Chapter 3: The Cursed Artifact
Hermione arrived at the Ministry looking like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards by a particularly vindictive gnome. Sleep was a memory. A hot shower had done nothing to erase the phantom feel of hands, of a mouth, of being filled. The faint, tender spots on her breasts, just beneath her blouse, pulsed with a reminder that defied all logic. She’d magically duplicated the stained sheet section, sending the original, sealed in an evidence pouch, to the Ministry’s forensic alchemy lab under a false case number. She told herself it was procedure. She was lying.
The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was its usual chaotic self. Memos buzzed overhead like enraged wasps. A Cartographer from the Welsh Green reserve was arguing loudly with the secretary about a misprinted permit. Hermione navigated the chaos on autopilot, her head a thrumming hive of conflicting thoughts.
Her office was a small, book-crammed sanctuary at the end of a narrow corridor. As she reached for the handle, she froze. The door was already ajar. A slice of shadow lay beyond it.
Heart hammering against her ribs, she pushed it open.
Draco Malfoy was sitting in her chair.
He had his feet propped on her desk, ankles crossed, right over a stack of draft legislation on Centaur territorial rights. He was examining a small, twisted figurine carved from what looked like petrified bone, holding it up to the grey light from her window. He didn’t look up.
“You’re late,” he said, his voice a low, casual drawl. “Ministry hours getting to you? Or just a rough night?”
Hermione’s hand tightened on the strap of her bag. The air in the room felt thick, charged. It smelled of him—that sandalwood and night air scent, now layered over the familiar parchment and ink of her space. It was a violation.
“Get out of my chair,” she said, her voice colder than she felt.
Slowly, he lowered the figurine and swiveled the chair to face her. His grey eyes swept over her, missing nothing: the likely shadows under her own eyes, the slight tremble in her hand still on the door, the way her knuckles were white on her bag strap. A faint, unreadable smile touched his lips.
“You look tired, Granger.” He swung his feet off the desk and stood in one fluid motion, placing the bone figurine carefully on a clean patch of wood. “You should really get more sleep.”
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, stepping fully into the room and letting the door swing shut behind her. The click of the latch sounded final. “This is a restricted department. You don’t have clearance.”
“I have clearance everywhere,” he replied, his gaze locked on hers. He took a step towards her, around the side of the desk. “Antiquarian consultant. Dark artifact appraisal. Your lot in Magical Creatures keeps stumbling into things best left un-stumbled-upon. Sent me this.” He nodded towards the figurine. “Nasty little thing. Incubus-linked, I’d say. Dream-crawler. Feeds on fear, mostly. Simpler times.”
The word ‘incubus’ hung in the air between them, a detonated curse. Hermione’s breath hitched. She forced herself to look at the artifact, not at him. It was grotesque, a hunched form with hollowed eyes and a leering mouth.
“I’m aware of its classification,” she said tightly. “It’s being logged.”
“Is it?” He took another step. He was close enough now that she could see the finer lines around his eyes, a weariness that his posture didn’t betray. “Because it feels like you’re starting your own private collection. Lead-lined box full of mirror-shards on your table at home. A stained bedsheet in an evidence pouch. Quite the haul.”
Hermione’s blood went cold. “How do you know about that?”
“You reek of them,” he said softly, his eyes dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second. “The artifacts. Their magic clings to you. It’s… loud.” He took the final step, closing the distance. He was inches away now. She could feel the cool energy radiating from him, a contrast to the heat flooding her own skin. “Louder than the lavender you try to drown everything in.”
Her back was against the door. She had nowhere to go. His fingers came up, not touching her, but tracing a line in the air just beside her temple.
“The dreams are getting stronger,” he murmured. His voice was different now. No mockery. It was heavy, almost resigned. “They’re spilling over. I can feel it. The line isn’t just blurring, Granger. It’s dissolving.”
“Stop it,” she whispered, but the command had no force.
“I can’t.” His hand fell, his fingers brushing against the back of her hand where it gripped her bag strap. The touch was electric, a jolt that travelled straight up her arm. “You have no idea what you’re pulling at. That mirror? It wasn’t just a dark object. It was a focusing lens. For things like me. You’ve been shining a bloody great beacon.”
“You’re saying it’s my fault?” Anger surged, momentarily overpowering the fear. “You’re the one who–”
“Who what?” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a whisper. He leaned in, his lips almost brushing her ear. She could feel his breath against her skin. “Who visited your dreams? Who fucked you until you screamed? Yes. That was me. But you invited me in first. All that brilliant, blazing, untapped energy. You think an incubus feeds on just anyone? It’s a feast, Granger. You’re a seven-course banquet.”
She turned her face, her cheek scraping against the stubble on his jaw. His eyes were storm-cloud grey, wide and serious. The smirk was utterly gone.
“Last night…” she started, her throat tight.
“Was real,” he finished for her. “As real as I am right now. The more you fight, the more you pull on these threads, the harder it becomes to keep the dream separate. Soon, there won’t be a difference.”
He lifted his hand, and for a terrifying, thrilling moment, she thought he might touch her face. Instead, he reached past her, his arm caging her in, and pulled the door handle she was leaning against. The door clicked open, letting in the distant murmur of the office.
He didn’t move back. He held her there, in the space between his body and the doorframe.
“The figurine,” he said, his voice once more businesslike, though his eyes still burned into hers. “It’s dormant. For now. But it’s attracted to the same energy as the mirror. Keep it sealed. Don’t take it home.”
He finally stepped back, the cool space rushing in where his warmth had been. He straightened his impeccably tailored jacket, a mask of casual indifference slipping back into place.
As he moved to walk past her, he paused, his head tilting towards her. His whisper was so low she felt it more than heard it, a vibration in the quiet office.
“You taste even better in daylight.”
Then he was gone, melting into the corridor’s flow of Ministry workers, leaving her slumped against her doorframe, her legs liquid, her mind a screaming riot of confusion, fury, and a shameful, undeniable heat.
She stared at the bone figurine on her desk. It seemed to leer back at her. He was right. She did have her own private collection. And every piece was a piece of him.