July

Hermione straightened her robes, brushed a bit of lint off of one sleeve, and then straightened them again. This was not how she had envisioned spending her afternoon. She had hoped to cut out early and surprise Ron with a home-cooked meal. She seldom had time for that sort of thing. It seemed like every day her responsibilities in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement expanded. Not that she was complaining. She loved the faith they showed in her.

Unfortunately, sometimes that meant coming out to inconvenient locations to investigate complaints and tips.

She stared up the path, lined on either side by massive walls. Setting her shoulders, she started forward. It felt like walking a gauntlet, but she supposed that was the point. The Malfoys didn't want any more visitors than necessary.

She swallowed, mouth a little dry. Her sensible shoes thumped along the stone walkway as she tried to drive bad memories to the back of her mind. She didn't like to think about this place. And she didn't like to admit that she didn't like to think about it. Not very Gryffindor of her, being afraid of a silly little house.

She looked up at The Malfoy Manor. It was more of a silly massive house than a silly little house. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, but not in a good way. Something the wicked witch would live in.

Hermione almost smiled at the thought. She knew enough to know that witches weren't so very wicked after all. Well, not all of them anyway.

At the door, she took a breath, steeled herself, and rapped the door knocker three times, with a bit more force than strictly necessary.

Her hands were sweating.

She wiped them on her robes, not wanting Malfoy to notice her nerves. Bad enough to break out in a cold sweat just because . . . well, she supposed being tortured was a fairly valid reason to fear a place, really. But still. She'd rather he not see her influenced by it.

She swung the knocker three more times, and stepped back as the door eased open. Peering out from behind it was Draco Malfoy himself, looking nothing like she remembered him. Lean – gaunt, really – with bloodshot eyes and several days of scruff, he looked more like a tramp than a Malfoy.

"Granger."

He still sounded the same, apparently, with that irritating drawl she remembered from Hogwarts.

Hermione smiled her best professional smile. "Hello. We've had a number of . . . inquiries regarding activities at this location. May I come in?"

"You may not." He looked down his nose at her. Most people would find it difficult to look snobby and unkempt at the same time. Malfoy rose to the occasion.

Hermione smiled again. This was her I'm-sorry-but-actually-I-can smile. She'd gotten very good at it over the last two years. "Actually, if you'll examine this," she handed him the paperwork, giving her authority to search the premises, "I believe you'll see that I may, and indeed I shall."

As he studied the document, she pushed forward and into the house. Her fingers tapped on her thigh, just a twitch, just the slightest indication of her discomfort in the space. She stilled them immediately.

"Inquiries, you say?"

She nodded, expression carefully blank. "Yes. It seems a number of people are concerned about what goes on out here."

"What have they indicated goes on?"

"Suspicious activity." She stepped away, turning to examine the room. It would have seemed a great deal more natural if she hadn't paused mid-step, surprised at the realization that he was barefoot. She frowned at his appearance. Thin, linen trousers. An untucked shirt only partially buttoned. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of the Middle Ages, but not the Hollywood version. The version where people owned only one or two outfits and seldom bathed. She was rather surprised she couldn't smell him.

"What sort of suspicious activity?" If he'd noticed her assessment, he gave no indication of it.

"The sort that requires investigation." She turned another slow circle. "May I have a look around?"

"You've already demonstrated that you do not require my permission."

She inclined her head. "Shall we start at the bottom and work our way up, then?"

"If you prefer." He gestured for her to lead the way. "Do you have an estimate for how long this will take?"

"Are you in a rush?"

"I have an appointment."

"You're more than welcome to go."

"I'll stay, thank you."

"Well then." She took a beat at the top of the stairs, glanced over, noticed that his jaw was clenched, his forehead just a touch shiny. Was he sweating? She had chalked this visit up to general distrust – and general dislike – of the Malfoy family. Draco hadn't caused so much as a blip on the radar since the war, and his parents had been locked away all the while. But perhaps there was more to it. Perhaps he was hiding something.

"They sent you in alone?" he asked. "Don't aurors usually operate in pairs?"

"I'm not an auror. I'm actually with the MLE patrol."

"That seems like rather a step down from an auror."

Hermione turned a cold look on him.

He raised an eyebrow. "Sensitive, are we? I meant I wonder why you chose that over the more . . . prestigious department. I imagine either would have fallen all over themselves to recruit you."

Hermione turned away and continued down the steps. "We intervene earlier, have a larger emphasis on rehabilitation. Aurors hunt down people with no future but Azkaban."

"I see," he said, as she paused at the bottom step. "You would rather save people than punish them."

She met his eyes. "I would rather see them rehabilitated."

He inclined his head. "Admirable."

She hissed out a breath as she turned away, had to remind herself not to let him get under her skin. She knew he was mocking her, but the only acceptable response was impeccable professionalism.

With her first step into the cellar, she refocused on the task at hand. "May I ask why you have your cellar arranged as a dungeon?" She tapped on the bars of the door. "It seems rather . . . outdated."

His lips turned up in a humorless parody of a smile. "I simply haven't had the time to redecorate."

"I see." She walked a slow circuit of the room, noting an armchair, a side table with a pile of books strewn haphazardly on it, and a dark wood cabinet. "Do you spend much time down here?"

When she looked up, he was eyeing a clock on the wall. "Well, the air is rather lovely," he responded, after a beat.

She held his gaze, making it perfectly clear she didn't buy the deflection. "I'm going to have a look at the contents of this cabinet now."

A twitch. His mouth, his eyes. Maybe even his arm. It was so fast she couldn't cement it clearly in her mind. But she was sure he had reacted. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked sweetly.

He said nothing, but his gaze had grown colder. She wondered if perhaps she had been foolish to come here alone. She had claimed she could handle it by herself because it was just a routine inspection. Suddenly she had to wonder if it was her own foolish pride, demanding that she show him she needed no one to protect her from this place, this family.

"Would you mind standing over there?" she said, pointing to a spot where she would have a good line of sight while searching the cabinet.

He complied without comment, waiting where she put him, hands folded, face neutral.

She opened the cabinet, found several bottles of the exact same potion, each marked only with a date.

"Would you like to tell me what this is, or shall I have it examined down at our offices?"

"You don't recognize it?" he said, a bite creeping into his voice. Then, to her surprise, he let out a slow breath. And glanced at the clock.

"It's unmarked."

"Surely you don't need labels to identify a potion."

She narrowed her eyes at him, watched his gaze flick back to the clock. "You're very concerned about your appointment."

"I am more concerned about you being gone before the allotted time."

"Do you think you'll be able to prevent me finding damning evidence if you are here?"

"I thought you were more interested in rehabilitation than punishment." Another glance at the clock.

"To be honest, Draco, I thought this was going to be routine. But you are acting more than a little suspicious."

"Come back in a few days and I promise I will be the soul of hospitality."

"Nice try." She took a bottle, slid it into her bag, and turned a slow circle. "I think we're done down here. Let's head upstairs."

He didn't budge.

"Draco."

He was staring hard at her, as if he could drive her away by mere force of will.

"Unfortunately, if you are going to remain on the premises during the search, you will also need to remain in my sight at all times. Joining me upstairs is not optional."

He frowned at the clock, watched the minute hand tick over, and let out a long, defeated sigh. Then he flopped into the arm chair, leaned over, grabbed a bottle of potion, and gulped it down in a single move.

She blinked at him.

"You would have found out when you tested it, anyway," he said, closing his eyes.

"Found out what."

"What's the potion, Granger?" His eyes were still closed, his breathing deep and even. "You're too smart to need my help. Put the pieces together."

She pursed her lips. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the bottle, studied the contents, looked at Draco, looked at the clock.

"Come back in a few days," she repeated.

"I think she's almost got it." Draco appeared to be speaking to himself.

"Is this Wolfsbane?" Her voice rose unnaturally high on the last word.

"There's the overachiever I knew and loathed."

"You're . . . when did you . . ."

"Is that important? I thought you championed privacy for my kind." The disgust on the final two words was palpable.

"None of the complaints suggested anything of this sort . . ."

"You know the complaints have no legitimate foundation. Nothing beyond my past, at any rate, which is well-known and well-documented."

"You're saying that this is discrimination because you're a . . ."

"Of course not. No one knows what I am." When she could only gape at him, he sent her a cool look. "I never thought I would see the day Hermione Granger was rendered speechless. And to think that I was the one to manage it."

"A werewolf," she said, with more than a bit of bite.

"A werewolf," he repeated, and the self-loathing in his tone made her regret her loss of temper.

He looked at the clock. "You should go. The moon will be rising in 25 minutes."

"You took Wolfsbane. I'm in no danger."

"Assuming all goes well."

"Call me optimistic."

He frowned. "You've already found my dirty little secret, Granger. I have nothing left to hide. Is it really worth putting yourself at risk, just to search my home for contraband you won't find?"

She tilted her head to the side, considering him. "I think I will finish the search, actually. I take my responsibilities rather seriously."

"Naturally."

"And among them is a duty to report any werewolves who are not taking proper precautions during the full moon."

This time it wasn't just a twitch. His whole body shifted forward, nearly a lunge, while his eyes flashed angrily. "I take proper precautions. Why do you think I've kept the dungeon?"

"Having someone . . . unafflicted nearby, in case anything goes wrong, is strongly recommended by the Ministry."

"That's the most idiotic thing I have ever heard. Why would they recommend that we expose others to our curse?"

"Unafflicted and prepared." She moved calmly toward the stairs, pulled the door shut, and turned the key in the lock. She studied it for a long moment, trying to decide if she should take it out of the lock or not. "How do you lock yourself in?"

"I throw the key beyond my reach, and I lock my wand away in a secure compartment in here. One that . . . it . . . doesn't have the manual dexterity to open. When I," he paused, looking for the right words, "return to myself, I summon the key."

"I see." She pocketed the key and sat down on the stairs, laying her wand across her knees.

"You're going to watch?" His voice was low. Unhappy, but unsurprised.

She said nothing.

He laughed, a hollow sound. "So few people get to witness such poetic justice. How could you do anything else?"

"I simply want to ensure your safeguards are sufficient."

He laughed again, the same horrible sound. She never would have thought she could prefer his mocking chortle, but this empty laugh, laced through with pain and anger she couldn't comprehend, was somehow worse. "I'm sure," he murmured.

"I would never wish this on anyone."

He met her eyes across the room, just for a moment. "No. I don't imagine you would." His breathing was faster now. She couldn't tell if it was anger, nerves, or the beginning of the shift. "You understand that even with the potion, having a person nearby . . ."

"I understand the risks."

"Keep your wand in your hand."

"I know what I'm doing."

"You're a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors are nearly always stupid when they think they're being brave."

"It's nice to know you've left those old house divisions by the wayside."

She thought he might have snorted at that, but couldn't be sure. His eyes were closed now, his breathing deep and even. The effort it took to remain calm was evident.

He didn't talk again. His breath became more labored, his face taut. He was so quiet, Hermione could hear her own heart beating. Then he doubled over, fell to his knees in front of the chair, curled in on himself. She waited for the screaming to start, but it never did. Only the rasp of desperate lungs dragging in air filled the room.

Her mind couldn't process the change she was witnessing, couldn't make sense of the half-man half-werewolf shifting in front of her. It focused on the minor details, his clothes splitting open and dropping to the ground, shredded. His claws digging into the cellar floor, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.

What looked up at her from across the room was no longer the boy she'd gone to school with. Crouched low, fur so pale it was nearly white, stood a werewolf. She was surprised to find that he had the same half-starved look that Lupin had once had when he shifted.

"Draco?"

Light grey eyes fixed on her as it paced forward. She could hear a rumble in his chest, which built, became a growl, low and dangerous. She held her ground. He had taken the potion. He should be in control. Showing fear would only strain that control.

The werewolf tilted his head to one side and then the other, studying her. Then he turned, padded in a circle, and laid down next to the arm chair.

She must have watched him for an hour, but he didn't move once. Eventually, she slipped up the stairs and out the door. She needed to let Ron know she would be working late. And she wanted to finish her search of the house.

She was at her post again when the moon set, and he melted back into the familiar form of Draco Malfoy. Albeit with fewer clothes.

He slept through it, curled on the floor in the same position, one suddenly made awkward by his human dimensions. When he woke an hour later, she averted her gaze.

"Get an eye-full, did you Granger?"

She met his look, unblushing. "In more ways than one." She paused. "You don't have a dark mark."

"No."

"I'm rather surprised."

He knelt by his clothes. "Why?" Realizing the shredded rags were useless, he frowned over at her.

"I was under the impression you had joined the Death Eaters in sixth year."

"You were mistaken."

"Was I?"

"Yes." Apparently deciding modesty was overrated, he strolled calmly to his chair, climbed on top of it, set his fingers carefully against a stone in the ceiling, twisted twice in one direction, three times in the other, and pushed at a thirty degree angle. Another bit of stone dropped down, revealing a hidden compartment.

"Suddenly I wonder if my search was thorough enough."

"Did you find anything?" he asked, casually, as he grabbed his wand.

"I did not. I rather thought I would find at least a little something."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that disappointment I detect?" He muttered a quick spell and had his clothes in one piece again.

"Surprise," she corrected.

"I scoured the house after I . . . came into possession of it."

"Ah. That would certainly explain it."

"The hiding places as well," he said, dragging on his pants. Apparently he was neither a boxers nor a briefs man. He caught up his shirt, paused, glanced over at her. "Though I'm not going to tell you where those are."

"Here and I thought we were being so open."

He frowned at her.

She sighed. "My official determination is that the complaints are unfounded, and based on my search of the premises and interview with the resident, no illegal activity has taken place. My recommendation will be to close the matter entirely."

"And as to my . . . condition?" he asked, buttoning his shirt.

"As you pointed out, I campaigned against registration. As long as you're taking all necessary precautions, I see no reason to disclose your status."

"I see."

She slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and let the door swing open. "I can show myself out."

But he followed her up the steps and to the front door, which he opened in an odd flash of civility.

She stepped outside and - to his obvious surprise - offered her hand.

"I'll see you next month," she said.

He went still. "Pardon me?"

"You don't need my pardon. Not for being a werewolf, at any rate. But you do need a capable witch or wizard to ensure nothing goes wrong. Tonight was the last night of this month's cycle. I'll see you for the next full moon."

"That isn't necessary." He still had her hand. His grip had turned harsh.

"I believe it is." She studied his face. "Are you trying to hurt me?"

He released her immediately and stepped away. "I am perfectly capable of-"

"You cannot be a responsible, capable wizard while in werewolf form. And, from what I can tell, you have almost zero contact with anyone who would fit that description. With anyone at all, really." She cocked her head. "When was the last time you left the house, Draco?"

He said nothing.

"Well, that's your business, I suppose. Keeping people safe is mine. I'll be here next month to do exactly that."

She left before he had a chance to argue.