Chapter Text
The Accidental Arsonist
Hermione Granger stood squarely in the middle of Montclaire Avenue wearing little more than faded cotton pajamas and a ratty old bathrobe; the crowd gathered around her stopping the late-night flow of traffic as her flat burnt to the ground spectacularly.
To most, it was a simple structural fire that had gotten out of hand, an old building with faulty wiring and asbestos-filled walls fated to burn, the added layers of sheetrock designed to protect the residents from various cancers only serving as fuel for the fire, the flame coursing through the upper London flat with such speed it was nothing short of a miracle that everyone had evacuated in time.
Ultimately, the fire brigade would rule the damage as a mishap, citing a transformer that had been out of regulation for years, the county commissioners overlooking the necessary safety upgrades as they clashed with the neighborhood’s aesthetic. An aesthetic that Hermione had explicitly chosen to mirror her young professional life, having just accepted an official seat with the International Confederation of Wizards.
A seat she was undoubtedly going to lose once they learned the truth.
With the ends of her hair singed from her failed temper tantrum, the unmistakable sugary scent of Fiendfyre clung to her like the guilt that threatened to consume her, the faces of her now-displaced neighbors stricken with horror watching their home burn to ash.
It was all her fault.
“Miss?”
Hermione’s eyes followed embers as they floated up into the dark night’s sky, the spell she’d so stupidly cast snuffing itself out upon hitting her wards — the wards meant to protect her home from outside threats doing little to stop the threat from within.
“Miss?”
She blinked through her thoughts, finding the fire inspector eying her apprehensively, the brigade doing their best to stop the spread to neighboring buildings with four fire engines spraying a gallant amount of water over her shame.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, unable to meet the man’s eyes as her cheeks burned, arms vicing around a squalling Crookshanks determined to be free from the woman that had almost scorched his tail; her cat ultimately wiggling free before running off into the night.
“I asked if you have any friends or family we should contact?”
Her brows furrowed as the man’s question settled in her knotted stomach, his kind words twisting the knife in her gut that much further.
The fact was: she didn’t.
Harry was out of the country with Ginny, a break in their respective schedules allowing for a weeklong romantic rendezvous through Italy.
Her parents… well, her parents weren’t an option given their current residence in Australia and the fact that five years later, they still had no memory of her.
And Ron — Hermione’s eyes flitted back to the smoldering remains of her flat, the Fiendfyre she’d cast to burn his photos, the box addressed from the Burrows, and the advance copy of the morning edition of the Prophet featuring a full-sized image of the woman he’d left her for — the two spotted at the same Irish pub he’d proposed to her in.
A wave of helplessness crashed into her as she realized the true weight of what she’d done, the bottle of pinot she’d all but chugged going straight to her head, her wand, which had undoubtedly been consumed by her own stupidity having seemed so tempting at the moment.
The first tear slid down her face, cutting through the soot and grime of the crime she’d committed.
“No, I—”
“I’ll take her from here, inspector,” a deep tenor cut through her pitiful admission: she was wandless and alone.
Hermione looked up to find Draco Malfoy looming, his hard disapproving jaw set in such a rigid line that she knew why he, of all people, had decided to show up, his Aurors uniform giving away his intentions. In the light of day, he might have looked out of place, his dark embellished robes entirely too fine a thing for her Muggle neighborhood. But as the man stood beside her, or rather above her, half of his face framed in shadow, the other illuminated with flame, he looked like nothing short of the hand of justice itself — cold silver eyes not so much as bothering to look at her.
And could she blame him?
While she might have been able to hide the truth of her destruction from Muggle authorities, she wouldn’t be able to use the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy as a shield from the DMLE.
The fire inspector’s wary gaze craned up to assess the man that had made no introductions before simply shrugging, moving on to the following former tenant of what used to be a beautiful eight-story apartment.
“What are you—?” Hermione began before Draco’s hand wrapped around her upper arm, forcibly guiding her away from the spectating crowd toward the local apparition point.
“Malfoy!” she protested, feeling his grip tighten, her vain attempts to wriggle free of his authoritative hold burning through energy she didn’t have.
“Imagine my surprise,” he began once they were out of earshot, his deep condescending drawl that typically grated on her nerves now making her feel two inches tall. “When I was pulled from my dinner date to investigate a report of Fiendfyre thinking surely this is the work of some dark witch or wizard—”
“Malfoy,” she whined, needing him to dispense with the theatrics and get to the point before her exhaustion knocked her out altogether.
“Hush, Granger, I’m lecturing you,” he snapped, leveling her with his trademark sneer, displeasure coursing off him in waves. “Only to find that it wasn’t a sympathizer or some crackpot zealot eager to have their hand at the Golden Girl but instead, that it was the Gryffindor Princess herself.”
“I didn’t—”
“I can smell it on you,” he cut into her pathetic attempt at an excuse, only then choosing to let her go as though she were still on fire, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. A singular brow arched, waiting for a reply, likely expecting her to try and lie through her teeth like any other common criminal.
Instead, Hermione dropped her head, the crushing weight of her foolish actions forcing her to choke back a sob, frayed hair hanging in her face.
“I ought to arrest you,” Draco exhaled, his dragon hide boots disappearing from her line of sight as he began to pace, back and forth and back and forth until the motion made her stomach churn, the wine threatening to dislodge itself in a violent fashion.
Closing her eyes to ease her nausea, she imagined how the headlines would play out, the Prophet opting for the juicier headline, The Scourge of Shoreditch, her mugshot flashing on the front step of every witch and wizard that had ever held her in any sort of great esteem by dawn.
Draco stopped, his following words very nearly drowned out by the wailing sound of sirens and the sobs of her homeless neighbors. “Was anyone hurt?”
Hermione shook her head, having heard one of the inspector’s men assure him that with the exception of the Smith Family, also away on holiday, everyone was accounted for, and there were no significant injuries save some slight smoke inhalation.
“We should get going then.”
Her eyes shot up, meeting his cold features as a newfound panic sank in; a self-admitted criminal, yes, but she hadn’t actually thought through the part where he’d arrest her. While she and Draco had found some sense of civility since their years at Hogwarts, neither had found it in themselves to drop the petty jabs, their once hateful words now bickering and condescending.
She still had awful hair.
He still had a stick so far up his ass he had no use for a wand.
“My wand,” she whispered through dry lips, her tears doing little to wet them.
“What about it?” he snapped.
Hermione glanced back at her nearly-extinguished flat. “It’s— I no longer have one.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Inhaling, she fought off the hysteria bubbling to the surface, resigning herself to her fate. “I thought you ought to know before—” she hiccuped. “Before you book me.”
Draco’s expression became unreadable as he reached for her again, gentler this time, the two disappearing from the crime scene that would forever change her life.
Draco Malfoy had never been so thankful that he’d decided to become an Auror, needing an honest career to fill the void between squandering his fortune and dealing with the incessant headache that was his mother’s campaign to bring their family name back into good standing. He was halfway through his appetizer and what was easily the most tedious conversation of his life when his badge began to buzz, allowing him an honest excuse to escape the dull witch his mother had set him up with.
No sooner than he had politely excused himself because he was a gentleman, after all, he all but jumped into the nearest floo only to be given the briefest of rundowns by one of Potter’s trainees: “Fiendfyre. Shoreditch.”
Vaguely recalling the Muggle neighborhood, Draco disapparated with every intention of having to work various memory charms on the locals but had secretly hoped he’d have a crack at one of the wizards on his and Potter’s hit list, wanting to get the one up while he was out of the country with the Weaselette.
It had become a game of sorts, tracking down and arresting the last of Voldemort’s sympathizers, what with his misfortune knack for spotting dark magic and Potter’s obnoxious ability to stay alive — not that he necessarily begrudged him of that following the war, the boy wonder having spoken on his and his mother’s behalf at trial.
Potter, as insufferable as he was with a 47-45 lead, had all but dared him to beat his record while he was gone off on holiday; the two Senior Aurors — youngest in a century — determined to break the yearly quota of sixty arrests by New Years. It was only August.
Needless to say, Draco was more than prepared to put up a good fight when he apparated into the gitchy historical neighborhood, his wand at the ready to stun whoever had thought Feindfyre was such a great idea.
It wasn’t until he gained some sense of situational awareness that he realized where in Shoreditch his badge had taken him, swearing rather loudly when he remembered that it was Hermione Granger’s neighborhood. Hermione Granger that was standing barefoot in the middle of the laneway, hair smoking, with an unsettling look on her tear-soaked face.
So no, he wouldn’t be inching his way closer to beating out Potter despite the fact that Hermione was so clearly guilty of committing what was likely the stupidest crime he could imagine because the unfortunate truth of it was he’d developed an irrational fondness for the sodding witch, walking disaster that she was.
Knowing that backup was on the way, the trainees that much slower to don their uniforms, he confirmed that the scene was secure and that no one had been harmed as a result of whatever idiotic idea Hermione had. Logically he knew he should take her back to the Ministry and question her properly, ensuring everything was above board. But as his adrenaline high fizzled away into a mixed sense of disappointment, Draco knew the only way he was getting through the conversation with London’s newest arsonist was with a drink in his hand.
“Wait,” Hermione stuttered as they appeared inside his newest flat, the three-story glass penthouse overlooking the Thames below. “Where are we?”
“Drink?” he asked briskly, heading off toward his bar in search of the strongest whiskey he had on hand.
“Aren’t— Aren’t you going to arrest me?”
Draco heard the disbelieving scoff leave his mouth before good sense told him to keep his emotions in check, the indifferent mask he forced himself to wear around her falling back into place. “Because I’m sure Shacklebolt would just love to see that on the front page of the Prophet tomorrow: Golden Girl Granger arrested by Former Deatheater, Ministry on the Verge of Corruption Once More?”
Hermione let out an irritated huff. “I’ve just committed a crime, Malfoy.”
“Quite aware,” he countered, reaching for a bottle of Ogden’s he’d managed to hide from Theo and Blaise, the two making it a point to ransack his liquor cabinets anytime they visited.
“I broke at least six Wizarding laws,” she continued, marching toward him, a renewed sense of swottiness bringing color back to her face. Honestly, he was glad of it, hating how he’d found her, the tears reminding him of darker times.
“Six?” He’d only counted the two. Granted, the two were punishable with a cell next to his father’s, though he doubted they carried similar lifelong sentences.
“You ought to be arresting me.”
“As usual, you’re right,” he drawled, pouring two glasses neat, sliding one toward her. “Fortunately for you, I’ve had a rather long evening and have no remote interest in filing that paperwork tonight.”
“Malfoy,” she stamped her foot, crossing her arms.
“Granger,” he shot back, never missing an opportunity to harass her.
“I am a criminal. I demand you arrest me.”
Suppressing his laugh with his drink, he clicked his tongue. “Not happening.”
“Why not?”
Sighing, Draco set down his glass. “Even if Shacklebolt wouldn’t have my head for arresting a war hero, Saint Potter would undoubtedly hex me into next week. And I’m sure your fiancé—”
“He’s—”
“Tut tut,” he raised a finger, silencing her. “Your fiance would come up with something so childish that would ultimately ruin this handsome face forever, denying me the opportunity to find a proper wife.”
It had taken Draco every ounce of decency he had to not refer to the Great Red Git by his proper title of Weasel, Hermione having had it out with him at a dinner party, shrewdly screaming over top of the string ensemble that they were no longer children and he needed to stop acting like one.
“Just arrest me,” she pleaded, thick brows furrowing in distress.
Draco could. One, because he was well within his rights to do so, but also because she was begging him to; a story that Shacklebolt would absolutely believe, the insufferable swot wearing down more than a handful of wizards until they gave in to her demands. But while no one would doubt that she’d strong-armed him into hauling her to the Ministry, his curiosity won out the ethical debate.
“Not until you tell me why,” Draco met her demands with his own, feeling the unconscious tug of his lips into what he hoped was a smug smirk.
Hermione froze, dark eyes going wide at whatever horrible truth she was hiding. “No.”
“You’ve already ruined my night once,” he lied. “Not about to let that happen again without some kind of recompense. So what was it, hm? Attempting to tame that mop you call hair? Secretly destroying Horcruxes?”
“It’s not as simple as all that,” she snapped in her swottiest of tones.
“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” he teased, snatching his glass before sauntering away, making a deliberate show of it, knowing it’d irritate her that much more.
True to form, Hermione stammered, jaw falling open. “And just where are you going?”
“To get a shower,” he told her absently. “With any luck, I’ll be rid of this sugary smoky stench and can enjoy the rest of my evening out on the terrace.”
“You’re meant to arrest me,” she shrieked, stomping after him, wild hair shaking so violently ash rained onto his pristine marble floors.
“Yes, well, without supporting evidence and no clear motivation—”
“Evidence?”
“No wand, no evidence,” he shrugged, stopping short at his bedroom door, Hermione smacking into him.
“I’ve confessed,” she insisted on screaming, Draco’s index finger reflexively coming up to press against her lips, effectively silencing her.
“As you’ve no wand and no home, I suppose I could find some iota of benevolence by sending for the Wea— your fiance,” he spat the word, surprised when Hermione silently shook her head, tired eyes pleading up at him. “Fine. You may stay the night but come morning, you’re Shacklebolt’s problem.”
Hermione frowned, her dark eyes judging his uncharacteristic charity.
Sure he’d donated millions to various reclamation projects, supporting the orphans and widows created by the war, as well as single-handedly funding the restoration of Hogwarts without demanding so much as a plaque to be put up in his honor. It was his newfound willingness to share his private space that undoubtedly gave her cause for concern, the man notorious for refusing guests, save his closest friends.
Fortunately for Hermione and her abrupt homelessness, the lack of dueling dark wizards had left him more tired than not, and he really couldn’t stand the unmistakable scent of Fiendfyre. The rest of their argument would simply have to wait until he’d bathed.
“Guest rooms are down the hall. Take your pick. Both have ensuite bathrooms. I’d have your clothes sent for cleaning, but as I’m fairly certain they’d disintegrate, I’ll have to send for the seamstress tomorrow.”
Before Hermione could find any further argument, Draco spun on his heel, opening the door to his room. “Oh, and be sure to tell Potter he owes me.”
There were few times in Hermione’s life where she was at a loss for words, but as Draco’s door slammed in her face, she couldn’t help but think that he might as well have Stupefied her.
Not only had Auror Malfoy failed to arrest her, but he’d even offered up his flat as a refuge, going so far as to sacrifice his pride by sending for Ron. Ron, who normally would have lost his absolute shit knowing that not only had his nemesis just rescued her from her worst night since the war, but was calling it a favor owed from his best friend.
Normally.
No, with the night she’d been having, there were better odds that Ron would have only deigned to show up so that he could laugh in her face, exposing the raw nerve that was their recent breakup.
As exhaustion threatened to take her feet out from under her, Hermione weighed her options: she was wandless, homeless, and friendless. And Draco, as incompetent as he was acting, had unknowingly offered her a lifeline, the man more upset by his ruined date than the pending arson charges she faced and the undoubted mountain of paperwork he’d have to handle.
Conceding that she had temporarily lost the battle, Hermione decided to put the last remaining bit of energy she had into dragging herself toward Draco’s guest rooms, choosing one at random before collapsing into the deepest sleep she’d gotten in years.