiar, stern
expression carved across her face, but the tone of warm concern in her voice was strangely
absent. With a heavy sigh signalling to Hermione that her headmistress was too tired to deal
with this on top of everything else, Minerva McGonagall proceeded to explain the same thing
that Hermione had concluded on her own last night.

“If you wish to remain a student at Hogwarts, Miss Granger, you’ll be expected to attend all
of your classes and participate in your assignments and exams. This—unprecedented eighth
year—is a generous extension from the Board of Governors and exceptions cannot be made
for students simply because they are of age. I can arrange the coordination of your N.E.W.T.
exams if you prefer to pursue private study elsewhere, but room and board can only be
provided for active students attending Hogwarts,” she said.

“I understand,” Hermione replied quietly.

“And as for the missive I received from you last week—”

Hermione braced herself for a second onslaught of disappointment.

“I spoke to the staff, and Madam Pomfrey would be happy to have you assist in the hospital
wing part-time, so long as you are able to keep up with your studies.”

“I can do that,” she breathed, hope blooming in her chest for the first time in a very long
time.

“I must remind you, as you are completely unqualified in matters of Technical Healing, you
must be supervised at all times, and the compensation is little more than pocket change.”

“That’s alright, I’ll take it, I—I’ll do whatever she needs.” Hermione didn’t care what the
duties entailed. Emptying bedpans? She’d seen worse—the sight of her empty Gringotts vault
as she withdrew her last knut, for one.

“If you don’t have any more questions, you are free to go.”

“Thank you, Headmistress.”

Hermione left the round office and made her way down the spiral stone steps. It was a sad
state of affairs when a low-paying entry-level job was enough of a win to lift her spirits. As
the stone gargoyle came into view, a relieved-looking Malfoy appeared in the darkened
corridor, causing her hackles to raise. Something was off about him.

“Hi,” he said, giving her the same odd smile he’d shown her last night. “I don’t believe we’ve
met.”

Hermione’s feet faltered to a stop as he reached his hand out toward her.

“I’m Corvus.”

Hermione stood frozen in place, staring at his outstretched hand. So this was what he was
doing? “Really? Corvus?” she asked, ignoring his hand and scanning the oddly colourless
eyes staring back at her. “Another constellation? What, didn’t want to go with your middle
name? I mean, you already look like your father with that hair.” Hermione flashed a smirk at
him, hoping he’d hate the reminder.

“What do you mean?” His brows knitted together in a display of confusion.

“Look, if we’re reinventing ourselves, I would’ve expected something a little better than new
hair and feigned naivety, is all. Hi, I’m Athena.” She waved her fingertips up by her face.
“Goddess of wisdom and war. Get the fuck out of my way, Corvus.” Hermione pushed past
him with a scoff, leaving him at the bottom of the circular steps, and headed for the library. If
she were going to keep this job, she was going to actually need to attend her Potions class in
ten minutes, and in order to do that, she needed to find a textbook.

Hermione entered the cold classroom—ragged seventh-year Potions book in hand—with just
a minute to spare, taking a seat towards the back at the only open table. A quick double-take
showed Malfoy had made it to class before her—and his typical shit mood was back, along
with his short hair. Hermione trained her eyes on the wooden surface of her table. Had her
words really cut that deeply?

“Welcome back, Eighth Years!”

Hermione snorted as Horace Slughorn entered the classroom. Was there really no one else
that could teach Potions in the last century aside from Snape and Slughorn?

“It’s good to see so many familiar faces,” the aged professor said, his cheeks shining with his
usual overly-sunny disposition.

The door to the classroom opened, and Hermione tried to blink past the glitch in the matrix
that was Draco Malfoy walking into class.

“And some new ones, as well! Welcome, welcome, take your seat.” Slughorn gestured to the
back of the class where the last open seat remained beside Hermione.

She couldn’t resist the urge to turn around and find out if she’d been hallucinating, but there
was the Draco Malfoy she’d always known sitting behind her, and approaching the table now
was—

“Hi—Corvus,” he introduced himself to her again, repeating the interaction from earlier, with
his hand held out to her once more as he took the seat beside her.

Hermione stared at the outstretched hand and swallowed thickly before finally holding her
own out and allowing him to shake it. She continued to blink at him for a moment until
sniggering from Pansy behind her brought her back, and she cleared her throat as she took in
the red and gold striped tie laid loosely around his collar. A Gryffindor sort.

And undoubtedly a Malfoy in every other way—from his white-blond hair and grey eyes to
his sideways smirk and that towering Malfoy height.
“I think you might’ve confused me for my twin brother just now, Athena . . .” He shot her a
flirty wink.

“Hermione Granger,” she said, finally finding her words.

“Hermione Granger,” he repeated. She braced herself for the onslaught of recognition from
all the post-war media or perhaps second-hand stories from his own family. “You dated
Viktor Krum . . .”

That was unexpected. “'Dated' is a bit strong—”

“No, no, I remember hearing all about you. I played Quidditch with him at Durmstrang. For
months after the Tournament, he was a lovesick fool. I think I finally understand why . . .”

“Alright.” She ended the conversation abruptly, unwilling to try and have a conversation with
this stranger while still trying to process the fact that there was a second Malfoy running
around Hogwarts. And a Gryffindor, at that. Hermione turned towards the front of the class
just in time for Slughorn to announce they would be breaking off into pairs for their first
project of the term. The sinking feeling in her gut let her know she’d be pairing up with the
Malfoy pretty-boy beside her before she even looked up and saw everyone already pairing up
with their seatmates.

“Looks like it’s you and me . . . if that’s alright,” he said with a soft, gentle voice.

Hermione sighed. “It’s fine.”

| | |

“Hey, so why did nobody warn me that there’s another Malfoy at Hogwarts?” Hermione
whispered as she took the seat next to Neville on the common room sofa. The other Eighth
Years were filtering in and out for the evening, some already in their suites for the night,
some scattered about the great room. “And that he’s a bloody Gryffindor of all things?”

“Technically speaking, that’s Corvus Black, not Malfoy. And you would’ve known that if you
came to the start of term feast,” Neville replied. “He went through the sorting ceremony after
the First Years.”

“How can he be a Black? He said he and Mal—Draco—were twins.”

“Identical,” Neville confirmed.

“So then how . . .”

“It’s complicated.”

She turned her head over the back of the sofa, narrowing her eyes at the twins sitting at a
table across the room. For every way they were identical, they were different as well. Clad in
green and red, one tight and tidy, the other relaxed and affable. As if on cue, Corvus threw his
head back, laughing loudly at something Daphne had just said. In the next second, he’d
locked eyes with Hermione. With a large smile spreading across his face, he winked at her.
 Without breaking contact, his hand reached out to his twin’s shoulder, getting Draco’s
attention and nodding his head towards her.

“What about her?” She saw more than heard the words leave his lips.

Two sets of identical grey eyes appraised her now before Draco glanced back to his brother
with a subtle shake of his head. Hermione turned back to the fire.

Well this was just fucking perfect.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you iftreescouldspeak and LiloLilyAnn, alphabet extraordinaires 🖤

 Dong
Chapter Notes

🖤
Thank you, iftreescouldspeak and LiloLilyAnn for all of your amazing alphabet support,
and for loving this story as much as I do!

✨NSFW art by Frau Blucher at the end of this chapter✨

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Come on in, Eighth Years! Welcome! Everyone, find your seats . . .” Corvus Black slid into
the empty seat beside her as Professor Slughorn closed the heavy dungeon door and moved to
his desk at the front of the room. Even for his advanced age, he held a commanding presence
in the classroom, his booming voice and intense gaze making up for any lack in physical
stature. “I had the privilege of reading your assignments from last class—full marks,
everyone. Truly, well done. But I’d expect nothing less from a group of bright and talented
young people such as yourselves.” With a flick of his wand, the stack of assignments in his
arms flew to their respective desks.

Their task had been simply to copy down the ingredients and their properties, and the method
for the Wolfsbane Potion. It wasn’t exactly challenging work, but it had been a nice first
assignment to ease Hermione back into the familiarity of biochemistry and reverse
engineering the therapeutic solutions to an affliction. It didn’t hurt that her partner had proven
himself to be capable, so that they’d finished before the end of class, either.

“Today’s assignment,” Slughorn continued, “and through the rest of the term, you and your
partner are going to brew it.”

A hush fell over the room as stunned faces looked all around. Even Hermione’s brows
pinched together incredulously. Wolfsbane was notoriously complicated and difficult to
execute—more suited to the level of Masters than Hogwarts students.

“I hope you chose your partners with care, because you will be working together outside of
class hours to complete this assignment independently. I know, I know.” Slughorn held up a
beefy hand, quieting the few dissenting groans. “But if we’re to get you all ready for your
N.E.W.T. exams in the spring, we’ve a lot of curriculum to get through. We can’t spend weeks
of lecture time just on Wolfsbane.”

Hermione glanced over to her deskmate to find him already looking at her. A smile played
across his lips as he leaned back in his chair and turned his head back to the front of the room
while Professor Slughorn droned on. Hermione pulled out a slip of parchment from her bag
and took down notes.

“To sweeten the deal, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures
has announced that they will offer a little incentive. Fifty Galleons to anyone who can
produce a functional batch, as it seems there is currently a shortage, what with the recent
uptick in lycanthropy and a severe lack in capable potioneers,” he trailed off with a wave of
his hand.

Hermione’s left hand shot in the air as she circled 50 Gal with her quill in the other.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” he called on her with a bark of enthusiasm.

“Since we’re working in pairs, is that fifty Galleons per student or fifty Galleons per batch?
And if the latter, are we limited to only a single brew?” Fifty Galleons wasn’t a huge sum of
money, certainly not a life-altering amount, but it was incentive enough to hope she didn’t
have to share it. Perhaps they could even brew more than one if they’re successful with the
first. If the Ministry was really that short on the potion, surely they’d pay for however much
they could get. Especially since fifty—or even one hundred—Galleons per batch was still
only a fraction of its market value.

“Er—excellent question! I’ll write to Gethsemane and get clarification.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hermione just needed a few months’ cost of living saved up to float her
until she found a half-decent job after she left Hogwarts this summer. Just the smallest
amount of freedom to disencumber herself from having to take the first job offer available
just for the paycheque.

She could do this.

Between a successful batch of Wolfsbane and whatever she managed to carefully save from
her internship with Madam Pomfrey, Hermione would be just fine. She just needed to be
careful. And she needed to put her all into brewing this Wolfsbane.

She pushed the sleeves of her robes up. They were a spare set she’d found in one of the old
trunks at the Burrow before she left, and were just a little too large to fit her exactly right,
even after the alteration charms she’d cast on them, but they’d have to do. She was not going
to waste a single Sickle on new school robes just to last for the next couple of months. But
she made a note on her parchment reminding herself to check the library for alternative
charms to try.

“All right.” Professor Slughorn clapped his large hands. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes to
confer with your partners and organise your methods before we move on to today’s lesson.
You may sign up on this sheet at the front of the class for a time slot to come in each week
and prepare and brew your potions. By the end of the year, we’ll see which one of you might
become the next Damocles Belby!”

| | |
Hermione’s entire body hurt.

Her first shift with Madam Pomfrey had clearly just been a beginner’s introduction. Her
second shift, however, she’d been put through the ringer. Hermione had busted her arse in the
hospital wing all evening, not even breaking for dinner. A Hogwarts elf had brought her
dinner tray up for her to pick at between alarms chiming to administer potions to her patients,
alarms to add ingredients to any of the innumerous potions brewing for restock. The bell on
the door was constantly jingling, announcing student walk-ins for cuts, scrapes, and hallway
jinxes. From the time she'd arrived that afternoon after her Arithmancy class, until now, it had
been non-stop. It was a wonder Madam Pomfrey had been able to manage the ward on her
own for all these decades.

When her gruelling shift was finally over, Hermione tossed her white outer hospital robes in
the laundry bin and reached into her bag for her Gryffindor robes, fastening them over her
uniform on her way out. Thoughts of a burning-hot shower and collapsing into her soft, cosy
bed were on the forefront of her mind as she pushed open the heavy door to the main floor
corridor.

Hermione stopped short at the sight of the tall, blond wizard leaning against the opposite wall
as she exited. His red and gold tie was pulled loose after a full day in school robes, his long
hair falling freely around his shoulders.

“There you are,” Corvus said, a smile lighting up his eyes. “Thought I’d meet you here and
we could go straight to the dungeons.”

Hermione dropped her head and bit back a groan. She’d completely forgotten they were
supposed to meet tonight and begin working on their Wolfsbane. They’d had to take the latest
slot on the timetable to accommodate her internship.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “We can, I just have to run back up to my dorm, I forgot my book
—”

“That’s alright, we can use mine.” Corvus held up his copy of Innovative Potion
Advancements of the 20th Century and waved it before pushing off the wall and tilting his
head for her to follow him. Hermione shoved down her exhaustion and trailed after him over
the flagstone floor of the entrance hall, until they descended towards the dungeons where he
slowed to walk beside her.

“So—you want to become a healer?” he asked, finally breaking the silence. “That’s a really
challenging—though admirable—line of work,” he continued when she didn’t answer him.
“Are you planning on applying to St. Mungo’s this summer? I’ve heard they have one of the
most competitive training programs in all of Europe.”

“Erm—maybe,” she replied. Hermione couldn’t stand that question. That 'what do you want
to do with your life?' question she’d been asked in perpetuity since the end of the war mere
months ago. She had no idea what she wanted to do after Hogwarts aside from getting paid
enough to not have to depend on anyone else.
Two Slytherin First Years spotted them when they reached the bottom of the stairs, and they
hurried back to their common room, though there was still nearly fifteen minutes until
curfew. Hermione didn’t miss the way Corvus’s jaw set as they scurried away, whispering
behind their hands and glancing backwards at them. She didn’t really care to guess what that
was about.

She became acutely aware how very alone she was with this stranger from Durmstrang in the
cold, underground classroom as Corvus opened the door to the dark room and gestured her
inside. Candles lit themselves upon her entry, the great chandeliers hanging from the ceiling
serving to light the space. Corvus stepped in behind her and let the door fall shut with a snick.

They’d been granted permission from Slughorn to be out after nine on their lab days, but she
hadn’t accounted for how isolated the castle would feel this late at night.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, sliding his fingers under the leather strap on her shoulder
and taking her bag for her. He stepped around her to set up at the front table. “I made some
notes earlier on some options for what I think will be our best course of action.”

“The best course of—” Hermione shook her head. Never in six years had she worked with a
Potions partner who came more prepared than she.

“I mean—you were working, and I didn’t really have anything else to do after dinner, so I
thought I’d just get us started. I didn’t think you’d mind. But I’m happy to go back to the
beginning and discuss this all with you—”

“No, no, that’s fine . . . Can I take a look?” She found herself padding over and sitting beside
him.

Corvus pulled a sheaf of parchment out of his book, unfolded it, and handed it to her. It was
their assignment from their first class, but he’d expanded upon it since she last laid eyes on it.
In blue ink, he’d broken down each ingredient to their classifications and known applications,
even listing their molecular properties. In green, Corvus specified the optimal methods for
harvesting, storing, preparing, and brewing each one, and in red, he’d listed common
interactions between the known ingredients. Hermione’s eyes skimmed the page.

It reeked of pretension.

Second-hand embarrassment bloomed up the back of her neck. All these years, this was how
she was perceived. For her enthusiasm for learning, for her organisation and preparedness.
Hermione glanced up at him for a moment, wondering if this was actually the Durmstrang
version of herself. She cleared her throat, a tingle spreading through her as she wrapped her
mind around the fact that all of this information was actually incredibly useful.

“It’s important that we do more than just acquire and properly prepare the ingredients,” he
noted while she caught up and came to the same conclusion.

“The prep method is just as important. We’ll need to harvest the ingredients in their most
optimal form if we hope to be successful with a potent enough brew,” she finished. “So then
—”
“So I think it’s going to be a few weeks before we can truly start, based on where we are in
the moon cycle,” he finished for her. “But we should plot out our method and create a
timeline for ourselves so we don’t just waste this lab session either.”

Hermione blinked. “When’s the full moon, exactly?” She looked up to find him smiling at
her. “Hang on. Have you done this before?”

Hermione still couldn’t get used to seeing a smiling Malfoy. This very not-Draco copy
leaning on his elbows beside her was throwing her for a loop. “Full moon’s on Sunday,” he
said.

“This sunday?”

He nodded. “Two days from now. And no, I haven’t done this before.”

“But you have finished your education, right? Why are you here?” Hermione furrowed her
brow, finally asking the question that had been in the back of her mind since she found out
four days ago that Draco had a twin who’d attended Durmstrang all these years. If he’d
finished Durmstrang, why was he here, at Hogwarts now?

Corvus exhaled a heavy laugh. “I’m here to brew Wolfsbane, same as you.” He winked, then
stood to his full height. “Now. Would you prefer we hurry and start in two days, or would you
prefer we wait ‘til the next moon?”

Hermione pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, looking back at their paper. “Have you
thought at all about—there could also be merit in harvesting these ingredients on the full
moon, but brewing in between on the new . . .”

Corvus reached out, taking the paper back to glance over it. “I think there are a handful of
different theories we could try.” He nodded.

“And you would want to?” she asked, getting excited at the idea of a challenge. “Test
multiple theories?”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “Got anything better to do?”

“Why are you here? ” she asked again, this time not caring if she offended him. “If you don’t
need the credentials, and you obviously don’t need these measly fifty Galleons,” she laughed,
raking her hair out of her face. Hermione took the paper back from him, combing over it as
she rose to her feet, circled around to the other side of the table, and leaned down on her
elbows to face him. “You clearly know your stuff, you should have better things to do, and
yet you’re here. Why?”

Corvus’s smile stretched further on his lips, even as it fell from his eyes. “I’m here for my
brother,” he said simply. “Have you brought any spare parchment? Or shall I duplicate us
some?”

Here for Draco? She shook her head at his abrupt change in subject. Corvus clearly didn’t
want to talk about his brother, and neither did she for that matter. “I think there’s some in the
stockroom.” Hermione cleared her throat, rising to go fetch some when a hand tightened
around her wrist.

“Why are you here?” Corvus asked softly.

Hermione turned back to him, pulling her arm free from his loose grip. “What do you mean?
I came to finish my education.”

His grey eyes studied her in a way that made her self-conscious. She hated the feeling of
being perceived. “I know who you are,” he said. “You didn’t need to come back, just like
your two best friends didn’t—” Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes at that. He didn’t know
her. Nobody knew her. “What happened to you?” he asked, his brow pinched together in a
frown.

“What happened to me?” She narrowed her eyes, frowning back at him. He kept his eyes
locked on her, taking one step towards her, then another. Too close. “Nothing happened to
me. And you don’t know me—”

Long fingers combed through the fine hairs at her temple, tucking a curl behind her ear.
“You’re right,” he whispered. “I’ve only just met you, and even I can see how sad you are
inside. What happened that made you so bitter? What made you feel the need to erect your
walls sky-high? I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once this entire week—”

“Your family happened to me.” She exhaled sharply, taking a step back and gently removing
his fingers where they rested on her shoulder. “It wasn’t just them, but—”

“My family happened to me too,” he said softly.

His gaze softened, and something about the warm way he looked at her—familiar, and yet
not—compelled her to keep speaking. “I just—It feels like everyone around me has moved
on, and I’m still sitting here, stuck. I can’t just get over it, I can’t feel normal again, I’m just
numb all the time. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t . . . feel anything.” Her hands plopped to
her sides, chest heaving after unloading on him. She shook her head and turned back to the
stockroom, gripping the doorknob.

“I could help you with that . . . I could make you feel something.”

Hermione froze, her momentum nearly making her crash into the closed door. She blinked,
standing there with her mouth gaping. Because surely he was not offering what it sounded
like he was offering.

“What?” she laughed incredulously, turning back to him.

“I said,” he cleared his throat, stepping around the other side of the professor’s desk in front
of her, “I could make you feel something. If you wanted me to.” His hand came up to her
face. Catching her chin with his finger and thumb, he tilted her head up to his. Instead of the
ice-cold eyes she’d come to expect looking back at her, Corvus’s were stormy, intense but so
warm, searching her for something she wasn’t sure of.
A memory from a few nights ago flashed before her. What about her? Corvus had asked his
brother, to which Draco had shaken his head no. Maybe she was just a novelty, a conquest; he
just wanted to use her.

A year ago, she might’ve found that upsetting. But as the ghost of her emotions echoed deep
in the recesses of her mind, she found that she didn’t care.

Maybe Hermione just wanted to use him too.

“Okay,” she whispered. Hermione did want to feel something. Something besides this mind-
numbing rage and hurt boiling under her skin. Something besides feeling nothing at all
instead of only the worst parts of herself.

All the better that everyone in both of their lives would disapprove.

“Wait. Really?” His mouth parted and his eyes widened, darting back and forth between hers,
as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Like—here? No. In my dorm? Or would you prefer
yours?”

“Oh my god, shut up.” Reaching behind her, Hermione twisted the handle to the stockroom,
pulling Corvus into the dimly lit room with her by the tail of his Gryffindor tie. A smile
spread across his face as he bent down, taking her face in both of his hands and kissing her
deeply.

Hermione’s eyes closed, breathing in through her nose and inhaling the scent of clean soap,
her lips burning with the faint taste of cinnamon and citrus. Corvus kicked the door closed
behind him, and she allowed him to walk her backwards until she was pressed up against the
rows of wooden shelves lining the walls.

Her stomach fluttered, second-guessing every life decision she’d ever made that led her to
this moment, standing in a stockroom with Corvus Black. With this—stranger—who was
touching her and kissing her. Exhilarating her. Never one to do anything by halves, Hermione
chased after the thrill.

She was here now.

She reached up, combing her fingers through the length of his impossibly soft hair, brushing
it out of both of their faces and pulling him in deeper.

It was a surreal experience, snogging the identical twin of a person she loathed, a person
who’d gone out of his way to make her life hell. The same plump lips that should’ve pulled
into a sneer at the thought of even working with her were now trailing soft brushes down her
throat. Hands that wouldn’t have deemed to help her up if she’d fallen before, now pushed
her outer robes off of her shoulders, then wrapped around her waist and held her reverently
against the warmth of his body.

This was so fucked up.

His lips came back up and paused against hers, noses barely brushing for a moment while
they breathed the same air. “You’re sure?” he asked.

A meaningless shag with a stranger in a classroom was just the kind of experience Hermione
didn’t know she’d always wanted.

It was perfect.

She rose on her toes to close the space between them, answering with a crushing kiss. Corvus
returned it with full force, tightening his arms around her, pulling her closer. His long, hard
erection was impossible to ignore against her stomach.

Hermione’s hands dropped between them, racing to unbuckle his belt, then his trousers.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, staring down reverently at her. Hermione continued,
not acknowledging him. His belt hit the floor with a loud clunk and his trousers fell down his
legs. Corvus hooked his thumbs under the elastic waistband of his pants, sliding them down
his thighs to the floor where his trousers pooled around his feet.

“Fuck. Are you kidding me?” Hermione openly gaped. Of course the Malfoys were packing.
It made sense, really, that all that confidence stemmed from somewhere.

“You’re not a—it’s not your first time, is it?” His brows raised up almost to his hairline, eyes
wide.

Honestly, it was impressive that he could even formulate the thought, the sheer amount of
blood redirected from his brain was remarkable.

“Of course not,” she blurted, eyes still glued to his enormous dong. “Didn’t dear old Viktor
give you a tell-all?”

“What?” He shot her an incredulous look before a grin spread across his face.

She shook her head and reached her fingers into his hair, once again pulling him down to kiss
her. “Doesn’t matter,” she whispered against his mouth. His tongue swiped at the seam of her
lips, searching for entry as his erect cock pressed against her stomach, doing the same.

Hermione opened her mouth and surged forward, sucking on the tip of his tongue. His eyes
popped wide before crinkling again in a smile.

Corvus broke free. “Fuck, I knew I wanted you the first time I laid eyes on you,” he
whispered into her skin, trailing his lips down her neck and throat to the collar of her shirt.
His hands tugged her shirt out of her waistband and glided up her stomach before
encompassing her ribs. “You’re so beautiful.” He smiled, his gaze trailing down to her lips.

Hermione looked away from his intensity and reached down to unfasten her buttons, his hair
falling to curtain around them while she undid each one, cursing as she fought to loosen her
tie before dropping it, along with her shirt, to the floor with her robes.

She hurried to reach behind and unhook her bra, casting it quickly aside.
Eyes hooded, Corvus brought both his hands up to her chest, cupping each breast and running
his thumbs over the tightened peaks of her nipples in slow, controlled circles. “I guess it’s no
surprise you have a perfect set of tits.” He smirked in an all too-familiar way, bringing his
mouth down to her left breast and wrapping his lips around it.

Hermione threw her arms back into the shelves for purchase, rattling dozens of glass
specimen jars and phials behind her. A few rolled off the shelves and fell to the ground with a
clatter. His whisper of a laugh breezed across the wet skin where his mouth had been, sending
a shiver up her spine.

Corvus lowered himself to his knees, trailing his lips down her body and pressing more kisses
to her navel as he dropped his hands to wrap around her ankles before trailing his fingers up
over the thin fabric of her hold-up stockings. He followed the long lines of her legs, reaching
under her skirt, and shimmied her knickers down her thighs, tapping each foot in turn to step
out of them.

Corvus rose back to his full height, covering her lips with his. He lifted her skirt and bent
down in a quarter-squat, pressing his erection through the friction of her closed thighs, her
abundant wetness coating him. He leaned his head back and let out a long, heavy puff of air
over the top of her head.

“You know it’s not in, right?”

Corvus dropped his face to hers. “Of course I know it’s not in.”

“Oh, okay. Just checking.”

He reached behind her thigh, cupping behind her knee to pull her leg up, opening her for him.
Corvus sank down even lower to line himself up.

“You’ve done this before, right?” She raised a brow.

“Is roasting me your idea of foreplay?” He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, a good-
natured smile on his face before trying and failing again. “Fuck, this doesn’t work,” he said,
then bent down and lifted her in his arms, cupping her arse in his hands. Her skirt fell behind
her and he picked her up high enough to line himself up with her opening. Hermione
wrapped her arms around his neck to keep from falling, gasping in surprise. “Kiss me,
beautiful,” he whispered, crashing his lips to hers and inching himself forward to press inside
of her.

Hermione moaned into his mouth, fingertips frozen mid-swipe through the long hair at the
nape of his neck, unable to focus on anything else as inch after inch of him pushed into her,
consuming all of her senses. So surreal, so different from the last time . . . she didn’t want to
think about all the others right now. She broke contact, sucking in a heap of air and letting her
head fall backwards, sending a few more glass jars crashing to the floor.

“You okay?” He paused, then slowly pulled out a fraction while he inspected the floor beside
them.
“Mhm.” She nodded her head. “Keep going,” she pleaded, bringing his face back to hers.

Corvus pushed back into her, letting her slowly sink down his length until he was fully seated
inside of her. “Fuuuck,” he whispered, dropping his face down to the crook of her neck. He
stayed like that for a long time, just holding her while slowly breathing in and out through his
nose and letting Hermione adjust to his size.

He felt good.

More than good—incredible. Exquisite.

Her own body weight pressed her down onto the full, impressive length of him, the stretch
with just the slightest lick of pain keeping her grounded to reality. The pressure was
torturous, just the anticipation of the impressive orgasm she was about to have was almost
enough to do the job. Hermione contracted her abs, rolling her pelvis against his.

His whispers of shit, shit, shit, over her skin bolstered her confidence, and she did it again.

Corvus moaned, his hot breath blanketing her shoulder as she began to slowly fuck herself on
his cock, grinning at the hazy, heady feeling curling up inside of her. His eyes squeezed shut,
mouth gaping. Grabbing either side of his head, Hermione pulled his face to hers, their lips
crashing with bruising enthusiasm. Corvus groaned, sucking her bottom lip between his teeth
with a stutter of his hips, and a slew of curses falling from his mouth.

Hermione froze. “Did you just—”

“Fuuuck—No no no—” He hung his head, burying his face back in the crook of her neck.
“I’m so sorry!”

Hermione threw her head back laughing. It wasn’t funny.

It was really fucking disappointing, actually.

But she couldn’t stop the uncontrollable laughter that bubbled up from deep down inside of
her. Because what had she expected? Honestly this was just . . . exactly how her life went.
She laughed harder, a new fit of giggles bursting out of her as a tear welled in the corner of
her eye.

“No . . . this has never happened to me before.” He collapsed into her, rattling more jars and
phials as his head knocked into the shelves.

Hermione patted his back. “Sure, honey.”

Corvus started laughing, first a few breathy exhales, then a great rumbling belly laugh.
Hermione couldn’t help but marvel at his infectious laughter. This was just too fucking
surreal.

“Oh gods, let me make this up to you,” he groaned in her ear.

“Erm—I’m good.” she said, as his softening dick slid out of her with an obscene, squelching
trail of wetness and she slipped back down to her feet. “It’s all right. I think I got what I
needed.” She laughed again.

Indeed, Hermione did feel something. Her stomach was tight and her cheeks hurt—she
couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed at all, much less this hard.

Corvus reached for his clothes. “You done?” he asked through a huff of his own amusement,
cocking his head to the side, his cheeks blooming pink even in the dim lighting.

Hermione reached down for her clothes and slipped her bra back over her arms. “I’m sorry.
I’m not making fun of you, I swear. That’s just not at all what I was expecting.”

He pulled up his pants and trousers together, buckling his belt while Hermione adjusted her
breasts in her bra and slid her shirt up her arms and buttoned it down. Not bothering to tuck
in her shirt, she donned her robes, and stuffed her tie in her pocket, lightly smoothing her hair
with her fingers as Corvus retrieved the glass bottles that had fallen from the shelves.

“Nothing broke, did it?” she asked. Everything was supposed to be kept in charmed bottles,
but they still should’ve been more careful.

“All good,” he answered, setting them back on the shelves where they went in alphabetical
order. The top of a jar of dandelion root had fallen open. Corvus sealed it back up and
vanished the spilled sprigs with a practised efficiency.

“Any sight of my knickers?” Hermione glanced around the small space—practically a closet
—looking for the small white scrap of cotton.

“Erm—might’ve vanished them to the abyss. Guess I owe you.”

She scoffed. “You do not. Forget about it.”

“Can I—Is it okay if I perform the charm?” he asked, wand out and ready.

“Oh.” They hadn’t discussed contraception. “I’m on the potion,” she said. She’d requested it
from Madam Pomfrey her first day of her internship, hoping it might help get her cycles
regulated back to something resembling normal. “But if it makes you feel better, feel free.”

“It would,” he replied. “Not that . . . not that I don’t trust you or anything, I’d just rather not
risk it, is all.”

Hermione turned her palm over, indicating for him to go ahead whenever he was ready. He
whispered the complicated latin phrase, and an icy cold chill spread through her lower
abdomen. “Fuck,” she breathed.

“I’m sorry. I’ve heard it sucks.”

“Well, at least the snogging was good . . . while that lasted.” She gave him a sideways smirk.
“I’m never going to live this down.” He shook his head, swiping a hand down his face.
“What can I say? Pussy was just too good.”

Hermione laughed. “Yeah . . . erm, I’m sure it had probably been a while.”

“Sure, let’s go with that.” He winked, opening the door back to the classroom.

“So, I can speak with Professor Sprout, and you just let me know when you’d like to go
harvest the aconite and moondew on Sunday whenever the full moon rises. I’ll be free after
seven that night.”

“That works for me,” he said, scooping his book off the front table and sliding her leather bag
over his shoulder.

It was a quiet walk back up to the common room. She caught Corvus stealing glances out of
the corner of her eye but ignored him, not wanting to engage in more awkward conversation
on their collective walk-of-shame through the castle.

“Audere est facere ” she said to the softly snoozing portrait of Temeritus Shanks when they
finally reached the sixth floor.

“Oi, a bit tardy, are we?” he said, jolting awake to eye them up and down.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hermione brushed him off. “You gonna open for us or not?”

With a dramatic heave, the portrait swung open.

The eyes of every Eighth Year in the common room turned to them as she and Corvus
stepped through. Heat crept up the back of Hermione’s neck under the watchful eye of all of
her peers.

“Here,” he said softly, “your bag . . .”

She took her bag from him and looked up to see his hair was in complete disarray. That, with
the soft blush on his cheeks, made him look very recently, and very thoroughly, shagged.
Hermione pulled her robes tighter.

Movement from the table in the back caught her eye—another tall blond standing to his feet.
Hands clenched, the familiar, disgusted sneer plastered across his face—Draco was pissed. A
tiny victory flag waved in her stomach, fluttering with delight at having fucked the brother of
the man who hated her.

Or something like that.

“Erm—so just let me know about Sunday,” she said again, then hoisted her bag over her
shoulder and with an awkward wave to Neville and Hannah, strode past the sofa to her
dormitory on the other side of the common room.

She showered and changed into her cotton sleep shorts and ribbed vest, and by the time
Hermione collapsed into her bed, she found herself filled with a sensation she hadn't known
in ages—overwhelming peace and quiet in her body and mind. Hermione fell asleep right
away and slept soundly for the first time in over a year.
Chapter End Notes

🖤
You can find Frau and the rest of her stunning artwork on instagram
@goodnightfraublucher and tumblr @goodnight-fraublucher
 Feminine Rage
Chapter Notes

Welcome back! In case you missed it—hit that Previous Chapter button and go check
out Frau's amazing NSFW art at the bottom of ch2 that she drew of Corvus and
Hermione shagging in the Potions stockroom!

🖤
ALL the love to LiloLilyAnn, iftreescouldspeak, and Frau_Blucher for constantly
feeding the muse cookies, and for being Corvus’s biggest cheer squad

Hermione slid her white hospital robes down her arms and tossed them in the laundry with
the other dirty linens, marking the end of another gruelling shift. If it was exhausting working
with Madam Pomfrey at the end of a long school day, a full weekend shift on her feet was a
different beast entirely.

Her stomach growled as she grabbed her bag from under the admittance desk and pushed
open the double doors leading to the entry hall. As expected, Corvus Black was leaning
against the stone wall opposite the hospital ward, waiting for her with one foot pressed
behind him in that careless manner he seemed to exude naturally.

As if there was nothing in the world worth being bothered by.

“There she is.” He kicked off the wall with a boyish grin on his face upon seeing her. “Ready
to go?” His deep voice was so like his brother’s, it kept catching Hermione off guard. Her
eyes flicked up to his long hair, to his simple white t-shirt and black jeans to confirm that it
was indeed Corvus and not Draco constantly attempting ways to be friendly with her. A blush
crept up the back of her neck—because she didn’t exactly hate his being friendly with her—
and she wasn’t sure exactly how she felt about that.

“Ready,” she said, running her thumb under the leather strap of her bag to show him she’d
come prepared this time.

“Give me that,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. The scent of cedarwood blanketed her as he
reached out his hand. He smelled fresh from the shower. Looked like it too, if his damp-
darkened hair with its long strands curling slightly at the ends was anything to go by.
“I can carry my own bag—” she began, but he’d already slipped it off her shoulder and over
his own.

“Let’s go, Athena, we’re burning daylight.”

“Athena . . . ?” Hermione frowned, caught off guard for a moment, then had to skip to catch
up to him, his long legs carrying him to the front doors before her.

“Goddess of wisdom and war, wasn’t it?” He shot her a wink, passing his polished mahogany
potions kit to his other hand, and pulled the heavy wooden door open for her. Hermione
groaned at his silly moniker, and stepped out into the warm, late-summer air.

The sun was sinking low on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the grounds and bathing
the grass in its warm radiance. A gaggle of geese flew overhead, making themselves known
with their call before disappearing again above the pink and purple clouds.

“How was work?” Corvus asked her as they wound their way up the path that led to the
greenhouses.

Hermione peered over at him. They were asking about each other's day now? One objectively
disappointing shag and he wanted to be friends? Hermione sighed. Loathe as she was to
admit it, Friday had lit a spark inside of her. She went to bed and had actually slept. Her
appetite was finally returning.

All of her appetites.

If she happened to get herself off at night to the memory of how he’d hoisted her up in his
arms as if she weighed nothing, of how she had to stretch to accommodate him, or of how he
looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen . . . well, that was nobody’s
business.

Corvus looked over at her, smiling like he knew.

Hermione swallowed. She was so fucked.

“Work was fine,” she answered. “Do you think we have time—and would you mind—if I pop
into Greenhouse Three for a quick sec?”

“Yeah,” he agreed so easily. “That’s no problem. Moonrise isn’t for another twenty minutes
anyway.” He held his hand out, guiding the way up the inclined path.

The greenhouse door opened up to the very familiar classroom. The glowing sky shone
through the glass roof, casting shadows over the potted plants and equipment used for
classes. Long, wooden worktables spanned the length of the front room, covered in memories
of Mandrake repottings, pruning Venomous Tentacula . . . Neville being ushered to the
hospital wing.

“You can set my bag down on one of the tables,” she said, pointing her thumb over her
shoulder as she began raiding the tall cabinet behind Professor Sprout’s worktop for a clean
jar. She grabbed a pair of silver pruning shears and a bark spud from a shelf and set them on
the table beside her.

“What are you looking for?” Corvus lifted the hand carrying his potions kit—brand new with
no sign of wear on the outside—offering his supplies.

“Specimen jar,” she answered, turning back to search the cabinet.

“Are you out? Where’s your kit?” He felt the outside of her bag with his hands, then set his
kit on the table beside her bag and opened it. “I’ve got plenty.”

Hermione sighed deeply. Her kit was Godric-knew-where, probably blown to atom dust with
the rest of her Hogwarts supplies and all her earthly belongings when a group of Death Eaters
was sent to level her parents’ house just before the final battle. There hadn’t been a spare kit
for her to take from the Burrow, but it was alright. She’d chosen to get by on school-issued
supplies rather than waste any more of her own dwindling supply of gold on a new kit.

“Do you not have a—?”

“It’s fine,” she clipped, pulling a few jars from the middle shelf, along with some cork lids.
“It’s just for the hospital, I should’ve thought to bring a few with me.” She grabbed the shears
and spud and opened the door to the main section of the greenhouse. Corvus followed
behind, tucking his hands into his pockets. Thick, humid air wrapped its tendrils all around
them, and her hair, expanding by the second, clung to her neck. She pulled the scrunchie off
her wrist and tied her hair up in a quick bun, speeding past the flora faction to the evergreen
environment. Hermione headed straight for the grove of Wiggentrees and began shaving
some bark with the spud.

Corvus took the jars from where she’d wedged them between her arm and body, and
uncorked them for her, holding one, then the other underneath where she worked to collect
the bark shavings. He didn’t speak again, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him and
find a face full of pity for poor, skint Hermione Granger.

“This should be good,” she said, wiping her brow and smoothing back the wispy hairs that
clung to her face. “We can go.” Hermione took her jars back, and walked back to the
classroom entrance where she cleaned the spud in the basin sink, and placed the supplies
back in the cabinet. “Greenhouse Four, then.” She slipped the jars of Wiggentree bark into
her bag, and slid the strap over her shoulder. This time, Corvus let her.

The air outside felt remarkably cooler just in the fifteen minutes they’d spent in the hot,
humid nursery. Frogs were croaking their nightly song now that the sun was fully down, its
light almost disappeared completely to the west.

“You brewing Wiggenweld Potion?” Corvus guessed beside her, finally breaking their silence
as they walked further up the path.

“Hm? Oh . . . yeah. I ran through almost our entire stock today on a group of first years who
had to find out the hard way how the Whomping Willow earned its name. Five Gryffindors,
of course, covered head to toe in welts and bruises.”
“Ouch,” he replied with a grimace.

“Very. We were already running low, so now I get the privilege of brewing and restocking our
supply tomorrow after classes.” Corvus held the door open for her when they made it to the
next greenhouse, and she gave him a tight smile as she walked inside. “Alright, so, we
wanted to harvest Moondew, Aconite, and—”

“Valerian root,” he finished for her. Hermione nodded, heading for the cabinet in the corner
of the classroom. “I have jars.” He set his kit on the worktable and pulled out three glass
containers. “New and sterile. I’d prefer to use these if that’s all right. Since we need to
guarantee our ingredients are of optimal potency.”

Hermione nodded. “Of course.” She grabbed another set of silver shears and closed the
cabinet back up. “Well, Moondew and Valerian root are just through there”—she pointed past
the classroom door—“and then we should be able to find Aconite in the cordoned-off section
of the forest just outside of the back door.

Corvus checked his watch. “Moonrise is in thirty seconds. Let’s do it.” He grabbed his kit
and hoisted the heavy door to the inner greenhouse open for her, and let her lead him to the
floral faction. The white blossoms of Moondew were just opening under the misty light of the
full moon. He set the kit down and handed Hermione a large jar to hold while he donned a
pair of dragonhide gloves and took out his own brand-new silver shears. “Do you really not
have a kit?” Corvus frowned, running his fingertips through the stems to select the heartiest
blooms.

“It’s fine,” she replied. “The school has plenty of extra supplies available.”

Corvus snipped blossom after blossom, filling the jar to the top. “You can have this one,” he
said after a minute, nodding to the mahogany box at his side. “I’ll order smaller gloves for
you, but the rest is universal. I can use my old one from Durmstrang.”

“No, that’s alright, I’m fine—”

“I have two,” he insisted. “I only got this one because it was on the list, and I guess I didn’t
really give it much thought—”

Hermione’s brows shot up. “I am not taking your brand new potions kit, no thank you.” Her
tone brokered no more debate as he took the filled jar back from her and secured it inside of
the small case.

“Aconite next?” he asked with an exhale, irritation lacing his tone.

Hermione shook her head. “Valerian root.”

They harvested the other ingredients in much the same manner—Hermione holding the
specimen jars while Corvus pruned pink blossoms of Valerian root, and purple Aconite
flowers—before heading back inside the classroom. Corvus had been uncharacteristically
quiet since the Moondew.
She was okay with that.

Hermione didn’t mind the friendly banter, but Corvus had the tendency to overstep into the
too-personal without seeming to realise—or care.

Specimens secured inside, he closed up his potions kit. “Will you at least take my old one?”
Corvus said out of nowhere. Hermione blinked at him. This was really bothering him. She’d
never seen him act anything besides jovial; his exasperation was unexpected. Draco appeared
in his features, looking down at her with his brows knitted, frustration in his face. “I’ll owl
home for it, it’s just sitting in my old bedroom, collecting dust—”

She turned, squaring her shoulders to him. “Just what is it that you’re looking for?”

“What am I looking for?” His face screwed up in a stunned expression. As if he’d never had
his intentions questioned before.

“With me,” she continued. “What is it that you want with me? I don’t need you to pay me. Or
are you just looking for some sort of twisted absolution for your brother and your family?
What are you doing?”

Corvus’s mouth fell open, eyes darting around the space between them, so clearly
unaccustomed to someone who didn’t fawn all over his advances. He swallowed, regaining
himself quickly and rocking half a step forward. “It’s not about anyone else,” he said,
shrugging. “I like you. I just want to get to know you.”

The Draco in his features softened, all his sharp angles relaxing back into what she’d come to
learn was so very Corvus: playful, gentle, light.

“I think you’re pretty, and you’re so smart, and—”

Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes and turning to the side.

“And you don’t take shit from anyone,” he continued when she didn’t offer a reply. “I hate
seeing how sad you are all the time. You have friends, but for some reason, you’re always
alone—”

“I’m not sad.”

“It’s your eyes.” His soft gaze searched hers, the moonlight shining through the glass ceiling
making his colourless irises even more intense. As if he could see right through her. “You
hide, but really, you just want to be found. I see your pain. I just want to take care of you.”

The tension in Hermione’s shoulders released. She wanted to be offended. She wanted to give
him a verbal dressing down, laying into him until he understood that she wasn’t just some
helpless damsel who needed the Black Prince to come down from his ivory tower and save
her. She wanted to scream that she knew he was just telling her pretty lies tied up in a pretty
bow to make her swoon.

But it was in his eyes.

He was so earnest, such supreme truth exuded in his expression. And God, he was so fucking
cute with those silver-lining hopeful eyes staring back at her. If she were honest, Hermione
liked him. And so what if it wouldn’t go anywhere—Hermione Granger and a bloody Malfoy
—it couldn’t go anywhere.

But the idea of being taken care of, of taking back that small piece of herself and having a
little fun? What was so wrong with that?

She tilted her head to the side, her fingertips grazing along the hem of his shirt as an absurd
smile tugged at her lips. “You think I’m pretty, do you?”

He broke out into a huge, gorgeous grin, dimples winking on either side of his mouth. He
really was so handsome once she made herself look past all the Draco staring back at her. His
long hair suited his playful personality—Loose and carefree, neither kept tidy like Lucius’s,
nor manicured like Draco’s.

“I think you’re utterly gorgeous—you’ve ensnared me with your beauty.” He leaned down,
bringing his lips almost to the shell of her ear. “And still, that’s the least interesting thing
about you.”

Hermione’s fingers traced along the hem of his t-shirt. “You want to take care of me?”
Corvus nodded, and Hermione took a half step forward, closing the space between them and
hooking her finger around his empty belt loop. She took another step, crowding him until his
backside was pressed against the large worktable. His eyes grew hooded as she leaned up and
whispered, “What if I like taking care of you?”

She let the solicitation hang in the humid air around them. Corvus swallowed, his Adam’s
apple bobbing in his throat. His hands ran up her arms from elbow to shoulder, his fingers
tucking an errant curl behind her ear. Then he hooked a finger under her chin, tilting her face
to his. Hermione rose on her toes and connected their lips.

His were soft, flooding her with that same cinnamon taste. Corvus moaned softly into her
mouth while her fingers searched his waistband and unbuttoned his black denims, unzipping
them and pulling them open. Hermione slid her hand down the front of his pants and found
him hard and eager. He moaned, and exhaled a sharp breath, breaking their kiss as her fingers
wrapped around his girth and gently slid down his full length.

His gaze was dark and intense, and his breathing grew heavier. His cock pulsed in her hand,
growing harder with each slow stroke. Hermione brought her hand up to her mouth and
licked from the base of her palm to her fingertips, then brought her wet hand back to glide
smoothly over his soft, sensitive skin.

“Wait,” he breathed, hands grasping her shoulders like he was hanging on for dear life. “I’m
supposed to owe you, remember?” His hand came up to cup her jaw, the other dropping to
trail down the side of her ribs and underneath the soft curve of her breast.

Hermione shook her head, whispering against his lips, “God, Corvus, shut up and just get a
handie.” She reached her left hand into his pants and wrapped her fingers around the base of
his cock, working him with both hands. “And I’m not taking your potions kit.”
His head fell back, whispered expletives falling from his lips as she twisted her wrist on the
upstroke. She wanted to see him come for her again, to watch him as he fell apart from
nothing but her touch. He really enjoyed when her forefinger glided over the crown of his
glans, his breath hitching with each pass. So she began a slow rhythm, and reached down
lower with her left hand to gently cup his balls and turn them over delicately in her fingers
while stroking him with her right.

Corvus’s face snapped back down to hers, and he surged forward, capturing her mouth once
again. His hands wove through her pulled-back hair, tugging her scrunchie and freeing her
hair to fall around her shoulders.

“Let’s go back to the castle.” He breathed the words more than said them, his mouth falling
slack as she worked him closer and closer. He made no move to stop her, and Hermione
shook her head, her nose brushing his. She wasn’t going to quit now, not when she had him
so very close . . .

His breathing grew ragged. “I’m gonna—”

A smile tugged at her mouth. She continued her rhythmic stroking, watching him turn loose
and boneless right in front of her. His forearm weighed heavily on her shoulder now as he
began losing the ability to focus on anything aside from how good she was making him feel.
But his other hand still found its way under her shirt and cupped her breast over her bra,
alternating between rubbing his thumb over her sensitive nipple through the fabric and
massaging her with his whole palm.

“Let me take you to bed,” he whispered. “I’ll make you feel so good—”

“Shh.” They were going to finish this right now.

“Seriously, I’m gonna come if you don’t stop,” he faltered, wrapping his arms around her and
holding her to his chest. Logistically, it was becoming difficult, her hands already restricted
by the tightness of his jeans, the muscles in her arm burning with fatigue.

But he was so close, just another minute.

His breathing grew erratic, his hips punctuating her movements until finally he came,
finishing against his stomach and chest. His head dropped down, resting his forehead on top
of hers and panting hard.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he groaned into her hair after a minute as she gently
tucked him back into his pants and buttoned his jeans for him. “I wanted to make it so good
for you the next time we did this.”

Hermione caught herself grinning and shrugged. “I had a good time.” She extracted herself
from his clutches and backed away until she was leaned up against the table opposite him,
watching him stand there in full disarray as his total blood volume slowly returned back to
circulation. Corvus pulled out his wand and vanished the mess on his shirt.
Feeling rather chuffed about her accomplishment, Hermione turned with a satisfied grin and
closed the clasps on his potion kit, sliding it to the edge of the worktop for him while she
slung her bag over her shoulder.

“Give me that.” He took her bag, sliding the strap over his own shoulder and seeming
genuinely annoyed now. Corvus picked up his kit and grabbed her hand. “Come on.” He led
her to the greenhouse door, tugging her with him, back down the path to the castle. “I’m
going to make this up to you.”

Hermione laughed. “Thanks, but that’s really not necessary,” she reasoned, walking fast as he
pulled her along.

“I shouldn’t’ve let you . . .” he mumbled under his breath.

“Sorry?”

Corvus slowed his pace. “I’ve come twice now, and you, not at all.”

Oh, but she’d arrived—multiple times with him, in fact—just not with him in the physical
sense.

“So what?”

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face her, his large body blocking the path. “So
what?” His eyes scrutinised hers, properly miffed. “Who’s been letting you think that that’s
in any way okay?”

“It’s not tit for tat,” she huffed. “I enjoyed myself plenty. Didn’t you? I mean, clearly you did,
but—”

“Clearly yes!” He threw his hands out in exasperation. “But I could maybe feel less guilty
about it, if you’d let me get you off too.”

Hermione’s stomach growled loudly right as she opened her mouth to speak.

“Circe,” he huffed, grabbing her hand and leading her back to the castle again.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at her valiant protector—so affronted by the inequities of
their mutual pleasure. Personally offended by her hunger.

The suits of armour allowed them entry back into the castle, and Corvus pulled her through
the entrance hall. Instead of taking the grand staircase to the right, he hooked left and led her
down a spiral staircase underground.

“Where—?” she began, but as they descended, Hermione realised where he was taking her.
At the bottom of the stairs was a large painting of a bowl of fruit. Corvus reached out and
tickled the green pear, which morphed into a doorknob. “How do you know about this?” She
was honestly impressed. He’d lived in the castle for less than a week, it took most students
until at least their second or third year to find the location of the kitchens.
“Longbottom showed me,” he replied as if it were the most obvious response in the world
before disappearing through the opening. Hermione followed behind. Dinner had ended over
an hour ago. The five tables mirroring those above in the Great Hall were empty, pots and
pans cleaned and stacked along the worktops around the perimeter, ready for breakfast
tomorrow. Ceramic plates clattered together as Corvus pulled two from a cupboard and set
them on the worktop, then crossed to raid the refrigerators. After a moment, he pulled out a
package wrapped in butcher paper, and set it next to the plates.

Corvus darted about the kitchen, grabbing a bread loaf, searching for the knives, finding a
butter crock . . . Hermione sat down at what would have lined up with the Gryffindor table
one storey above them and rested her chin in her hand, watching while Corvus worked in
concentrated silence.

She sighed, exhaustion starting to weigh heavily on her eyelids. But it was too fucking good
to see the prince of House Black himself flitting around the kitchen, making her a post-handie
sandwich. He finally finished up his concoction and brought the two plates over, setting one
on the table in front of her and keeping the other for himself.

“A bacon butty?” Hermione stared down at the sandwich incredulously. “Who the fuck are
you, Corvus Black?” She picked up the sandwich and took a bite, and her mouth flooded with
nostalgic memories of sitting at the breakfast nook with her parents over summer holiday.

He shrugged, chewing through a mouthful of his own huge bite before lifting a serviette to
his mouth. “Everyone likes a bacon butty.”

Thoughts of afternoon tea with Narcissa Malfoy danced across Hermione’s imagination:
silver platters piled high with scones and crumpets, delicate pastries for all of the Malfoys . . .
and bacon butties for Corvus.

He set his sandwich down and pulled his long hair back, twisting it into a bun at the crown of
his head. A flash of red caught her attention as he pulled her scrunchie off his wrist and used
it to tie his hair. Hermione narrowed her eyes, but either he didn’t notice or he didn’t care.

“So would you like to start our first batch of Wolfsbane in two weeks then?” he asked after
another polite bite.

Hermione would bet real money that he’d taken years of comportment lessons. “Yes, I think
so, with the new moon,” she answered, taking another bite and having to refrain from
moaning around the crispy bacon. Fuck, she hated that he knew exactly what she would like.

“And will you come back to my dorm with me?” His eyes flicked up to her.

Hermione nearly choked. “Erm. No.” The disappointment in his crestfallen features was
brutal. “Sorry. I’m just so tired.” She tried to soften the rejection. “What time is it exactly,
anyway?” She looked around for a clock, finding none.

Corvus checked his watch. “Just after nine.”

“We’d better get back before the Prefects catch us out after hours.” Hermione rolled her eyes.
But if there were Prefects patrolling, they didn’t see any. It was just as well, Hermione wasn’t
in the mood to argue with a couple Fifth Years about why she hadn’t bothered with a hall
pass. It had been a long day, and now with a belly full of food, she was completely
knackered.

The space between them was rife with the divide of their unspoken desires. Even without him
saying a word, it was obvious Corvus wasn’t ready for the night to end.

They entered the eighth-year common room together, finding that it was fairly quiet; most
everyone had returned to their dormitories for the evening. A few passing glances looked
their way when they walked in, but nothing like the last time. No angry twin brothers, no
alarmed Nevilles.

“You’re sure I can’t persuade you—?” He let the rest of the question hang unspoken as he
tilted his head towards his and Draco’s suite on the left side of the room. He was so keen she
almost wanted to. But that was a line she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to cross.

“Goodnight, Corvus.” Hermione turned and went to her door, opening it to reveal a sight she
could’ve gone her entire life without seeing. She slapped her hand over her own mouth and
squeezed her eyes shut, stumbling backwards out of her dorm and closing the door.

“What? What is it?” Corvus jogged over to her, concern etched into his features.

Hermione shook her head, trying to both process and forget the sight of Neville’s pale, bare
arse as he railed Hannah over the side of her four-poster with the bed curtains wide open. She
wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry as she made her way to the sofa in front of the fireplace,
but she’d be damned if she went back to her room tonight. “M-my . . .” she shook her pointed
finger at the door while the words worked themselves out of the knots in her brain. “Neville
—they didn’t . . . shut the curtains . . .”

Or use a silencing charm.

“They didn’t—” Corvus burst into laughter, eyes alight at her sick misfortune.

“It isn’t funny!” Hermione pleaded with him, covering her eyes once again with her hands.
As if they weren’t too late and she could ever unsee the horrifying image burned into the
backs of her eyelids. “I’m scarred for life!”

The sofa dipped as Corvus sat down beside her. “Caught an eyeful of the old Longbottom, did
you?” Hermione slapped his chest lightly with the back of her hand. “Come on.” He stood
and held out his hand for her. “I’m offering refuge.”

Hermione looked up at him with a reluctant smile. “No offence, but I don’t have any desire to
spend time with your brother. Negative amounts of desire, in fact.”

“It’s alright,” he said, shrugging. “He’s sleeping.”

Well, that certainly made his offer that much more appealing. Hermione supposed Corvus
had more to lose from this arrangement than she did. “Just to sleep?” she asked with a raised
brow.

Corvus held his hand over his heart. “On my honour.”

This was the wrong choice. She’d already given the mouse a cookie, and now he was asking
for a glass of milk. But was staying the night in Corvus’s bed going to be worse than a fitful
night on the lumpy, common room sofa?

Hermione took a deep breath. “Okay,” she agreed, and a wide smile broke out on Corvus’s
face. “This doesn’t mean anything though. Whatever is going on between us . . . it’s just
fucking.” Hermione placed her hand in his and was hoisted to her feet.

“And occasional sleeping,” he amended.

Hermione glanced around the room. Padma was nodding off over her essay at the back table.
Michael and Terry were wrapped up in their game of Exploding Snap beside the fire. She
quietly followed Corvus, slipping into the two brothers’ room behind him.

Their bedroom was identical to her and Hannah’s, aside from the difference in House
colorings. Rich green curtains were drawn securely around what had to be Draco’s bed.
Corvus’s red ones were left wide open, revealing a standard single Hogwarts mattress,
dressed up in all the Gryffindor linens she’d grown accustomed to.

It was still so weird seeing a Malfoy in red. Even if, technically, he was a Black by some
logic she still hadn’t found the meaning to. Hermione set her bag down beside the trunk at the
end of his bed. The old, worn leather looked particularly ragged beside the polished wood.

Plush rugs lay over the hardwood floor comforting her feet, most certainly not standard
Hogwarts-issue. Hermione glanced around the room, her eyes falling upon two brand-new,
identical sets of textbooks atop their matching chests of drawers, with silver candlesticks and
a delicate-looking tea set on a small table between them. Two Firebolts leaned against the
corner by the door. The entire space reeked of familial wealth.

“Erm . . . is it alright if I shower?” she whispered, feeling outrageously out of place, but
beyond desperate to wash the clinic off of herself—especially after sweating in the humid
greenhouses.

“Of course,” he replied quietly. Then, with a devious grin, asked, “Want me to join you?”

“Erm . . .” Hermione glanced at the green-curtained bed and to the bathroom door beyond it.
“No, I’m alright.” She took a few steps before turning back to him. “Actually, do you have
some clothes I could borrow?”

The grin spread further across his face. “Yeah.” He pulled open a drawer and grabbed a dark,
folded t-shirt, then opened his top drawer and fished around for a moment before pulling out
a pair of blue plaid boxers. Hermione took the offered clothes with a smile and crossed to the
bathroom.
She closed the door and leaned her back against it, letting out a weighted exhale. The subtle
opulence of their dormitory had left its footprint here as well. Monogrammed navy blue
towels hung from two hooks on the walls: D.M. and C.B stitched in gold thread. Hermione
ran her fingers over Corvus’s, the plush terry so much softer and thicker than her seashell
patterned one that she’d borrowed from the Burrow, and she detected a high-quality warming
charm laced into the fabric as well. Soaps with french labels rested on the vanity.

She reached in and started the shower, double checking that the door was locked before she
toed off her Mary Janes and unbuttoned her white shirt—sweaty and smelling of disinfectant.
She shimmied out of her skirt and tossed it on the floor with her shirt, then rolled down her
hold-up stockings, tossing her bra and knickers last. It was an incredibly vulnerable feeling—
standing full starkers with only a locked door between herself and two Malfoy men.

Hermione didn’t miss the charmed bath mat, soft and warm to the touch, under her feet as she
stepped into the steamy shower.

The hot water was heaven on her scalp and aching shoulders. Hermione just stood under the
running water, letting her muscles relax in the heat for a few moments before she reached for
the tube of toothpaste resting on the ledge. She squeezed some onto her finger and gave it her
best attempt sans toothbrush, laughing on a soft exhale when the familiar cinnamon flavour
hit her taste buds.

She’d anticipated having her curls wrecked by whatever three-in-one boy wash lined the
shelf. But given Corvus’s beautiful tresses and his general proclivity for being extra, she
shouldn’t have been surprised to find an array of products, including a leave-in moisturiser.

Hermione debated how long she’d have to sit in here for Corvus to fall asleep and her to
sneak back out to the common room unnoticed. Because honestly—spending the night here?
What had she been thinking? A laugh escaped her as her thoughts drifted to Ron and Harry. If
only they could see her now.

“Don’t be a coward,” she whispered aloud to herself. It’s just Corvus. Corvus and his evil
twin brother, yes, but her gut said that Corvus was harmless.

She shut off the faucet and grabbed the towel with C.B. on it and dried off. Her small pile of
dirty clothes had already vanished away to the castle laundry. She pulled Corvus’s boxers up
over her hips, rolling the waistband down a few times so they wouldn’t fall off. She unfolded
the t-shirt and found it was large enough to swallow her completely—and thankfully so, since
she no longer had a bra. She checked herself in the mirror: red and yellow Sex Pistols
stamped across her chest, her long hair pulled even longer by the weight of its wetness, flat
but curling at the ends—not even remotely sexy.

This was good, she didn’t want to give him the wrong idea; she didn’t want him to think she
was trying to look good, or that she cared.

Because she absolutely didn’t.

Hermione turned the light off before opening the door and slipping through the small crack,
her cloud of indulgent steam escaping with her. Corvus was lying in his bed with his arm
slung above his head and a book held in his other hand. He sat up when he saw her. His jaw
dropped, then spread into a wide grin. She glanced down at herself—shorts, shirt—all good.
He patted the mattress on the other side of him, the side furthest from Draco, and Hermione
quickly crossed the room and hopped up on the bed with him. Once inside, it was Hermione’s
turn for her jaw to drop.

“Why is your bed so large?” She slipped her legs between the soft sheets of what was not a
standard-issue Hogwarts single after all, and pulled the blankets up to her lap.

Corvus grabbed a bookmark from his side table and closed his book, setting it aside. “You
think I’d fit in a single? It’s just a simple expansion charm,” he replied. As if expansion
charms were simple. Corvus closed the curtains on the four-poster and slid back down the
mattress, turning his body to face hers and resting his head on his bicep. Hermione slid down
and mirrored his position. She swore his mattress was softer than hers, and his blankets were
thicker and heavier too.

And that was absolutely her red scrunchie still twisted around his hair.

She covered her mouth as a yawn was pulled from deep inside of her.

Corvus’s lips curled up at the ends, huffing an amused exhale through his nose. He opened
his arms in an unspoken invitation. Upon seeing Hermione’s hesitation, he said, “Relax.
We’re just going to sleep.”

After a moment of doubt—and a hundred layers of self-loathing—Hermione scooted forward

and closed the gap between them. She tossed her wet hair above her to lay over the pillow,
and as soon as she settled in, Corvus’s arms snaked around her shoulders and waist, heavy
and warm. She exhaled deeply.

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he said, fingering through a few of her tresses on the sheets behind
her.

“Goodnight,” she whispered back.

They lay like that for a long time—Corvus snuggled against her, his hands resting on her
back, and she, stiff as a board.

As his breathing evened out into a slow, sleepy rhythm, she let herself relax just a little. Only
because she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been held like this, made to feel so safe.
She wasn’t going to fall asleep, she was just—going to let herself enjoy this a little.

| | |

The delicate clinking of fine china and quiet morning pleasantries jolted Hermione awake.
Her arms flailed around, frantically trying to gather her bearings. She was alone. The curtains
were still drawn but morning light filtered into the room and through the small gap on his
side of the bed.

Corvus had left her here.

“I thought you’d be doing your workout . . . have an unexpected lie-in this morning?”
Draco’s voice was murmuring quietly—so very much like Corvus’s but infinitely more posh
in its lilt. The conversation came to an abrupt halt with another clatter of porcelain.

“What is that on your arm?” Draco’s voice rose suddenly with a tone of misgiving. “Merlin,
don’t tell me she’s in your bed?”

The scrunchie—

“It wasn’t enough to give her your v-card, you’re going to be bringing her around, shoving it
in my face too?”

Just as Hermione was about to reach over and snatch the curtains open to read him the riot
act, she froze, her jaw dropping in shock. Corvus was a virgin—?

Was.

She sat back on her haunches, connecting all the dots that should have clued her in earlier.

“Shh. Just listen,” Corvus pleaded.

“I can’t believe you would bring her here—”

Hermione had heard enough. They’d just fought a goddamned war—people had died—and it
wasn’t so that Draco bloody Malfoy could continue on with his blood-purist rhetoric. This
time, she did yank the curtain open. Corvus’s wide-eyed face snapped to her while Draco
avoided her entirely, bringing his thumb and forefinger up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“What, don’t think I’m good enough for your brother? There’s a shocker. Draco Malfoy
wouldn’t approve of Corvus Black fucking Hermione Granger—”

“Hermione, stop—” Corvus pleaded, taking a step towards her with his palms facing her,
inserting himself between her and her beloathed.

“Guess what—it’s none of your goddamn business what two consenting adults do, but since
you care so much, just know that your brother seemed to really enjoy himself,” she
continued. “In fact, he really enjoyed himself”—she lifted two fingers up—“twice.”

Draco cut his eyes over to Corvus and shook his head. “I’m out.” He grabbed a few textbooks
and shoved them in a bag, swiftly exiting their bedroom.

Hermoine crossed her arms and watched him leave, her heart hammering with unbridled
feminine rage.

Corvus spun around to her. “Was that necessary?”

“You’re mad at me? ” Her eyebrows flew up. “After what he said?”

Corvus closed his eyes and took a deep breath as seconds ticked by. What? Was he counting
to ten? “I’m sorry, Hermione, you just—have no idea what you’re talking about with this.”
Hermione laughed. “No, you have no idea what you’re talking about. Your brother—” She
pressed her lips closed. She didn’t want to go into this. Not now, not ever.

Corvus looked at the door. “Just—I just need to go check on him.”

Hermione shook her head and laughed. “No, go on. Go chase after poor, damaged Draco. I
get it. It’s fine.”

Corvus placed his hands carefully over her shoulders. “Listen, you’re welcome to stay for
however long, I’ll probably be right back—”

“I’m good, actually.” She stepped out of his reach. “I was just leaving—” Hermione looked
around for her bag, finding it where she left it last night beside his trunk.

“I’ve just gotta go talk to Draco for a sec.” His voice was contrite, even as he inched towards
the door.

“Yeah, no. Bros before hoes, and all that . . .”

To his credit, he looked genuinely regretful about the whole situation. “That’s not very fair.”

“It’s fine.” She shrugged a shoulder. “You and I—this was just fucking, remember?”

Corvus frowned, but backed out of the room and left her there alone. Hermione stood in the
middle between the two beds before screwing her courage for the walk of shame across the
common room.
 Manic Pixie Dream Boy
Chapter Notes

Two chapters in two weeks, a ✨miracle✨

I've been amusing myself with my alphabets, iftreescouldspeak and
LiloLilyAnn, sticking a fun or absurd word/phrase in my chapters for them to find (a la

😆
"enormous dong" in chapter 2). I've made these words the titles of my chapters going
forward, feel free to play along

Thanks, Lilo & 'trees for keeping me on the straight and narrow, at least grammatically
speaking.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There had never been a walk more damning than Hermione’s walk of shame as she crossed
the eighth year common room from Corvus Black’s dorm to her own this morning . . .
barefoot, and dressed in his oversized Sex Pistols t-shirt and a pair of his boxers.

Surprised double-takes followed her every step. Parvati Patil’s gaping maw morphed into
surprised fascination, as if she’d never considered her former roommate of six years to be a
sexual creature before. Pansy Parkinson’s glacial death stare had surpassed all previous
instances in its intensity—which was really saying something. Hermione didn’t have to pray
that there were no more bare-arsed Nevilles in her dorm, because he was there on the sofa in
front of the fireplace, fully dressed, and choking on his glass of water at the sight of her.

So naturally, by their first class of the day, the entirety of the eighth year knew where she’d
slept the night before. By the time Corvus cornered her at the entry of their second class, all
the seventh years knew.

“Class is cancelled,” she said, nodding her head at the note on the closed door of the DADA
classroom with her arms folded.

“I heard,” he said, his gaze never wavering from hers, even as she wrapped her arms more
tightly around herself and peered around at everyone throwing glances their way in the hall.
“The board of governors is scrambling to approve a new interim professor after the last one
quit already. Cited something about an incident with one of the eighth years—and a rogue
Bombarda Maxima taking out half of the classroom.” His lips pulled into a sideways smirk.
“What do you want?” She was already miffed. He was blocking her exit, and she was still
irked about this morning.

“To apologise,” he said, his words forthright.

Hermione clutched her anger closer, not quite ready to give up the comfort of its burn, even
though she was rational enough to know that it wasn’t Corvus she was angry with. She
frowned. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly.” He took a half step forward. “I didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything . . . I was
worried about my brother—but I shouldn’t have run out and left you there. Now it’s all
everyone’s talking about—”

Hermione laughed. “If you didn’t want to be associated with me, you should’ve never even
sat beside me in Potions. The way rumours fly in this castle—”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he interrupted.

“I’m sorry, what is it that I’m supposed to know?”

“Your ‘it’s just fucking’ declaration. That was all you. You’re the one insisting on distance;
you’re keeping me at arm’s length, not the other way around.”

Hermione openly gaped at him now, her brows knitting together at his absurdity. “You’ve
known me less than a week. That’s not arm’s length, that’s—normal human interaction. You
don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” Corvus leaned one shoulder casually against the classroom door. “I guess
I’m just a guy who knows what I like. And whom.”

Hermione shook her head. “What are you saying? You’re not trying to be my—my boyfriend
or something?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “Yeah, kind of. Maybe I do want that.”
He pressed his tongue between his teeth and upper lip, training his gaze over her shoulder.
Corvus acting insecure wasn’t something she thought would’ve bothered her this much. “But
you’re not wrong. And I get it, I can be a lot. And we have only known each other for a few
days. So . . . I’ll be whatever you want, Hermione.” He finally looked at her again, a sad
smile tugging at his mouth. “If that means we’re just fucking, then that’s fine. I’m honoured
to have the privilege.”

| | |

The rumours spread through the castle like wildfire over the rest of the afternoon.

Hermione took a deep breath, steeling herself for the second time today, and opened the doors
to the Great Hall. The youngest students barely spared her a glance, carrying on as usual as
she walked past them, but there was a certain awareness of her presence among the older
ones. She didn’t need to look up to feel the weight of every pair of eyes on her from all four
tables, or notice the whispering behind hands with their neighbours. Faces turned and
conversations stalled as she made her way to the Gryffindor table and plopped onto the bench
seat next to Ginny.

Everything was fine.

Hermione wasted no time serving herself a portion of roast beef and carrots and potatoes.
Neville held a basket up from across the table, and she took a bread roll with a polite smile,
though he still wouldn’t quite make eye-contact with her.

She didn’t quite care to try and unpack that, lest visions of bare-arsed Nevilles dance across
her brains once again. Better to quash it.

“Haven’t seen you at meals very much,” Ginny said beside her, carefully masking her
bitterness. She hadn’t quite let them forget her perception that she, Harry, and Ron had all but
abandoned her to the Carrows last year.

Hermione shrugged, pulling her lips into a tight smile. She and Ginny had been close once
upon a time. Before everything got so complicated. “Been working a lot,” she explained, and
bit into a perfectly roasted carrot, tasting nothing. Their end of the table was heavy with
silence, and she glanced around the hall once more. There was still a large amount of
attention directed her way, most notably the dirty looks coming from Pansy and Daphne at
the Slytherin table.

Ginny set down her goblet of pumpkin juice. “So the rumours are true, then?”

Hermione finished chewing. “Which ones?” she asked, both exhausted by and curious how
far the gossip had stretched in one single day.

Ginny rested her chin on her fist and leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “The ones where
you’re fucking Draco Malfoy.”

Neville nearly choked on his brussel sprouts across from them, coughing and then slapping
his chest as he cleared his throat.

“Well, I can assure you that’s not the case,” she answered.

Ginny’s expression relaxed into one of ease, her lips softening into a smile. For a moment,
she had her friend beside her, her could’ve-been sister. “Good. Because Ron—”

Hermione swivelled to face her. “I’m fucking Corvus Black,” she interrupted, not curious in
the least to hear about what Ronald Weasley might think, and placed a forkful of roast into
her mouth, savouring the vindicative bite.

Ginny’s face fell, her expression morphing between confusion and horror. With perfect
fucking choreography, the doors to the Great Hall opened once again, and the two brothers
themselves came strutting through, just as a great rustling of feathers sounded overhead.

Envelopes began floating down from the enchanted ceiling as owls swooped and delivered
their evening post. A dark green envelope fell gently down onto the table in front of
Hermione, her name written in elegant gold calligraphy. She’d only just barely registered the
fact that Ginny and Neville received matching envelopes when a large eagle owl swooped
down and dropped a large, bright red wooden box onto the table beside her as well.

Or rather, a large, bright red potions kit.

“Oh good, it’s here.” Corvus slid onto the bench beside her, his thigh brushing purposefully
against hers. He gave Draco a quick nod over his shoulder as he continued past them to the
Slytherin table.

And so yeah, she supposed she was fucking Corvus Black— present tense.

Heat bloomed over Hermione’s cheeks and down the back of her neck. “What is this?” she
asked, both already knowing and wishing she were wrong as she grabbed the box with both
hands and turned it to face them.

“Your potions kit,” he said, spooning a hearty portion of vegetables onto his plate.

Ginny threw her napkin on the table with an unamused laugh, and left the table without
another word.

Hermione turned back to Corvus. “I said I wasn’t going to take your kit, if you recall,” she
hissed under her breath.

“You said you wouldn’t take my brand new kit. ‘No, thank you,’” he raised his voice half an
octave in a piss poor imitation of hers.

“You should’ve been a fucking Slytherin.” Hermione narrowed her eyes. “And I don’t sound
like that.”

Corvus shrugged. “Rumour has it, the sorting hat considered it, but ultimately decided I
looked better in red.” He nicked the bread roll on her plate and took a bite, shooting her a
cheeky grin.

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Enough with the rumours today.”

“I really am sorry about that,” he said in a quiet voice, grabbing and buttering another role for
her and setting it on the edge of her plate. “The rumours.”

“Though not the reason for them . . .”

A smile spread across his earnest fucking face. “No. I’m not sorry you were leaving my room
this morning. I’m sorry you were caught leaving my room this morning. It wasn’t very
gentlemanly of me.”

A green envelope floated down to the table in front of Corvus as the last of the owls made
their way back out into the night, and he quickly tore it open. “What’s Slug Club?”

“Shit,” she whispered, remembering she’d received one too—flattened under the ostentatious
potions kit. She fished it out from underneath and opened hers, finding a familiar invitation
inviting her to Professor Slughorn’s first meet-and-greet gathering of the year. Memories
rushed to the forefront of her mind of her first and last ever Slug Club party. It felt at once
just yesterday and a hundred years ago. Going with Cormac McLaggen and failing
spectacularly to make Ronald jealous. Ending the night up in the seventh year boys’
dormitory underneath him for the first time, though unfortunately not the last.

Corvus might’ve had a point about settling for guys who didn’t prioritise her pleasure.

Why did it take a virgin to be the first to care so much? Former virgin, she remembered.
Shame crept up the back of her neck. It shouldn’t have been such a surprise—he was only
just barely eighteen, after all. It was perfectly normal. But he’d been so confident and self-
assured, she never would've guessed.

Was she supposed to have known?

Whether she was or wasn’t, the guilt had been eating her alive all day. He’d deserved so
much better than a quick shag in a classroom closet for his first time. She regretted pushing
that greenhouse handie on him now, too.

“Oh, it’s on your birthday, Hermione,” Neville chimed in unhelpfully from across the table.

“Is it?” Corvus’s eyes were alight, a smile growing across his face. “It says here we’re
allowed a plus-one. Would you care to attend with me?”

“I’m . . . probably not going,” she answered truthfully.

“What?” He looked from her to Neville. “How come? Is there something I don’t know about
these?”

“No—no, nothing wrong with a professor choosing his select few favourite students to—I
don’t know—show even more favour over, per se.” She rolled her eyes. “But I’m not really
interested, and besides that, I don’t have anything to wear.”

Corvus scoffed. “That’s a very simple problem to solve, you know.”

“You should come, Hermione,” Neville said. “I bet Harry and Ron will be there too. And it’s
always a good idea to network with people in the Ministry and outside of Hogwarts.
Especially if you haven’t decided what you’re going to do after we leave school.”

“Sage advice, Longbottom.” Corvus smiled at her, and God, was it really only last night that
he’d held her to his chest all night long?

She waved her hand in the air between them. “Fine. But just know I’ll be attending in my
Hogwarts skirt. It’s either that or my blue jeans.”

“I’ve heard you look great in boxers—” Hermione shoved his thigh with hers, and he
grinned. “It’s a Hogsmeade weekend, right? Why don’t we just go pick something up on
Saturday?”

If only it were that simple. She supposed for the Black heir, it was—just throw some gold at
all of life’s problems. She smiled. “I can’t. I work Saturdays.”
“Every Saturday? Can’t you skive off?” Corvus asked in between bites.

“I mean . . .” Honestly, she probably could. With most of the older students spending the day
in Hogsmeade, Madam Pomfrey would probably have a fairly easy workload. But Hermione
still needed the paycheque, light though it was. “Maybe? I might be able to rearrange my
hours a bit, swap a Saturday for a Monday or Thursday.”

Understanding spread across his features. Not pity, and thank goodness for that or she’d
probably have to walk away in the next second and never look back. But he was absolutely
beginning to connect some dots regarding the mysterious Hermione Granger. Her lack of
potions kit, her too-long robes and borrowed textbooks. This was probably where Corvus
would realise she worked out of necessity, not as some pre-internship to head-start her future
career.

“Yeah, let me know,” he said. “I haven't been to Hogsmeade in forever. I’d love to take you
for a bite to eat, get out of the castle and stretch our legs. And we can take care of whatever
else you need too while we’re out.”

“Speaking of the working . . .” Hermione changed the subject, patting her lips with her
napkin. “I do need to go pull that Wiggenweld off the fire, it should be done brewing in just a
few minutes.” She stood and her empty plate disappeared from the table almost intuitively.
“See you all later.” Hermione stepped over the bench and started for the doors.

“Hermione, wait—”

She spun around and Corvus smiled at her like a ray of pure fucking sunshine.

“You forgot your kit.” He nodded behind him where it still rested on the table. She stood
there for a moment, but she didn’t move, and neither did he. Was she supposed to think he
suddenly lost all of his hard-wired chivalry? No. He didn’t want to bring it to her, he wanted
to watch her walk back and take it on her own accord.

Fuck it.

If she were already walking around Hogwarts with a big scarlet letter on her chest, perhaps
she ought to get something out of it. There would be no plausible deniability that she was in
any way not entangled with Corvus Black after this. She walked back to the table with a
heavy exhale, snatched the case off the table, and strolled out of the Great Hall carrying
Corvus’s old potions kit—bright red and sporting the Durmstrang Academy insignia on its
side—with him smirking victoriously at her back.

| | |

Her Wiggenweld Potion came out perfectly—perhaps the only thing that had gone well today
—and the hospital was now fully restocked with the broad-use healing potion. The common
room was full tonight, her fellow classmates all crowded around the fireplace, deep in some
philosophical discussion if their pensive expressions were anything to go by.
Only Corvus noticed her quiet entrance. He glanced up, and beamed his vibrant smile while
waving her over to join them.

The problem? Every seat was taken.

Corvus and Draco’s long-limbed, identical bodies were wedged into the small sofa together.
Neville sat in one armchair with Hannah perched half on his lap. Padma sat with her legs
folded underneath her in the other. Seamus sat on the floor beside Parvati, and Dean had
stretched out on the floor in front of the fireplace. Hermione stood idle by the portrait hole,
debating on going over and standing awkwardly to the side, or just going to her room.

And then Corvus tucked his outstretched foot back in-line under his knee and patted his thigh
for her to come sit.

Was he serious?

At his movement, Draco looked over from beside him, his face turning, if possible, even
more stoically blank.

Tempted though she was to go ruin Draco’s whole entire night, a shower and bed sounded
pretty fantastic right now. She raised her brow and backed away slowly towards her dorm
room instead. Corvus hung his head over the back of the sofa to watch her, sticking his
bottom lip out in a dramatic pout. Hermione waved and disappeared through her bedroom
door.

She’d barely placed her bag and her new, gaudy potions kit down beside her writing desk
when the door opened again. Hermione spun around, but it was only Hannah—leaning with
her back against the door and a shit-eating grin on her face.

“Hermione!” she whisper-squealed. “You didn’t tell me you were dating Corvus Black?
When did that start?”

“Erm—well, we aren’t dating, we’re just . . .”

“Oh, yeah, okay—getting to know each other.” She winked.

Hannah Abbot was a sweet girl. And despite the things Hermione now unfortunately knew
for a fact she did with Neville Longbottom in her spare time, she couldn’t bring herself to say
the word ‘fuck buddies’ to her perpetually innocent-looking face.

“We’re—friendly,” she finally settled on. “I’m gonna take a shower if that’s alright?”
Hermione pointed her thumb to the bathroom door over her shoulder.

“Yeah, totally—I don’t need to get in there for a while.”

“Okay, cool.” Hermione grabbed a set of clean pyjamas and sought refuge in the privacy of
her bathroom. She brushed her teeth while the shower filled the room with steam, and then
stepped under the hot water.
Hermione worked the lavender shampoo through her scalp, finger-combing and detangling
her tresses as the lather made its way to the ends.

Corvus had really entered her life out of nowhere.

How was it that Draco Malfoy had a twin brother this entire time that she’d never even heard
of? And how had he managed to insert himself so fully into her daily life already?

She grabbed the bottle of conditioner, and her mind wandered as she worked the cream into
her hair from the ends up, a routine she’d performed since she was old enough to know how.

Hermione had more questions than answers about this mystery boy who fancied her for
reasons still unknown, but it seemed that Corvus wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Though she couldn’t say she disliked having him around.

Aside from their identical features, he was nothing like his brother. From what she could tell,
he was as smart and clever as she, if just a little needy.

She lathered her body next with the soap bar, running her hands over her arms and shoulders.
The slick glide of skin-on-skin pulled forth the memory of that night with him in the potions
stockroom, and how their sweat-slick bodies writhed together.

She couldn’t deny he was fit.

Her palms trailed lower and slid under her breasts, cupping them as she teased her nipples
with her thumbs, the way Corvus had in the greenhouse.

Her hand slithered down over her belly, then lower still, finding the heat between her thighs.
She leaned backwards into the spray of the hot water, imagining Corvus, steady as a brick
shithouse standing behind her. Wrapping his long arms around her entire body and finding
that sensitive bundle of nerves, just . . . there.

She came with a blinding white intensity, slapping a palm over her mouth in case her
suitemate was still on the other side of the bathroom door. Hermione puffed an exhale
through her nose, her pounding heart slowing back to normal with every beat.

She dipped her head back under the water, rinsing the conditioner from the roots of her hair,
and shutting off the faucet. It continued dripping from her hair, running down her legs and
feet, down the drain with the rest of the stresses of the day.

| | |

Hermione skipped breakfast the next morning, deciding a bit of a lie-in would do her better
than tea and toast. Her uniform had been laundered and returned, which was truly fantastic as
she only had the two sets. And she was already down to only four pairs of knickers after
Corvus accidentally vanished one in the Potions stockroom on Friday.

Hermione sighed as she slipped on her Mary Janes. Like it or not, she probably would have
to spend some money in Hogsmeade after all.
The common room was empty, and Hermione quickly made her way through the halls and
out of the castle, hoping she might catch up with Hagrid for a few minutes before their first
Care of Magical Creatures class began.

Autumn had crept its way in overnight, leaving a blanket of crisp dew over the grounds as the
early morning sun battled to warm them again through the chill. It seemed half the castle was
out enjoying the last days of summer sun before most classes began for the day.

Rounding the east tower of the castle, Hermione got caught up in a group of girls huddling
together and staring out at the lake. She shielded her eyes from the sun, her eyes landing on
Corvus and Draco sitting out on the dock. Or rather, Draco was sitting on the dock, legs
dangling over the water, brooding as usual. Corvus was shirtless, and contorted into an
upside-down acrobatic yoga pose like some manic pixie dream boy.

She didn’t mean to stare.

But the way his entire ensemble of shoulder and back muscles contracted in a master class of
human anatomy as he lowered his body from a one-arm handstand into another one-armed
pose that held his body suspended parallel to the ground—well, it was distracting.

As were the grey trackies slung low across his hips.

His alabaster skin seemed to glow in the morning sun, and damn it, if that flash of red wasn’t
her scrunchie tying his long hair back in a bun.

His face tilted up, his gaze immediately finding hers in the crowd, and that goddamn
sunshine smile broke across his face.

With an unexpected gracefulness, his feet glided back underneath him and he pressed up into
a standing position, his eyes never wavering from hers.

Hermione cleared her throat and continued walking towards Hagrid’s hut. As she got closer,
he appeared at the forest’s edge, carrying a basket that undoubtedly contained today’s lesson
inside.

She decided to wait for him here and leaned her hips against one of the large pumpkins in his
patch, in the final stages of maturation and absolutely enormous. She allowed herself one
more indulgent look back at the dock, all feelings of contentedness falling like heavy stones
in the pit of her stomach. Pansy Parkinson had swooped in and was now running her
perfectly manicured fingers over Corvus’s arm as she laughed obnoxiously, the gathered
group of girl watchers slowly creeping closer.

“All right there, ‘ermione?” Hagrid’s thick, west country accent greeted her like a warm hug,
cosy and familiar.

She turned to the gentle half-giant, one of her oldest friends, and smiled. “All right, Hagrid.”

| | |
Hermione could already tell she was going to enjoy her Tuesdays with only three scheduled
classes: Care of Magical Creatures, Transfiguration, and Charms. The afternoon was for
Muggle Studies, but she no longer had the need to overburden herself with every academic
curiosity and whim. Self-inflicted burnout was a luxury she could no longer afford—not
while she was already so precariously close to rock bottom.

So with that came the added benefit of starting and finishing earlier with Madam Pomfrey.
Robes in the laundry, bag over her shoulder, Hermione bade the Matron goodnight, and made
her way out of the hospital wing with a solid ten minutes left for dinner.

She opened the door leading her to the entrance hall only to be met by what was becoming a
familiar sight: Corvus Black seated against the opposite wall with his head leaned back,
waiting for her.

A smile lit up his face when his eyes landed on her.

“What’s this?” she asked as he got to his feet holding a covered plate in his hand.

“I know you aren’t going to take care of yourself if someone doesn’t do it for you.”

“And that someone is you?” She arched a brow, tilting her head to study him.

“Why shouldn’t it be?” he challenged her, certainty seeping from his pores like beams of
sunshine.

Hermione sighed. Captain Optimism wasn’t getting it. This—they—well, it was far more
complicated than he seemed to understand. Or perhaps limits in one’s pursuits was a virtue
he’d never had the opportunity to learn.

She took the plate, kept hot with a stasis charm, and held it between them, forcing a tight
smile to her lips.

“Listen. Corvus. About what we talked about yesterday . . . I just need to know that you
understand—I have a lot of baggage,” she exhaled. “I’ve been through some shit. I have no
family, no home to go back to, I’m completely skint, I . . .” She glanced down at her body.
“I’m fucking malnourished, still, from having to live on the run for almost a year.” She
cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “I’m not sure this is going to go anywhere or that
‘you and I’ can exist outside of these four castle walls. I don’t—I can’t be your girlfriend.
But”—she cut him off from interrupting—“but . . .”

Corvus’s frown tightened perceptibly, and then his indignant expression softened an iota
before he finally looked up and met her gaze once again.

“I’m okay with just having a little fun, though,” she said, “if you’re okay with that. I just . . .
wanted to make sure you didn’t have expectations that I can’t give you.”

A soft smile broke across his face. Corvus reached out and pulled her in by her shoulders,
moving her plate aside to wrap her in the most natural hug. “I’ll take whatever it is you can
give me, Hermione. Just be with me, and we’ll figure it all out later.” He hooked her chin
 with his finger and brought her face up to his. “Now quit doing everything in your power to
try and scare me away, sweetheart.”

His lips brushed hers delicately, and she breathed in the spiced notes of pumpkin juice still on
his tongue. “Corvus?” she whispered, breaking apart to look up at him.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

He laughed, hooking his elbow behind her neck and pulled her in tight, their lips crashing
right there in the hall for all and sundry to see.

Chapter End Notes

😍
Thank you, Frau, for Captain Optimism, and MistressLynn for Manic Pixie Dream Boy
 Dickhead of the Year Award
Chapter Notes

🩷
Lookie who’s back! Sorry for the brief pause, depression sucks. Corvus makes it better

For my fellow numbers nerds who like this stuff:

If we’re using JKR’s 1 Galleon = 5 pounds conversion rate (spoiler, we are), Hermione
is barely scraping minimum wage (£3.00/hr for 18-21s when it was introduced in 1999,
according to the google machine)

Thank you, LiloLilyAnn and iftreescouldspeak, without whom I would not be able to
write a single coherent word🫂
And Frau, Corvus's creator, his handler, artist extraordinaire 🩷
See the end of the chapter for more notes

The door of the Defence classroom was propped open this morning, and Hermione entered to
find about half the other Eighth Years already seated and waiting. The windows were open
but a faint trace of smoke still hung in the air from last week’s Bombarda. Corvus smiled
when he saw her and slid his books from the empty spot beside him back to his side of the
table. He wore such an expression of unbridled optimism, it might’ve been easier for her to
scold a house elf than to choose a different seat.

“Corvus,” she greeted him cordially as she slid into the seat beside him.

“Hi.” He stretched his arm over, resting his hand on the back of her chair while she leant over
to place her bag at her feet. “How was your morning?”

“My . . .” She sat up, meeting his eye with a raised brow. “You mean since I saw you half an
hour ago?” The corners of her mouth pulled tight, fighting back a secret smile as the
memories of the past twelve hours danced between them.
Last night had been, well, cosy. They’d returned to the common room together and she’d
eaten the dinner he’d so gallantly acquired for her. Afterwards, they sat in a companionable
quiet at the back table, Hermione rushing to complete her Charms essay, and he, working on
an assignment for Muggle Studies. And when the common room had emptied out for the
night—was she supposed to not snog the daylights out of him on the sofa?

And again this morning?

She hadn’t let it go further than that—to her own dismay. Corvus was adorable. He was smart
and well read and interesting, and Merlin, was he fit. The mere memory of his body, how he
felt moving against her—her wank bank overfloweth. But this thing between them, it wasn’t
going anywhere; it couldn’t go anywhere. They were just fucking. And occasionally sleeping,
his voice echoed in the back of her mind. He was a nice relief from her crippling loneliness,
that was all.

But he didn’t seem to feel the same way. Even after their talk, nothing about his behaviour
had changed. He looked at her like she hung the moon. He acted like they were best friends,
he took care of her like . . . a girlfriend.

The man had no boundaries. If she didn’t insist on maintaining some, then she’d definitely
end up getting hurt.

The clock tower knelled once in the distance, announcing it was now half past eight as the
last of their classmates filed into the room. Malfoy took a seat at the empty table in front of
them. Corvus leaned forward and mussed the back of his perfectly coiffed hair. In turn, Draco
threw an elbow behind him to knock Corvus’s books off the table with a sly smirk and a
whispered, “Arse.” The loud crash had everyone’s heads turning their way.

“Prat.” Corvus laughed and bent to retrieve them from the floor and stacked them back into a
neat pile while Draco finger-combed his hair back neat. Hermione had been around the
Weasleys long enough to know that this was how brothers said good morning. It was just so
weird seeing Malfoy acting like one, as if he were a human capable of carrying on a familial
relationship and not the soulless monster she knew him to be.

“Hi, Corvus.” Pansy’s sing-songy fake nice voice would’ve made Hermione cringe had she
not still been processing the display of casual brotherhood she’d just witnessed between
Draco and Corvus. Even though there was no mistaking the two for identical twins, the fact
that Draco Malfoy could be anyone’s brother still fucked with her head for reasons she
couldn’t quite identify.

Pansy pointedly ignored Hermione, though she wasn’t sure if she was just resuming their
status quo, or if she was still refraining from spitting daggers at her after catching her leaving
the brothers’ bedroom yesterday morning.

“Hey, Pansy,” Corvus replied with a simple, friendly smile, still straightening his books.
Pansy joined Draco at his table, leaving Daphne to sit beside Anthony Goldstein on the other
side. But their professor had yet to arrive.
“Well, they’re officially late,” Hermione said, glancing around the room for signs of an
animagi or perhaps the subtle shimmer of a disillusionment charm, vaguely wondering if this
could be a test—constant vigilance, and all that.

“Have you somewhere better to be?” Corvus drawled in a way that was so similar to, and yet
so different from his brother’s voice. His arm fell easily over the back of her chair once
again, his fingers twirling the ends of her curls as if it were the most natural thing in the
world.

Hermione turned to him, speaking in a low voice. “I don’t particularly care for having my
time wasted, that’s all,” she replied coolly. Corvus hummed, his mouth drawing further into a
smile the longer they sat there looking at each other until finally she had to ask, "What?”

Corvus raised his brows and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “I just don’t consider time
spent with you a waste, baby girl.” His smile flashed brilliantly at her.

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “It’s definitely a waste of your time if you call me baby girl
ever again.” Hermione turned to face the front again. Corvus laughed a big belly laugh, her
red scrunchie on his wrist catching her attention in her periphery—the man definitely had no
boundaries—at the same moment a flash of red appeared at the front of the class.

A middle-aged man with strawberry blond hair that clashed horridly with his cardinal red
robes stormed into the classroom, slamming the door behind him without a glance at the
students as he proceeded to flick his wand at the blackboard, spelling his name and dropping
his bag on the desk.

“My name is Auror Cobb.” He paused, letting his name and title hang in the air far longer
than necessary as the chalk stick underscored it with a loud screech. “You are to refer to me
as ‘Auror Cobb.’ I am not your professor, I am not your friend. I am here only as a
professional courtesy to the Minister for Magic.”

“This guy’s a gem,” Corvus mumbled under his breath quietly so only Hermione could hear.
She exhaled a quick snort of laughter through her nose.

“As you are all new to me, let me start by taking attendance . . .” He flipped through a few
papers that had been left on the desk until he found the one he was looking for. “Abbott,” he
barked in a gruff voice.

“Here.” Hannah waved her hand at the front desk beside Neville. The Auror’s beady eyes
flicked up to identify her, then back to the roster.

“Black.” His eyes narrowed, scanning the room before Corvus caught his attention with a
wave of his hand. “What house are you in, Black?”

“Gryffindor, sir,” Corvus answered confidently, though Hermione didn’t miss the slight
downturn of his mouth afterwards.

The professor—Auror—nodded his head and continued through Boot and Corner until he
arrived at “Longbottom.” He found Neville straight away. “You thinking about a career as an
Auror, son?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

Neville shook his head. “I find I’m much better suited to Herbology, sir.”

Cobb dropped his chin and lifted a brow toward Neville. “You’re made of tougher stuff than a
gardener, Longbottom. You just wait. See how you feel after a term with me . . . Goldstein?”
Cobb nodded his acknowledgement as Anthony raised his hand. “. . . Granger.” He looked
up, searching until his brusque gaze connected with hers. “Our star pupil.” His words
would’ve been annoying at best if they’d been genuine, but his snide tone made it clear they
were anything but.

“Right.” His beady eyes narrowed further. “I’m eager to see how you stand on your own two
feet without Mister Potter and Mister Weasley beside you, Hermione.” Her brows shot up,
Corvus bristling beside her. “Greengrass?” Cobb’s eyes skimmed the class for Daphne,
already moving on while Hermione was still processing his ignorant implications. She
blinked, absolutely floored by the audacity of this armchair expert to imply that her
contributions to the war effort had been on the coattails of Harry and Ron.

Hermione wasn’t sure whether the man’s seeming disdain for the poster child of Muggle-
borns was due to his ideals on wizarding blood or if he were simply sexist, and which—in the
ripe year of 1998—was worse?

God, why had she come back? Suddenly the idea of working a retail job just to afford a box
flat in Muggle London while she applied to uni in the spring didn’t sound like a half bad life.

Corvus’s warm hand came to rest on the middle of her back, rubbing soothing circles while
Auror Cobb continued taking attendance through Macmillan, Malfoy, and Parkinson.

“Patil and Patil—twins?” Padma and Parvati’s silent nods confirmed his inquiry. “And that
leaves—Thomas.” He threw Dean a quick glance. “Alright.” He tossed the roster back down
on his desk. “Quite the blend of individuals we’ve got here.” Cobb took a seat on the edge of
his desk, leaning his elbow over one thigh.

“As I’ve said, I will be instructing you in Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts this term.
I am an Auror for the DMLE, a dark wizard catcher, if you will. And as you are all aware, we
just won a war against the darkest wizard of all time, in which we fought a whole hoard of
dark wizards by the name of Death Eaters” —he paused for dramatic effect—“many of
whom are still at large. Some of whom are claiming that they had no involvement or were
forced or coerced into their unforgivable deeds.”

Hermione raised her chin, her head tilting ever so slightly as she took him in. Cobb was not a
name she ever recalled hearing during Order meetings. He wasn’t a known ally, nor did it
seem like he was important enough to have been on the front lines of the war.

Of course, not everyone could have the privilege of being Undesirable No. 2.
But he was clearly another useless Ministry plant.

His eyes landed on Draco at the table in front of her. “Some of whom,” he continued
pointedly, “have successfully convinced those in charge that they’re even telling the truth.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twelve years, it’s that there’s no such thing as a
reformed Death Eater.”

Beside her, Corvus’s eyes were locked onto his brother, who just sat there and took it, his
gaze averted. Hermione frowned, her brows knitting together. She’d testified on behalf of the
truth at Malfoy’s trial, and justice had been carried out accordingly. Draco was absolutely the
front runner for the Dickhead of the Year Award—although Cobb might give him some
competition—but if he had belonged in Azkaban, he would be there now. He was a bigoted
piece of shit, but he was no war criminal—he had been forced into his misdeeds during the
war. Hermione opened her mouth to speak but then stopped herself—was she really about to
come to Malfoy’s defence? She swallowed and took out a quill and parchment instead.

“Now.” He clapped his hands together and slid off the desk. “Let’s work through a practical
exercise. Everybody split up into two groups. On this side”—he indicated with his right hand
—“let’s have the good guys. And on that side”—he nodded towards his left—“the bad guys.
I’ll leave it up to you to self-identify.”

| | |

“Well, that was interesting,” Corvus said as he jogged to catch her at the bottom of the marble
staircase. She couldn’t get out of that classroom fast enough.

“That guy’s an absolute cock,” Hermione groaned, rolling her eyes. “'Our star pupil,'” she
mocked in a poor imitation of Cobb’s voice. “And all that shit about your brother—I’m far
from his biggest fan, but come on.”

“All right, Draco?” Corvus asked quietly over his shoulder as his brother passed them in the
entry hall.

Draco’s distant gaze swung around to focus on them, and he nodded. “All right,” he replied
simply and exited through the doors leaving the castle.

Corvus watched him go and then turned back to her. “I’ve gotta go.” He nodded to the front
doors. “Herbology.”

“Yeah, I’m going that way too.”

“Wait. You’re taking Herbology?” he asked as they both headed out of the castle together. “I
didn’t see you there last week.”

“Oh—yeah. I didn’t go last week. But yes, I am.”

Corvus’s eyes lit up. “Are you in Divination this afternoon too?”

Hermione laughed, her infamous detestation of the subject unknown to this Durmstrang
newcomer. “No, I’m not,” she answered briefly. “What are you doing tonight?”
His face snapped to hers, adorable disbelief crossing his features. “Nothing. I’m free after
Divination, why?”

“I’m off work early tonight,” she said. He’d said he was good with just having some fun. She
could surely use some. “I was thinking we could grab a plate from the kitchens again and . . .
maybe take it back to yours?”

“Yes. Absolutely—”

“And then maybe we can talk about Hogsmeade this weekend?” Maybe this was too far. She
could just pop into town and run her errands by herself. Perhaps she should —they weren’t
together or anything. She shouldn’t blur that line. Hermione worried her bottom lip between
her teeth before looking up at him, finding his sparkling grey eyes and wide grin.

“That’s—yeah.” He blinked, his grin spreading wider. “Let’s do that.” He wrapped his arm
around her shoulder, pulling her close as he led her out to the grounds.

Hermione grinned. “Perfect.”

| | |

After Madam Pomfrey assured her one last time that she wouldn’t be missed on a Hogsmeade
day, Hermione made her way out of the hospital wing and back to the entry where she told
Corvus she’d meet him. Autumn was still more than two weeks away, but Saturday morning
brought with it a chilly preview of the season to come. The brisk wind forced its way past the
large wooden doors whenever a group of students left the castle, keeping the warming charm
on her jacket from getting too strong.

Fifteen Galleons weighed heavily in her pocket, the metal warm as she rolled the stack of
gold coins between her fingers. Her first paycheque was as modest as McGonagall had
promised, but it wasn’t nothing, and it was hers.

Knickers and a new coat. That’s all she was going to purchase today. Hermione had decided
to make due with her current sad state of too-long Gryffindor robes.

They were fine.

She only needed to get through nine more months of classes before she’d never need them
again. And she really didn’t need more than her two pairs of jeans and a couple of jumpers
for weekends and holidays. Just knickers and a new coat. She rolled the coins over in her
palm again. She’d be lucky if she had five Galleons leftover to deposit into her vault, but that
was alright. There would be another paycheque—a full one—in two weeks, and that could go
straight into her vault, along with the full fifty Galleons she’d get from her portion of their
Wolfsbane potion, assuming they didn’t botch every attempt until the end of term.

Hermione’s stomach fluttered. Was she really standing here, waiting to go to Hogsmeade
with Corvus Black? Missing an entire eight-hour Saturday shift was almost a third of her
hours for the week. This was really irresponsible.
But she really needed knickers and a new coat.

“Hey!” Corvus called from the marble staircase, slightly out of breath as if he’d jogged down
here from the common room. “Sorry, I was waiting for the others, and it took me way too
long to realise they were never going to be ready on time.”

“The others?” she asked.

“Yeah . . . ,” he answered. “Just Pansy, Daph, and my brother. But don’t worry, they aren’t
coming with us,” he explained upon seeing the concerned look on her face. “We were just all
getting ready and were going to come down together. But then I said screw it, my witch is
waiting.”

“Oh, your witch, am I?”

He grinned and his hands pulled her hips into his, his large body bending over hers to land a
kiss on her lips. “Let’s go, skatten.” He righted her, his face falling at her turned-off
expression. “Oh, what, I really can’t call you anything besides Hermione?”

“Skatten though?” She grimaced. “What even is that?”

“It’s . . . Norwegian.”

“You speak—” Hermione shook her head. “We’ll come back to that. No, I don’t want to be
called anything that sounds like Norwegian for scat, thanks.”

His head dropped back in defeat, eyes rolling to the ceiling. “Okay, fair enough.” He sighed.
“Ingen ‘skatten’ for deg.”

Hermione’s grin stretched into a giggle despite herself. “Say something else.”

Corvus smirked. “Skal vi gå nå? Min vakre heks . . . Min skatten—”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “See. You had me up until the scat part again.”

Corvus laughed his big belly laugh, and Hermione couldn’t help as the ghost of another laugh
exhaled past her lips. He was completely infectious. “To Gladrags then?” He held out his arm
in an overly chivalrous offer to escort her.

Hermione took hold of his arm, and they started the trek to the village. She would go—just
for an hour or two—and then she could come back early and clock-in for a half shift. There
were always potions and salves to be brewed, even if the patient load was light.

| | |

Corvus flitted about the shop—though how a tall, long-haired viking-looking grown man
managed to flit was beyond her—and picked up a few Gryffindor tees while Madam
Gladiolus took Hermione’s measurements.
Before stepping up on the riser, she took off her jacket and scarf, handing them to Corvus,
who took it as an invitation to wear her scarf. She mentally kissed it goodbye, along with her
red scrunchie. Corvus was certainly living up to his name—a human version of a crow,
collecting shiny little treasures whenever he happened upon them, claiming them as his own.

Madam Gladiolus brought over a small array of coats for her to try, but Hermione checked
the price tags and quickly narrowed it down to three. The red felt a bit gauche in a very
Gryffindor’s princess sort of way.

“You should try the green,” Corvus called to her from where he was browsing the witches’
lingerie. Hermione shook her head at him, but reached for the olive coat next—even though it
was one she’d dismissed for its cost.

It hugged her as if it were bespoke; this coat was made for her. Tailored at the waist and
skirted, her complexion practically glowed in this colour. And the way it brought out the gold
flecks in her eyes . . .

She quickly took it back off and reached for the budget-friendly black one before she got
attached.

Too late.

This one was nice. It was a little roomier in the arms and shoulders, which would give her
room to grow. Was she still growing? She could also put a few layers underneath if she had to
—since this one wasn’t as plush.

“If it’s black you want, you should try this one instead.” Madam Gladiolus handed her
another.

“Is it Black that you want, Hermione?” Hermione rolled her eyes at Corvus’s terrible pun and
Madam Gladiolous helped her out of that one and into the next, rehanging the ones she’d
tried on their respective hangers.

“This one’s nice,” she said to the seamstress. It was far better than the last and much more
reasonable than the green. Hermione turned to check herself out in the mirror. It was cut more
similarly to the olive one, but black would go with everything and work with every occasion.
It was a classic cut that could be worn for a casual dinner out in Muggle London, or for a job
interview at the Ministry.

Very practical.

“Shall I box it up for you?” Madam Gladiolus asked.

Hermione turned once more in the mirror. “I think so.” She smiled. “I’ve got just a bit more
shopping to do.”

“It’ll be at the front when you’re ready.” She left to assist another customer that had just
entered the shop.
Hermione thanked her and went to find Corvus. “What are you doing in the knickers,” she
gritted under her breath. She’d be mortified if the shop weren’t largely empty so early in the
morning.

Corvus looked up. “Trying to decide if you’re a g-string person—”

“Corvus!” She cut him off. “I don’t need you buying me lingerie.”

“Not lingerie, love, just knickers. I owe you a pair, don’t I?”

Hermione recalled his promise to replace the pair he’d accidentally vanished in the Potions
stockroom. “That’s really not necessary, I—” Her words cut out at the sight of a veritable
rainbow collection of knickers in his shopping bag. “This is completely unnecessary. You lost
one pair, I don’t need seventeen—”

Corvus responded by tossing the pink lace g-string in his bag with the others. “My treat,” he
said with a cheeky grin.

“Corvus!” she whisper-shouted, outraged and shocked by his complete nonchalance. As if

buying a witch’s underclothes was a normal, everyday occurrence between friends.

“What else, a dress? For Sluggy’s party, right?”

Absolutely not. “No, I’m good.” She absolutely could not afford a coat and a dress. And she
absolutely wasn’t going to allow Corvus to buy it for her.

Boundaries.

After a few moments’ stare-down between them, he shrugged in defeat and headed to the till.

“Anything else for you dears?” Madam Gladiolus asked, completely unfazed by his choice of
merchandise.

“Just these and the coat, I think,” he said, indicating the one she’d set aside for Hermione.

“Absolutely not—”

“Where’s the green one? I liked it—”

“Oh I can go grab that for you if you like,” Madam Gladiolus so unhelpfully volunteered.

“No—,” Hermione held out her hand to stop her. “Just the one. And the coat is mine, I’m
paying for that,” she told her firmly, reaching for her pocket— “Hey I need my jacket,” she
said, taking it back from the crook of Corvus’s elbow. She fished in its pocket, relieved to
find her stack of Galleons still all there. She was at least paying for her own coat.

Boundaries. If she didn’t draw them somewhere, Merlin knew Corvus wouldn’t.

Corvus rolled his eyes very dramatically. “Fine,” he gritted. “Just these then, please.”
“You don’t happen to have any books on alteration charms by chance?” Hermione asked her
on a whim.

Eleven Galleons later—rest in peace, her plan to ever build a savings—Hermione walked out
of the shop with a week's worth of knickers, a book, and a truly lovely black, woollen coat.
Figuratively, of course. Her goods were currently headed to the castle by owl post for an
extra five Knuts. Hermione was begrudgingly thankful that Corvus had replaced the pair of
knickers he’d ruined—though he’d gone a bit excessive in their replacement—it took the
sting out of spending her entire paycheque in one go. Instead, she’d only spent nearly the
entire thing. Her beautiful coat did not, however, leave any room in her budget for the little
black dress that caught her eye, nor the gold, cape sleeved gown that was far too posh for her
to actually wear out anywhere even if she could afford it.

“Which way to Spintwitches?” Corvus asked, looking up and down High Street for a shop
sign. Hermione pointed north where the Quidditch supply shop sat just a few doors down.
“You sure you don’t mind popping in with me?”

“I got everything I needed.” She shrugged and sighed. “I’ll probably head back in another
hour or so, but I don’t really care where we go. I’m just happy to be out for a little while.” It
was surprisingly refreshing to just pretend to be normal again.

Even if “normal” meant receiving constant double-takes and looks of confusion or nods of
acknowledgement from nearly every townsperson they encountered.

Corvus opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it.

Smart lad.

Spintwitches was the same as it’d always been. They found the broom handle polish he’d
been searching for, along with more Gryffindor gear that Gladrags didn’t carry—though he
passed right by the Gryffindor scarves, she noticed, now that he was wearing hers. Hermione
rolled her eyes. If he wanted to play what’s yours is mine, he should’ve considered picking a
wealthier witch with more assets to pilfer.

But at least her new coat was proving to be far warmer than the light jacket she’d had. She
was glad she’d worn her new coat out of the shop and sent her old jacket back to the castle—
the blustery weather had only gotten worse since they’d left.

“No way . . .” Corvus said out of nowhere, shock lacing his tone. “Could you . . . ?” He
handed his unpaid merchandise to Hermione. “Just for a sec. I’ll be right back, don’t move.”
The bell above the door jingled as Corvus bolted out of the shop and ran past the large front
window, nearly tackling someone in a big bear hug.

Finally, they parted, and Hermione recognized Theodore Nott. She couldn’t help the small
giggle that escaped her, their energy magnetic.

Theodore had always been quiet and reserved whenever they’d shared classes with Slytherin
or they’d passed in the hall. He was one of the many who hadn’t returned for eighth year. It
was interesting to see him acting like . . . well, a normal teenage boy. She supposed Corvus
had a way of pulling out the playful side in everyone.

Corvus gestured to the shop and Theodore’s eyebrows shot up, glancing to the window.
Hermione put her head down and busied herself looking through the racks of garments
feeling the sudden urge to flee. She had nothing against Theodore per se, he was easily the
most benign of the Slytherins from their year, but a group outing wasn’t exactly what she’d
had in mind.

The bell above the door jingled once again. “Hey, sorry,” Corvus apologised as he came back
in, Theodore in tow. “You know Theo? He’s my best mate.” He gestured over his shoulder as
he took his purchases back from her and walked over to the till.

Hermione plastered a smile to her face and clasped her hands together awkwardly. “Erm—
yes. Theodore Nott, hi.” She held her hand out.

“Granger,” he greeted her with a warm handshake and kind eyes. “Call me Theo, please.”

“Well, then call me Hermione,” she replied.

“Corvus tells me you two are friends? I’m not surprised the two biggest swots at Hogwarts
found each other. Is he giving you a run for your money yet?” Theo was the type of person
who smiled with his entire face. Hermione found herself returning it.

“Something like that,” she said.

“We should all go grab a pint,” Corvus called over his shoulder as the shopkeep handed him
his change.

And there was her cue to leave.

“It’s only ten o’clock,” Theo laughed.

“Butterbeer, then,” Corvus amended, draping an arm each over Theo’s and Hermione’s
shoulders.

“I was actually about to head back to the castle, but I’ll walk you guys there,” she said.

“Already?” Corvus pouted down at her.

“Already?” Theo mimicked, poking his head past Corvus’s to look at her too. “You can’t go
back now, we’ve only just become best friends—”

“I thought I was your best friend?” Corvus brought his hand to his chest, pretending to be
hurt.

“No, I’m your best friend. Granger, here, is mine.”

“All right, well, as long as I’m hers.” Corvus turned back to her. “Now you’ve got to come.
Theo’s going to think you don’t like him.” Corvus pulled her in tighter and laid his head on
top of hers.

Theo nodded. “It’s true. I will.”

Hermione was never one to succumb to peer pressure, nor did she seek the approval of two
people she only barely knew. But she found herself wanting to join them. “Fine.” She rolled
her eyes, a smile pulling at her lips. "One drink."

And that was how Hermione found herself—two butterbeers deep, squeezed into a booth next
to Corvus—when Harry Potter himself walked into The Three Broomsticks with Ginny.
Hermione’s pleasant mood sobered instantly at the sight of her oldest friend-turned-stranger.
She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since she left the Burrow earlier that summer. The smile on
her face fell slowly when their gazes connected, and then he blinked, looking around and
taking in the company she was keeping.

“Could you boys excuse me for just a sec?” She tapped Corvus’s arm to let her out of the
booth, but she may as well have not bothered because Harry was standing at the end of their
table in the next moment.

“Hermione?” Harry glanced at both of them and back to Hermione, his brows raised. Corvus
and Theo looked over, oblivious to Harry’s presence in the pub until he’d spoken beside
them.

“Hi. Corvus Black.” He stood and held his hand out.

She slid out of the booth. “And Harry, you remember Theo?” she added. Harry shook
Corvus’s hand automatically, and Hermione saw the wheels turning inside of his head,
connecting the dots, before returning his gaze to her.

“Join us, Potter.” Theo slid to the far side of the booth, making room for him to sit.

Harry swallowed. “I’m here with someone, actually.” He gestured over his shoulder to Ginny,
who’d taken a seat at a small two-person hightop and was pretending not to notice them. “I
was just heading to the bar.”

“Oh, Red’s welcome too,” Theo said, twisted around in his seat staring at Ginny.

“I’ll come with you.” Hermione looped her arm through Harry’s and gently tugged him to the
bar, cutting off the invitation to merge their groups. “Another round?” she asked the boys
over her shoulder. She signalled to Madam Rosmerta for five more butterbeers.

Harry leaned in and whispered quietly, “Hermione, what the fuck?”

“I know,” she said.

“Is that—Malfoy’s . . . cousin? Corvus Black? He looks just like him.”

Hermione bit her bottom lip. “Worse. His identical twin, actually.”

Harry blinked and shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know. I thought Ginny would’ve told you.”

“I would have thought you would’ve told me.” Harry sighed deeply. “But you’re . . .
friends?”
“Don’t look at me like that, Harry, he’s nothing like Malfoy—aside from his . . . whole face.”
She laughed nervously. “He was a Gryffindor sort, actually.”

“I kinda guessed that much.”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder. Theo and Corvus were laughing at something one of
them had said, her red and gold scarf still draped over his shoulders. “So you’re here to work
things out with Ginny?” she guessed.

Harry’s mouth tightened to one side. Not a smile. “She asked me to come and have a talk. I
felt like I owed her at least that much.”

“Harry, listen . . . Ginny’s hurting.” His green eyes searched hers, his own pain weighing
heavily in his gaze. “It was really decent of you to come here today. But you don’t owe her
anything. Her feelings about what happened between you two—I’m just saying, it’s not your
fault. Guilt isn’t a good enough reason to be with someone.”

“I know,” he whispered.

Madam Rosmerta set down five tankards of butterbeer on the counter, and Hermione fished
in her pocket. “It’s on the house,” she said, waving them off.

“Oh.” Hermione looked up at her. She’d been ready to empty the last of her gold paying back
the previous two rounds Corvus and Theo had bought her. “Thank you.”

They stood awkwardly for a few moments until Hermione finally stepped forwards and
closed the space between them, enveloping Harry in a hug that felt like home—an acute
reminder that she no longer had one. That she, like him, was all alone in the world. How had
they all fallen so off course? Bittersweet tears washed down her cheeks, the heaviness she’d
been carrying around with her for too long making its escape. “It's so good to see you.”

“You too, Hermione.” He pulled her back in, shielding her from the room for a moment while
she swiped under her eyes. “I’ll see you next week?”

“Next week?”

“For Slug Club.”

“Oh! You’re invited? Of course you are—”

“Well, I wasn’t going to go,” he replied, “but how could I not visit my oldest friend on her
birthday?”

A laugh escaped her. “I would love nothing more.” They settled into a silence, each of them
waiting for the other to break away first. “You look good, Harry,” she finally said. “Auror
training suits you.” It was the truth. He seemed more confident, fulfilled in a way that
overpowered the sadness that still lingered in his eyes. “Have you gotten taller?”

Harry laughed. “I dunno, maybe. Ginny asked me too.”

Hermione glanced over to the hightop table. “You’d better get back to that chat,” she couldn’t
help but tease. “Good to see you, Harry.” She leaned in for one last hug.

“You too, Hermione.” he replied.

Hermione took her three tankards and Harry, his two, and they split ways with a smile.

“Alright, you two,” she said, rejoining Theo and Corvus, “last one, and then I really do need
to get back to the castle.”

She slid the glasses to the middle of the table and Corvus stood once again to allow her to
slide into the booth. Across the busy pub, Harry raised his glass to her, and she did the same,
and then toasted her new friends. Hermione took a foamy swig and then rested her chin in her
hand, suddenly feeling miles away from the laughter and friendly banter at the table.

| | |

Madam Pomfrey had been pleasantly surprised to see her arrive just after noon to resume her
normal shift. Only three weeks into term and this batch of Gryffindor first years had already
caused more havoc than any of the previous years since Fred and George. Hermione
envisaged having to brew Wiggenweld potion year-round to keep up with this reckless lot.

She was thankful for the busy afternoon. Seeing Harry had unexpectedly opened up old
wounds, and her mind kept drifting to the parents she no longer had. To her childhood home
that had been destroyed by Death Eaters, and to Crookshanks, whom she could only hope
was living out his best years in Australia with her parents, but she’d never know for sure.

The dormitory door swung open right as she knocked, and Corvus’s long arms stretched
across the frame. He was shirtless, only a pair of grey trackies slung low on his hips, his long
hair slightly damp from the shower. “Well, hullooo, nurse.” A salacious grin spread across
his face as he unapologetically looked her up and down.

Hermione swallowed, glancing down at the hospital robes she’d forgotten to take off before
she left, distracted as she was. “Hey,” she started, at a complete loss on where she was going.
She should’ve just gone to her own room and called it a night. She wasn’t exactly sure why
her feet carried her here instead.

“Everything okay?” He stepped to the side, ushering her into his room, a look of concern
growing across his face.

Hermione stood in the middle of his shared bedroom, hugging her arms around her, taking
stock of the space—both beds empty, the muffled sound of the shower running—before
turning back to face him. She should just say goodnight. Thank him again for the lovely day
out and go back to her room. Boundaries. “Do you think you can . . .” she swallowed the
lump in her throat and flapped her arms, gesturing aimlessly, “make me feel something
again?”

It wasn’t what she needed; it was the opposite of what she needed. She didn’t need to feel
something, she was already feeling too much, feeling everything, everywhere, all at once.
The losses, the grief, the pain, the fucking ache of her existence.

She needed quiet, she needed to feel nothing at all—it was so much safer than feeling sad and
scared and desperately lonely.

Soft lips met hers, and she let her eyes close, letting him drown out the noise and the chaos
inside her head with the taste of his cinnamon and citrus kiss. She reached up, her fingers
tangling in his damp hair, still smelling of shampoo, and pulled him in harder.

But he took his time, kissing her languidly, unhurried, like they had all the time in the world,
like he wanted to savour her. She toed off her shoes, and pressed his shoulders, pushing him
backwards until he sat on the side of his bed. “Let me make you feel good,” he said, pulling
her by the hand so that she climbed up into his lap. Strong arms wrapped her up securely,
holding her tight, keeping her tethered. He made her feel so safe.

But this was fucking, not feelings.

She pressed herself into him, his hard length feeling just right against her. They hadn’t
actually shagged again since the Potions stockroom two weeks ago. Perhaps that was her
issue. She’d certainly wanted to. His flawless skin was soft under her fingers as she trailed
them along the hard contours of his muscles. Corvus brushed the loose tendrils of her hair
behind her shoulders, then down to the clasp of her robes at her throat. They both froze for
just a moment with the squeak of the faucet turning off in the adjacent bathroom. Hermione
shook off her robes, letting them slide down her arms to the floor, and Corvus huffed a laugh
through his nose.

He tightened his arms back around her middle and picked her up, flipping their positions to
set her down on his magically enlarged mattress while he loomed over her, reaching to his
bedside table to cast a quick silencing charm over his four-poster before closing them inside
his Gryffindor-red curtains.

“Look at you,” he whispered against her lips, his mouth pulling into a smile. “So beautiful.”
Others have told her such pretty words before, but Merlin, if Corvus didn’t have a way of
making her believe him.

Fucking, not feelings.

Hermione got back up to her knees and feathered her fingertips around his hips, under his
trackies, hooking her thumbs under the waistband of his pants and pulling them both down
together. He kicked out of them with a grin, his erection somehow larger than she
remembered.

She took his hand and scooted backwards, still on her knees, inviting him deeper into his own
bed with her. Corvus followed obediently, lying back on his pillows when she pressed a
gentle hand to his chest, and she climbed back on top of him to straddle his lap.

“Nope.” He pushed up on his elbows. “It’s your turn. You’re not gonna get me off and run
away again,” he said, suddenly aware that she was still fully clothed while he lay under her
completely starkers, all rippling muscle and confidence. His hands snaked underneath her
bunched-up skirt, trailing along her hips until he hooked his thumbs through the legs of her
knickers and with an unexpected finesse, ripped the elastic at her hips.

“Hey!” she protested, her hands grabbing his wrists in shock. “Just because you replaced the
last ones doesn’t mean you get to destroy the lot of them.”

“Not the lot,” he grinned, pulling them out from between her legs and tossing them to the
foot of his bed. “Just these cotton monstrosities.”

Her mouth fell open. “I happened to like those cotton monstrosities.”

“I like them better now.”

“Ruined?”

He smiled in response, reaching up and twisting the bottom button of her shirt.

Hermione grabbed hold of his wrists again and pinned them to the mattress beside his head.
And goddamn him, he just smiled. It was equal parts infuriating and exhilarating that he let
her. Lean muscle corded his entire body, a body built from strength training and sport, early
morning yoga and playing Quidditch alongside a World Cup Seeker.

She wasn’t particularly keen to strip in front of him. A dark supply closet was one thing.
Snuggling in pyjamas under the covers another. But putting her scarred, malnourished body
on display for him? No thank you.

Fucking, not feelings.

She rocked her pelvis, undulating her hips to distract him. Corvus was more than strong
enough to buck her off or bat her hands away. He was letting her take control; he liked her
pinning him down, as evidenced by his blown pupils and the shit-eating grin he wore across
his face. And Hermione—Hermione just wanted to feel good. This was just physical. His
erection twitched underneath her, and then he lifted his hips, pressing against her. Hermione
fell forward, her full weight pressing down on his wrists. “You gonna use me, princess, or
just sit on top of me looking beautiful all night?” His teasing words whispered across her lips,
pressed nearly face-to-face.

“I swear to God, Corvus—” He laughed, and a grin stretched across her face. “Grab the
headboard,” she instructed him, then slid her legs so that her stockinged feet were planted on
the mattress beside him. Hermione fisted his cock, guiding him inside her. Corvus’s head fell
back on the pillows and he let out a string of expletives.

She followed suit. Hermione had to bite back a moan, her brain short-circuiting at the sting of
the stretch. She lifted herself and slid further down, eventually taking him completely. Her
thighs quaked—he felt incredible.

Mouth open and panting, Hermione fucked him proper, his otherworldly cock buried deep in
her guts. Every cant of her hips, every press of her heels chasing after their mutual pleasure,
the promise of release just over the next crest. Her palms grew slick, braced on his chest, and
her abs burned with exertion.

Corvus’s hands gripped her waist, and then slid underneath her shirt and over the cups of her
unlined bra. Hermione’s body tensed, going rigid with the eruption of the climax that came
and passed far too quickly, leaving her hollow.

His hands were back around her waist, no longer holding back. He gripped her hips as he
reached his own orgasm just after her, slinging another slew of curses.

It was exactly what she’d said she wanted.

Fucking.

It didn’t mean anything.

So then why was the overwhelming need for meaning pressing down on her now? The need
for belonging, for home. It wasn’t here. It wasn’t in Corvus Black’s bed, it could never be.

They could never be.

She was alone.

She planted her knees in the mattress and hopped off of him, sitting with her legs dangling off
the side of the bed, the long curtain brushing her knees as she wriggled her skirt back down
around her hips and wrapped her arms across her stomach, a frown pulling her face
downwards.

“That was . . . wow.” Corvus was lying on the bed behind her, panting. He groaned, pulling
himself up into sitting, his chin resting on her shoulder, his forehead leaning into her temple.
A rush of warmth flooded between her legs as his spend trickled out of her.

“Can you do the—the thing?” She gestured to her stomach, fighting valiantly to keep the
warble out of her voice.

“Yeah. Of course.” Corvus grabbed his wand and cast the contraceptive charm.

“Thanks,” she said, shuddering as ice prickled through her lower abdomen. She made to get
to her feet. “I’ll—see you tomorrow then.”

“Wait—Hermione, where are you going—?” His hand closed around her wrist and she spun
to face him, revealing the tears streaming down her face. “Hermione . . . ?” Concern etched
every feature as he covered his lap with the blanket and pulled her into him, enveloping her
in his arms, his body large and warm and comforting. “Are you kidding me right now?” he
murmured softly into her hair, rubbing his hand up and down her back.

She choked out a sob. Another hug reminding her of how utterly alone she was in the world.
She’d always had someone. Her parents, her cat, Harry and Ron . . . now she had no one, and
she’d just spent most of her money on a new coat, and she was fucking Draco Malfoy’s
brother, and how had her life ended up with her here in this moment?
 “What happened? What did I—?”

“Nothing,” she answered, wiping her eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, and it’s clearly not nothing. Don’t do this—you’re putting up walls again.”

Hermione flung the curtain open, Corvus scrambling for his pants as she made to leave.

Draco looked up from his writing desk as she rounded the foot of the bed. Perfect. Exactly
what she wanted: a witness to her mental breakdown, the more the merrier. Draco’s
expression turned murderous. He stood and rounded on Corvus who’d just emerged from the
curtains as well.

“What the fuck did you do?” he gritted, shooting a stinging hex at his brother.

“Ow, fuck,” Corvus yelled, grabbing his bare chest where the red beam of light had hit.

“Stop it!,” Hermione cried, holding her hands up between them. “It’s nothing—”

“It’s not nothing,” both brothers echoed together, their voices as identical as their
personalities were different.

“I miss my cat! Okay? It’s stupid, and it’s nothing. People died. Real, innocent people. My
parents are gone forever. And I miss my stupid cat.”

Silence weighed heavily in the air, Hermione’s knack for turning an awkward situation even
worse, still alive and well.

“Crookshanks?” Draco asked softly.

Hermione’s face snapped to his. “How—?”

“He used to hang around the dungeons all the time. Catching mice. He even snuck into the
Slytherin common room a few times. None of us could figure out how he kept getting in.
Godsdamned orange menace,” he tacked on affectionately.

Something between a laugh and a sob exploded from her chest—neither, both—and she
buried her face in her hands, tears flowing into the open-mouthed smile stretched across her
face. Corvus wrapped her up in another hug and this time she didn’t feel so alone as he
rubbed soothing circles over her back while she clung to him.

Draco looked away when she turned her face and found him still standing there. If she hadn’t
known better, she would’ve sworn she’d seen him smile.

Chapter End Notes

Crooks 😭
 Eat Crow
Chapter Notes

I'm having the best time writing this story. Thank you, my WIP readers, for all the love
and support you've given me with each chapter. Your comments, kudos, theories, and

🩷
discussions give me so much life. You guys are the absolute best! I hope you enjoy this
longest chapter yet

Thank you, Frau, for sharing Corvus with us, and for your art that continues to inspire

🩷
this story. (Did I manufacture a scene to fit more of your Corvus art into this chapter?
You betcha!)

🩷
And to LiloLilyAnn and iftreescouldspeak, the best enablers editors a gal could wish for

*Notes regarding character bashings at the end of this chapter. It isn't tagged, and I don't
plan to tag it at this point in time, because reasons

See the end of the chapter for more notes

She wasn’t crazy.

She wasn’t acting irrational.

Or unhinged.

She wasn’t losing her ever-loving mind.

Hermione laughed as she kicked out of her knickers and tossed yet another ruined pair in the
bin. She’d gotten her period. How this managed to be a surprise every month, after all this
time—she sighed. The contraceptive potion and all of those nutrition replenishments Madam
Pomfrey had her taking had done their job.
They’d taken her on a brief emotional spiral detour on the way here, sure, but they’d done it.

Right in the middle of Arithmancy.

Luckily, it had been her last class of the day, as there was no Astronomy lab tonight, and she
didn’t work Monday nights. The universe provides. But this also meant that there was no
more avoiding the pile of mint green boxes from Gladrags that had been on her bed when she
returned to her room Sunday morning. Hermione trailed her fingers under the violet ribbon
tied around the biggest box. She’d definitely been sent more than a few pairs of knickers.
Even accounting for the mass, polychromatic quantity Corvus had purchased for her.

She went for the smallest package, hoping this wouldn’t turn into a scavenger hunt just to
find a replacement pair to change into. A pair of satin pyjama shorts and a matching camisole
top in a soft, champagne gold had been the last thing she’d expected to find. She double
checked the box, finding it had indeed been posted to Hermione Granger, 8th Year
Dormitory, Hogwarts. It seemed a certain little corvid went back to Gladrags to gather more
treasures after she’d left The Three Broomsticks. But fuck, if these didn’t look cosy . . . so
soft against her skin and her bloated, cramping stomach. Three soft raps sounded against her
door.

Speak of the devil.

Hermione twisted the handle to find Corvus eclipsing her doorway on the other side, his
shoulder resting on the frame, all cool nonchalance. He’d ditched his school robes but was
still dressed in his shirtsleeves and trousers, his Gryffindor tie loosened under his collar. “Hi.”
His mouth curved into a grin. “Can I come in?”

Hermione threw the door wide in answer. A quick glance showed the common room
pleasantly full, Neville and Hannah snuggled up on the sofa, books and parchment laid out on
the study tables next to Padma and Dean. She closed the door again softly and turned back to
the issue at hand.

“It’s good that you’re here,” she said in mock solemnity, “perhaps you could help me locate
my knickers . . .”

Corvus hummed. “I’d rather help you lose them.” He laughed as she rolled her eyes. He
walked into the centre of her room, looking unabashedly all around at her meagre belongings.
“What’s all this?” He gestured to the mountain of post on her desk.

“I don’t know, maybe you could tell me?” Her brows shot up accusingly. Corvus picked up
the boxes from Gladrags, wedging a few under his arms and tossing the others to her bed.
“No, this.” He indicated the mountain of letters and packages scattered about.

“My burn pile,” she replied in a flat tone, trying to decide which green box to open next.

He laughed, the smile slowly falling from his expression when he realised she wasn’t joking.
“Wait, are you serious?” He sifted through a few of the envelopes, then glanced down at the
large pile that had fallen to the floor yesterday. “There must be—hundreds of unopened
missives here.”
“Oh, yes—missives, fanmail, charity invitations, marriage proposals.” Corvus’s head shot up
incredulously at the last one. “I wish I were joking.” Before he could respond, Hermione tore
open another package. “Are you having me on?” Hermione held up the little black dress
she’d eyed at Gladrags, levelling him with a disbelieving look of her own. “Corvus.”

He shrugged. “You need a dress for Sluggy’s on Saturday.” He went to her wardrobe and
removed an empty hanger, taking the dress from her loose fingers. “You said you didn’t have
—”

“I know what I said. I also said that it was fine.”

Corvus began opening the other packages. The olive coat. Her jaw dropped.

He had no boundaries.

He smoothed the fine, woollen fabric, checking it over before hanging it up with the dress,
completely unbothered by her protests that it was too much.

“Hermione.” He rolled his eyes. “You said it was okay if I took care of you.”

“No, you said you wanted to—”

He shrugged again, flipping through the rest of her small, sad selection of clothes. “You
didn’t say no.”

She opened her mouth and then promptly shut it. Hadn’t she? The memory was all muddled,
how was she supposed to remember the fine details of a conversation they’d had a week ago?
With a stony glare, she grabbed the other smaller package, finding the box full of knickers
this time. She sorted through the variety: lots of strappy little numbers in lace and satin.

“What on earth are these?” Hermione held up a pair of intricately designed, crotchless
knickers, an iridescent periwinkle lace butterfly spanning the pelvis, and a definitive lack of
fabric in the gusset.

“You don’t like them?”

She shook her head. “They’re beautiful, but where is my cunt meant to go?”

Corvus just stared at her for a moment as if the answer were obvious. “In my mouth.”

Hermione laughed, punctuating her surprise with a few enunciated, sarcastic ha ha has. “Not
any time soon, I’m on the rag. I actually need to shower, I was just searching for a comfy pair
of ‘cotton monstrosities’ since all mine seem to have been vanished or otherwise . . .
disappeared.”

“Oh, here . . .” Corvus sifted through the open box, grabbing a black lace-trimmed bikini-cut.
“I couldn’t deny you entirely,” he admitted. “But no more brown-bagging your goodies.”

Hermione’s brows rose a fraction.

Corvus held up his hands in defence. “Unless that’s what you want, because you are a strong,
independent witch, capable of forming your own opinions and making your own choices,
especially when it comes to your own body, of course,” he recited robotically.

A smile stretched across her face as she exhaled a laugh. “You are such an idiot.” She
snatched the black knickers from his hand and padded to the bathroom.

“An idiot who gets to shower with you?” he asked optimistically.

Hermione paused in the doorway, looking over her shoulder. “You do know what ‘on the rag’
means, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. Hermione just stared at him so he continued, “Shark week. Lady
time. Your monthly visitor—Aunt Flo. Moon week. Having the painters in. Code red . . .” He
shrugged. “Your period. I don’t care about all that, I just wanna see your tits.” A set of bright,
pearly whites spread across his face.

Hermione rolled her eyes and entered the bathroom. She set her clean clothes on the vanity
before reaching in the shower and starting the hot water. She finished undressing and kicked
her dirty clothes to the corner, unhooking her bra last and tossing it in the pile. “Well, come
on then,” she called to him still in the other room.

The man had no boundaries, but she found hers growing thinner as well.

“Give me just a few minutes to clean up first.” She grabbed a fresh tampon and stepped under
the running water, pulling the curtain behind her—just the one boundary, at least.

| | |

Corvus’s thigh was pressed alongside hers, heavy and warm, a comforting presence. It
seemed he was always touching her in some small way—his fingers twirling in the ends of
her hair, his arm over the back of her seat brushing her shoulders, his hand resting around her
waist as they walked to classes together—Hermione was beginning to find him a constant
presence in her day-to-day life. Perhaps a bit of a distracting presence if she were honest.

He pressed his leg against hers, furtive silver eyes and a smile peering over at her, another
reminder that he was there, a small bid for attention. Pebbling. She returned a soft smile and
pushed her thigh back against his. He was far too distracting for his own good.

“Let’s demonstrate, shall we?” Auror Cobb’s voice cut through her wandering thoughts. He
looked up, scanning the class with a practised ambivalence until his eyes landed on Malfoy at
the desk in front of her. “Mister Malfoy, bring up your wand.”

Hermione’s face snapped to the front of the class, to their professor—Auror—who’d been
lecturing on and on about the intricacies of wand weighing. Malfoy straightened in the chair
in front of Corvus, getting his feet underneath him to stand.

“Absolutely not.” The words were out of Hermione’s mouth before she even realised she’d
formed them, her hand shooting out to Malfoy’s shoulder, urging him to stay seated. He
stiffened under her touch, no surprise there.

“What was that, Miss Granger?” Cobb asked in a bored tone.

God, was she doing this again? Sticking up for Draco Malfoy? Hermione leaned to the side
so she could see him directly through the space between Draco and Pansy and looked Auror
Cobb in the eyes. “I said ‘absolutely fucking not.’”

Apparently so.

The entire class turned to look at her with various expressions of wide-eyed shock sprinkled
with looks of here-we-go-again from her fellow Gryffindors. Draco turned his head to the
side so she was in his periphery. She wasn’t sure it would ever stop taking her aback—the
identical features, the oddly dark lashes framing the same colourless eyes, the exact same
nose that had grazed over her breasts in the shower earlier this morning. She studied Draco’s
features as his lips—the replica of the ones that had pressed affectionate sweet nothings to
her skin—muttered to her under his breath, “It’s fine,” and he made to stand once again.

Hermione grabbed his elbow, keeping him seated. “It is one hundred percent not fine,” she
said to him, and then raised her voice so it was sure to reach Auror Cobb at the front, but also
the rest of the class. They all needed to know. “It’s illegal search and seizure.”

Cobb tilted his head to the side, his chest rising and falling with a sigh of annoyance. “It’s
just a classroom demonstration, Miss Granger.”

“Perhaps. If you were just a professor,” she said. “But you’ve made it very clear you’re an
Auror, and as an Auror, are you not oath-bound to report anything that might strike you as
suspicious?”

Cobb rolled his tongue in his cheek, lowering his voice to a strained calm. “It should be no
problem if Mister Malfoy has nothing to hide, which he shouldn’t.”

Not good enough. “But he doesn’t need to prove that he has nothing to hide, he is a citizen
with rights. Weren’t you also meant to teach us that?”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Draco gritted through clenched teeth, trying to pull his
elbow out of her grasp.

“Oh, shut up, Malfoy, this isn’t about you.” Hermione looked at the other faces in the class,
still turned towards her, with slightly more interest now. “It’s about all of us. Once you give
someone your information, you don’t get to decide how they use it. Isn’t that right, Auror
Cobb? Information is power. And this is an egregious abuse of power.” She sat back in her
chair, crossing her arms. “Don’t give him your wand, Malfoy.”

Draco turned behind him to look at her fully, his arm no longer tense under her grip. He
rolled his eyes and shook his head, and sat more fully in his seat. She let go.

If the last year had taught her anything, it was that nobody had nothing to hide.
Auror Cobb took a seat at his desk, sighing deeply. “Are you implying that I’ll find
something . . . suspicious on Mister Malfoy’s wand if I were to weigh it today, Miss
Granger?”

A frown furrowed her brows. “I’m not sure how you made that leap. For all I know, you
won’t find much more than some lubrication charms and a few Scourgifys.”

Malfoy rolled his head, and a few sniggers broke through the tense silence.

“Then back to my point—what’s the harm?”

Hermione shrugged. “I couldn’t possibly know the harm, and that’s the point. It’s never been
a secret I’m a Muggle-born, right? So then what’s the harm keeping my home address stored
in a database with other Muggle-borns? It’s only for official Ministry use only, after all. They
need to know where to send my Hogwarts letter, who to contact in case of an emergency,
that’s all. Not a problem. It’s just information. What harm could information do?” She
shrugged, but all around her, comprehension began dawning on her classmates’ faces. “No
harm, right? Not until someone came to power who happened to hate Muggle-borns, and
suddenly had access to a full database with the names and addresses and next-of-kin of every
Muggle-born family in Britain. Next thing you know, they’re sending their executioners to
your parents’ house to raze it to the ground just to try and get information on you—”

“Enough!” Cobb was red in the face.

A cool hand wrapped around hers, loosening her balled-up fist. Her chest heaved but she
refused to turn and find Corvus looking at her with whatever perplexing expression of pity or
guilt he was sure to have. Perhaps annoyance or second-hand embarrassment—that was
always Ron’s default.

“Miss Granger, since you feel so strongly about covering up for this—this—” His face was
nearly the same shade as his cardinal robes as he gestured at Malfoy. “You can present your
wand for demonstration instead.”

She shrugged. “Oh, I’d be happy to,” she said cheerfully. “Present me your warrant.”

“Detention,” Cobb gritted, “both of you.”

Hermione’s brows shot up as she loosed a sardonic laugh. “For not allowing you to abuse our
privacy?”

“For your defiance and non-cooperation in my classroom. You’re creating a barrier to

learning. Information is just information—”

“You’re not really going to sit there and still pretend that all information is harmless? Say you
find something you don’t have an explanation for. Then what’s the standard procedure, Auror
Cobb?”

“You’re only making my point, Miss Granger. If a known dark wizard—”

“Former—”
“—like Draco Malfoy won’t consent to a wand weighing—”

“So, you admit that this is a targeted search, then—?”

“— then he clearly must have something to hide.”

Hermione pushed her chair back as she stood, rising with the anger bubbling up inside of her.
“I take issue with the fact that not complying with an illegal search and seizure means it’s
because someone has something to hide. You’re not weighing Draco Malfoy’s wand, I can
tell you that much right now. You can ask for volunteers, you can demonstrate on your own
wand, but you cannot demand someone hand over their wand. We are not the enemies of the
state, we are the citizens you are sworn to protect and serve.”

“OUT!” Cobb slammed his book on the text and pointed to the door. The bell rang, signalling
the end of class, and everyone cautiously gathered their belongings while they continued
arguing over the din.

“I’ll be speaking with McGonagall about your insubordination and unwillingness to—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t bother the Headmistress with a little matter like this.” Hermione slung her
bag over her shoulder. “We can go see the head of the DMLE together though, if you’d like.”

“Get the fuck out of my classroom!”

“Happily!”

Hermione stormed out, fists clenched and ignoring the voice now hissing her name behind
her. The small crowd parted to let her through. She stalked down the corridor, her heartbeat
pounding, unable to outpace the long legs attached to the person still calling her name.
Finally, she turned, finding her least favourite twin standing before her, looking angry.

Ah. This was the face she was used to seeing. Anger, annoyance, seven shades of arrogance
screwing up his ferrety fucking face. He loomed over her, and she squared her shoulders to
face him. Was she supposed to be intimidated by his newfound height? She couldn’t see past
the eleven-year-old wanker that was still buried not-so-deep down inside.

“I didn’t need you to defend me—”

“Oh, piss off, Malfoy. It wasn’t about you—”

“It is when you land us both in detention.” He raked a hand through his hair, looking at the
wall above her head, then lowered his voice, levelling her with his icy grey stare. “I’m on
probation, Granger. I’m supposed to keep my head down, my nose clean, and get through
these next few months. I don’t need to be your new lost-cause fixation project.”

Hermione laughed. “You really think having him weigh your wand would have been the
better alternative?” She laughed again, a sharper edge in her tone. “You’re an even bigger
idiot than I thought.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You let him weigh your wand today,
and next week there’ll be an investigation into something ‘suspicious’ he found. They’ll have
you sitting a fixed trial and back in an Azkaban cell before—”
“Well that’s my business.” Malfoy gnashed his teeth together as if he had to physically
restrain the rest of his words, and stormed off with an aggravated wave of his arm.

“Arsehole,” she muttered under her breath.

Corvus appeared in her vision, no longer blocked by his brother’s body. A group of terrified-
looking first-year Hufflepuffs ran past. Hermione rubbed a palm over her face then pinched
the bridge of her nose.

“I take back all the sweethearts and baby girls,” he said, grinning. “I think you had it right
with Athena. Our own personal goddess of wisdom and war—”

“Stop it,” she began, but all the fight had run out of her when his hand came up to cup the
side of her face.

“That was quite the inspiring tirade,” he murmured softly, bending down to capture her lips in
a kiss. Her brain was in tumult, her emotions spiralling as her anger still seethed inside, and
this person in front of her was acting completely unbothered by the hostility he’d just
witnessed. Corvus pressed his forehead to hers, his fingers weaving through the curls at her
nape. “Thank you for taking care of my brother.”

She sighed deeply, looking up through her dark lashes. “I didn’t do it for him,” she said
quietly.

A soft smile spread across Corvus’s face. “I know.”

| | |

Hermione woke up slowly, registering the woodsy notes of his sandalwood and juniper
deodorant as she nuzzled further into the crook of his arm, searching out more of the blissful
unconsciousness she’d enjoyed all night long. He smelled good, and she was warm and cosy.
Corvus’s long arm wrapped around her back, twirling the curly ends of her hair with his
fingers.

“Good morning, Hermione,” he whispered quietly, and pulled the thin strap of her satin
camisole back up over her shoulder.

Hermione inhaled deeply through her nose, arching her back in a satisfying stretch. She
hummed, still completely knackered after their late night Potions lab where they did all the
final prep work to start brewing their Wolfsbane tomorrow—no naughty stockroom
dalliances this time. “What time is it?”

“Half eight.”

“Could you wake me up at nine?” She yawned through the back half of her request. “It’s
Saturday . . .”

“No can do, birthday girl,”—she groaned at the reminder. How the fuck did he know?
—“you’ll sleep through brekkie, and then I’ll be forced to ask the elves to bring you some in
the hospital wing—which you hate—not to mention . . .” Hermione opened a bleary eye after
he paused. He lay with his head tilted to peer down at her, a too-excited-for-this-early-in-the-
morning grin spreading across his face. “You have presents to open.”

“Corvus?”

“Hmm?”

“How did you get in my room?”

His brilliant grin grew somehow even larger as he laughed. “C’mon—so much to do, so little
time.” He pulled himself up from underneath her, forcing her vertical. A small pile of gifts sat
at the foot of her bed, bringing a smile to her lips. But when she sat up properly, she saw that
her burn pile had expanded. The rest of her room was absolutely covered in mounds of letters
and packages, boxes of sweets, and fan mail of all shapes and sizes. Her face fell and her
stomach sank.

All the colourful wrappings and hand-tied bows from people she’d never even met before—
she wouldn’t have to go searching to know there would be nothing from the only two people
in the world she truly wished to hear from today. She wondered vaguely if her parents would
have any subconscious inklings of today being special.

The crazed hero-worship from the wizarding world at large had been relentless over the past
few months. But this had reached an entirely new level. Hermione had understood it a little
when their story first came out—no one had known of their secret Horcrux hunt, nor the
depths Voldemort was willing to venture into, splitting his soul. But the intrigue should’ve
died down long ago. And yet, somehow, ignoring the press had just fanned the flames. It
seemed everyone just wanted access to the elusive Golden Girl, as she’d been dubbed, the
war heroine, the brains behind the Order’s secretive wartime operations.

Corvus bent forwards and drew the bed curtain so it covered most of the gifts. “We don’t
have to deal with that now,” he said, his tone soft and gentle as he regarded her with the kind
of care that dripped with sincerity. “Let’s just go to breakfast.” Her eyes flicked up to see her
red scrunchie holding his hair in a top knot, and her mouth pulled up into a reluctant smile.

How on earth had this total stranger so completely entangled himself in her life in only a few
short weeks? A knot twisted in her stomach. A not-so-small part of her still wondered if this
was a twisted game he was playing. It would certainly be easier if this all ended up being fake
—when it inevitably imploded.

“Yeah, let’s—” An oblong package wrapped in brown paper at the foot of her bed caught her
eye when she stood. She recognized her name written in Harry’s familiar, messy scrawl. In
seven years, she had never once received a birthday present from Harry or Ron. She never
begrudged them. Ron had never been the thoughtful type, and her birthday was rather
inconveniently placed at the busy start of term.

Her fingers traced over the note and she picked it up to read.

Hermione—
Can’t wait to see you tonight.
Harry

Short and sweet, so very on brand. Hermione tore through the paper to reveal a wand holster
—small enough to fit her arm, but large enough for the wand she’d been using since April.
This wand was far larger than her old vinewood that had been confiscated and then lost when
they’d escaped Malfoy Manor without it.

“This is nice,” Corvus said with admiration as he examined the leather. “Here.” He helped
her try it on. Hermione reached for the wand on her bedside table. She didn’t care to examine
too closely why Bellatrix’s wand had acquiesced itself to her so easily. Suffice to say if it
hadn’t, she would’ve long ago scrimped and saved for a replacement; she didn’t love the
constant reminder of its previous owner. But Harry’s gift was both thoughtful and practical,
and she was glad to not have to always keep her wand in the pocket of her robes any longer.

Hermione allowed herself a quick look at the others—a potted Moly flower from Neville and
Hannah, a journal and a set of exotic quills, still other packages wrapped in paper—but what
caught her eye was a worn-looking, leather-bound book with just a red ribbon tied around it.

“I was told you like books.” Corvus shrugged, feigning nonchalance. As if he weren’t the
most extra person she’d ever met.

Hermione exhaled a laugh. “What is this?” She ran her fingers lightly over the gold-
embossed title, Durmstrang Academy, and looked over at Corvus for a hint of its contents.

“We all have to purchase it in our first year,” he explained. “It isn’t sold outside of the
Academy so I thought it was safe that you hadn’t read it—’course, now I’m suddenly
recalling you and the Bulgarian Bonbon—” She cut him an annoyed glare. “It details the
history of the school and its founders . . .” Hermione flipped through, finding page after page
of rich history and answers to questions that had always plagued her—answers to questions
she had never thought to ask. It was like discovering Hogwarts: A History for the first time
all over again. She couldn’t contain the grin spreading across her face. “Plus, you got mad at
me for buying you all those things at Hogsmeade, so I thought you might prefer—”

“I love it.” She snapped it closed and hugged it to her chest. “Can I bring it with us to
breakfast?”

Corvus laughed and shrugged. “Whatever you’d like.”

| | |

Forget duelling on a battlefield, forget breaking out of Gringotts on the back of a Ukrainian
Ironbelly, forget rebuilding her academic knowledge and practical competency in time for
N.E.W.T.s—these Gryffindor firsties were going to be the death of her. Absolute chaos.
McGonagall had her hands full with them, and so did she and Madam Pomfrey in the hospital
wing. Hermione had to brew a whole new batch of Wiggenweld today after they ran through
the ward’s entire stock. She’d have a mastery’s worth of brewing hours by the end of term if
they kept at it like this.
She was sweaty. Her hair was a frizzled mess. Her back ached. And Slug Club started twenty
minutes ago.

Happy birthday.

Hermione chucked her white hospital robes in the laundry and left the ward for the evening,
for once not finding Corvus awaiting her. A pang of guilt swooped through her stomach. She
hoped he hadn’t been waiting and given up when she ended up working late past the end of
her shift. She sighed and began trudging up the marble staircase. When she reached the third
floor, she was startled to see two figures sitting on the floor down the corridor to the Defence
classroom.

Draco, broody as ever, sat against the stone wall with his head resting over his crossed arms.
Corvus was beside him, listening intently to whatever it was that his brother was saying
before he noticed her walking towards them.
“You’re almost late,” Malfoy stated, an edge of nervousness in his voice.

“Definitely late. I still have to go shower and change.” She indicated to her school uniform
she’d worn under her hospital robes.

“You don’t need to change for detention,” Corvus said, his brows furrowing in a frown.

Hermione snorted a laugh. “I’m not going to fucking detention.”

A wild-eyed grin spread across Corvus’s face, and he sprang up, excited. “You’re not?”

Hermione tilted her head, levelling him with a come on, now look. “I’m nineteen. And I
wasn’t out of line for what I said. If he wants to take it to McGonagall, he can take it to
McGonagall. Now I’m going to go get dressed for Slug Club. Were you coming?” she asked
Corvus. “Or . . . ?” He hadn’t earned detention with them, but perhaps he needed to stay and
serve as some sort of emotional-support twin?

Corvus turned to his brother, still sitting on the floor. Draco turned away, rolling his eyes and
shaking his head. “I’m staying,” he mumbled. “You go.” He nodded to his brother.

“You sure?”

Draco gave him an exasperated look, his own come on, now. “It’s just detention. I’m fine.”
Corvus shrugged him off. “What do you want me to tell Cobb?” Draco asked her.

Hermione shrugged. “Whatever you’d like.”

“You heard him, Athena, let’s go get dressed.” He held out an arm, and she took it with a
grin, feeling silly as they jogged the entire way up to the seventh floor where Corvus got
ready in his room, and she speed-showered, quick-dried and styled her hair, and got herself
dressed in the little black number he’d purchased for her.

She was instantly grateful for it as she smoothed her palms down the long sleeves that
covered her scar. The wrap dress was flattering, and modest enough up top to balance its
short length, with just enough fullness and weight in the skirt to blossom out into a circle
when Hermione gave it a test spin—for science, of course. Grateful was indeed the word
when she opened her door and found Corvus waiting by the fireplace in a fine, tailored
Muggle suit, his hands pushed deep in his pockets like some hunky billionaire heir gracing
the cover of a bodice-ripper.

The common room was deserted with most of the eighth years already at Slug Club, the
others presumably already in their rooms for the night.

As if sensing her, Corvus turned, every muscle in his face falling slack, his eyes widening as
he took her in. And then he smiled, beaming his ray of pure fucking sunshine at her as he
crossed the room, taking her face in his hands and kissing her soundly. She melted into him,
only pulling back after he did.

Corvus reached back into his pocket and pulled out a delicate gold chain. “May I?” he asked,
holding it out to her. Hermione’s brow bunched quizzically, but she turned around, gathering
her mostly-dried curls together and pulling them up off her neck. Corvus looped his arm in
front of her, clasping the necklace at her nape. Hermione’s hand came up to the teardrop
garnet now resting in the hollow of her throat.

It was too much. It was perfect. It was—“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Happy birthday,” he answered in reply. “Let’s go knock ‘em dead.”

The party was well underway by the time they’d arrived at Slughorn’s office over an hour
late.

Colourful fabric hangings draped the ceiling and walls. Hermione’s gaze was drawn upwards
by the twinkling lights of dozens of fairies fluttering above them. Just like at the last party in
sixth year, the room was packed with witches and wizards of all ages and walks of life. From
younger Ministry types to older, eclectic warlocks huddled in groups, smoking their pipes.
Groups of students were scattered throughout and even some of their professors had stopped
in. She spotted Professor Flitwick sunken into a large pouffe, drink in hand, next to the cellist
who’d been hired for the evening.

“Hey, Hermione’s here!” Neville’s cheery face greeted them at the entrance. “And Corvus!
Glad you two made it.”

“Happy birthday, Hermione.” Hannah beamed beside Neville, her arm looped in his.

“Hi, thank you. And thanks for my Moly plant, I love it.”

“Nev’s idea, of course,” Hannah smiled with a light-hearted roll of her eyes. “Hey, Harry’s
been asking around for you,” she said, her eyes darting around the crowded room, searching.

“Oh—I’ll find him, thanks, Han,” Hermione replied, feeling suddenly nervous to see her best
friend again. They turned and nearly bumped right into Professor Slughorn, wearing a
tasselled velvet hat and a matching violet smoking jacket.

“Oh, good, Miss Granger—I wanted to introduce you—” He held an arm out to her and
Corvus one at a time. “Corvus Black, Hermione Granger, this is Gethsemane Prickle, Head of
the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and the Lead Potioneer
spearheading the post-war Wolfsbane initiative.”

“Ms. Prickle.” Corvus shook her hand with an air of sophistication for social networking that
was bred, not born. She acknowledged him with a polite smile and a nod, and then the older
witch was shaking Hermione’s hand.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Miss Granger—Horace tells me you’ve a promising career in
potioneering ahead of you.” The woman’s severe face was softened by the gentle twinkle
behind her rounded spectacles.

“I think they both do.” Slughorn clapped Corvus’s shoulder. “But Miss Granger here might
be my brightest student yet. Quick as a whip. She’s going to do great things—”

“Any connection to Hector Dagworth-Granger?” Gethsemane asked quickly. “He was a fine
potioneer, that sort of thing tends to run in families . . .”

“Erm—”

Slughorn chuckled. “Those were my thoughts too, but Miss Granger here is Muggle-born.”
He turned to Corvus, striking up their own conversation on the side and leaving Hermione to
speak with Gethsemane. “Mister Black—tell me, I’ve been curious. You are a descendent of
the late Phineas Nigellus? A Sacred Twenty-Eight Black, that is?”

“Yes, sir.” Corvus smiled good naturedly, flashing Hermione with a help-me flicker of his
eyes.
“You are? Through which line? I thought the Black name had died out with the untimely
passing of Regulus and Sirius? Though of course the bloodline still exists through maternal
lines—such a tragic family history, the Blacks . . .”

Hermione grinned at Corvus. Poor sod, he was on his own.

Gethsemane regarded her with interest. “Still. One never knows,” she continued.
“Regardless, if you’re looking for a career in Potioneering, or if you have any interest in the
Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Miss Granger, I’d be honoured to be a point of
contact for you.” She slipped her card into Hermione’s hand. “Let’s start a correspondence,
and perhaps I can help you find an internship next summer while you apply for your mastery
program. You’re taking the proper classes to sit all your N.E.W.T.s, yes?”

“Yes,” Hermione breathed, staring at the small card in her hand. “Thank you, Ms. Prickle—”

“Gethsemane, please,” she said with a warm smile and a hand to the shoulder as she waved a
finger at someone across the room and left to go meet them.

Did she want to be a potioneer? Honestly, Hermione had never particularly considered it.
Spending her day brewing for an apothecary sounded tedious at best. Or maybe she was
scarred from too many Snape-led lessons. She’d love to be able to pick Ms. Prickle’s—
Gethsemane’s, she reminded herself—brain about all the opportunities that could await her
after Hogwarts. She tucked the business card into her sleeve. That’s exactly what this was—
opportunity. She was so glad she’d blown off detention.

Hermione turned, and directly across the room, staring straight back at her, was Ronald
Weasley. Her stomach swooped and fluttered, her mouth going dry.

He looked exactly the same.

She wasn’t sure why it surprised her, it’d only been three months. But this was the longest
they’d spent apart since before first year. She pasted on a smile and forced her feet to carry on
over to him.

“Harry!” she said, spotting him off to the side, his grin the last thing she saw before Ron’s
arms enveloped her in a hug.

“Happy Birthday, ‘Mione.” She could hear the smile in Ron’s voice. They pulled apart, but
Ron kept his hands on his shoulders, looking her over. “You look good. Healthier, I mean.
Happier.”

His warm voice felt like snuggling under a blanket in front of the fireplace. She smiled. “I
feel good.”

“Happy birthday, Hermione.” Harry moved in to hug her next.

“Thank you for my gift,” she murmured into his ear. “It’s perfect.”

“I figured you were still without one since . . .” Harry tilted his head. They all knew what
“since” meant.
“How’s training?” she asked them both, changing the subject. “Tell me everything!”

Harry and Ron looked at each other and grinned. “Amazing,” Ron started.

“It’s like—the DA, if the DA were run by competent professionals instead of a fifteen-year-
old kid,” Harry laughed. “The things we’re learning would blow your mind. You would love
it.”

“You really should’ve enrolled with us.”

“Maybe . . .” She smiled ruefully. “It’s bizarre being back here sometimes. Even little things
like having a curfew again. Not being allowed to pop over to Hogsmeade if I fancy. I thought
the routine and structure would be good for me, but . . .”

“You were never really one for rules,” Harry muttered. “Deep down.”

Her cheeks were beginning to hurt from smiling so hard. “It’s good though. I am doing better.
I’ve got a job, so I have some money again at least—”

“Do you need help with anything?” The genuine concern in Ron’s expression squeezed her
heart. “Blimey, I didn’t even think about your parents being—” He raked a hand through his
hair. “We’re not earning a full salary until we get through training, but I’m still at the Burrow
so it doesn’t really matter—if you need help with anything—”

“I’ve already tried, believe me,” Harry muttered beside him.

“Thanks. I think I’m actually okay. My internship doesn’t pay a ton, but I don’t need much
either.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears, and Ron’s gaze flicked down to the
necklace at her throat. “How have you two been? Harry, are you still at the Burrow too?”

His choice of residence had been the biggest complication in the continued Harry-Ginny saga
this summer. After Grimmauld locked them out, they’d all moved back in. Hermione only
lasted a few weeks, but Harry felt a deeper pull to the Weasley family and she didn’t fault
him for it. But he wasn’t afforded the clean break with Ginny that she got with Ron.

“Yeah. But I think Ron and I are going to get our own place soon. Maybe before Christmas, if
we can swing it. You can come stay with us if we do.” Hermione heard the implied message
that he wanted to be gone before Ginny came home for holiday. Godric knew he had enough
gold in his vaults to afford the place on his own, but Ron’s pride would never allow Harry to
pay for their first few months by himself.

“You’ll always be welcome with us, Hermione.” Ron’s genuine smile almost hurt.

Harry lifted his head. “Black.” He greeted Corvus with a handshake as he joined them.

“Potter, good to see you.” Corvus shook his hand, and the briefest expression of surreality
flashed across Harry’s face when he spoke his name. Hermione knew exactly what he was
experiencing—this person in Malfoy’s skin greeting him without any ire or malice, not
spitting his surname like it sullied his mouth to say it. “And you must be Weasley?” He held
out his hand. “I’m Corvus.” Ron’s brows knitted together at the familiarity in his appearance,
and he looked up, performing a quick scan of the room in confusion.

“Ron, this is Corvus Black. He’s joined us this year from Durmstrang,” Hermione explained.

“Durmstrang—?” Ron turned to Hermione, repeating what she’d said. “Black—?” He

examined Corvus with all the subtlety of a hand grenade, recognition dawning in his eyes.
Ron looked at Corvus’s outstretched hand and blinked, his lip curling up in disgust as his
eyes trailed up to see Corvus’s other hand resting casually on Hermione’s shoulder. Then to
her necklace.

“Ron . . .” Hermione gritted through her teeth. Fucking hell.

Slowly, he turned, his disgust now trained on her. “This the bloke you’re fucking now? Who
is he, Malfoy’s bloody cousin?”

“Ronald!” She didn’t expect him to be happy about her befriending anyone who even
resembled Malfoy, much less his very own flesh and blood, but he was already acting like a
child. She turned to Harry, pleading.

“He’s Malfoy’s twin brother,” Harry tried reasoning, only making it a hundred times worse.
Hermione closed her eyes.

“His brother? Malfoy’s twin brother?”

Corvus put his outstretched hand back in his pocket and took a deep breath beside her. She
gave him a pleading look, and he gave a reassuring smile in return.

“Ron,” Harry soothed, trying to get him to calm down.

“What do you mean Malfoy has a brother? Why is his name Black? Why didn’t we see him
on the Black family tapestry?”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but closed it—honestly, she’d been meaning to ask
Corvus the same questions.

“There’s a tapestry?” Corvus asked, reminding Ron that he was still there and that he hated
him by nature.

“That’s why we lost access to Grimmauld, isn’t it? This lanky streak of piss came of age.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t believe she’d never pieced it all together.

Ron continued his diatribe. “I guess the quickest way to get over one guy is to get under
another.” His words were cutting and vitriolic, and shame crept up the back of her neck. That
wasn't what this was about at all.

Corvus tilted his head, angling himself in Hermione’s line of vision. “Have we tried that
yet?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye, almost disarming her. “You’re usually the one on
top.”
Harry held Ron back with a hand to his chest, muttering in his ear about keeping cool and
staying professional, reminding him that they’re in a room full of influential people.

“So, what, you got some bloody Death Eater kin to buy you shiny things now?” His gaze
flicked back down to her necklace.

“That’s not what—” Her hands balled into fists, and she registered the gentle, reassuring
squeeze on her shoulder from Corvus. “You broke up with me, Ronald. You don’t get any
more say in what I do with my life, I’m allowed to move on. And I don’t need to get over
you, there was never anything to get over. We tried it out, it didn’t work—”

“Then why’d you move out? If you’re so over it, why’d you leave the Burrow?”

Hermione laughed, the dissertation of their disaster of a relationship rushing to her lips, but
before she said a word, Harry’s face snapped to the side, and Auror Cobb was beside them.

“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere, young lady?” he seethed, red-faced at Hermione.

Hermione’s brows shot up. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be—”

“I think the fuck not—”

“Whoa—” Corvus held up a hand and took a step forward, positioning himself subtly in front
of her. “There’s no need for—”

“When I say you’re to show up for weekend detention, you show up for weekend detention!”
Spit flew from his angry mouth.

“You’re getting into trouble now too?” Ron scoffed, his face incredulous.

“Let the girl be, Cobb.” Cobb’s face turned from puce to ghostly in an instant as the
newcomer held a hand out to Hermione. “Gawain Robards. So pleased to finally meet you,
Miss Granger.” Hermione recognized him from the Prophet—the infamous head of the
DMLE . . . and Auror Cobb’s boss. “What’s all this shouting about?” He turned to Cobb.

He stammered and stuttered, finally grumbling about how he’d come to fetch Hermione for
her detention. “But I suppose we can reschedule,” he drifted off.

Robards hummed. “Or perhaps we could just—let it go.” He clapped Cobb on the shoulder.
“After all this young lady has done for our countrymen, I think we can excuse her from this
one.”

“Of course,” Cobb conceded, his lip curling in anger behind Robards’s back as he turned
back to face Hermione and handed her his card.

“I’m not sure if you had any interest in law enforcement, Miss Granger, but if you do, I’d
love to answer any questions you may have. My office is always open to you or your owl.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, taking his card and adding it to Gethsemane’s. She didn’t
particularly think she wanted to be an Auror, but was glad to expand her horizon of
opportunity nonetheless.

Robards gave her a smile and a nod before sweeping off, thankfully taking Auror Cobb with
him, and making more rounds.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, a throb beginning behind her brow. She’d been
here all of fifteen minutes and that had been about ten too many. “Well it was lovely to see
you, Harry, but I’m not feeling well. Maybe we can meet up in Hogsmeade again soon.” She
gave him a tight smile and without another glance at Ron, turned to leave with Corvus in tow.

“Hermione . . .”

She pasted on a smile for everyone as she wended her way back out of Professor Slughorn’s
office, finally able to breathe once she was out in the corridor.

“Is this how every Slug Club is? I had no idea it would be so entertaining.” Corvus’s attempt
to lighten the mood burrowed under her skin and warmed her from the inside. “Are you
okay?” he asked in a more serious tone.

“I’m fine,” she answered a little too quickly, with a little too much on her mind. God, she had
a thousand questions. She wanted to ask Corvus everything, to fully understand the
complexities and sequence of events that had led him to be here, why had she never heard of
him before now? But every time she blinked, it was Ron’s angry sneer that she saw. His
vitriolic words ringing in her ears.

“Come on,” Corvus said, offering his arm and saying nothing about the pinkness in her
cheeks nor the water in her eyes. “Let’s go back to my room.” Despite what she said, Corvus
certainly didn’t act like her friend. And she'd given up trying to stop him.

Deep down she wanted more, too. She knew in her heart of hearts that she was setting herself
up to get crushed. Again. When he eventually decided that he wanted something else.

They walked back up to the seventh floor together, him allowing her the silence that her
teeming brain did not. At the landing, her stomach knotted. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t
continue on pretending he meant nothing to her. But the idea of confessing that vulnerability
made her sick with nerves.

“Actually, I think I’m going to go up for a few minutes.” She pointed her thumb over her
shoulder towards the staircase continuing up to the rooftop of the turret. She just needed to
think about this logically.

“Want me to come with?”

Hermione swallowed and shook her head. “I kind of just want to be alone. I just need some
fresh air.” She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, nodding along to her own story.

“Of course.” Gods why was he so fucking understanding and reasonable? Shouldn’t he be
annoyed at her? Disappointed at least? Was he even human? Was his flaw that he actually had
no flaws? “I’ll see you tomorrow evening after you finish your shift? To start our
Wolfsbane?”

Hermione nodded. “See you tomorrow.” She watched Corvus head towards the dormitory,
then turned and continued up another flight until she reached the eighth-floor observation
deck. The thinnest sliver of moon hung low in the cold, clear night sky.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake . . .” a familiar voice grumbled from the shadows.

Hermione’s feet skidded to a halt, and her heart hammered, not expecting to find another
student up here at this hour. The burning cherry of a cigarette illuminated Pansy Parkinson’s
face orange before being occluded in an exhale of smoke and darkness once again.

“You can’t smoke in the castle,” Hermione blurted out of surprise.

“Is that so . . . ?” Pansy drolled, bringing the cigarette back for another drag. Hermione
turned to leave. This was not the peace and quiet she'd had in mind. “He doesn’t actually like
you, you know.”

Hermione stopped in the doorway, her pounding heart sinking into her stomach. “Sorry?”

“Corvus,” she enunciated slowly, blowing out another smokey exhale. “You’re just . . . a
novelty." She fluttered her hand in the air. "A fleeting interest. Maybe a fun little diversion
before he finds himself a wife . . . He’ll dress you up like his little doll, his little pet." Her
dark eyes scanned Hermione's new dress. "You’ll flatter him with your appreciation for his
attention and his vaults, and then he'll find someone better.”

Hermione twisted the fabric of her skirt in her fists, her jaw clenching with the discomfort of
all her insecurities dripping like hot wax from Pansy’s mouth.

She flicked ash to the stone floor beside her and turned to look Hermione directly in the eyes.
“He fucks girls like you, but he marries girls like me.” Her voice was full of contempt.
Hermione swallowed and turned to head back inside once again, but something inside of her
stayed her feet. That something buried deep down inside of her that had been growing larger
and larger, fed a constant diet of put-downs and snide remarks, and was fostered as the butt of
every pureblood joke. The tangled, twisted knot in the deep-down part of her that had always
been told she’d never be good enough, that she was undeserving, less-than.

Corvus was one of the only people aside from her parents who seemed to genuinely accept
her for her, flaws and all, scars and all. Her whole life, she’d been a square peg forcing
herself into a round hole. Gently othered by even her best friends at times, forcing friendships
far beyond their expiration dates just because no one else would have her. Trying to be
someone she wasn’t.

For all his faults—and all his non-faults—Corvus had never made her feel bad or broken or
different. Maybe they weren't meant to last forever. Forever was a long time.

But she wasn't going to be the one to fuck it away. Not before it had even begun.
Hermione paused with her hand on the doorframe. “Maybe you’re right,” she said in a small
voice. “Maybe it’s the novelty, the forbidden fruit. I don’t know. Maybe at the end of it, he’ll
break my fucking heart.” Her breath nearly hitched.

Pansy took another long drag, the cigarette lighting up her eyes orange-red in the darkness.

“I can’t pretend to know Corvus’s intentions. Maybe in a few years you’ll walk down the
aisle in a pretty, white dress with him at the end of it.” Hermione shrugged. “I never really
thought much about all that. All I know is right now. And while you’re in your bed later
tonight, lying awake, thinking of him, he’s going to be in his bed, lying awake, thinking of
me.”

Hermione turned and left, walking slowly down the spiral stone steps back towards the
eighth-year dormitory, but not before she saw the unbridled fury flash across Pansy’s pug
face. A deep-seated satisfaction curled up inside of her, knowing that despite her previous
protestations to the fact, Corvus was as much hers as she was his.

And yeah, Corvus was a lot. But so was she.

The common room was dark and deserted, everyone either still at Slughorn’s party or in their
rooms. Even the usually roaring fireplace had died down to embers now.

Hermione knocked quietly on Corvus’s door, then took a deep breath, preparing herself to eat
crow. She was done getting in her own way.

A few moments passed where she was left standing with only her nerve for company. She
brought her hand up, about to knock again when the door opened a few inches. She exhaled,
a smile tugging at her mouth until the silver eyes looking back at her looked away, and it
became incredibly obvious by the cropped hair at his temple that it was the wrong twin at the
door.

Malfoy opened the door wide and gestured with an open palm for her to come in. She was
taken aback for a moment, having never seen him in such casual attire. The low-slung
trackies on his hips and the way his cotton sleep shirt hung loose revealed a frame much
slighter than his brother’s. Where Corvus was filled out with a healthy layer of muscle, Draco
bordered on gaunt.

Like her.

With a quiet “thanks,” Hermione swallowed and walked past him into the boys’ room.

The beam of light under the bathroom door shined like a beacon. Corvus was just beyond.
Her would-be saviour from this awkward little one-on-one sesh with Malfoy.

“How was detention?” she asked, not quite looking at him.

Draco sat in his desk chair with a sigh. “Fine.”

“Was Cobb—?”
His head swivelled over to face her, levelling her with a glare. “I said it was fine.”

The bathroom door opened the next moment, and Corvus walked out. A grin lit up his face.
“Hey, you. I thought I wasn’t going to see you until tomorrow.” He leaned his head to the
side and continued towel-drying his long hair, his t-shirt damp at the shoulders.

Draco passed between them, crawling into his bed with a head shake and roll of his eyes that
didn’t quite seem to have the same bite in it as it did last week. The silencing charms he
placed around his own curtains as he closed them was less than subtle.

“Goodnight then, Draco,” Corvus said to the silenced bed, drawing a quiet giggle from
Hermione. He tossed his towel back into the bathroom then grabbed her by the hand and led
her to his enlarged bed. “All right?”

She nodded and sat cross-legged in the middle of his mattress while he leaned against the
pillows at the headboard. He was quiet, seemingly content to just let her work through her
thoughts.

“That thing you said,” she started, then looked at him hoping he understood.

“That thing I said?” he repeated.

Hermione sighed. “That ‘just be with me, and we can figure the rest out later’ thing? Well, I
want to figure it out.”

Corvus leaned forward and fixed the other pillow, patting the mattress beside him for her to
come sit next to him. “Is that what this is about? We don’t have to figure anything out
tonight, Hermione. I meant it when I said I’m happy with whatever you’re comfortable with.
Whatever you want to call us.”

She sat down beside him, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. “And if I want to call you
my boyfriend?” she asked, taking a tentative peek beside her.

Corvus’s warm gaze was beaming softly on her, his smile pulling into a devastatingly
irresistible grin. Warmth bloomed in Hermione’s cheeks, and she looked away, but Corvus
caught her chin with his fingers and turned her to face him again.

“Then I want to court you properly,” he whispered, and pressed his smiling lips to hers. He
took her hand and gently pulled her to straddle his lap. “Maybe not too proper.” Hermione
laughed, her nervous tension dissipating with her exhale. “I want to treasure every piece of
you,” he whispered into her mouth. “Your soft curves and your sharp edges, your gentle
breezes and your wildfires.” His mouth covered hers, gentle and persuasive.

She pulled back. "I have so many questions."

"Ask away."

“And we barely know each other,” she whispered, matching his volume in the quiet room.

Corvus hummed. “It doesn’t feel that way, does it?”

 No, it really didn’t.

His lips continued to explore the soft contours of her mouth, her jaw, her neck. He whispered
sweet nothings into her ear, and she understood how it felt to be completely consumed by
someone.

One hand slid under her dress and skimmed her hips and thighs. Hermione stilled his hands
underneath hers. “I just don’t want you to feel like I’m using you.”

A breathy laugh danced across the sensitive skin of her throat. “Use me, love.” His hips rose,
pressing himself into her.

A stuttered exhale escaped her lips as his other hand roamed intimately over the swell of her
breast. “I can’t—” God, this man was torturing her.

“Can’t what?” The hand on his hip guided her up and down his hard length, separated by
only a few pieces of thin fabric.

“The tap’s not quite clear yet.”

“What?” Corvus breathed against her neck, gently sucking and pressing kisses to her skin.

“I’m still,” her open palm hovered over her lower pelvis, "bleeding."

“That doesn’t bother me. His voice was hoarse and urgent, his pelvis rising up beneath hers
again. "Besides, it's your birthday."

Hermione slid down his body, tugging on the waistband of his bottoms as she settled between
his thighs. “And if I’d rather to do this . . . ?”

His eyes grew round. “You can do whatever you want with me.” He nodded as she slipped
his pants down his legs. He was already hard with the thrill of arousal. Hermione wrapped
her hand around his cock and licked a long, wet stripe up its length. Corvus threw his head
back into the pillow, gasping in sweet agony.

Chapter End Notes

Everybody eat 😛🖤
(Oh, wait, sorry, that's still to come)

Click for concerns about unexpected character bashings (may contain the lightest of
spoilers)
 He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother
Chapter Notes

Tags Update:

This has been my absolute favourite chapter to write so far and I'm so so excited to share
it!

🩷
Endless gratitude to my alphabetas, iftreescouldspeak and LiloLilyAnn, who make my
scrawlings coherent, and this whole writing thing a whole lot more fun

See the end of the chapter for more notes

| | |

Corvus had never considered himself lucky. Not since the moment he came screaming into
the world, the unforeseen second-born twin and harbinger of misfortune unto the Malfoy line.
He’d been doomed from the start. Twins were unlucky, and that was a sacred fact—at least to
the families who still practised the old ways. His family.

No, Corvus had never been particularly favoured by life, the unwanted second son, on the
receiving end of Lucius’s ire more often than not, just for having the audacity of being born.
But as he cradled the sleeping witch in his bed, he was certain there was no better fortune
than the one in his arms.

He sighed, breathing in the scent of her, notes of lavender and jasmine blossoming redolent in
his head. Her presence soothed him in a way he didn’t deserve.

Being cut down by her silver tongue outside of the headmistress’s office on his second day
had been a revelation. Goddess of war, indeed. He’d recognised Hermione Granger at once,
having known her from afar over the years, having heard about her first from his brother, then
from Viktor Krum, and, of course, more recently: her visage plastered all over wizarding
media. But Corvus never could’ve imagined how much better of a person she was face to
face. Better even than the stories his brother had whispered to him under the secret of night in
their shared bedroom over holidays together.

He glanced down at the sight of her, and if he didn’t know any better—hadn’t been told so his
entire childhood—he might’ve sworn he was bodily formed entirely from Felix Felicis.

Because in what world would a girl like her say yes to a sod like him?

Corvus possessed just enough selfishness not to question it too hard—he was his father’s son
after all, despite Lucius’s refusal to claim him as such—he would enjoy being with her as
long as it lasted. However long it took for her to come to her senses and find someone
actually worthy of her time.
Hermione sighed in her sleep, her bare breasts mashing against his ribcage and short-
circuiting his brain as all of his blood began migrating south. She really did have the most
perfect set of tits. Two perfect palmfuls—soft, warm . . .

Nope.

He wasn’t going there. Wasn’t going to let her trick him again with her perfect, perfect body
and stupidly irresistible brain. He only owed her about four orgasms at this point, the only
one of which she’d achieved with him so far had been her own doing.

He was weak.

He’d been so resolved last night, but then one glance from her big doe eyes and he’d lost all
sensibility. Was he actually supposed to have refused her on her birthday? His wicked witch
who sucked cock like it was her birthright?

You stupid motherfucker. Yes.

Corvus sighed. She was going to get bored once the novelty wore off and she realised it was
no longer charming to be with a guy who doesn’t even know how to get her off. He was
going to ruin them before they’d even started, all because he couldn’t tell her no. He was just
like all the others she’d been with before—supremely unqualified to even exist in the same
stratosphere as a witch of her calibre.

The worst part was that she didn’t even seem to care about his disappointing performances.
As if her expectations of intimacy were so low she’d set her bar through the floor and was
happy when a man simply didn’t trip over it.

Freckles danced in constellations across her nose and cheeks in the morning sun that was just
beginning to filter in through the thick, lead-paned window. Mahogany curls spiralled in big
loops over her shoulder and down her back. His own mouth curved into a smile watching her
pink, kissable lips turn down into a pout as she began traversing the realm between sleeping
and waking.

His smile faded as he recalled how dejected she’d been after Slughorn’s party last night. He
knew that Draco had a tendency to hold a grudge—so very un-Gemini of him—and whatever
Weasley had done in the past had probably been greatly exaggerated over time in his
brother’s sensibilities. But Corvus found that he also didn’t care much for wizards who felt
the need to take out the sufferings of their fragile egos on witches in their vicinity. And that
everyone else stood there so calmly—as if it were expected of him and therefore excusable—
well, he felt like he got a fairly healthy peek into the true character of one of Hermione’s
proclaimed best friends last night.

Hermione’s brows furrowed, tense even in unconsciousness, carrying the weight of

something far too heavy for her, even still. It pained him to know that his own flesh and
blood had been the cause of a great deal of her burdens. Draco had been forced to play a role,
and he’d be paying for their parents’ choices for the rest of his life. In reparations of gold,
sure, but worse than that—in horror-fueld nightmares, scars littering his body, the lasting
effects of the Cruciatus curse on his synapses and psyche. The forever-effects of dark curses
and heavy guilt circulating like lead in his body.

They were two sides of the same coin, these two. Both pawns in the game, pitted against one
another, both shouldering the weight of the world from things beyond their control.

Corvus looped his finger through a particularly coily lock, twirling through the length of it.
Gods, she was so beautiful and perfect. He just wished she could see herself the way he did.

| | |

Her incredible head of hair disappeared behind the door to the hospital wing for the day, and
Corvus slid down the wall, waiting for his brother to meet him after breakfast as usual. It
wasn’t long before his familiar likeness appeared in the entrance hall and they walked back
up to their dormitory together.

“Let’s go fly,” he proposed, hoping Draco would feel inclined and he wouldn’t have to
pressure him into it. But the fact was that his brother needed some fresh air and sunlight in
his life in the worst way . . . and he missed flying with him. “We should’ve just brought our
brooms down with us,” Corvus said through a yawn.

“Yeah, just bring two firebolts down to the Great Hall. That won’t make everyone stare.”
Draco rolled his eyes.

“Since when do you care about everyone staring?” Corvus gave Draco a shove to his ribs
when he didn’t respond, his brother’s shoulder rocking the frame of a rather affronted portrait
in the stairwell. Corvus’s snigger was stripped right out of his throat with a yelp as his foot
fell straight through a vanishing step and he found himself stuck in the stairs. Draco nearly
doubled over in a fit of laughter.

“Don’t worry about it,” Neville said, coming up behind him and scooping him up from under
his arms. “Happens to everyone their first few weeks here.” He gave Corvus a pat on the back
and continued on up, taking the stairs two at a time ahead of them.

“You happy?” Corvus threw his hands out with a huff.

The shadow of the smile still stretched across Draco’s face was a sight for sore eyes.
“Quite.”

After entering their shared dormitory, Corvus stripped out of his school robes and pulled a
thick, Gryffindor jumper over his shirtsleeves. He searched through his wardrobe for the scarf
he had on loan from Hermione. Draco was shirtless and rummaging through his trunk for an
undershirt to layer. The silver-white striations of scar tissue veining over his body was a sight
Corvus wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to, his brother’s damaged body a testament to his inner
wounds that were impossibly harder to heal.

Draco pulled on a thermal, subconsciously tugging the sleeve so that it covered his Dark
Mark—the same caustic ink that their father had worn so proudly. Fury lanced through him
as it always did when he caught a glimpse. Fury that their father would brand his own son—
the one son he actually claimed to love—and that Corvus hadn’t been home to protect his
brother from any of it. He’d been sulking at Durmstrang, not understanding why his parents
had paid extra for summer boarding instead of allowing him to come home.

It certainly wasn’t for Corvus’s own protection, Lucius never cared enough about him for
that.

With Malfoy Manor as the new headquarters for the regime, it was better that the lesser-
known defect of the Malfoy line stay out of view of his father’s associates and their master.

Corvus shuddered to think how much worse it would’ve been for Draco had everyone known
how replaceable he was. That he was assumed by most to be the last heir to two Sacred lines
had been his saving grace on more than one occasion, fanatical as the Dark Lord was about
pureblood lineage.

“Ready?” Draco asked him, retrieving their broomsticks from the corner.

Corvus didn’t like the way Draco’s clothes hung off him. He still hadn’t put any weight back
on since the dust had settled over the summer and their home had been returned to them.
Corvus did what he could for him—encouraging him to exercise and eat and slowly return to
himself—but it would be a long-fought battle.

“Let’s go.” Corvus grinned.

With brooms in hand and jackets for the chilly morning, he and his brother climbed up
another flight to the eighth-floor observation deck, mounted up, and set off at a leisurely pace
over the grounds.

It was easier, somehow, in the wide-open air, to talk about the real stuff. The heavy stuff.
Corvus swung his feet, dangling free of his stirrups while they flew low and slow to start, the
occasional brotherly shoulder-checks meant to keep each other on their toes but not to unseat
one another.

“Did you see the sports section this morning? Looks like Falmouth cocked up their whole
season trading Harper.” Draco’s eyes snapped over, affronted, as if Corvus were deliberately
goading him instead of speaking the truth. But they both knew Wimbourne was going to
sweep the league this year. It wasn’t his fault that Draco supported the inferior team.

“Okay, first of all, fuck you, secondly, are you high? In what world is Harper a better Chaser
than Sutton—?”

Corvus grinned. Signs of life—even if just irritation—were a net positive. He’d rile Draco up
with Quidditch minutiae every minute of every day if that’s what it took. “Ten Galleons says
they lose to the Cannons next month.”

Draco eyed him like he'd gone mad. “A hundred,” he countered.

Corvus stretched out his hand to shake on it. “Deal.”

A flock of birds flew up out of the Forbidden Forest in the distance, the surrounding canopy
of trees swaying and shuddering as if something terrible were lurking below its surface. He
remembered hearing rumour of a minotaur roaming its grounds.

“So . . .” There was no organic way to broach the conversation, he’d have to just say it. “I’m
courting Hermione,” he told Draco. “Officially.”

Draco kept his eyes trained forwards, the subtlest lift of his brows the only sign belying his
outer calm. “That was quick, little brother.”

Corvus planted his heels in the footrest and accelerated a notch to catch back up as Draco
sped away, putting the same physical distance between them as he did with the moniker he
only used when he retreated inwards. The wind whipped his hair back. “I wanted to tell you
before everyone else found out,” he said, a bit louder as they sped up. “And I wanted to make
sure you were fine with—”

“I already said it was fine,” Draco clipped. “We already talked about it. You know how I feel
about her the same way we all know how she feels about me.” Draco looked over at him
finally, slowing his pace a half notch, his eyes softening. “She deserves someone who’s going
to treat her well for once—”

“You had a part to play, Draco, she’d understand if you just—” Sardonic laughter cut him
off.

“Not sure I deserve her understanding; there’s no excuse. The things I said straight to her
face, long before I had to. We all have choices, and I made mine.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Not really interested in having this conversation again.” Draco steered them away from the
Quidditch pitch where one of the House teams was practising, and headed to circle the outer
shore of the Black Lake. “So you’re courting.” Draco looked over at him, the corner of his
mouth pulling into a genuine smile. “I’m happy for you.”

Corvus still didn’t quite believe how well his brother was taking it. It certainly never played
out this way in the stories he’d heard—boy has longtime crush on girl, boy’s brother dates
girl instead, boy is simply okay with it—but Draco was deeply in his self-loathing era. He
was so worried about making atonements that he was giving up on everything he’d once
cared about.

“You’re perfect for each other.” Draco shrugged. “She practically is you . . . with anger
issues.”

The cold wind hurt Corvus’s teeth, but he couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face. “No, in that
way, she’s like you.”

Draco sped off, the smirk on his face impossible to miss. Corvus gripped his broomstick with
his gloved fingers and dove after him. The wind blew his hair back, the loose strands
whipping over his shoulders. Gods, he loved flying.
“Did you get everything sorted with the Greengrasses?” he asked when he caught up again
around the farthest side of the lake.

Draco’s cheeks were rosy from the crisp morning air rushing against his face. Corvus
imagined he looked similarly. “I did,” Draco answered. “It’s off, officially.”

Corvus exhaled in relief. Just because their betrothal contract was no longer binding with
Lucius, its proprietor, gone, didn’t mean that the Greengrasses couldn’t still make it a painful,
drawn-out dissolution process if they’d wanted to. And the last he and Draco knew, they were
still firmly of the pro-betrothal philosophy.

“Astoria convinced them somehow,” he continued. Corvus shook his head in awe. Perhaps
Draco’s luck was taking a turn after all. Being stuck in a contract to someone you didn’t
particularly care for was one thing. Being stuck in a contract to someone who loathed you
entirely was quite another. And Astoria had always hated Draco’s guts, ever since they were
kids. “Daphne’s mad at me for whatever reason now, and Pansy’s been up my arsecrack all
term trying to take Astoria’s place.”

“Oh she’d make a lovely wife for you, Drac— ow!” Corvus coughed, the sharp elbow to his
ribs painful even through his thick layers. “Very demure, very mindful, a lovely Malfoy wife,”
he mimicked their mother’s inflexion. He dodged Draco’s hip-check that time.

“If demure was of any interest to me”—he said the word as if it disgusted him—“I would’ve
kept the Greengrass betrothal.”

“Nothing says wifey material like Astoria’s open hatred of you—”

Draco snorted. “More like her open relationship with the Creevey kid.” Draco shook his head
and shrugged. “Whatever makes her happy, I guess. I’m just glad neither of us have to deal
with each other for the rest of our lives.” He nodded towards the shore of the black lake
where a giant squid was sunbathing in its shallow waters. “Want to see something cool?”

His brother took off in an accelerated descent, a carefree smile gracing his face and looking
more relaxed than he had in years.

| | |

It was after hours by the time he and Hermione had gotten their Wolfsbane started, their
cauldron simmering away for the next six days per the procedure. The castle was dark and
completely deserted, everyone back in their common rooms or their beds, preparing for the
coming week ahead.

Most of their Potions classmates were a half moon cycle behind them, filtering in and out of
the classroom tonight with their freshly cultivated ingredients from the greenhouses,
preparing to brew on the next new moon instead of tonight’s full.

Corvus couldn’t care less whether or not his and Hermione’s first brew ended up successful.
He gave a gentle squeeze to the hand folded up inside of his and smiled over at her, her lip
pulled between her teeth, deep in thought. He’d honestly love nothing more than to brew with
the little witch for the rest of term, working through the potion together, over and over until
they got it right.

“Okay, so you and Draco are identical twins? As in—shared a womb, came out through the
same vagina—”

“My mother’s, yes, thanks for that image.” He cringed. “We shared a womb, a placenta, we
are a one-hundred-percent genetic match.” Hermione hadn’t wasted a single second,
barraging him the moment they were out of the Potions classroom, away from earshot of the
few others who’d occupied the space, passing through to store their ingredients.

“But then why is he Malfoy and you’re Black?” He should’ve expected Hermione’s rapid-fire
line of questioning once she finally had the time to ask—she’d been sitting on this topic for
over twenty-four hours now. “I mean—you have the same father.”

“Ah. Only biologically,” he clarified.

An adorable frown furrowed her brows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—Lucius sired me, yes. Genetically, I am Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy’s biological
son, same as Draco. But I am the second-born son.” He took a deep breath when it became
clear she still wasn’t following. “There is blood magic that ensures the Malfoy line will
produce one single living male heir. To prevent inheritance issues and dividation of the
family fortune.”

“That’s—” But what that was, he wouldn’t know. Hermione looked about to have a stroke at
the lengths purebloods would go to protect their lines.

“Since wizards live well into their hundreds, they can always make a do-over heir if they end
up not having a son, grandson, and great-grandson . . . it’s never come to that. Right now is
actually the closest to extinction the Malfoy line has ever been, but hey, Sanctimonia Vincent
Semper, ” he said with a roll of his eyes. “So, no, the Lucius who raised my brother was not
the same Lucius that I grew up with. He was the heir, I was the unfortunate and unwanted
spare.”

Hermione frowned. “Were you raised together in Malfoy Manor?”

“We were. But my father refused to legitimise me when I was born, so by default, I remained
a Black in name.”

“Wait. What?”

“To try and counter the ill luck of having twins,” he continued. “Like maybe if he only
claimed one legitimate heir from our birth, it would cancel out my existence. I’m not sure it
worked out for him to be honest.” He smirked. If ever a man had deserved The Kiss . . .

“Wait, wait, wait.” Hermione stopped walking in the middle of the staircase, looking
somewhere in the space between them and the ground, shaking her head. “How can he even
—even if we’re going to pretend to believe in superstition—like not acknowledging his son
would actually change anything—it’s delusional, it’s—”

“It’s Lucius Malfoy,” he said wryly.

“How does that even work? How do you just not claim one of your kids?”

“He signed Draco’s birth certificate but refused mine. So technically that would classify me
as a bastard—at least the way the pureblood lineage works,” he amended at her outraged
look, “and it retroactivated me as a blooded Black in name, not just in blood like Draco is.”

Hermione nodded, her tongue sliding over the front of her teeth in thought. “Why didn’t we
see you on the tapestry?”

“What is this tapestry everyone keeps referring to?” Nope. She was doing it again. “Hey, wait
—I said you get one question per orgasm, little witch. I’m afraid we’re going to have to put a
pin in this conversation—”

She laughed, smoothing right past the edges of his boundaries the way she did when her brain
accelerated faster than her sentences. “If you’re the true Black heir, in name, then that would
mean Grimmauld is yours too—”

“What's Grimmauld—?”

“—It let Sirius take possession after he was disowned because there was no other alternative,
and it let him bequeath it to Harry, but as soon as a legitimate Black heir came of age it
became yours—because blood magic is stronger than contractual—they both took
guardianship, not ownership. Oh god, Kreacher!”

“‘Creature’?” Corvus tried looking where she was looking when a small pop of Apparition
sounded just before them. This was Grimmauld?

An ancient house elf was bowing to him, nose touching the marble landing of the staircase.
“Kreacher is pleased to be of service to the rightful heir to the Noble and Most Ancient
House of Black.”

“The fuck?” he whispered under his breath, horrified, looking over to Hermione who was
staring wide-eyed and astounded.

“Kreacher?” she hedged. “Do you . . . remember me?” Her voice was tentative. The little elf
stood upright and looked at her between narrowed lids. Corvus had never seen a house elf
with a permanent frown etched into his features before, usually such eagerly joyful beings.

“Kreacher remembers, miss,” the elf mumbled, his voice surprisingly low and gravelled.

Hermione’s hand flew up to her mouth, her eyes nearly misty with emotion for reasons that
didn’t quite make sense to him. It was a lot to take in—the fact that he somehow had an elf,
and that his girlfriend apparently knew him already.

“What?” Corvus asked, looking between her and the elf. “What’s—”
She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter.” A laugh bubbled out of her. “I saw you at the battle,
Kreacher. With the Hogwarts elves. Have you been here all this time?”

Kreacher gave a singular, deep nod, reminiscent of a bow. “Kreacher has been waiting for his
true Master to come of age and honour him with a ceremonial summons.” He turned back to
Corvus, expectantly.

“A ceremonial—” Holy shit. This was supposed to be a much more formal rite than a casual
accidental summons in the middle of the grand staircase. Corvus cleared his throat and
straightened. “Thank you for your service, Kreacher, erm . . . for now, please—ah—please
continue with . . . wherever it is you want to do.”

Gods, it was hard to think of the proper thing to say to this . . . well, this creature now
apparently in his care. Corvus didn’t particularly want a house elf, but he didn’t dare offend
him with clothes on their first meeting—in public, no less. There was no worse dishonour in
elvish culture.

Kreacher bowed low one more time and disappeared with a soft pop.

Corvus looked over at Hermione, his turn to be astounded. “So apparently I have an elf?”

“And a terraced house in London. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.” She laughed.
“Among . . . many others, I’d imagine.”

He raked a hand through his hair, taking in a deep breath through his nose and exhaling
through his mouth. “You’ve been there?”

“I lived there. For a little while, anyway.” A soft smile crossed her features.

He had so many questions. But first things first. “Come on.” He grabbed her hand and led her
up to his dormitory. Questions could.

| | |

Corvus lay in his bed, undressed, waiting. He tried reading his book but it was pointless. His
mind kept wandering back to the witch just in the other room. Draco was no help—already
asleep by the time they got back in. He looked over at the Slytherin-green curtains already
drawn and silenced for the night.

Corvus stretched his legs under the covers, then changed his mind and sat up straight against
the headboard. He thought better of his state of dishabille and put on a t-shirt and boxers and
sat down on the edge of the bed for a little while before climbing back inside again. What
was she doing in there for so long?

Finally, the bathroom door cracked open, slicing the dormitory with a bright beam of light.
She flipped it off and hesitated by the door for just a moment, her eyes adjusting to the
darkened bedroom and casting a careful glance at his brother’s side of the room. Corvus sat
back up.
Fuck, she was perfect—if there was a sight better than her bare body, it was her dressed in his
sleep clothes, her perky tits mounded beneath the soft, grey cotton, the shoulder seams
hanging nearly halfway down to her elbows. She tiptoed quietly across the room, tugging at
the bottom hem of the shirt, AC/DC plastered over her chest in red letters.

Corvus held his arms out, and she came to stand between his legs, nearly eye-level with him
sitting on the edge of the bed again. He ran his hands up and down her arms, and she leaned
in and kissed him—her lips tingling cinnamon from the toothpaste she’d pinched from him in
the bathroom just now. His lips curved into a grin against hers. She was so fucking precious.

His girl.

“I like you in my clothes, Miss Granger,” he murmured against her lips.

Hermione smiled and her palm pressed against his groin, already hard for her. “Funny, I like
you unclothed.” She pressed forwards and climbed up into his lap. His arms drew around her,
pulling her in, closer, more . . .

But there was only one way this was going to go tonight, and it wasn’t going to happen if he
let her call all the shots again.

Corvus stood with her in his arms, a muffled squeal of surprise escaping her when he turned
and dropped her down on his mattress. “Not tonight, witch.”

He grabbed Hermione’s ankle and pulled her down into the middle of the bed. She let loose
another squeal of surprise and delight, her eyes aglow in the low lamplight. Corvus climbed,
hovering over top of her, his hands snaking under her t-shirt, cupping under her breasts. He
pulled her shirt up and fuck, he could just live right here for the rest of his life and die happy.

She moaned when he brought his mouth to her chest and exhaled over the wet, rosy skin, and
again when he repeated it with the other side. Cupping both of her breasts, he sucked and
licked, her skin pebbling into gooseflesh as her hips squirmed against his stomach. Corvus’s
lips curled up, smiling into her skin as he trailed kisses down to her navel and a soft,
whispered “fuck . . .” left her lips.

He eased her shirt over her head, her curls springing free. She leaned forwards on her elbows,
topless, in nothing but the boxers he lent her, looking like his best dream come true.

He was falling so hard and fast for her. Her gorgeous golden complexion that couldn’t even
be natural—how does a person glow like that? As if she were made from sunshine. Not only
was she the brightest witch he’d ever met, the fierce way she protected his brother last week
—even though she swore she hated him . . . even though he believed her—gods, she couldn’t
be more perfect if she tried.

“Show me what you do when you’re alone,” he whispered into her mouth, weaving his
fingers through her scalp and pulling her in for a kiss before sitting back on his knees to
watch.
Hermione swallowed hard, hesitating for a moment before she slipped her thumbs under the
waistband of his boxers and slid them down her hips. Corvus helped get them around the
curve of her arse and off. Slowly, her knees fell open and her left hand crept down to her
stomach, then reached between her thighs.

She held his gaze as her two fingers swept through the wetness at her centre, drawing it up
and around herself, languidly gathering more of the slick wetness. Her fingers glided across
her skin, her breathing slowing and deepening until finally she concentrated on her clit,
drawing tight circles around it.

He kept watching, waiting, until it became clear that this was it—there wasn’t any more to it.

“Okay, okay, I’ve got it.” He held her wrist and gently moved her hand away. On a whim, he
brought it up to his mouth and sucked on the tips of her two fingers. Her taste surprised him
—sort of salty but not quite. Like an organic, tangy sort of—he swirled his tongue, sucking
her fingers clean and drawing a soft moan from her—there were no words for it; she was
simply manna.

Corvus crawled between her legs, wrapping his arms around her thighs to spread her wide
open for him. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, and she dropped her head back onto the pillow,
thighs tensing, her palm over her eyes. “Talk to me,” he asked. This wasn’t the Hermione
he’d grown accustomed to, the fearless, spirited, gorgeous witch he’d come to know.

Hermione jerked a shoulder, her arms wrapping around herself. “You don’t have to . . . stare
at it,” she finally said.

“We’re getting acquainted, don’t rush us,” he teased, earning a roll of her beautiful eyes, but
some of the tension in her features had softened. “I like looking at you,” he continued, and
leaned down to press a kiss square on the velvety smooth softness of her.

Her thighs squeezed together, wrapping around his head, her fingers twisting into his hair. He
moaned and so did she, the chain reaction of pleasure chasing them around in circles. Her
legs sprang apart, freeing him from the sanctuary of her perfect pussy. “You don’t have to do
that,” she leant back up on her elbows. “I know it’s not—”

“I could eat you up, goddess.” His eyes flicked up to hers, her doe eyes growing even larger.
“And I plan to.” He pressed the whisper of a kiss to her one more time. “Next time.” Corvus
was just selfish enough. “The first time I make you come, I want it to be around my cock.”

She sat up to watch him undress, pride swelling in his chest when her jaw fell slack when he
removed his boxers and tossed them aside. He took himself in his fist, giving a few cursory
strokes while his other hand touched her. He mimicked her moves, sliding his thumb through
her wetness, up and down, then pulling it up and pressing gently on her clit, circling around it
—

Her hand flew to his, stilling it by the wrist.

“Gentle,” she warned softly, then guided his thumb up towards the crest. She guided him in
slow, soft circles, then let go of his hand. Her head fell back, sending her sweet little moans
up towards the canopy of his bed. “More,” she breathed, “please.”

Corvus notched himself at her entrance, touching her warm, wet centre with the sensitive tip
of his erection and took a deep breath. His thumb continued to circle her, as he began to press
inside, parting her open little by little.

Having her underneath him was far more intimate than the first time in the stockroom—that
had all happened so fast, practically a fever dream—and the handjob in the greenhouse. And
the other night when she rode him while he lay there and watched like a feckless moron. Or
that otherworldly blowie last night while he . . . lay there and watched like a feckless moron.
Something about being the person who’s giving—to someone who’s laying there, willing to
receive him—sparked a primal urge to take her and taste her and call her his, and to be hers
in return.

He laid himself down over top of her, supporting the majority of his weight on his elbows,
enveloping himself around her body in search of a comfortable way to support himself
without crushing her. He inched forwards until their pelvises pressed together, his dipshit of a
cock twitching inside of her like this was in any way about Corvus Junior tonight.

Hermione hiked up her leg and wrapped it around his right hip, hooking around him and
pulling him in tighter. Fuck. The mere idea of this woman lying beneath him, not only a
willing participant but actually, seemingly enjoying him being inside of her body—the trust
she had in him. Her choosing him. She was going to fuck around and make him feel wanted.

He let her adjust to his intrusion, squeezing his cock with her tight inner walls until he felt
her breathing slow and deepen again, and she began to move underneath him, tilting her
pelvis against him. He pulled out an inch, and back in, rocking into her, drawing moans and
all sorts of pretty noises from her.

“Slower.” Her hand darted up to his chest, her chin dropping to look at where they were
joined together.

He dropped his head, burying his face in her neck, so thankful he’d had a wank earlier or else
he would’ve come in two seconds flat. She was so fucking warm and wet, gripping him so
tightly inside of her, welcoming him home . . .

Her skin was too soft to be real—just smooth and warm all over, and she smelled so fucking
good. Her curls were ambrosia, the jasmine notes in her hair, euphoric. She moved her hips,
drawing a moan from deep inside of his chest. How was it possible for this to get even better?

He pulled out another inch, driving back in, pressing his pelvis firmly into hers. Fuck, she
was beautiful. He never wanted this feeling to end.

She was perfect in every way.

He followed her directions, adjusting firmer, softer, slower, faster with the subtle cues she
gave. Hermione was an open book, and he was a fast learner besides. A gasp, a moan, a mewl
directing him to give her more, give it to her faster and harder or softer and slower.
She was enjoying this, but he wasn’t nearly ready for it to be over.

Corvus pulled himself back up on his elbows, very aware of his size and weight over the top
of her smaller frame. He still couldn’t comprehend the fact that she was letting him do these
things to her. He was so far beyond the point of no return, it wasn’t even funny, so gone for
this little witch in his bed.

He sat further up, his weight resting on both of his fists on the mattress beside her hips. The
different angle brought a new slew of pleasurable noises from her. Her hand flew to her
stomach, fingers fanning over her pelvis.

“Oh, fuck,” she moaned, her eyes widening and then turning back up to him. “Feel,” she said,
pulling his hand to her stomach where hers had been.

His jaw fell slack, his pleasure doubling as he pressed down, feeling her stomach distending
from the pressure of his cock against her front wall, pressing into his hand. He looked back at
her, her pupils blown wide and swearing incoherently under her breath.

Her head fell back into the pillows, her arms thrashing beside her, fisting the sheets as a shout
tore from her throat when he pressed himself deeper, harder, faster inside of her. He pressed
down more firmly on her stomach, his thumb creeping down to place pressure on her clit.

He could wax poetic about the bounce of her tits.

Her eyes rolled back, and he could tell he was doing it right by the noises escaping past her
lips. Her muscles tightened, her entire body tensing in anticipation of the release that tore
through her with a scream stifled by her own palm slapped over her mouth.

Fuck. Yes. An amalgamation of victory and relief ripped through him. That what he lacked in
skill, he more than made up for in effort and enthusiasm—story of his life.

She clenched around him, squeezing his cock in decrescendoing pulls.

Corvus swore under his breath, amazed at the privilege of watching her come undone,
watching her let go of the tightly-wound control she brandished more like a sword than a
shield.

He leant back down to his elbows, her body limp and spent beneath him. The short-lived
feeling of victory was replaced now with uncertainty—he’d spent the last half hour trying not
to come, should he keep going now? Was that selfish? This was a first for him, were they . . .
done? Her fingers fisted through his hair and pulled him into a crushing kiss. She rolled her
hips again, encouraging him to continue, so he did. Gods, her eagerness for him might be his
biggest turn-on.

Her breathing was heavy, and she keened and whined quietly while he drove into her. He’d
spent so long fighting it off, it almost didn’t feel right to allow himself this release now. Her
fingertips grazed down his neck and shoulders, touching and exploring him. She gripped his
hips and tilted her pelvis up, and that was all it took.
He spilled into her with a guttural groan—emptying himself completely. All of his strength,
his restraint, his energy flowed into her, exploding in a bouquet of pleasure that flowed
through him until all he knew was her, and yes, and more.

He slowly withdrew, immediately dropping to the bed beside her and gathering her in his
arms. They stayed like that for a while in the quiet, just breathing together and coming down
from their respective highs. Corvus might never leave this bed again.

“That was . . .” Her eyes fluttered, her chest still heaving.

“Yeah.” His head was empty. No thoughts, just vibes. Trying to stay awake as long as he
could to make this moment last.

Finally, she rolled to her side, propping her head up on one hand. Her honey eyes roved over
his chest, his arms, and up to his face. “Why are you really here, Corvus? You’ve already left
Durmstrang, you’ve presumably already taken your N.E.W.T.s, why come back for another
year? It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

The speed at which Hermione started asking questions again in the post-orgasmic haze was
downright offensive. “Are you sure that’s the question you want to ask me? It may be years
before I figure out how to do that to you again and you get to ask another one.”

Hermione pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded. “When I asked before, you
said you were here for your brother—”

He sighed. “Draco . . . I don’t think it’s fair of me to tell his story, but . . . he’s not okay.” Her
brow furrowed, her eyes moving with her thoughts. “I chose not to take N.E.W.T.s this
summer. I knew the large gaps between the Durmstrang curriculum and the one here would
leave me at best—eight?” I had no chance of passing History of Magic when they test on
British history and Durmstrang only briefly touches on it. He held up one finger, ticking it off
and then another. “They don’t even teach Muggle Studies. Care of Magical Creatures—we
learned an entirely different set of fauna than they teach here. And I’m not sure how I’d fare
on Defence when the Dark Arts are taught so differently.”

He could see in her expression that she hadn’t considered before what it would be like to be
taught by one school’s standards and be tested by another, just to acquire the proper
accreditations to procure a job in wizarding Britain’s Ministry or a Ministry-sanctioned field
of study.

“I was meant to have time to prepare for them through the summer when they offered a
second round of testing for international students, but—”

“Mal—Draco needed you here,” she finished for him.

Corvus nodded, his gaze trained towards the canopy above. “He didn’t exactly get to finish
his seventh year”—he gestured towards her—“same as you, different circumstances.”
Different sides of the same coin once again. “He couldn’t sit his N.E.W.T.s with me, and
honestly, I wasn’t nearly as prepared for the tests as I should’ve been. Professor McGonagall
 came to the manor over the summer to discuss Draco’s return for an eighth year, and she
extended the invitation to me as well, given our—unique circumstances.”

“You feel responsible for him.” It wasn’t a question, ever the perceptive person. “That’s”—
she blew out a heavy exhale—“heavy.”

“Nah.” A smile pulled at the corner of Corvus’s lips. “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.”

Hermione’s face snapped to his, her visage perplexed. “Did you just—?” He met her eyes, his
most innocent expression on his face. “Who even are you, Corvus Black?”

“Ah . . . that’s a whole ‘nother question, Miss Granger. For that, there’s a price—” He rolled
over, burying his face in her neck to her squeals and laughter.

“Now, I do believe I owe you three more, love—so that you may continue to barrage me with
questions about my dark and mysterious past—” The pillow hit him square in the face, her
laughter dancing in his ears, and Corvus thought for a fleeting moment, that perhaps luck had
been with him all this time, directing him through a very specific chain of events that led him
here to this moment. Falling for her felt an awful lot like being home.

Chapter End Notes

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother by The Hollies

 W.A.N.K. Bank
Chapter Notes

Click here for Housekeeping Updates

may have caused in the group chat last week 🩷

This chapter was made possible by my fellow [Link]. Sorry for any awakenings I
(I’m not). And big-time love to
LiloLilyAnn and iftreescouldspeak for their always-phenomenal beta work

See the end of the chapter for more notes

| | |

The rest of September passed for Hermione in a nebulous whirl of evenings spent working in
the hospital wing or studying for N.E.W.T.s, nights full of sweet, orgasmic bliss, and in
between, a strangely gratifying amount of duelling.

Magic sang in her metacarpals as she thrust her palm outwards, projecting her seventh non-
verbal Shield Charm and panting from the exertion.

“Switch!” Cobb’s voice grated in her ear, echoing across the enlarged Defence classroom.

Hermione stood tall, resuming sixth position, while across from her, Corvus pulled her red
scrunchie off of his wrist and tied his hair up into a knot at the back of his head. Wanker. He
took a defensive stance, his wand held out before him, and a smile spread across his face.

He was always fucking smiling.

She brushed her hair back behind her ears, her mane twice its normal size now, thanks to the
jinx that got past her second shield.

Whatever.

He looked more ridiculous than she did, what with those absurd antlers growing out of the
top of his head. A grin pulled at the corner of her lips. She was particularly proud of that one.
Hermione slid her right foot forward, pushing through the blanket of flower petals that had
rained down on her after making it past her fifth shield. Notes of their perfumed fragrance
kept threatening to make her sneeze. She needed to even the score.

“Diminuendo!” she incanted. The yellow beam of light heading straight for his hips was
deflected at the last moment.

“A shrinking spell? Really?” he whinged before shaking his head and tutting. “Sweetheart,
that’s just punishing yourself.”
It would’ve been worth it to take him down a few pegs.

Corvus cast beautifully, his physical strength and on-the-fly creativity lending to a gracefully
powerful and formidable duellist. His immaculate form belied absolutely zero predictability
in his casting.

“Switch!” Cobb called again.

A red beam of light shot out of the end of Corvus’s wand before Hermione could get into
position, before he’d even finished forming the word, “Stupefy!”

“Shit—” She barely got her shield up in time.

“Language, Miss Granger, that’ll be five points from Gryffindor,” Cobb droned as he walked
behind her, continuing to survey around the room.

Her heart pounded furiously, adrenaline pumping through her veins. There was undeniable,
visceral power in Corvus's spellcasting. He didn’t hold anything back against her, and she
hated how attractive she found his strength and skill.

“Alar—!”

“Switch!”

Hermione clapped her mouth shut, having almost casted out of turn in her fervour. Corvus
raised a condescending eyebrow and sunk down into third position.

“Alarte Ascendare!” She threw a curve in her trajectory with the flick of her wrist at the last
second, bending the charm around the expanding circumference of his shield before he could
block it. Satisfaction curled up inside of her as their score evened, 2-2. She laughed as his
arms and legs flailed instinctively while he shot towards the vaulted ceiling before the grace
of her “Aresto Momentum” brought him slowly back to the floor.

His feet were barely back on the ground before Cobb instructed them to switch again and
Corvus’s wand stabbed into the air between them. “Carpe Retractum!”

The orange light annihilated her shield, the force of his charm conducting through her
borrowed walnut wand into its very dragon-heartstring core and vibrating down the length of
her ulna. Her entire arm ached from the intensity as her feet slid through purple petals and
she was pulled across the room and into his arms.

“Why, hello there,” he crooned, snuggling her closer into his chest. Warmth bloomed inside
of her. The way their bodies fit together just right, the suggestive way his eyes gazed into
hers, the way his hand fell—

“A reminder that the objective is to cast an effective shield charm, Miss Granger,” Cobb
groused as he passed behind Corvus.

“I’m going to kill you,” she gritted through clenched teeth.

Corvus leant down to whisper against her lips, “I’d like to see you try.”

Hermione broke out of his embrace just before he could kiss her and shuffled back across the
room with a huff. About half her classmates had taken a seat by now, spent, and truth be told,
she should probably join them. But she was down 2-3, and that just wasn’t going to happen.

By the time she reached her place and spun around to face Corvus, it was her turn to shield
once again. She threw it up with renewed vigour, nearly ricocheting the purple beam of light
right back at him, and he fucking smiled again.

“Switch!” Cobb yelled, but the bell rang in the next moment, dismissing them for lunch.
“Wands down, class, good work. Be sure to help your partners with any countercurses and
Finites they may need. Wednesday we’ll move on to wandless theory.”

Hermione and Corvus both lowered their wands, not taking their eyes off each other as they
returned to their seats and gathered their things. Hot molten liquid pooled in her arms as his
fingers grazed her bicep and trailed down to her hand, clasping it inside of his.

“What’s the countercharm?” he asked, nodding his head to the side, indicating the antlers on
his head. Hermione eyed him carefully, her tongue sliding between her teeth and her lip.

“You first,” she countered, pointing at her enormous hair. Corvus narrowed his eyes, then
attempted a Finite Incantatum on himself. Hermione hid her grin when it didn’t work and
finished packing up her bag. They were the last ones out of the classroom, the corridors
flooding with students now headed to lunch. “You might have to go to the hospital wing,” she
offered, “get that looked at by proper healing staff—” She squealed as his hand wrapped
around her ribs and he pulled her into an alcove. “What’re you—”

Soft lips descended over hers as Corvus’s arm snaked around the back of her neck and pulled
her in close. Hermione sank into him, her head resting in the crook of his elbow. She moaned,
ensconced in his cedarwood musk and the spice of his cinnamon kiss. He lost his breath with
a soft “oof” when she shoved him up against the stone wall and lifted up on her toes,
dragging her lips over the delicate pulse point in his neck. His Adam’s apple bobbed when
she kissed the hollow of his throat and trailed exploratory kisses up to his jaw.

“C’mon,” she whispered against his skin, “let’s go have lunch.”

Corvus sighed as she pulled away, and he pushed off the wall, leaning forward to discreetly
adjust himself in his trousers. Hermione was grinning when he held his hand out for her, and
led her to the staircase landing. Her arm tugged out behind her as Corvus turned to head
down and she headed up.

A look of adorable confusion crossed his features while his synapses fired in double-time to
catch up with her earlier meaning. “Oh you meant . . .?”

“Lunch,” she repeated, nodding. A huge smile crested over his face, and he nodded slowly.

“Lunch,” he echoed.
Hands clasped together, they ran up the stairs to the eighth-year dormitories against the flow
of students moving through the corridors to the Great Hall. They didn’t say a word, singularly
motivated to get to Corvus’s bed as fast as humanly possible.

The moment his door was shut, their bags and wands were thrown aside. Hermione yanked
his Gryffindor robes off his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt while he pulled off his red-
and-gold tie. With her fingers fumbling on the last ones, he threaded his through her
voluminous, borderline-sentient tresses and pulled her in for a crushing kiss.

She moaned softly into his mouth, melting into him for a moment before regaining her
senses. She still had a score to even. She pulled him backwards by the two sides of his open
shirt, turning him and pushing him down on the bed. The duel continued as his arm snaked
around her waist and flipped their positions with her on the bed and him standing. He was
looking down at her, very satisfied with himself as the tips of his antlers grazed the red velvet
canopy of his bed hangings.

“I fucking love your hair,” he said, his eyes raking over its enlarged mass with appreciation
of his earlier handiwork. But it was more than that. It was his constant adoration, the way he
made her genuinely feel beautiful, even when—especially when—she felt anything but.

“Grab my wand,” she panted. Fuck the score. She nodded to his antlers. “I’ll vanish them.”

Corvus leant down, resting his weight on the fists curled into the mattress beside her hips. His
kiss was slow and languid, his tongue lazily exploring her mouth. “Too late,” he whispered.
“This is who I am now, Hermione.”

His lips covered hers, swallowing her laughter before trailing down her jaw. All thoughts of
the ridiculous antlers vanished as he sank to his knees in front of the bed and flipped her skirt
up, exposing her and her orange lace g-string to the room. He grinned up at her, and
Hermione closed her knees, throwing her head back on the bed, hiding the blush on her
cheeks.

“Aww, I love these ones,” he crooned, gently guiding her thighs back open and sliding his
finger under the gusset.

“You love every pair,” she countered, lifting her gaze to his once again.

“Spoiler: it’s the witch inside of them that does it for me.” He didn’t take his eyes off of her
as his finger slid down the length of fabric before yanking them to the side and lowering his
mouth upon her incredibly wet centre.

Hermione’s hands shot out, her palms wrapping around the lower beam of his antlers, velvety
smooth in her grasp.

He moaned into her centre and then pulled back. “Stop, stop—”

“I’m sorry—” Hermione immediately let go. “Did I hurt you? Grab my wand, I’ll—”
“No,” he said in a pained grunt, squeezing his eyes shut tight before opening them and
looking at her with his pupils blown wide. “No, it didn’t hurt.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Hermione reached out again tentatively, letting the tips of her fingers brush through the
pulled-back hair at his temples to where the burs grew from his scalp. He shuddered, the
blond hairs on his arms rising in gooseflesh. She wrapped her hands around them once again
and used her grip to gently guide his mouth back down to her, Corvus’s lashes fluttering as he
closed his eyes and moaned against her, snaking his arms around her bare thighs and feasting.

“Fuckkkk,” she whispered reverently, steering his mouth, guiding his tongue exactly where
she needed it. She squirmed beneath him, tremors rolling down her thighs with every lap of
his tongue, every gentle moan into her cunt, every—

Corvus froze.

“No,” she whined, “I was almost—”

The bedroom door swung shut with an abrupt crash, bringing a deafening silence sweeping
through the room right behind it. Corvus’s eyes never left hers as his arms untangled
themselves from around her legs and came up to loosen her hands from his antlers before
artfully shielding her as he looked over his shoulder.

Malfoy stood frozen and horrified just inside the doorway, looking at his still-antlered brother
with Hermione’s legs still wrapped around his shoulders. Draco’s mouth hung agape. Nobody
moved a muscle, the three of them stuck in an immensely awkward stand-off. After an aeon,
Draco finally had the decency to bring a hand up and cover his eyes, and broke the spell that
had been trapping them all in a state of nonaction.

“Forgot my Arithmancy book,” he said by way of explanation, crossing quickly to his writing
desk without glancing over to them again. But he definitely had the audacity to look amused
now, shaking his head like he could prevent this moment from becoming a core memory—
like the one of Neville’s bare arse had now become for her. Hermione pulled the side of her
skirt down, covering any scraps of bare upper-thigh that Corvus’s large hands weren’t.
Malfoy slipped his book into his bag and made for the door, twisting the handle and opening
it a crack before half-turning over his shoulder, a smirk twisting up one side of his mouth.
“Try praise,” he muttered to his brother, and quietly left the room.

Corvus slowly turned back to her, wide-eyed, and swallowed hard. “Praise?” He raised a
brow.

Hermione rolled her eyes. It was such a cliché. Oh, Hermione Granger, teacher’s pet—of
course Draco Malfoy would think that—

“You want to hear how good you are for me?” Corvus whispered in a deep timbre. “How
pretty you look with your legs wrapped around my head—?”
“Ohhh shit.” Her head fell back again, her elbow coming to cover her eyes as heat roared low
in her belly.

| | |

The blush never left Hermione’s face. Even as she sat at the Gryffindor table with Corvus
across from her, still very antlered with her orange knickers in his pocket, mortification
bloomed in her cheeks. She didn’t dare look over at the Slytherin table. Malfoy’s smug,
knowing face was already burned bright into her imagination, she didn’t need to see the
reality. Nor did she care to examine the notion that he had identified her kink before she had.

Corvus handed her a ham and cheese sandwich and some chips, then grabbed his empty plate
and served himself. Hermione nibbled on her sandwich while Corvus devoured his own.

“I can’t take you seriously with those, you’ve got to let me remove them,” she pleaded for the
fourth time.

Corvus slapped a palm to his chest, aghast. “These were a gift from my girlfriend, thank you.
I’m rather attached to them.”

Heat bloomed brighter in her face. With his long, blond hair and his towering build, he could
easily be a model for one of those bodice-rippers they sold in the back of Flourish and Blotts
—the kind of smutty creature romance Luna was always carrying around in her bag. “It’s just
. . .” Her eyes darted from prong to prong, and then around the Great Hall.

“Why is this so uncomfortable for you? The human body is a beaut—”

Her hands shot out, palms up, pleading. “This isn’t a human body!” she retorted.

Corvus hummed, taking another bite of sandwich. “Don’t yuck someone else’s yum,
Hermione, that’s not cool. Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining when—”

She launched herself across the table to slap a hand over his mouth and stop him from
finishing that sentence.

Corvus’s hand came up to cradle her own. He kissed her palm before pulling her hand away.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but you need to learn to accept me for who I—”

Hermione ambushed him with her wand under his chin, incanting the countercharm once
again, and once again blocked by his too-quick non-verbal shield.

She let out an exasperated growl and sat back down on her bench while Corvus took another
big bite, grinning like a fool.

| | |

Mondays were quickly becoming Hermione’s favourite day of the week. She’d long ago
figured out the most efficient way to spend her class time with Boring Binns and usually had
all her homework done by the time the bell rang. DADA had become much more tolerable
now that Auror Cobb was by-and-large staying in his lane. Arithmancy after lunch was
always challenging and fun, and since she didn’t work on Mondays, and their Astronomy
night lab was usually only held one night each month, that left her afternoons and evenings
most often completely free.

She’d just finished changing out of her school robes and into a comfortable pair of trackie
bottoms and a loose-fitting jumper when Corvus’s now distinctive knock sounded at her door.

“Come in,” she shouted through the thick oak.

Corvus’s face appeared in the crack, his antlers catching on the doorframe on his way in.
Hermione rolled her eyes and threw another stack of post on top of her burn pile, finally
covering up the gold foil envelope she’d received at dinner last week.

Corvus’s eyes tracked the movement, and then her satisfied smile. “You know hiding it won’t
make it go away, right?”

Hermione hummed. “That’s like, really profound, Mister Black,” she said in a mocking tone.

Corvus’s brows dropped, and she swore she saw his pupils dilate in real time. He was all too
easy to rile up. “I’ve got something profound for you . . . .”

“I told you I’m not fucking you until the antlers are gone.”

“Well then I hope you’ve prepared for a drought because these babies are only coming off the
natural way.”

“The natural—?”

“Well, yeah, deer usually lose their antlers after rutting season, so I thought it made sense that
we could try—”

“My roommate’s in the bathroom,” she cautioned him from finishing that statement.

Corvus’s face snapped over, just now noticing the closed bathroom door. “Let’s go study at
mine,” he suggested, and she emptied her bag of the day’s books and gathered the on-loan
editions for her Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration homework.

“C’mon, let’s—”

“Hermione?” She stopped in her tracks at the strange cadence of his voice. “Why do you
have a—an actual wank bank?” He held up the small green box she’d received from
Gladrags last month, turning it to show her the side with her writing on it, and shook it gently.
“Is there money in here?” He slid the lid open and rifled through the handful of coins—thirty-
eight Galleons, twelve Sickles, and seventeen Knuts, to be exact. Operation: Wisely Accruing
Necessary Knuts was well underway.

Hermione snatched it from him. “It isn’t a wank bank, it’s—” The toilet flushed quietly on
the other side of the door. “Eurgh. Come on.” She set her bank down on her writing desk and
pulled the heavy dormitory door open, leading him across the common room to his. She
leaned on the wall beside his door while he unlocked it and held it open for her. The second
the door snapped shut, he continued his inquisition.

“Okay, why do you have a box that says ‘wank bank,’ and more importantly, why are there
no photos of me inside?”

Hermione dumped her bag on Corvus’s desk. “It isn’t a wank bank! It’s W.A.N.K., it’s—”
Draco groaned from the desk in the far corner of the room, his head hanging limply behind
him as he stared up at the ceiling. “Got something to say, Malfoy?”

He looked over at her, his eyes surprisingly spirited. “Just wondering if you’ve made buttons
yet.”

She slammed A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration on Corvus’s desktop and flipped it open
to chapter seven. “I see we’ve all got jokes today.”

Corvus looked from Hermione to Draco, back and forth. “Okay, what—”

“She hasn’t told you about spew yet?”

“It’s S.P.E.W.!” she shrieked. “Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.”

The brothers looked at each other, having another one of their secret, silent, telepathic, little
twin conversations.

Corvus cleared his throat. “Wow, Hermione, you’re really good at acronyms.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.

“Well go on,” Malfoy goaded. “Tell us what—W.A.N.K. stands for.”

She unrolled a length of parchment. “Well, now I’m afraid you’re never going to know.”

Corvus turned back to his brother. “She keeps money inside of it.”

“Witches Against . . .” Draco began theorising.

Hermione barely resisted a grin, but refused to give them the satisfaction. “It stands for—”

“Wait, and there are no photos of my brother inside?”

“Witches Against Nudes and . . . ?”

Hermione snapped her book shut. “ Ooookay, well this has been a lot of fun but—”

“No, tell us!” Corvus pleaded.

“—fuck you both very much.” She grabbed her bag and began shoving her things back
inside. “I’m heading to the library.” She gave them both a two-fingered salute to guffaws of
identical laughter, and pulled the door open with a haughty smirk, Corvus protesting and
scrambling after her when the door started to swing shut.
 | | |

It was well past midnight when Corvus startled awake under her arm, activating Hermione’s
lizard brain into fight-or-flight mode just that fast. She lay frozen, her eyes and ears straining.
Corvus’s antlers lay awkwardly mounted with a sticking charm on the wall over his bed, their
long fingers reaching out in the dark like branches of trees in the still silence. Hermione
listened for a crack of Apparition, the crunch of boots on leaves. She swallowed hard, her
fingers running over the velvety duvet on his chest.

She was at Hogwarts.

She was safe.

Her chest pressed against his with the force of a deep, calming breath. But Corvus’s hand
gently gripped her wrist and slid it off his chest as he sat up and looked around at the drawn
curtains surrounding the bed.

“Corvus?” she hedged, once again listening for anything unusual. “What’s—?”

He held up a finger as the dense silence hung thickly around them, then he quickly slipped
through the bed hangings, leaving her alone.

Hermione’s heart pounded, pumping new waves of adrenaline through her bloodstream with
each beat. She didn’t dare breathe, straining once again to try and hear what Corvus heard
that she hadn’t. Hermione peeked around the red curtain just as Corvus slid open his brother’s
green ones and a strangled cry escaped the silencing charm Draco had placed on them earlier
in the night.

“Hey, hey—it’s me. It’s just me,” Corvus’s soothing voice cut through the throes of Draco’s
apparent nightmare, and he stilled, a quiet tension filling the room before Malfoy’s voice cut
through it once again.

“Corvus?” A shuddering sob tore from his throat as he sat up, his hand raking through his
hair and glancing around at his surroundings. Hermione retreated back a little on the mattress,
shrouded in the shadow of the Gryffindor bed curtains once again, and watched Draco launch
himself into Corvus’s chest, their long, identical arms wrapping around each other. “I didn’t
do anything,” Draco cried through broken tears. “I didn’t—"

“I know,” Corvus whispered, his hand running up and down Draco’s back with familial
intimacy that still managed to take her by surprise. “It’s not your fault.”

Hermione’s brows knit together, frowning as she quietly lay back down and stared up at the
canopy of Corvus’s bed, her pulse still thudding in her neck. She lay frozen, both not wanting
to intrude on what was clearly a private moment and wishing she could be literally anywhere
else but here.

She didn’t want to hear how Malfoy didn’t do anything. How his wand wasn’t the one that
cast the Avada at the top of the astronomy tower, how he was forced into action—and
inaction—under duress. She’d heard it all from the mouth of his solicitor at the Death Eater
trials in June. And before that, she lived it, her very own personal hell, thank you very much.
His childhood cruelty, and perhaps worse, his very adult indifference to her suffering.

How quickly the line had begun to blur over the past weeks. Her former antagonist and
adversary was slipping into the role of her boyfriend’s benign—if just a bit annoying—
brother.

Draco Malfoy may not have deserved a cell in Azkaban, but he certainly didn’t do nothing.

Hermione rolled to her side, her back to the partially open side of the curtain where the twins
sat across the way, whispering to each other in the dark.

“Her eyes—she looked right through me while they tortured her. I was just a body in the
room; I was just one of them.” Hermione hugged her knees to her chest and pulled the heavy
blanket over her head. Because there was no fucking way he was holding on to that memory,
as if she wasn’t the one who suffered it. Moments from that night at Malfoy Manor flashed
behind her eyelids, vignettes of one of the worst moments of her life. The scent of iron and
rust, the dark magic smouldering in the air while she lay in a pool of her own blood and
urine.

“I don’t belong here!” Draco’s voice cut through her thoughts, slicing through the curtains
and the heavy blanket over her head. Hermione threw it off and sat back up.

Corvus snorted. “Of course you don’t. Draco, look at me. Neither of us do. We’ve died
already. I shouldn’t have been born, and you weren’t supposed to survive the war. But look at
us. Hey.” Another silent pause permeated the room. “Everything else is extra. Remember?”

Draco didn’t say anything, his only reply, a deep sigh. “Will you stay?” he finally asked,
breaking through another length of silence.

“I can stay,” Corvus replied after a hair’s breadth of hesitation.

“Oh my gods, is she in your bed?” Malfoy whispered, upset anew at this revelation. “Please
go—”

“It’s okay, she’s asleep, the curtains are silenced,” Corvus whispered, lying through his teeth
and shushing his brother. Hermione lay back down.

“Please go. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Draco, it’s fine if you need—”

“I’m sure.” The mattress groaned across the room as he shifted his weight. “I’m fine. It was
just a nightmare. Goodnight, Corv, and . . . thanks. . . .” Another quiet movement of the
mattress across the room was her only warning before Corvus pulled the curtain back, and
Hermione lay there completely still with her back to him.

The mattress dipped back down behind her, and the air hung heavy between them, tense and
hazy. Corvus sighed and got under the covers, wrapping his arm around her. Even as he
 buried his face into her curls and hugged her to his chest, she kept her breathing steady,
unsure if he actually thought she was asleep or awake, but neither of them spoke.

Her jaw clenched, her frustration mounting into a crippling blankness in her mind, her gut
twisting around the insurmountable reminder that she and Corvus were far too complicated
for anything more than an eighth year fling.

The schism between their lives—between the people and the experiences that shaped them—
would always require one to compromise a part of themselves for the other. As down to earth
as Corvus seemed, as unpretentious and sensible as he came across, he was still of the same
world as the people who didn’t think she deserved the very magic in her veins. He shared the
identical DNA of a man who watched her torture and did nothing.

They were from two different worlds, and that was fact. She couldn’t let herself forget that
fun was all this was at the end of the day. She couldn’t allow herself to lose track of the
important things.

Her arms were heavy. Metallic zaps of electricity ebbed through her as Draco’s voice
bounced around inside her skull, the words she wasn’t meant to hear as he spilled his guts to
his brother under the dark cover of night.

That’s what “I’m here for my brother” had meant all those weeks ago when she’d asked him.
That’s why Corvus would never stay the night in her dorm. She wasn’t sure how he’d known
Malfoy was having a nightmare—twin intuition?

Hermione lay awake for hours, her fingertips tracing over the glamoured scar on her left arm
while the memory at Malfoy Manor replayed over and over like a video recording, watching
herself on the drawing room floor from above.

We’ve died already. . . . Everything else is extra.

She envied Draco Malfoy, that he had a brother like Corvus, that he had someone who knew
him deep down in his bones; Hermione no longer had that. Her friendship with Harry was
perhaps the closest thing she’d ever experienced to a sibling bond, and that was quite a
stretch at the moment. Her ribs squeezed tight, and she pulled the loose ends of the blankets
to her chest, finally falling asleep as dawn crested through the window.

Chapter End Notes

My poor, triggered bbs

“Everything else is extra” is a line adapted from Peaky Blinders that I’ve been waiting
to use between these brothers since this story’s inception (almost a year ago!):
“The truth is, we died together once before. Arthur, me . . . Danny Whizz-Bang, Freddie
Thorne, Jeremiah, and John. We were cut off from the retreat, no bullets left, waiting for
the Prussian cavalry to come, and to finish us off. And while we waited, Jeremiah said
we should sing “In The Bleak Midwinter.” But we were spared; the enemy never came.
And we all agreed that everything after that was extra. And when our time came, we
would all remember.”

(Peaky spoilers:)
In the context of the show, it was that they shouldn't feel too much grief for someone
who'd died, because they'd all already died (figuratively) in the war, and everything else
they got after that was extra. In Shiny Things, we're looking at it almost as a fresh start.
A "it doesn't matter what came before, it should've ended for us both, but it didn't. That
life is over now, 'Everything else is extra,' let's enjoy this extra time we've been given."
 The Whole Fucking Cake
Chapter Notes

🩷
Thank you, Lilo & 'trees for being the ultimate betas. This story simply would not exist
without you both

We've officially passed 50k 😍

| | |

Hermione hobbled down the spiral steps of the Astronomy Tower, balancing her heavy,
Hogwarts-issued telescope bag in her arms. The constellations had been gorgeous tonight
with just the tiniest sliver of waning crescent moon hanging low in the crystal-clear sky.
Charting the Pleiades star cluster in Taurus had hardly been a challenge, and it was to no
one’s surprise that Hermione finished the assignment first, with Corvus following right after.

“Would you give me that?” Corvus had caught up to her and was already hooking his fingers
under the strap of her bag, carrying it for her in addition to his own.

Hermione exhaled, her hands on her hips. “I’ve been carrying my own telescope for years,
you know.”

Corvus stopped and turned back to look at her, their heights almost equal with her on the step
above him. “Now you don’t have to,” he replied and turned around again, continuing down
the stairs with a smile. “Besides,” he said over his shoulder, “I bet back then you were only
handling four-inchers, six at the most. I got you,” he teased with a wink, continuing their
descent down to the classroom.

Hermione rolled her eyes behind his back. “Quite arrogant of you, Mister Black, to imply that
size matters so much, considering your first performance in the Potions closet—”

“I was talking about telescopes, Hermione, what are you talking about?” He threw another
cheeky grin over his shoulder. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

A defensive laugh slipped out of her. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll try to think about your cock a little
less—”

“Noo, I didn’t mean it—” He turned abruptly on the stairs, facing her again.

“—make sure my mind stays squeaky clean where you’re concerned.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” His fingers combed through the curly wisps at her temple, his
thumb sliding down to her chin. His eyes dipped to her lips. “I prefer you a bit dirty, actually.
Where I’m concerned.”

A sly smile pulled at her mouth. “Would you care to help me with that?”

Corvus’s eyes flashed. “Immediately.” A laugh escaped her as he grabbed her hand and
hurried them down the tower, stopping only to stow their telescopes in the vacant storage
closet outside of the classroom before leading her back up through the castle.

It was late. The corridors were dark and deserted, and Hermione and Corvus were the first
ones back to the eighth-year common room. They beelined for Corvus’s dorm, threw their
bags down and undressed each other straightaway.

They’d perfected this dance, taking temporary cover on the far side of Corvus’s half of the
room, using the big four-poster’s curtains for privacy while they stripped and snogged and
fell into bed together. Hermione pushed him back with a palm to his chest, and Corvus
enthusiastically let her take charge.

The silencing of bed hangings was carried out efficiently. Hermione glanced away from the
antlers still mounted above his bed, the physical reminder of more than one awakening they’d
experienced together that day.

His large hands wrapped around her waist as she straddled his hips and sank down onto him,
exhaling a soft whimper as she did so. Perhaps size didn’t not matter—but she’d never give
him the satisfaction of admitting it.

He grinned, and twin moans escaped them as Corvus’s hands explored her curves with a deft
familiarity. His deep timbre sang her praises as he rocketed her towards an explosive orgasm.
He wrung every drop of pleasure from her before reaching his own climax moments later,
drawing more high-pitched noises from her as he pulsed inside of her, his hands gripping her
hips and holding her tightly against him.

“Fucking hell, witch.”

Hermione slid off his lap and onto the mattress beside him as Corvus lay spread eagle on the
bed, panting. She’d just catch her breath and then head back over to hers for the night.

“I take it all back.” He stared blankly up at the canopy and shook his head slowly, side to
side. “Stay in the gutter, please, live with me here forever . . .”

The quiet that followed his plea was thick and heavy.

He didn’t mean . . . forever. Hermione knew that. But the word lingered, dancing in the air
between them, shouting, “look at me!” like bright, sparkling phosphenes in her vision,
commanding her attention front and centre. The too-easy way it fell from his lips—and the
way he made no move to retract the statement, just continued to lay there breathing heavily—
Hermione needed space.

“Where are you going?” Corvus leant up on his elbows, his brows drawn in adorable
perplexion as she sat up and reached for his undershirt tangled in the sheets.
“Back to mine,” she answered with a shrug, slipping the white cotton tee over her bare chest.
Corvus’s eyes darkened, lowering to the twin peaks showing through the thin fabric.

“I like you in my shirt.”

The male brain was so easily distractible. “I have to get up early for Care of Magical
Creatures, remember?” She kicked around at the bottom of the bed curtain, finding her skirt
to slip on next, and then slid her robes over her shoulders for the walk across the common
room.

Corvus pouted. “But you haven’t stayed over in days. Can’t you get up early here just as
easily as you can in your room?” He lay back down, resting his head on his biceps and
rubbing his hand over the empty spot on the bed beside him in invitation.

It was tempting—truly—but if she didn’t insist on some semblance of physical space from
time to time, she wouldn’t be able to maintain the emotional space necessary to keep from
well and truly falling for him. And that would only end in heartache.

Besides, if she had to listen to Draco Malfoy spiralling through another nightmare . . .

“I’ll see you tomorrow in Transfiguration—or breakfast if you’re there early enough.” With a
consolatory smile, she slipped through the red curtains and out of his bed.

“‘Night, Granger,” Malfoy’s quiet voice spoke as her hand closed around the doorknob and
pulled. She glanced over at him, sat at his desk in the dim lighting, placing some finishing
touches on his star chart. He looked up, and she forced a tight smile and went back to her
room.

| | |

Luckily, Corvus wasn’t in the Great Hall when she popped in early the next morning, so
Hermione was able to get away with grabbing a quick slice of toast and eating it on the brisk
walk to Hagrid’s. She was able to finish her Transfiguration and Charms essays over her free
period after lunch, and then she got an early start on what had turned out to be a very
productive Tuesday shift.

“Alright, you, out!” Madam Pomfrey said for the third time, her tone much less patient than it
was the first two times.

“I’m going,” Hermione placated, placing the last phial tray in the storage cabinet.
Wiggenweld was once again restocked for the next idiotic stunt the Gryffindor First Years
decided to stage. “I’m going!” she repeated at Madam Pomfrey’s sceptical glare and took off
her hospital robes, tossing them in the laundry. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Get some rest, love,” Madam Pomfrey said with a soft smile.

Hermione grabbed her bag and headed to the Great Hall where she’d promised to meet
Corvus for a late dinner. She pushed her shoulder into the heavy wooden door exiting the
Hospital Wing, shoving it wide open at the same time the oaken front doors to the castle
opened up to reveal Ginny coming in, dressed in her scarlet Quidditch kit.

“Hey, stranger,” Ginny said, a little accusatory.

“Hey . . .” Hermione pushed her hands into the pockets of her uniform, eyeing the broom on
her shoulder and the badge on her chest. “I hadn’t heard you’d been made captain,” she said.
“Well deserved, congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Ginny replied, readjusting the notebook in her grip.

“How was practise?” Hermione tried again.

Ginny rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You don’t have to pretend
to care about Quidditch, Hermione. It’s fine—”

“I’m not pretending,” she refuted. Quidditch might not be her recreational activity of choice,
but she had never once missed a Gryffindor match. Well, not voluntarily. “I still enjoy
supporting my friends. Are you ready for the match on Saturday?”

Ginny tilted her head and lowered her broom, holding it like a staff so the blunt end of the
handle rested on the ground beside her foot. “I think we’ll be okay,” she said, a little softer.
“Hufflepuff’s team is older, which means they’re fairly predictable. I’ve been playing against
most of them for a few years now, so depending on how our new Seeker can stomach her
nerves . . .”

“Oh. Yeah . . .” Hermione shook her head. Did she even know anyone on the Gryffindor team
anymore outside of Ginny? Dean? No, Dean had only been filling in as Chaser in sixth year.

“Well, I’m knackered.” Ginny sighed, gesturing to the marble staircase awkwardly.

“Oh . . . yeah. I guess . . . I’ll—”

“Did you . . . erm . . . do you wanna come hang out for a bit?” The awkward tension broke
between them at Ginny’s proffered olive branch as the tight smile on her freckled lips
softened into one that reached her eyes.

The double doors to the Great Hall opened, a pair of Hufflepuff second years passing through
and heading down the stairs to their common room. Hermione watched the doors close
slowly again. Corvus would understand.

“I mean, if you’d rather—”

“I’d love to,” Hermione answered with a matching, genuine smile, and she stepped away
from the doors leading to the Great Hall where Corvus was waiting for her, and walked the
familiar trek up to the seventh floor with Ginny. It was fine.

Nostalgia panged inside of her as she stepped through the portrait hole into the red- and gold-
adorned common room.
It was exactly the same.

And completely different.

Hermione hadn’t been back in Gryffindor Tower since the end of sixth year. It felt strangely
smaller. And though it was currently filled with students studying and relaxing after a day of
classes, it felt somehow empty without the familiar faces who had become constant presences
in her life. A bittersweet smile pulled at her mouth at the memory of Fred and George
bullying their housemates into beta testing their Skiving Snackboxes. Her eyes roved around
the room, landing on the sofa where she, Harry, and Ron spent so many hours in front of the
roaring warmth of the fireplace.

“Is that—?”

“Yep.” Ginny’s lips popped over the P in her response with an amused eye roll. “She is now a
constant fixture in the common room.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped at the sight of Astoria Greengrass straddling Colin Creevey’s lap,
her golden hair curtaining their faces as they snogged on the sofa. “Do they ever come up for
air?”

“Oi! You two!” Ginny called across the room. Two sheepish faces looked over. “Go get a
room.” Colin shot Ginny and Hermione an uncharacteristically confident grin and then
grabbed Astoria’s chin between his thumb and finger and steered her mouth back to his.
“Sometimes we have to get the spray bottle,” she joked quietly, steering Hermione to the pair
of armchairs between the two sets of stairs to the girls’ and boys’ dormitories.

Their amused laughter settled into comfortable silence for a few moments. Hermione stared
down at her hands, picking at the fraying cuticle on her right thumb, their easy conversation
turning awkward again.

“Did you—”

“So—”

They both spoke at the same time, laughing as Hermione held out her hand for Ginny to
please continue.

“So . . .” she hedged. “How is . . . what’s it like dating . . . erm—”

“A golden retriever in human form?”

“I was going to say devil’s spawn, but let’s go with yours.” Ginny grinned, the familiar shape
of her smile warming Hermione from the inside.

“It’s good. Things are good . . .”

“Seems like you two are pretty serious?” Ginny’s brows rose, her inquiring eyes searching
Hermione.
“I don’t know about ‘serious.’” Hermione forced herself to stop picking at her thumb. “We’re
just . . . having a bit of fun.” She shrugged. That was it. And as long as she didn’t forget it,
she’d be okay. “He’s not a half bad shag, either,” she supplied, unprompted.

“I’d imagine not,” Ginny agreed, a grin cutting across her face. “He’s quite fit, isn’t he?
Looks like the type that could fold you in half and—”

“Ginny!”

“What? I saw him doing shirtless yoga down by the Black Lake too, Hermione.” She leaned
back against the red leather wingback. “I have to say . . . I get it. I mean, if he had a twin
brother or something who wasn’t evil incarnate . . .”

Hermione hummed, an amused smile tugging at her lips. She reminded her so much of Harry
and his irrational hatred of Malfoy. Malfoy was an absolute prick, sure, but he wasn’t evil.
And to be honest, she wasn’t sure what Ginny had against him on a personal level. But
Hermione wasn’t about to put on her white cape for him to Ginny either. “So does that mean
that you and Harry . . .?”

A sad smile pulled at the corners of Ginny’s mouth. “Yeah. We’re done.”

Hermione nodded, unsure why the official split between Ginny and Harry came as such a
surprise. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen it coming. It was more that it brought with it a sense
of finality—that everything was truly different now. The chasm of her life as she knew it
before the war and after it had just grown wider. “How are you feeling about it?”

Ginny’s mouth opened, shaping itself into a smile though her expression couldn’t be further
from happy. “It’s like . . . I don’t know. Maybe the things we grew up assuming would be
forever were only ever supposed to last a season. I think it hurts more that I’ve lost the dream
of the thing I thought I wanted than the actual thing itself, you know?” Ginny looked down at
her boots.

“Yes.” Heat pricked behind Hermione’s eyes, knowing the feeling far too intimately. She
glanced over to the sofa, her subconscious searching for Harry and Ron in front of the fire.

“And I think I had a hard time accepting it because, well, it kind of felt like being left behind
all over again. And I’m happy that Harry and Ron are happy, doing their Auror training and
all, I am. But . . . it’s still lonely being the one who’s left.”

“That’s . . . yeah.” Ginny had articulated Hermione’s feelings so perfectly, she had no reply.

Ginny waved her hand. “But I’m sure it isn’t like that with you guys. You’re best friends."

Hermione furrowed her brows as the onslaught of memories passed before her—all the times
she’d been left behind by Harry and Ron. All the times Ron never treated her well enough,
but it wasn’t like anyone else was offering to spend time with her instead. All the times she
completed essays for Harry, but it wasn’t like she had anything better to do. Sometimes she
wondered how deeply she had compromised herself in the name of forcing a friendship that
was never supposed to exist just because the alternative—feeling lonely, allowing herself to
be left behind—had felt worse at the time.

Sometimes she wondered what would’ve happened to her if she’d never gone on that
Horcrux hunt.

“Anyway, I get why you . . . why things between you and Ron didn’t work,” she said. “I was
kind of a bitch about it, and I’m sorry.”

Hermione turned to face her fully and clasped Ginny’s hand in her palm. “I’m sorry too.”

For everything. For leaving and not being able to keep Ginny safe last year, for breaking up
her family in a sense—not that she and Ron had been married or anything. “I know I haven’t
been easy to be around lately.”

“Well, no shit, Hermione, all the horrible things you went through last year?”

“Yeah, but so did you—”

“Not in the same way.” Ginny shook her head. “And not nearly as bad. I know there’s
probably a lot more to it than what you told me at the beginning of summer. Probably a lot
more than you’ve told anyone if I know you like I think I do.”

Hermione’s hand moved to tug at the cuff of her left sleeve. Ron was the only person
Hermione had ever told everything to—shown everything to—and he had broken up with her
shortly afterwards. Of course, it had been for other reasons, but she hadn’t really allowed
herself to be vulnerable with anyone else since.

“Have you talked to Corvus? About any of it?”

Hermione shook her head, staring distantly at the orange flames in the fireplace. “No. It’s
kind of weird, what with his family being . . . who they are.”

Ginny hummed in understanding.

“He’s a really nice guy, it’s just . . . we’re from two different worlds, you know?”

Ginny nodded slowly, frowning, and Hermione pulled her feet up underneath her, reclining
back in the armchair. The comfortable silence they’d fallen into was broken by the portrait
hole bursting open, the too-familiar group of rowdy first years pushing through and heading
straight up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. Hermione sighed. A pair of second year girls she
didn’t recognize slipped in quietly after them and sat at one of the study tables. Hermione
checked the clock beside the window to see that dinner had just ended for the evening. There
was another hour before curfew. Not that Hermione gave a single bother about that if she
were honest.

“Well, tell me more about your new boyfriend,” Ginny prompted. “What’s he like?”

“He’s not—” Hermione started automatically, but she supposed he was her boyfriend, wasn’t
he? They’d definitely established that, but the word still sounded odd in her head. She smiled.
“He’s pretty great, actually. Obviously, he’s attractive—”

“Obviously.”

“And he’s so smart, Ginny, it’s honestly such a breath of fresh air. I struggle to keep up with
him! He might actually be a better duellist than me,” she admitted begrudgingly. “And he’s
annoyingly thoughtful too. Always making sure I’ve eaten or that I’m taking care of myself .
. .” She trailed off, frowning, not quite wanting to share the part about him paying for so
many of her necessities and spoiling her rotten from his own vault. “He enables me to be
better instead of getting annoyed that I want to do more than what’s asked of me. I don’t
know, it just feels different from all the others.” Hermione shrugged and shook her head. “It’s
a nice change. I mean—it’s not like we’re going to go anywhere, but he's a nice way to pass
the time.”

Hermione looked up to find Ginny grinning at her in a knowing way.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Ginny smirked. “Just sounds kind of like you’re enjoying more than just passing
the time with him.”

“No.” Hermione laughed. “No, definitely not.” But Ginny wasn’t wrong—it did often feel
like it could be something more. That’s why she had to think with her head and not her heart.
Their relationship definitely had an expiration date. It was one thing to exist within the safe
little bubble of Hogwarts. The real world was . . . well, out there was complicated.

“So tell me about the new Gryffindor team, Captain."

Ginny grinned, taking the bait.

They talked and caught up late into the night, long after the fire had burned down into
embers, and for a few hours, life started to feel like it used to. The girl Hermione used to
share a bed with at the Burrow, staying up into the wee hours of the night chatting about
boys, was back. It felt like she had her once, almost-sister back.

They say you can’t go home again, but reconnecting with Ginny felt as close as it had in a
very long time.

| | |

Laughter roared in the classroom behind Hermione as she dragged the neutralising paste
around the interior surface of her cauldron, the abrasive steel wool polishing the pewter to a
smooth, clean finish. Angry tears brimmed in her eyes, blurring the lines of red leaching from
the abrasions on her fingertips where the scrub pad had torn jagged cuts into her skin.

She kept scrubbing, blinking back her bitterness and letting the cleaning salve burn her raw
fingers as she rinsed fifty Galleons down the drain.

Slughorn chortled. “Well, class, we officially have our first failed batch of Wolfsbane. That’s
a good thing!” Hermione failed to see the humour in their professor’s attempt at a light-
hearted jeer. “In every failure there is a lesson to be learned—”

“Yeah, don’t pair up with Granger!” Pansy cackled at her own joke. As if the entire castle
couldn’t have deduced that Malfoy was brewing their Wolfsbane solo while she collected half
the credit. Why she had returned for eighth year was still a mystery. It wasn’t like Pansy
Parkinson would ever need to know how to brew anything for herself.

Hermione scrubbed harder.

“Oho!” Slughorn laughed and prattled on about learning and growing from past mistakes. But
she and Corvus had executed the method perfectly. They’d done everything right, and their
potion still failed. She couldn’t recoup this lost opportunity, the lost fifty Galleons prize
winnings from the Ministry’s incentive program—

“Hermione, where are your gloves?” Corvus set down his glass specimen jars on the black
resin worktop and snatched her hand from the utility sink. She stifled a yelp when he applied
pressure to her fingers to stop the blood beading from her cuts.

“It’s fine,” she mumbled, thankful he took her tears for physical pain.

“Fucking hell, I’m ordering you a pair by rush owl post tonight. Where’s the Murtlap?” He
opened the cupboard door above the sink, looking for a first-aid kit.

“I said I’m fine! I’m a fucking witch—” She prised her hand out of his and forced herself to
take a deep breath. She hunched over the sink, refusing to look up at him. “I don’t need your
help.” She didn’t need his gold or his charity or his sympathy. What she needed was a
goddamned successful batch of Wolfsbane. She pulled out her wand and cast a healing charm
on her fingers, wincing as her tissue knit back together, and then rinsed her fingers clean
under the running water. The pain grounded her, stoking the embers of the familiar, bitter
rage that had burned deep inside of her for many months, but not allowing them to fully
ignite.

She cast a drying charm on her cauldron and lifted the heavy thing, pushing past Corvus to
stow it back in the seventh- and eighth-year supply storage cupboard with the other empties.

The rest of the class was putting the final touches on their potion du jour, or else relaxed in
their chairs with their bags packed up, already finished. Malfoy glanced away when her eyes
landed on him, and she huffed another exhale, returning to the back to clean up the work
sink.

She and Corvus hadn’t even been able to brew today’s lesson, so immediate and catastrophic
was their smoking cauldron in the back of the lab when they’d entered the classroom.
Nothing they did could save it.

But they could start brewing their Wolfsbane again tomorrow night. It wasn’t ideal at this
stage in the moon cycle, but she could work with it. They’d just have to—

“Hermione.” Corvus laid a soothing hand on her back. “It’s just our first batch. We have the
entire rest of term to try and get it right.” Corvus’s eyes bored into hers, concern etching his
entire visage. He tilted his head, mouth pulling to the side. “Besides, I seriously doubt
Professor Slughorn expects any of us to actually brew a successful Wolfsbane. The majority
of master potioneers can’t even achieve it.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. He just didn’t get it. The prize winnings didn’t even factor
into any of this for him. The rest of term only had room for two more attempts with the
extended brewing time that Wolfsbane required. Not that any of that mattered to Corvus. All
of this was just extra to him—extra schooling, extra time with his brother, extra opportunities
provided by a society already designed to lift him up.

“It’s fine,” she lied. “I’m sorry. My fingers just hurt. I’ll wear gloves next time.”

The bell rang, dismissing them for the evening, and Hermione huffed back to their
workstation to retrieve her bag. Corvus loomed behind her, the weight of his stare heavy as
she picked up her red-lacquered potions kit and slid her bag over her shoulder. Her hand
slipped naturally into his, and they followed along behind the rest of their class as they all
slowly wended their way through the castle, back towards the eighth-year dorm.

Hermione was growing to resent her non-work nights. Though she absolutely needed the time
off to study for upcoming midterms and catch up on homework, she also desperately needed
the hours. That was even more true now than it was before today’s Potions failure.

“Actually, I think I’m going to pop into the library for an hour,” she told Corvus on the third-
floor landing, drawing her hand back from his. His brows knit together, concern for her once
again colouring his features. He’d clearly been expecting her to come upstairs and study in
the common room like they usually did, or perhaps to extend an invitation to join her in the
library. But he said nothing, just nodded. “I’ll see you at dinner?” She offered him a smile,
and he returned it, and then they parted ways.

Malfoy had just reached the landing as she paused to pull open the library doors, and Corvus
turned to his brother, and to the hand squeezing his shoulder in greeting, with a smile.
Hermione found her favourite study table nestled in the back of the stacks and fetched her
Runes textbook from her bag.

Because this wasn’t extra for her.

Eighth year wasn’t a fun little interlude between where she’d been and where she was going.
There were no easy fluff classes built into her schedule or her curriculum this year; every
N.E.W.T. mattered. If Hermione didn’t seize every possible opportunity presented to her then
she wouldn’t be going anywhere—there was no backup option. Hermione’s new contacts in
the DMLE and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures could do
nothing for her if she didn’t have the N.E.W.T. scores to carry her, or if she was too destitute
to take a low-paying summer internship that would get her foot in the door to something
bigger.

Because sofa surfing with Ron and Harry? Also not an option.

All that sacrifice—forget the greater good, she did it for herself just as much—and she’d
wind up a shop girl at Harrod’s, magically forging documents she didn’t have so that she
could apply to uni and live out her life in the Muggle world after all.

Which might not be an entirely bad life, but it wasn’t the one she’d spent her whole life up to
this point working for.

Hermione took a deep breath to calm her racing heart and cracked open Advanced Rune
Translation and got to work.

An hour ticked by in perfectly quiet solitude, and then another, and another. Hermione was
halfway through her second roll of parchment for her Charms essay, and nearly finished,
when Madam Pince sent up her nightly five-minute warning glimmer of red lights around the
library’s perimeter. Hermione sighed. She had learned early on that their resident librarian
wasn’t lenient with deadlines of any kind. She packed up her things with a huff, slung her bag
over her shoulder, and made the long walk back up to the eighth-year common room.

She was out of breath by the time she made it to the seventh floor. She really shouldn’t have
skipped dinner. Almost two months into term and all the nutritional supplements Madam
Pomfrey had her taking had finally put a bit of weight back on her frame but still hadn’t quite
returned her to full strength. But each day was getting a little easier. She let go of her potions
kit, the red-lacquered metal hitting the stone wall with a sharp clang, and on a whim, she
opened the heavy door leading her up another flight to the eighth-floor observation deck.

It was dark as pitch outside and blessedly empty this time, no skulking Pansy Parkinsons
smoking in the corner. Hermione inhaled, letting the fresh air fill her lungs as she walked up
to the half wall, the stone chilling the palms of her hands as she looked up into the star-strewn
sky. The Plough was extra bright tonight inside Ursa Major.

Eventually, she would have to return to the common room. But for now, Hermione allowed
herself to just be, to exist alongside her stress and anger, cold and numb to it, rather than
being consumed by its burn. Just a few minutes—that was probably about as long as she
could weather the cold without her coat anyway—and she’d head back to her dorm.

But right now, it was so much easier to be alone out here with just the constellations for
company than to still feel just as small and alone in that crowded castle.

Everything else is extra.

Maybe for wealthy pureblood heirs born with gold flowing through their veins. Hermione
had pondered the affirmation over the past week, and it just didn’t make sense.

Pain had sharpened her into a warrior, hardening her edges until she feared that soft, shiny
pink part of her no longer existed.

“Still feeling sorry for yourself?”

Hermione spun around, wand drawn on instinct. Draco Malfoy’s dragonhide boots had just
touched the ground, and he dismounted his firebolt. She lowered her wand hand and let her
head fall back against the stone pillar beside where she’d been leaning a moment ago. “Fuck
you, Malfoy. Pretty sure I’ve earned the right.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “You know, people like you make me sick.”

“People like me?” She pushed off the wall.

He closed his eyes. “That’s not what I meant—”

“People like me. Wow. I didn’t realise we were still being so open with this—”

“Not— gods, can you shut up for like one fucking minute, or what?”

Hermione crossed her arms, her brow rising as she tapped her foot expectantly.

“People like you,” Malfoy continued, flustered, “who’ve spent their entire lives being half-
arsed loved, settling for scraps and crumbs of affection from the people who were supposed
to love you unconditionally.”

Hermione’s foot stilled.

“It isn’t your fault no one’s ever loved you properly until now, but—” Malfoy inhaled
through his nose, carding a hand through his hair. “Dammit, Granger, I’m watching you
shove my brother away, telling yourself he’s too much, convincing yourself that he’s the
problem, just because you’ve shrunk yourself down so small that you don’t know what to do
with someone who’s actually, finally enough for you.” Malfoy took half a step forwards,
leaning in and lowering his voice. “You’re scared of the way he makes you feel because you
don’t want to feel anything.”

Her eyes widened as a silent tear fled down her cheek, her fingernails digging crescents into
her palms. He knew nothing about her or her friends or her parents or her tragic fucking life.
Hermione forced down the warble in her voice. “Wow, you know everything about
everything, don’t you?”

“That’s not what I’m—”

“How dare you. You with your perfect life, your perfect childhood—”

“Perfect life? Are you serious?”

“Yes! The both of you—”

“Oh yes, I had the picture-perfect childhood, my house run over with Death Eaters living in
its halls, Marked by my own father, sent on a suicide mission by . . . Is that really what you
think?” He scoffed. “Forget about me, you really think Corvus was cherished at home? By
Lucius?” Malfoy turned and spat on the ground beside him. “By the man who wouldn't even
give him his last name? Why do you think Corvus was sent to Durmstrang instead of here?
The secret stain on our family tree, worse than just an unwanted spare. He was the scapegoat
of our entire bloodline. Did he even tell you that? My brother was loathed by our father,
loved only in private by our mother, loved in all the wrong ways and not nearly enough by
those who should’ve offered it unconditionally. And still, he’s the best one of all of us, and it
isn’t even close.”
Hermione grinded down on her molars, a painful lump forming in her throat.

“My brother doesn’t know how to love small. He isn’t crumbs, Granger, he’s the whole
fucking cake. Corvus is soul-crushing devotion, or he’s nothing at all. And here you are with
a shield for a heart and a sword for a tongue.”

“What other choice do I have?” she exploded, her fists shaking at her sides. “They’ve ruined
me! They’ve ruined my entire life—you and your people—I have nothing. Barely a Galleon
to my name. No family left to speak of. And you dare judge me for the ways I’ve managed to
heal myself? I’m sorry that you’ve tarnished all the shiny, hopeful parts of me. I’m sorry that
all that’s left of me is crumbs!” She turned her back to him, leaned on the half-wall and
shouted, loud and guttural into the night, furious at Malfoy for seeing her, incensed at herself
for opening her mouth and not being able to stop. “I’m so angry all the time,” she said,
turning to him, “and still, I have nothing. There’s nothing left of me.”

Malfoy hung his head, looking at the ground and squeezing his eyes closed before looking up
at her again. “You’re far from ruined.” His jaw worked side to side, the muscle at his temple
twitching, and he cleared his throat. “And Corvus deserves to be with someone who can let
down her shield and be soft with him. Someone who isn’t a cunt to him because she’d rather
hurt everyone around her than work through her own shit.”

Hermione huffed an exhale through her nose and looked off in the distance over his shoulder
into the black, night sky. “Is that what he told you? I’m being a cunt?”

“What? No. Stop twisting my words—” Draco sighed. “He . . . he thinks you hung the moon,
Granger. You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger and I don’t think you even care. I
grew up watching my brother act the same way as you did with your friends—just grateful
for whatever they gave you. But he deserves better than the scraps of yourself you’re
currently deigning to offer him, and you know I’m right. He deserves to not be stood up for
dinner, or studying, or whatever little plans you’ve made together, and no, that’s not him
saying that, that’s me. Because surprise of all surprises, he would never stoop to complain
about what he isn’t getting from you. You wall yourself up thinking that’ll protect you. Or fix
you. But if you’d just put your shield down, maybe you’d learn that good love can heal you
too.”

Malfoy’s words hung heavily in the air between them.

He didn’t understand; he couldn’t understand. The trauma she carried with her had forever
altered her DNA, etched itself into her very being. Existence was pain. Opening herself up
would only unleash the Pandora’s box of demons and misery that she’d methodically buried
down deep.

Hermione turned to the side and swiped her palm across her cheek. “Piss off, Malfoy.”

He wilted in her periphery, nodding slowly as he stood there for an eternity with her refusing
to look in his direction until finally, the door to the castle screeched open and Malfoy
disappeared into its corridors.
Finally alone again, Hermione allowed the ache in her chest to escape in a sob, her throat
stinging with the spasming muscles of her anguish. Why the fuck did she come up here
tonight?

The sickening feeling in her stomach churned violently.

There were many things Hermione would never—could never—forgive Draco Malfoy for,
the most heinous of his transgressions being that he was right.

She was being an absolute bitch, and she knew it, and she couldn’t stop.

She didn’t know how to stop guarding and protecting that tiny morsel of hope growing
through the concrete crack deep down inside of her, the one that urged, this just might be real.
That shiny, golden speck of sunshine was more dangerous than anything she had faced in life
so far. If she allowed herself to feel its warmth, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to survive
the dark again if it ever left her.

Hermione slumped to the ground and leant back against the stone wall. She knew what she
had to do. She knew she just needed to get up and go to the common room, but she couldn’t
make herself fucking move.

Good love can heal you too.

But upon facing down the agonising ordeal of exposing her soft underbelly, the fear was
insurmountable.

She stayed outside for a long time, huddled against the wall. Until the moon had shifted
across the sky, and the chill had set into her bones, and she was certain her core body
temperature had dropped.

Hermione eventually gathered her wounded pride and ego and anger and held them close as
she pulled open the castle door and trudged down the steps to the floor below. Her red,
Durmstrang potions kit was still waiting for her on the landing.

Shame crept up the back of her neck.

She wrapped her fingers around the metal handle and lifted it with care, and then made her
way down the long corridor.

Hermione crept quietly through the portrait hole, noting that the common room was deserted,
save for one head of blond hair leant over the study table in the back. His chin was resting in
his palm, his quill working its way across the page. Corvus looked up as she approached.

“Hey, you,” he greeted her, a sunshine smile stretching across his face. “I didn’t think I was
going to get to see you tonight.”

“I’m sorry I ditched you—”

“Hermione, it’s fine, I figured you—”

“It isn’t fine,” she cut him off and placed her potions kit in the chair beside him, taking off
her bag and hanging it over the back. “We had plans. And instead, I abandoned you while I
stayed in the library and studied. And on Tuesday, I told you I’d meet you in the Great Hall
for dinner and then I spent the night in Gryffindor Tower instead. And I wasn’t very nice to
you in Potions earlier. And last week—”

“Hermione, I know you have other friends. I know you have a busy schedule, and a life, and
things come up—”

“It still isn’t okay!” she shouted, her voice far too loud for this hour. “Stop letting me off the
hook, stop being so understanding and . . . and fucking nice to me all the time.” His jovial
expression fell into neutral, his eyes darting between hers. Corvus never would’ve cancelled
on her without so much as a courtesy heads up. He was gobbling up her crumbs, her spare
scraps of affection.

I’ll take whatever it is you can give me, Hermione. Just be with me.

Hermione’s chest ached, her heart squeezing at the look of concern on his face—his concern
for her. She brought her palm to his cheek, forcing her voice steady. “I’m sorry.”

Corvus’s arm wrapped around her thighs and pulled her into him. She hugged him back.
Hard. “Gods, Hermione, you’re freezing. He loosened from her hold and stood, removing his
Gryffindor jumper, pulling it over her head, right over her own uniform. “Come here.” He
pulled her into his chest and sat down, his face softening as she sank down onto his lap,
ensconced in the safety of his good love, and ugly-cried.

Her tears and snot leaked onto his shirt while his large hand soothed up and down her back.
He rocked and held her for a long time, until she was left with painful hiccoughs deep in her
diaphragm.

Hermione cleared her throat and sat up, wiping at his shoulder with her sleeve while his
thumb swiped the moisture from her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “What are you working
on?” She shifted to look at his books and notes spread out across the table.

Corvus didn’t say anything, pain and empathy lacing his expression in equal measure. He
wanted to press, she knew he did, knew he wanted to ask what caused her to crumble in his
arms and sob just now, and she waited for it. She’d tell him. Corvus swallowed, his Adam's
apple bobbing slightly. And then he turned to his notes on the table, giving her the grace of
privacy.

“Well, I was reviewing our logbook from our Wolfsbane, and I just don’t see any place that
we went wrong.” His hand stroked up the length of her spine, his fingers twirling
absentmindedly in the ends of her curls. “So I went deep diving to find some methods we can
integrate into our next batch, maybe we can start tomorrow. It isn’t ideal with the moon cycle,
but—”

“Why?” she asked, her voice breathier than she would have liked. “I thought you didn’t
care?”
Corvus shrugged. “It’s important to you, so it’s important to me.” Hermione kissed him hard,
involuntary tears wetting his cheeks again. He deserved so much more than what she was
giving him. He deserved a whole fucking cake. She buried her face into his neck, unable to
stop the sobs as her chest constricted even tighter. “Hey,” he soothed, finger-combing her
hair. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, Hermione, I’ve got you.”

A fresh new wave of tears issued from her, and it was all she could do to just lay there in the
comfort and safety of his arms—allowing him to comfort her. After all the shit life had dealt
him, he was still so good, so untouched by the darkness around him. Perhaps Malfoy was
right. Perhaps this good love could heal her too if she let it.

She inhaled a deep, shuddering sigh, and Corvus leant back, tilting his head to look at her.

“So I guess you’re PMSing pretty bad then?” he deadpanned, catching Hermione completely
off guard with his idiotic jab. Instead of another sob, it was a laugh that bubbled out of her
next. And then another. And then Corvus smiled again, and they were both laughing together
while she lay nestled into his chest. “Come on.” He shifted his hips, sitting her up straight.
“Have you eaten?”

Hermione shook her head, and Corvus slid a covered plate towards the spot on his other side.
“You’ll feel better with some food in you.” He pulled the chair closer, and Hermione slid into
it, reaching for the sandwich he’d brought up from the Great Hall for her.

Because of course he did.

She nibbled at it, feeling better about life so immediately that it was downright offensive.
“Okay,” she said, nodding towards the table. “Show me what we’ve got.”

“Well,” he began, grabbing an apple slice from her plate and crunching it beside her, “I don’t
believe in sheer bad luck. Something went wrong that we just haven’t accounted for.”

He’d never been more attractive to her than he was in that moment.

“I’ve scoured through the ingredient properties we’d composed at the start of term, and I
think . . . if I had to hypothesise, I think our moondew didn’t catalyse effectively with the
valerian root at the start of the process.”

“Too bad we can’t use Wiggentree bark instead,” she mumbled between bites. “It’s dead-
stable and probably twice as efficient.” She’d come to appreciate its reliability after a half-
dozen brews of Wiggenweld in the hospital wing this term.

Corvus’s quill paused, his eyes going vacant as his thoughts travelled elsewhere.

“Oh shit.” Hermione reached for Flora of the Forbidden Forest, flipping to the section on the
magical properties of Moondew, then flipped to Wiggentree to confirm what they both
ascertained to be true: they could use Wiggentree bark instead.

Corvus stood up quickly at the sound of a sharp rapping at the diamond-paned window,
opening it for a moment and returning with a small box wrapped in chartreuse and lavender
packaging from J. Pippin’s Potions in Hogsmeade. He said nothing, just opened her potions
kit on the chair on his other side and slipped in the brand new pair of dragonhide gloves he’d
just purchased for her.

“Thank you.” Heat welled behind her eyes as he waved her off, and she looked down and
cleared her throat. “Wiggentree has a much higher stability factor than Moondew. Am I
missing something? We should be using Wiggentree . . .”

“Let’s try it,” he agreed earnestly. “Tomorrow. After your shift. It’s our lab night.”

Hermione nodded. “Perfect.” She finished her sandwich while Corvus took down a few more
notes. “Is it alright if I . . . could I stay at yours tonight?”

Corvus’s quill lifted from the page, and he turned to look at her, his brows drawing together.
“Of course, Hermione, you’re always welcome, you know that.”

She nodded, the lump in her throat tightening again. “I just need to go take care of some
things for a minute. I’ll be right back.” She stood, gathering her things to stash in her room
for the night.

Corvus smiled. “I’m going to pack up and go shower. Just come on over when you’re ready.
I’ll let Draco know you’ll be coming.”

Hermione snorted at the accidental double entendre then leant down and planted a kiss on his
lips. His face relaxed into the palm of her hand. “See you in a little.” She crossed to her
dorm, entering quietly. It wasn’t too late, but Hannah’s curtains were already drawn.
Hermione set her things down on her side of the room and crossed to her chest of drawers,
pulling out a fresh pair of knickers and a set of cosy pyjamas.

She closed the drawer, knocking off a few of the more precariously stacked letters atop her
burn pile on the top of the chest and exposing the gold foil envelope once again.

She took a deep breath and hesitantly reached out and unfolded the invitation to the
Ministry’s Victory Ball on Saturday, the purple ink singling her out as a guest of honour, a
formal invitee with an RSVP card and a plus one.

Dread washed through her. There was a reason she’d been avoiding this for weeks when it
had first been the talk of the school.

Hermione set the RSVP card on her desk, grabbed a quill, and checked yes, placing it in her
bag to take up to the owlery tomorrow. Anxiety pooled in the pit of her stomach. This would
be her first public appearance since immediately after the battle, and she’d be making it on
the arm of the reclusive Black heir. She exhaled a laugh at the thought of her burn pile
expanding exponentially with unwanted press afterwards.

But it was a small price to pay.

Maybe both things could be true: maybe she could be self-reliant, and still allow herself to be
vulnerable, to be soft. Corvus deserved that.
She looked over at her Potions kit beside her desk, the brilliant red lacquer shining bright
even through the dim lighting of her room, and the new gloves poking out the top. He gave so
much of himself so freely to her, and not just his money, of course, but in everything—his
affection, his time, his attention. He made her feel not only wanted and safe, but treasured.

Corvus is soul-crushing devotion, or he’s nothing at all, Malfoy had said.

And never once had he asked for anything in return. He’d taken only whatever she had to
offer him, and how much of herself had she offered him in return?

Corvus deserved someone as soft and gentle as himself.

Maybe allowing herself to be loved more than halfway wasn’t extra, it was a necessity.

And maybe she couldn’t do it for herself, but she could do it for him.
 That Four-Letter Word
Chapter Notes

🩷
I blinked, and this fic is ONE YEAR old. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me
this long, and happiest of birthdays to Corvus’s creator, Frau

This story would be nothing and nowhere without my amazing friends to help me keep
things straight. Thank you, iftreescouldspeak and LiloLilyAnn for finding time for me

🩷
through holiday chaos, full time jobs, family visits, and packing for a cross-country
move(!!)—You are the best betas and friends a gal could wish for

See the end of the chapter for more notes

| | |

Malfoy’s words had weighed heavily on her. And with Ginny’s encouragement from the other
night, Hermione was slowly coming to terms with the idea of opening up with Corvus about
her past and her traumas. Little by little, she found her courage to be soft. Vulnerability had
been a risk she couldn’t afford to take for so long, and now she found it was one she couldn’t
afford not to.

She could be a whole cake too.

She could be openly herself and not have to be anxious and angry about it, wear her
vulnerability like a crown instead of a shield.

In theory.

The reality was terrifying as she glanced up at the gold gown hanging from the railing of her
four-poster.

But of course, this wasn’t just any gold gown. This wasn’t even the beautiful, gold cape-
sleeved gown she’d been eyeing at Gladrags in Hogsmeade—the one that was way out of her
budget and far too posh, besides. No, this gown had been flown in last night from Paris.

From Adélaïde Cosette.

The Muggle designer.

It looked every bit as expensive as Hermione knew it had to be, and as dramatic and
extravagant as the human crow who had purchased it for her. Her stomach flipped just
imagining making her entrance to the Victory Ball this evening wearing a gown so loud when
she’d been instructed her entire life on the virtues of being quiet.

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed with her seashell towel still wrapped around her,
convincing herself to put it on. It was just a dress.

Just put it on.

Her index finger looped through the silver signet ring resting below the hollow of her throat,
and she slid it back and forth on its delicate gold chain around her neck.

Nothing about this night was going to be casual. Arriving at the Victory Ball in a gown like
that, and on the arm of Corvus Black . . . either of those would be noteworthy in itself.

But arriving with his ring on her necklace was a declaration.

Her stomach flipped.

The wizarding world would soon know that they were courting. Official, old-world,
pureblood courting.

“You still aren’t dressed?” The dormitory door snapped shut as Hannah raced back into their
room to grab her clutch bag from her bedside table. She took one look at Hermione and
rested a hand on her hip, tilting her head with a very controlled expression on her face.
“Hermione, you’re going to knock him dead. Are you serious?” Her hands were gesturing
erratically between her and the gown. “Every guy there tonight is going to wish he were with
you.”

Hermione released a humourless laugh as Hannah opened the door to the common room
again, turning back to her one last time.

“It’s just a dress, Hermione. Wear it, and I’ll see you down there.” The door shut quietly
behind her, and finally, the flickering embers inside her ignited.

Malfoy was right. She’d shrunk herself down so small that she didn’t know how to breathe
with someone who encouraged her to freely be herself. It’s just a dress. She’d crawled
through broken glass to be here, and she didn’t need to shrink herself to deserve her seat at
the table. She was Hermione fucking Granger.

She let out a breath of annoyance. Her entire life, she’d just wanted to fit in; she wanted to
belong—not that she’d ever been any good at it. She’d long lamented the fact that she would
never be soft and easy to love, that she was born with the intensity of a thousand suns
coursing through her veins, too blindingly bright for anyone to actually see her, not even her
best friends, nobody.

Until Corvus Black.

He stared right into her flames and smiled at what he saw.

It was time to stop being a side character in her own life. She stood and took the dress in her
hands. The silk organza was deceptively light. She ran her fingers over the smooth, lustrous
champagne-gold fabric and let her towel fall to the floor. She chose a strapless bra and sorted
through her drawer for those iridescent butterfly knickers. Corvus could appreciate them later
tonight from down on his knees.

She stepped inside and zipped herself up. The dress fit like a glove. She straightened the cat-
eye neckline, smoothing her hands down the length of the perfectly fitted bodice, down to the
dropped waistline where it erupted into a full, voluminous skirt. It was both classically simple
and extraordinarily dramatic.

Just like the man whose family ring she wore on her necklace.

She eyed the matching gloves atop her chest of drawers and then glanced down at the
glamoured-smooth inside of her forearm. She wanted nothing more than to stop hiding her
scar, to stop giving it that power. It was a reminder of the cruelty she had endured, yes, but
was also a symbol of her survival and strength.

Hermione shuffled into the bathroom, her skirts dragging against the doorframe, and gave
herself one last look in the mirror. Corvus’s only request had been that she wear her hair
down. She finger-combed back the few wild strands at her temples, having done her best with
a smoothing charm, but her curls were still riotous and unruly, cascading down her back with
an agenda all their own.

It would have to do. She’d kept him waiting long enough.

She turned off the bathroom light, grabbed her wand from her bedside table and pocketed it.
She stopped to slip on her trainers at the door—nobody had to know—and with one last
fortifying breath, she doubled back and grabbed the gloves.

Tonight wasn’t the night for all her big revelations.

When she opened the door, she found Corvus standing with his brother by the fireplace in
nearly matching black tuxes. But where Corvus wore a fitted dinner jacket over his waistcoat,
Draco was cloaked in a formal outer robe. With Corvus’s hair pulled back in a bun, they
looked exceptionally identical tonight. It was bizarre in a way, the sheer masculine power
they exuded together, their towering frames and identical handsome features. They were both
equally attractive, but she only had eyes for one of them. Corvus’s face slackened when he
turned and saw her.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “I’ll see you down there,” he said, departing with a pat to Corvus’s
back and a nod in her direction. “Granger.”

Corvus flipped his palms up, shrugging in a disbelieving manner while appraising Hermione
with a grin as he crossed the common room and wrapped his arms around her, stepping into
the orbit of her ballgown and burying his face in her neck.

“I can’t wait till everyone sees you. You look like a queen,” he murmured into her throat,
dragging his lips across the thin skin and landing a kiss in front of her ear.
“I’ll be your queen,” she replied with a wry grin and confidence stemming directly from the
sexy set of lingerie under her gown. “Or maybe just your—companion, was it? My suitor?”

His eyes darkened. “Pourquoi pas les deux?” he whispered against her lips, leaning in with a
soft kiss. Corvus tilted his face back down to hers, his eyes trailing down to her décolletage
and to the Black signet ring resting between her collar bones. A smile broke over his face.
“So I didn’t scare you away, then?” He looped his index finger through his ring and gave it a
twist on her necklace, letting it fall gently back against her chest. She was done being scared
and running away. “I’m honoured that you wore this tonight, Hermione.” She let out a squeal
as he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground with a
spin and setting her back to her feet.

She cleared her throat and glanced around, smoothing her skirt with her gloved hands. “Has
everyone else left already?” The common room appeared empty now that Malfoy had left
through the portrait hole.

“Well, cocktail hour did begin twenty-five minutes ago,” Corvus teased with a crooked grin.
“Shall we?” He held out his left arm and led her through the portrait hole.

The castle was abuzz with excitement. As only the seventh- and eighth-year students were
invited to the Victory Ball tonight, the younger students were being served dinner in their
common rooms, so naturally, they had camped out in the corridors and staircases watching
the guests arrive in the entrance hall down below instead. The inhabitants of Gryffindor tower
were by far the rowdiest, their spirits still soaring high from this morning’s Quidditch win
against Hufflepuff.

Hermione gave Corvus’s arm a quick squeeze, just for the reminder to herself that he was
there, and he was real, and everything was going to be okay tonight.

He glanced down at her, and they descended the marble staircase together to multiple flashes
of cameras pointed their way and shouts of “Miss Granger!” and “Hermione!” vying for a
posed photo. She tightened her hold on Corvus’s arm, and he offered her a comforting smile.

“It’s not too late to bail,” he provided, “have Kreacher bring us some dinner in the common
room instead? Goldstein told me where he keeps a bottle of firewhisky—”

Hermione laughed nervously, but his humour did the trick. No. This was going to be fine.
“I’m okay,” she said. And for the first time in a long time, she may have even meant it. They
continued down the last steps where the reporters for the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly
were waiting with Quick Notes Quills and photographers angling for more shots.

A witch in sky blue robes and a press badge hanging around her neck stepped into their path.
“Miss Granger, I’m Polly Barbary with the Daily Prophet, tell us who you’re with tonight?”

She wanted to run straight into the Great Hall, ignore all the reporters, and refuse to throw
fuel on the bin fire that had become her life under the eye of public scrutiny. But Corvus
didn’t deserve to be hidden, and she wasn’t ashamed.

She turned to Corvus with a smile. “This is my boyfriend . . . Corvus Black.”

“Corvus Black—” The woman’s dark eyes lit up, surveying them anew as she shook their
hands. “That’s right—Lord Black—we met your brother a few moments ago. Welcome back
to Britain.” Her sharp eyes dipped to the pronouncement on her necklace with a raised
eyebrow. “And is that your signet ring on Miss Granger’s necklace?”

Hushed murmurs spread throughout the entrance hall. Hermione was blinded by another
camera flash as Polly’s hands spread through the air, picturing the front page tomorrow as her
quill scribbled away. “The Prince of House Black Courting the Golden Girl . . . You two must
have quite the fascinating love story.”

Hermione’s smile tightened, fighting not to turn it into a grimace. There was that four-letter
word again, pushing her, nudging her into a direction she wasn’t ready for. Corvus guided her
towards the door as the other reporters surged forward.

“Lord Black, how long have you been courting Miss Granger?”

Flash

“Miss Granger, who are you wearing tonight?”

Flash

“Lord Black, are there talks of an engagement in the works?”

Flash

Hermione glanced down to her golden skirts, her heart fluttering under the rapid-fire
questioning and the blinding circles of light in her vision every time she blinked.

Corvus’s right hand covered hers where it lay on top of his arm. When she looked up, he was
offering her a conspiratory smile before turning back to the swarm of reporters. “You’ll have
to excuse us, I think we’re due to get started in a moment.” There was another barrage of
camera flashes and summonses as he led her across the flagstone floor and into the Great Hall
where she could finally breathe easy again.

They stepped into the fulgent glow of thousands of stars shining down from the enchanted
ceiling, illuminating the large, open space in a soft ambiance. Where House colours usually
hung on the walls, there were banners of deep purple hues with the Ministry’s emblem
stitched in silver. The long tables, normally set up in neat rows, were replaced by smaller
rounds, draped in rich purple velvet, each embroidered with intricate silver threads that
shimmered under the candles floating above them.

Hermione glanced around the crowded room at the witches and wizards mingling and
conversing around each other’s tables with drinks in their hands. House elves wended
through the crowd carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and serving libations.

“We’re at table four,” Corvus said beside her, and they began weaving their way through the
hall. Several familiar faces stood out in the crowd, seventh- and eighth-year students
commingling with their parents and the other witches and wizards in attendance tonight.
Odd looks of confusion, surprise, and curiosity followed them as they made their way across
the room. “People do know who you are, right?” she asked, squeezing Corvus’s hand. Just
because she hadn’t known Draco Malfoy had a twin brother—there were a lot of things about
wizarding society that Hermione was in the dark about.

“Oh . . . erm, no, pretty much everyone here tonight probably thinks I’m Draco.” He laughed
at her look of surprise. “They’ll figure it out once they see both of us,” he teased with a wink.
“But seriously, Draco and I weren’t allowed in public together very often. Most of the Sacred
families know just because that was our parents’ social circle.”

Hermione frowned, brokenhearted for the little boy he’d never been allowed to be, the one
who was barely allowed to exist and was never properly loved. No wonder Malfoy had
recognized that so easily in her too.

It was true that she and Corvus were from two completely opposite worlds—but maybe they
both belonged in each other’s.

“Hermione!”

Hermione turned at the sound of her name, finding Ginny waving and heading towards them
with Dean. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it. Have you tried the wine
yet?” Ginny froze, her eyes darting from the ring on Hermione’s necklace over to Corvus.

“Dean, be a dear, would you?” Ginny drained her glass and handed it to him. He and Corvus
turned to flag down a server, and Ginny reached for her necklace, inspecting the signet ring.

“Damn, Hermione!” She dropped the ring back to its chain, arching a brow. “‘Just casual,’ I
see—You do know what this means, don’t you?”

“Ginny we aren’t engaged or anything.” Hermione laughed nervously, reaching up and

holding the ring inside of her hand. “But you’re back with Dean?” she deflected, raising her
own brows.

Ginny waved her hand, shaking her head. “Just here as friends.”

Hermione eyed her lilac sheath gown, her flaming locks pulled back into a French twist. “Is
that mascara?”

“Oh shut it.” Ginny gave her a good-natured eye roll as Dean and Corvus returned. “I’m
really glad you came tonight, Hermione.” She gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Come on,
Dean, I think I see Gwenog Jones.” She stuck her tongue out at Hermione while taking her
fresh wine glass and pulling Dean away from Corvus and their conversation about Quidditch.
“Your table’s that way!”

Corvus put a glass of punch in her hand, and Hermione’s gaze followed where Ginny had
pointed further across the hall where two very familiar faces stood out. Looks of recognition
lit up Harry and Ron’s features as they saw her at the same time. She squeezed Corvus’s
hand, getting his attention and pointing to their table.
They quickly ducked past as Professor Slughorn’s loud chortle rang out beside them. Her
head was on a swivel, looking around at dozens of new faces and the few familiar ones as
they continued their way to their seats. She’d just spotted George and Angelina at a table
when Theo Nott stepped into their path dressed immaculately in a green and gold floral
dinner jacket.

“Aren’t you looking gorgeous,” he said with a handsome smile at Corvus. “Oh, and you too,
Hermione.” He turned as if only just seeing her. “Far too beautiful to be with this tosser.”

“Oh, by far,” Corvus agreed, greeting his best friend with a familiar handshake and a hug.
Then Theo hugged her too. Hermione’s cheeks were surely as red as her punch by now. “I
didn’t think you’d be here tonight,” Corvus said.

“Moi? You know I couldn’t resist a chance to see Narcissa. I heard she’s single again—”

Corvus rolled his head back. “What did I say about my mother—”

“I know, I know.” Theo held his hands up in surrender. “A man can fantasise. Right,
Granger?” He shot her a wink.

Hermione had no witty reply at the ready, she’d been stunned into verbal paralysis at the idea
that Corvus’s mother was here in attendance tonight—of course she would be—why hadn’t
that even occurred to her? Was she expected to meet her? Of course she would be, she was
being courted by her son . . . Her stomach flipped again.

“Speaking of eligible witches . . .” Theo leaned around Hermione, looking at someone in the
distance. “I’ll see you two later.”

“Come on.” Corvus gave her hand a light squeeze, and they finally reached their table just as
the amplified voice of Minerva McGonagall echoed throughout the room. “Good evening,
everyone.”

Corvus pushed in Hermione’s chair for her, taking the seat beside her. Hermione reached out
to Harry on her other side, giving his hand a squeeze in greeting and waving at Luna
Lovegood seated beside him, and to Ron beside her. Corvus was turned, introducing himself
formally to Hagrid, seated on his other side and taking up nearly a quarter of their table. Her
necklace felt a little warmer and heavier on her chest in the presence of her friends. The din
of conversation turned to murmurs as a hush fell over the hall and everyone turned to the
raised platform where Professor McGonagall stood at a small podium with Kingsley
Shacklebolt.

McGonagall continued. “We welcome you tonight, back into the heart of these hallowed
halls, to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a place that has seen great triumphs,
terrible loss, and tonight, a chance for us all to heal.

“It is fitting that we should gather on this particular night. Samhain is a time when we honour
both the departed and those who carry on in their memory, for though the past several years
have been filled with darkness, tonight we celebrate the triumph of the light. . . .”
Corvus’s warm hand was a welcome and comforting presence on her thigh. There was a
peculiar sort of dissonance having him beside her tonight, bearing witness to the parts of her
life she hadn’t yet shared with him—the dark, dirty, terrible parts—and Corvus, who was
everything good and gracious and after. Tonight was an odd merging of two worlds.

“And now, let us take a moment to look around this hall. We are here, not simply to revel in
our victory, but to recognize the extraordinary bravery of the individuals in this very room.
We are joined by heroes—old and young—who have done so much to secure the safety and
future of our world.”

Hermione glanced up, finding Ron’s soft gaze on her. He looked away, and Hermione peered
around the room. Malfoy’s white hair stuck out a few tables down, seated between Neville
and Andromeda. Narcissa appeared to be seated on Andromeda’s other side, though
Hermione could only see the back of her golden blonde hair.

“Enjoy the evening, and may we all find peace and joy in each other’s company on this night.
Let the feast and festivities begin.”

The headmistress stepped down from the platform to welcoming applause and took a seat at
her own table as an autumnal feast appeared before them—soup tureens filled with pumpkin
bisque, platters of roasted lamb, root vegetables, squash salads, mashed turnips, and of
course, pitchers of mulled cider and carafes of pumpkin juice and butterbeer.

Ron and Harry dug right in, the nostalgia of a Hogwarts feast lighting up their eyes. Corvus
served her a spoonful of buttered potatoes, and she smiled. He was always thinking of her
first, wasn’t he?

“Look at the three of yeh.” Hagrid’s eyes twinkled, looking at Ron, Harry, and her from
across the table. “Feels like just yesterday I saw you bunch getting off that train for the first
time . . .” The night hadn’t even started yet and Hagrid was already getting misty eyed. A
grin tugged at Hermione’s mouth.

“Hermione, it’s nice to see you happy again,” Luna said in her soft, dreamy voice, looking at
the void of space above her head. “The Simulblisses really like the two of you.”

Ron cleared his throat beside her, his eyes trained on his own plate. Harry stabbed a roast
carrot with the tines of his fork.

“The—?” Hermione stopped herself from forming the question, already deciding she didn’t
want to know what Simulblisses were. “It’s good to see you too, Luna. It’s nice to see some
things come full circle?” She glanced pointedly at Harry, finding it charming that he'd asked
Luna to be his plus-one once again, now years later.

“Erm . . .” Harry glanced over awkwardly.

“Actually, Ronald and I are together.” Luna wrapped her arm around Ron’s on her other side.
Ron turned a very flustered shade of pink, focusing on pushing his peas around his plate.
“Oh.” Hermione hadn’t been expecting that. It had been obvious to everyone except Ron that
Luna had a major crush on him ever since their fifth year. His painful oblivion had been
difficult to watch, and Hermione had all but given up on the notion that he’d ever figure it
out.

She was happy for him. For them. But why hadn’t Ron told her they were together? As a
courtesy heads up as his ex-girlfriend, but even just sharing news as a friend . . .

“That’s . . . I’m so happy for you two. How—how is Auror training?” She looked between
Harry and Ron and popped a potato into her mouth, suddenly more full of nerves than
hunger.

“Oh, yes—how are you liking it?” Corvus chimed in beside her. “I’ve heard nearly half of
each class drops out by the third milestone.”

Ron looked up from his plate and stuffed a forkful of roast into his mouth, chewing and
letting Corvus’s question hang unanswered for an awkward length of time. Hermione
frowned.

“We only lost a third of ours,” Harry said, setting down his goblet of cider. “They’re
considering increasing the requirements to six N.E.W.T.s for the next incoming class.”

Corvus smiled graciously at his response. “That shouldn’t be an issue.”

“What?” Hermione’s face snapped from Ron to Corvus. “Are you trying to join next year?”
He’d never once mentioned this to her.

Corvus nodded slowly. “I’m considering it.” He shrugged. “Just thinking about it. There’s
still a few more months before we need to begin our applications for summer internships and
training programs.” His expression dropped. “Why, were you?”

“No . . .” She shook her head. “No, I . . . I don’t know yet.”

“You should apply, ‘Mione,” Ron said around another mouthful. “You’d love it.”

“You really would.” Harry’s grin as he said it almost had her overlooking how they’d—
inadvertently or not—shut Corvus out of the conversation he’d started.

Corvus draped his arm over the back of her chair, playing absent-mindedly with the ends of
her hair as he was wont to do. “What were you thinking about doing?” he asked her.
“Healing? Potioneering?”

“Maybe?”

Honestly, she was still no closer to figuring out her passion than she was at the beginning of
the term. She enjoyed working in the hospital wing, and she enjoyed brewing. She was good
at both, but it didn’t light a fire in her.

They chatted and feasted, discussing life and the future. The undercurrent of exclusion was
subtle, but it still stung when Harry or Ron would speak almost exclusively to her, or when
they steered the conversation towards topics that included only the two of them. Everyone
was cordial, but they seemed to side-step Corvus every chance they got. She knew having
Corvus with her would be a bit disorienting, but at what point were they going to trust her
judgement?

It was hard now not to see the crumbs for what they were.

They were just finishing pudding when the tinkling sound of a knife on crystal sang out and a
murmur of hush spread across the Hall.

"Good evening, everyone." Kingsley’s deep voice carried across the room with ease. “I am
honored to stand before you this evening as we once and for all mark the end of an era and
the beginning of a new chapter for the wizarding world. We gather tonight not only to
celebrate our victory but to remember the incredible sacrifices made to ensure that future
generations will live in peace. Let us not forget: this battle was fought by many. Those who
are with us tonight, and those who are not. I’d like to start our ceremony with a toast.”

Champagne flutes appeared on the table before them, and Hermione reached for a glass.

“Now, let us raise our glasses to the fallen, to those who fought bravely beside us. To their
courage, to their love, and to the new beginning they made possible for us all. Their actions
will forever be etched into the history of our world.”

The raising of glasses marked a moment of quiet reverence for those who had made the
ultimate sacrifice. Hermione watched a silent tear fall down Harry’s cheek, and her own eyes
burned at the memory of so many of her friends and loved ones. Then, as the tinkling of
glasses rang out, a sense of unity filled the room. An unspoken collective oath that their
sacrifices will not have been made in vain.

She turned to Corvus, clinking her glass to his, and drank to Fred, to Remus and Tonks, to
Lavender, to Mister Ollivander. To Cedric, Sirius, Mad-Eye, and Professor Snape. Professor
Burbage, Dumbledore, and Dobby.

She would never forget them. Never ever ever forget the sacrifices they made for her to be
here. She would never take this life for granted.

Corvus gave her a comforting squeeze as a sad expression flashed quickly across his face and
he took a sip from his own glass. The candlelight had grown blurry, and she blinked it clear
again, the knot in her throat threatening to choke her.

“For those of us who lived through Voldemort’s reign, there is no forgetting the terror and
darkness. But through it all were moments of extraordinary bravery and courage that shall
live in our hearts and minds forever. It is fitting that tonight, as we celebrate the fall of
darkness, we also honour those whose deeds have made it possible. Lee Jordan, please come
forward.”

Lee stood trepidatiously from his table beside Angelina Johnson and George Weasley. He
was dressed handsomely in a fitted navy tux, his hair braided back, but painful grief coloured
his visage. Fred had been as much of a brother to him as he had been to Hermione, and she
shared his pain. They all did tonight.

“For providing hope and guidance during dark times.” Kingsley’s voice was softer, warmer.
“Through your magical innovation, and for your sheer gumption in the face of evil, to lift
morale and provide hope, Lee Jordan, it is my honour to award you the Lightbearer’s
Medallion.”

Lee’s brow creased as Kingsley shook his hand and presented him with his medal to heartfelt
applause. Hermione clapped loudly. Potterwatch had connected them in their darkest of
times. It had been a brilliant and instrumental tool for the resistance.

Kingsley continued through dozens of others who played critical and significant roles in the
war. The Minister’s Commendation for Valuable Service, The Guardian’s Shield for
exceptional protection of non-magical citizens during conflict, The Crimson Quill for
significant contributions in the field of magical research, defense, and healing. Hermione was
in awe as one by one, her fellow wizarding countrymen received their meritorious
recognition.

A sombre mood took over the room as Kingsley presented the Order of the Magical Realm to
Professor McGonagall, accepting the award posthumously on behalf of Severus Snape, and to
Narcissa Black Malfoy, for performing extraordinary acts of valor and clandestine operations
during wartime and battle. Harry was an emotional wreck beside her, but he kept himself
composed and applauded louder than anyone.

The evening grew heavier and more emotional than she’d anticipated when Andromeda
accepted the Cross of the Phoenix awards for Remus and Tonks posthumously with a photo
of Teddy Lupin held high for everyone to see.

It was only after that, that Hermione learned of the entire network of healers and magical
researchers who’d risked it all to provide underground care to Muggleborns and other
Undesirables that couldn’t otherwise be seen publicly at St. Mungo’s without persecution,
Madam Pomfrey standing proud among them as they were awarded the Healer’s Heart.

A very weepy Hagrid accepted the Dragon's Valor Medal for his immense courage in battle
and his fearless actions in the face of peril, particularly in protecting the young students in his
care.

But it was Neville Longbottom receiving the Godric’s Cross for his exceptional bravery and
valor in battle against overwhelming odds that brought cheers and celebratory whoops of
praise. Hermione was on her feet yet again to applaud him, his face beet red but smiling ear
to ear. Without Neville, none of it would have mattered. If he hadn’t taken down Nagini . . .
she shook her head. Every piece had fallen into place at exactly the right moment. Their
victory wouldn’t have been possible without every single witch and wizard in this room
tonight.

He took his seat again between Hannah and Malfoy, who gave him a friendly clap on the
back that made Hermione’s cheeks hurt, smiling at the absurdity of that new friendship.
Over the applause and chatter, Kingsley’s voice rang out again. "There are three more people,
in particular, who join us this evening, whose courage, resilience, and unyielding
determination saved us all. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley, please come
forward."

Hermione’s stomach flipped for the millionth time that night as Harry and Ron stood from
the table. She would’ve been an idiot to think that she wasn’t going to receive recognition
tonight, that the Golden Trio wouldn’t be celebrated. Corvus rose from his chair beside her,
offering a hand when she hadn’t budged. She took his hand and stood, her gown swallowing
up the empty space between tables, and Corvus sat back down when she followed Ron and
Harry up to the raised platform.

Kingsley smiled at them, his voice filled with respect as he greeted them one by one. “In the
face of unimaginable dangers, these three did not falter.” Hermione grabbed hold of Harry’s
and Ron’s hands, and the flashing photography started up again. “They stood side by side not
only in battle, but in the hearts of all of us, keeping hope alive when all else seemed lost.
These three were steadfast in their secret mission, the panacea that ultimately won us the war,
and they embody the very best of what it means to be wizards and witches. It is with great
pride and admiration that I now award each of them the Order of Merlin.”

Hermione’s breath left her in a puff as thunderous applause broke out across the hall. She had
considered this possibility, but the reality of the experience was staggering.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley,” Kingsley continued, “your loyalty and courage, and your
willingness to fight for what is right, no matter the cost, inspires us all. You stood by your
friends in the face of fear and danger, and tonight, we celebrate your significant part in our
victory with an Order of Merlin, First Class.”

Ron let go of her hand and stepped forward, shaking Kingsley’s hand and receiving the
purple and gold medal.

Blood thundered in Hermione’s ears, her heart skipping half a dozen beats and dropping
somewhere behind her navel. First Class. She took a deep breath, controlling her breathing as
her thoughts began racing. She’d entertained the possibility of a Third Class, perhaps Second
if they were feeling generous. Harry, sure, but Ron? Her? If they’d started with Ron, then
surely she’d be getting a First Class too . . . and five-hundred-thousand Galleons.

This would change everything.

Ron’s grin widened when the entire hall rose to their feet with applause, drowning out even
Mrs. Weasley’s sobs at her table beside McGonagall and Professor Flitwick. Kingsley stood
back and clapped for Ron as he returned to stand beside Harry and her.

“Hermione Jean Granger,” Kingsley called next, sending her stomach somersaulting down to
her knees. Harry gave her gloved hand a squeeze, and she, too, stepped forward. “Your
intellect, bravery, and unwavering dedication to justice have led us through our darkest nights
. . .”
Hermione could barely hear him speaking. Her mouth had gone dry, her eyes skimming
around the hall at hundreds of supportive faces. But it was Corvus, standing at their table
with his hands over his heart and absolutely beaming with pride at her that pulled the smile to
her lips. It took everything in her to hold back her tears. She wanted her mum. She wanted
her mum and her dad, and she wanted them to be okay and to know that their unwitting
sacrifice had made this victory possible—but they couldn’t be here; they would never be here
for her again.

But tonight, she had Corvus.

She had one person in this crowded hall who was here for her.

“Order of Merlin, First Class.” Kingsley placed the glimmering medal into her palm and
shook her hand, instructing her to turn for the photographer. She didn’t remember walking
back to stand with Harry and Ron until Kingsley turned to them again, a soft smile on his
face.

“Harry James Potter.” He let the name hang in the air until silence permeated the room once
again. “The weight of the world was placed on your shoulders, and you bore it with grace and
without hesitation. Your bravery, sacrifice, and the strength of your heart know no bounds.
You are the hero of our age, and tonight, we honour you as such with an Order of Merlin,
First Class.”

There was a brief moment of silence as Kingsley awarded Harry his medal before applause
exploded around the hall, everyone rising to their feet once again. Kingsley gave the three of
them a firm handshake and his own personal gratitude before announcing the end of the
ceremony and inviting everyone to the dancefloor.

Hermione could have very well Apparated back to their table for all she knew. She nearly
collapsed into Corvus’s open arms as she reached him, waiting for her with an ear-to-ear grin.
His arms enveloped her, engulfing her in the scent of sandalwood and juniper. “You’re
incredible, Hermione Jean. You know that, right?” Corvus kissed the top of her head, and she
melted into the comfort of his embrace. “Would you like to sit for a bit?”

The hall was noisy, everyone standing to make their social rounds again. Corvus helped her
back to her chair just as the string quintet began playing and the first couples headed out to
the dance floor. Harry and Ron both collapsed into their seats, looking every bit as shell
shocked as Hermione felt.

“Orders of Merlin, all three. Well done,” Hagrid wept, “well done.”

Corvus laid his arm over the back of her chair and leant back in his seat with a fresh mug of
warm butterbeer. She placed her hand on his leg, squeezing in gratitude for his comforting
presence.

Tonight had been overwhelming in every possible way.

“A Merlin, First Class.” Ron said aloud what everyone at their table was thinking. “Blimey. I
mean—Harry, yeah. We knew that was coming. But us?” Hermione reached for her
champagne flute and leaned into Corvus. “I mean . . . we didn’t face down Voldemort or
anything.”

The scar under Hermione’s glove itched. A First Class had certainly been unexpected, but not
inconceivable like he seemed to be implying.

“What are you going to do with your gold?” Ron asked the two of them.

Hermione sighed. It was overwhelming, the idea of so much gold suddenly belonging to her.
She was floating up to outer space with the weight of a thousand problems no longer on her
shoulders.

Hermione looked up, but Harry answered first. “I don’t want it,” he declared with a ringing
finality. “I’m going to make sure Andromeda is taken care of with Teddy, and then I’m
dumping it. Littles with Lycanthropy, the Wounded Wizards Initiative . . . whatever charity
will take it, they can have it.”

“Yeah.” Ron’s brow furrowed in thought. “Yeah. That’s brilliant, Harry. I think I’ll pay off
Mum and Dad’s mortgage, and then yeah. We should donate all of it. Really do some good,
all three of us.”

Hermione’s stomach sank, and she took another drink. It was so easy for Harry Potter not to
want a monetary prize when he already had that and so much more safely secured in his
vaults. And for Ron, who had every Ministerial leg-up and means of familial support he
could ever want.

Hermione swallowed.

Would it really be so selfish of her to want to keep her share? Would she be an arsehole to use
that gold to get herself settled into a flat and support herself until she could secure a more
advantageous career path? Was it selfish to make sure her basic needs were covered before
dumping her funds into the first “non-profit” she came across with bloated margins and
ridiculous salaries for their operating staff?

She tugged at the bodice of her gown, feeling confined in the fabric.

“My Ronniekins!” A weepy Mrs. Weasley came up, hugging Ron from behind, and Mr.
Weasley shook Harry’s hand, pulling him up and into a hug. Bill and Fleur, Charlie, George,
Lee, and Angelina all gathered around their table.

Hermione sat in her chair beside Corvus, feeling incredibly small as Mrs. Weasley sang
praises for Ron and Harry and didn’t spare a single glance her way. Whether it was the rushed
way she’d left the Burrow in the dead of night after Ron had broken her heart or the company
she kept tonight, Hermione didn’t know, and it didn’t matter.

“I’m going to step out for some air, I think.” Hermione stood again. She wasn’t sure where
she wanted to go, she just needed a minute to clear her head.

“Would you like me to join you?” Corvus offered, standing with her.
Hermione shook her head. "I'll just be a minute.” She hurriedly wound her way through the
crowd, suffocating in her notoriety as she ignored every bid for her attention and quickly
found her way back to the entrance hall and out the front doors of the castle.

The cool autumn air blanketed her in crisp freshness as she placed her hand on a stone pillar
and leant over, panting and heaving until she caught her breath and looked up again. Rows of
black carriages pulled behind great, black-winged thestrals stood waiting in the drive.
Hermione crossed the carriageway, following a path around the side of the castle. She turned
behind a hedge where she’d once gone to snog Viktor after the Yule Ball, knowing that a
private bench stood just beyond the next topiary—

She froze when Draco Malfoy looked up at her approach, his startled expression turning
softer when he saw it was her. “Granger,” he said, standing in her presence like the gentleman
he was raised to be. “Congratulations. Order of Merlin, First Class.”

She stood for another moment, weighing the merits of turning back around or sharing
potentially yet another meltdown with Draco sodding Malfoy as her private audience.

She plopped down ungraciously on the other side of the bench and sighed, her skirt pouffed
up to her elbows. He sat back down, joining her cautiously.

“Am I selfish?” she blurted, crossing her arms.

Malfoy frowned. “If this is the part where you tell me you’re planning on giving away that
trunkload of gold—”

She released an incredulous puff of laughter. That she was seeking moral guidance on the
merits of selfishness from Draco Malfoy wasn’t lost on her. Still— “It would be stupid of me,
right?”

“Idiotic,” he cosigned. “Why would you even consider that? I thought . . . Don’t you need
it?”

“Desperately.” She sighed, leaning her elbows on her thighs. “But now I feel like an arsehole
for wanting to keep it.”

The soft tingling of a warming charm blanketed her shoulders and cascaded down her back.
Malfoy sighed, and she turned her head to see him pocketing his wand.

“All right. Let’s look at it logically. What’s your five-year plan?”

“My five-year—?” She laughed. “Survive. Not be homeless and destitute.”

“That isn’t a plan, Granger—”

“No shit!” She dropped her head to her hands. “I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes for a moment,
opening them to find him still looking at her. “I don’t have the luxury of plans. I wasn’t sure I
would ever make it long enough to be able to have plans, and now that I’m here? I just feel
lost.”
The confession was heavy leaving her lips. Malfoy nodded as if he knew.

“Well, you’re here now. And now you can afford the luxury of plans.” He stood, shoving his
hands deep into his pockets and staring off over the moonlit grounds. “Unless you suddenly
become okay allowing my brother to take care of you—”

“I’m not.”

Malfoy’s lips curled up into a smile, and he turned back to her. Her breath hitched. He looked
so much like Corvus—not in physical features, of course they were identical, but it was in the
way he moved, the light-hearted mannerism as simple as a kind smile. “Okay, then that
would kind of make you an arsehole for not keeping it. Come up with a plan. If you feel
better giving it away, no one will try to stop you. But Granger, don’t let anyone make you
think for a second that you don’t deserve everything you’ve earned tonight.”

She nodded, looking down at the tips of her trainers as her eyes welled once again. It was
stupid. The fact that it took Draco Malfoy to say the words she needed to hear. They weren’t
even friends. She cleared her throat, not looking up at him when she asked, “Why were you
out here?”

He sighed. “Come on, Granger. No one in that hall actually wants me there.”

“That isn’t true—”

“No?”

She looked up, meeting his eye. “You aren’t your father.”

At those words, he looked away, his eyes closing.

“You were given a fair trial and found innocent. If anyone still has a problem with you after
that, then that’s on them. You belong in that Hall tonight just as much as I do—”

“Says the witch who ran out here to escape . . .” Malfoy smirked, a puff of laughter escaping
through his nose, and Hermione laughed, full on giggling at the absurdity of two reluctant
allies escaping the ball together, thrown into each other’s orbit by their love of a single
mutual person.

She immediately sobered at the thought.

Malfoy extended a polite hand. “Well, I’m going back inside. Should I tell my brother you’ve
headed upstairs for the night, or are you joining us back in the Great Hall?”

Her hand slipped into his without thinking about it, so familiar with its shape, size, and
warmth around hers. He helped her stand, and she let go of his hand, her palm burning with
the intensity of just having touched Malfoy’s hand. “I’m coming too.” She nodded and
walked beside him back up the path into the school.

She took a moment once she reached the double doors to the Great Hall again. Malfoy
seemed to need the same. “Go on in,” he urged, opening the door wide for her. “I’ll be right
behind you in just a minute.”

Hermione offered him a tight smile and walked in, but when she glanced back at the closing
doors, Malfoy was headed up the marble staircase. She frowned. Why would he say that and
then leave?

“Best friend is here!” Theo’s arm wrapped around Hermione’s shoulder, bringing her back
into the fold of the gala just that fast. “Ginny, doll, I believe you are acquainted with my best
friend here?”

“What?” Ginny was cracking up, clearly quite sauced but eating up every drop of Theo’s
attention.

Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head. “It’s true. He said so in Hogsmeade last month,
so I suppose it’s official now.” Hermione couldn’t help but crack a smile, Ginny’s laughter so
infectious it threatened to loosen even her mood.

“There you are.” Corvus extended a hand out to her. “Care to dance, Miss Granger?” he
asked with a warm smile and knowing eyes.

Hermione placed her gloved hand in his and smiled, replying in kind, “I’d love to, Mister
Black.”

He escorted her to the dance floor, now filled with witches and wizards of all ages, and spun
her so that her golden gown glimmered under the starlight and hundreds of hovering candles
before pulling her back into his embrace and leading her in a slow waltz.

“How are you doing?” he asked, moving his hand from her waist to her back and pulling her
in a little closer.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, automatically.

Corvus tipped her chin up to look into his eyes. “And how are you really?”

She tightened her mouth into a smile and shook her head. Corvus nodded in understanding.
He led her into a left box turn, circling the room so that they weren’t in any one place for
long, and Hermione appreciated the few minutes to not have to talk to anyone else or think—
just move her feet.

“Did I miss anything?” she asked after a few minutes.

“No, not at all. I was just visiting with my mother, but she just left.”

“Oh. Your brother left too—went back upstairs a few minutes ago.” She took in his slightly
sombered mood. It didn’t fit him. “I’m sorry, I was only thinking about myself earlier. I
should have stayed and introduced myself to her, at least asked if you wanted me to—”

“Don’t worry about it." He shook his head. "My mother is complicated.” His smile didn’t
reach his eyes. He changed the subject. “You really are beautiful tonight, Hermione.”
She looked up at him, her mouth pulling into a sad smile. His eyes glanced back and forth
between hers, and his expression softened, his eyes warming again.

The waltz came to an end, and some brass and woodwinds joined the quintet, the music
transitioning into something a bit faster and lighter. Something Hermione just couldn’t feel
right now.

Corvus released her. “Give me one sec,” he said, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket
and pulling out a Sony Discman.

“What—?” Hermione let out a laugh of incredulity as he hung the headphones around his
neck and turned it on, turning the volume dial all the way up so that the slow, tinny music
rang out of the foam-covered speakers for them both to hear. “Why do you— how do you
—?”

“It’s just a fitted isolation ward so the electronics don’t get fried. I just have to remember to
renew it about once a month or the sound starts going fuzzy.”

Hermione didn’t even know that was possible. It struck her just how much else was out there
that she hadn’t yet discovered. “No, I mean—”

“How do I know about CD players?”

Hermione nodded, her mouth agape.

“Wow, that’s really closed-minded of you, Hermione, to just assume that purebloods don’t
know about—aha, okay!” He grinned when she playfully slapped his shoulder. “We
Durmstrang students may have had a collective thirst for the forbidden. Perhaps that wasn’t
mentioned in the handbook you’ve now read cover to cover.”

"Twice," she clarified.

He winked at her. “Muggle-borns aren’t allowed at Durmstrang, as you know, so naturally,

there’s an entire Muggle-culture underground, especially music, and no, you aren’t a fetish,”
he answered preemptively, rolling his eyes just as she opened her mouth to point it out.
“Muggles just happen to do some things better than wizards.”

“Like making music . . . ?”

Corvus grinned. “And making certain, indomitable fucking witches,” he whispered in her ear.

They swayed side to side, dancing to their own private melody. She melted into him to the
tempo of a slow jam while all around them, people twisted and shimmied to a different song.

If I could make a wish, I think I’d pass . . .

Malfoy was right.

She’d been begging for crumbs her whole life. She closed her eyes and hugged tighter around
his waist, wishing she could convince herself that she deserved him, that he could be her
happy ending, the reward for every good thing she’d ever done.

She could give him a whole cake in return.

Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe and to love you . . .

There was that word again.

This time it didn’t scare her. She laid her head on his chest, the music louder in her ear, and
let herself believe.

No one in her whole life had ever known what to do with her. Not until Corvus. He quieted
the nagging voice inside her, the constant whisper that she was too much.

If Corvus wasn’t welcome at her table, then she would build a new fucking table.

| | |

The night ended slowly and then all at once. One by one, couples left the dance floor and
made their exits, students returning to their dormitories, and guests taking their leave back to
Hogsmeade Village. Hermione and Corvus listened to his CD on loop until the batteries died
a short time later, and then they danced until the orchestra finished. They sat around an empty
table with Ginny and Theo until the headmistress kicked everyone out.

“Come sit on my lap while I kiss you, witch.” The common room fireplace was still crackling
merrily despite the obnoxiously late hour. Corvus’s bowtie was hanging undone around his
neck, his top buttons open, jacket hanging over the arm of the sofa, and Hermione sat beside
him, hand clasped in his and her head on his shoulder, impossible to tell where she ended and
he began under the volume of golden fabric blanketing them both.

How could she not oblige him?

She wrestled her ballgown into submission, straddling his lap just as two hands cupped the
back of her head and pulled her into his kiss, his fingers weaving through her curls. Hermione
very acutely remembered the total lack of gusset in her butterfly underpants and the now
nonexistent barrier between herself and his trousers.

She hummed, breaking contact for a moment. “I think . . . I wore the wrong knickers for
snogging.” Corvus looked at her, his eyebrows pushing together in confusion. “They’re . . .
erm . . . the butterfly ones.” His features smoothed, his pupils darkening his eyes.

“Show me.” Slowly, he brought his hands down, working his fingers under the layers of her
skirts until he finally reached her bare thighs. A smile broke out over his face, and he let her
skirt fall back down between them, pulling her in again and surging his hips forward. “I think
you wore the perfect ones.” He kissed her softly. “But I want you in my bed.”

Hermione nodded, her nose brushing against his.

“Come on.” He stood with her in his arms, a breath of laughter escaping her as she shimmied
down to her feet.
“I want to change first,” she said, having one walk of shame too many already under her belt.

Corvus nodded. “Go change, shower, whatever you need to do. I’ll leave the door open for
you.”

| | |

She tapped quietly on Corvus’s door, knowing that Malfoy—and quite possibly Corvus too—
was likely already asleep after her too-long shower, then turned the knob and slipped inside
their room.

It was dark and quiet inside, and she stood at the door for a moment letting her eyes adjust. In
the faintest light of the moon shining in through the diamond pane window, she found both
brothers lying in Corvus’s bed together, fast asleep. Her stomach panged, feeling like an
interloper on such a platonically intimate moment. The two brothers looked more identical
than usual in sleep with their features relaxed and their individual personalities masked in
peacefulness.

She leant back against the oak door, wrapping her arms around herself, acutely aware of how
alone she was in the world. She tilted her head. How alone she’d been. A soft smile pulled at
the corner of her lips. The truth was that she wasn’t alone anymore.

Seeing the way Malfoy’s head tilted towards Corvus’s shoulder, so trusting and vulnerable,
made her heart ache for the family she’d lost. For the found-family that had all but left her
behind. But the knot of grief finally loosened in her chest.

This wasn’t just some eighth-year fling. She loved him.

She stood at the door watching them sleeping for a few minutes, her eyes darting between
them, comparing their features, her hostility towards Malfoy softening perhaps just another
smidge. It was odd, acknowledging him as a whole, multifaceted person, and not just her
one-dimensional childhood bully. He had an entire other side of him, an entire life that she
knew nothing about. He was Corvus’s brother, and the two of them were each other’s safe
place to land, evidently.

She was torn on going back to her room or figuring out what to do when she startled upon
seeing the pair of silver eyes on her, the corner of Corvus’s mouth tilting up in the darkness
as he spotted her at the door. But when he held his arms open, her feet carried her across the
room and into his comforting embrace.

“Hi,” she whispered into his neck. “I thought you were asleep.”

He hummed. “I was. Draco needed me,” he apologised simply, and pulled the blankets over
her, tucking her into him with a sleepy sigh. They were both exhausted.

“Should I go back to my room?” She glanced dubiously at his brother on the other side of
him.
“Don’t worry about him. He’ll slip out in the morning.” Corvus kissed the top of her head
and finger-combed the ends of her hair out of his face.

She pressed her nose into his chest, ready to burst with the conviction of what she felt inside.
Her finger and thumb twirled the ring on her necklace absentmindedly.

“What’s wrong?” Corvus whispered, his hands combing through her hair once again,
soothing her nerves.

Hermione shook her head and swallowed. “I think I love you . . .”

Corvus’s hand froze, tangled up in her curls. The moment stretched on for an eternity, her
heart pounding with every possible worst-case scenario. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut.

He pulled her into him, impossibly tighter, inhaling deeply as he clung to her and whispered,
“I’ve been in love with you since the moment I met you. When you called yourself Athena
and told me to get the fuck out of your way.” Corvus tilted her chin up to look at him in the
dark, his lips smiling against hers as he kissed her. “I love you too, Hermione Jean.”

| | |

Hermione woke up softly, boneless and content, tucked into Corvus’s bare chest. His sweet,
musky scent and the warmth of his body held a certain rightness to it, a satisfying familiarity.
She stretched and peeked up to see him still fast asleep, one arm supporting her neck and the
other laid over the top of his head, completely relaxed.

The room was still mostly dark, but he was gorgeous in profile, flawless skin and
proportionate features and—her thigh accidentally brushed against his lap as she stretched—
proportionate features.

If the sound of running water when Malfoy started the shower hadn’t woken her bladder up,
she’d be content to lay here all morning. Corvus’s chest radiated heat, keeping her cosy and
warm under the blankets with him.

Last night felt like a dream.

Admitting to him—admitting to herself—how she felt, sharing that moment of vulnerability

together . . .

She pressed her lips to his chest, letting her fingers trail down over the front of his trackie
bottoms and pick up where they’d left off on the sofa last night. Corvus inhaled slow and
deep through his nose as he began to wake, spurring her on. He was already hard in his half-
asleep state, breathing heavily. She slid down his body in the breaking dawn light, grinding
on him as her lips trailed a path down to his navel, and she began tugging his bottoms down
over his hips.

Corvus startled awake with a moan, his hands flying to her wrists and stopping her from
freeing him entirely from his pants. “Granger—” he rasped, urgent notes of desperation
lacing her name.
 Hermione froze, her stomach dropping like a lead weight down through the mattress. She
flung herself off of him, clambering backwards to the edge of the bed. Nausea rose in the
back of her throat and humiliation flooded her cheeks as she took in his short-cropped hair
and look of fresh horror.

“Oh, God—”

The shower water turned off with the squeak of a knob in the bathroom behind her. Hermione
jerked her head to the closed bathroom door where the real Corvus had disappeared to, and
began putting the pieces together that she’d just nearly assaulted Draco Malfoy in his sleep.
Her boyfriend’s brother. She pulled the blankets up to her chin as if that would hide her
humiliation. Shame heated her face.

She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t face—

The bathroom door opened, and Corvus appeared, a towel wrapped around his hips while he
brushed his teeth. “Mornin’,” he said, smiling around a mouthful of bristles and disappearing
again to spit in the sink.

Chapter End Notes

😅
Hermione's Dress Inspiration

The Air That I Breathe - Hollies

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!