Chapter 1: A Bouquet of Thorns
The air in the back office tasted of dust and decay. A single bulb buzzed overhead, its light shuddering across glass jars of twisted roots and shelves bowed under the weight of mildewed textbooks. Hermione Granger’s quill scratched a firm, final line through Moly on her harvesting list. The parchment shouldn’t have looked so different, but the edges were soft, stained with something dark that wasn’t her ink.
She blew a stray curl from her forehead. It was late. The Ministry’s corridors were silent tombs. But here, among the whispering leaves and dormant spores, she felt a familiar, focused calm.
Or she had. For the past three weeks, a strange heat had taken root under her skin. It hummed, a low current just beneath her concentration. She blamed the poorly ventilated room, the strange summer humidity that seeped even into the stone floors. She did not blame the list.
“Hermione?”
Neville’s voice, warm and concerned, came from the doorway. She turned, and the movement felt slower than she intended. Her robes, usually fastened to the throat, slipped off one shoulder. She didn’t fix it.
“You’re still here,” he said, stepping inside. His eyes, kind and too perceptive, scanned her desk: the stacked cauldron cleaning kits, the half-finished report on dirigible plum blight, the list. His gaze lingered there. “That’s the third weekend in a row. Interns aren’t paid for overtime, you know.”
“The work is its own reward,” she said, but the words came out airy, almost sing-song. She leaned back in her chair, stretching. A joint popped. “Besides, the harvesting is so much more interesting now. The greenhouse yields are spectacular.”
“That’s just it.” Neville moved closer, his fingers brushing the edge of the parchment. “The yields shouldn’t be. Some of these specimens… Hermione, Passiflora Incarnata? That’s not on our approved cultivation roster. It’s a Class-C mood-altering substrate.”
“It’s fascinating,” she breathed, a giggle bubbling in her throat. She stifled it with the back of her hand. “The petals thrash if you sing to them. I’ve been compiling notes.”
“Let me see the list.” His tone lost its softness.
“Why?” She hugged it to her chest, a childish, defensive motion. The parchment crinkled. Her heart gave a funny little thump. Not from alarm. From a spark of defiance. It felt good.
“Because something’s wrong.” He kept his voice low, steady. “You’re wrong. You giggled during the Venomous Tentacula safety briefing. You nearly sliced your thumb off de-thorning that Bouncing Bulb because you were, and I quote, ‘distracted by its lovely hue.’ And yesterday you told Perkins his new beard made him look ‘dashingly piratical.’ You made the man faint.”
Hermione’s flush deepened. She remembered the Beard Incident. It had seemed hilarious at the time. Everything seemed lighter lately, softer at the edges. The crushing pressure of perfection, of being Hermione Granger, had inexplicably eased. “I’m just… relaxing. Is that a crime?”
“No. But this is.” Neville’s hand darted out, not for her, but for the list. His fingers closed on a corner. “This isn’t your writing. Not all of it. These notations in the margin, the substitutions… This is advanced, volatile cross-breeding. This is someone playing a game.”
“Don’t!” The word ripped from her, sharp and sudden. She yanked the parchment back with a force that tore the corner in his grip. The hum under her skin spiked into a wave of pure irritation. “It’s my project. My responsibility. You’re just jealous the yields are better than yours.”
The hurt that flashed across Neville’s face was brief, quickly buried under sheer worry. “I’m not. Hermione, listen to me. Who gave you this list?”
“The same source as always,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She smoothed the damaged parchment, her touch almost a caress. “The office archive. It was just… there. An upgrade.” She looked up at him, and her eyes were bright, unnaturally wide. “Don’t be such a worrywart, Neville. It’s all under control.”
She stood then, needing to move. The room tilted pleasantly. She caught herself on the desk, her knuckles white. “In fact, I feel brilliant. Full of ideas.”
“Ideas about what?” His voice was tight.
A slow, un-Hermione-like smile spread across her face. She looked past him, toward the darkened corridor. “About… potential. About not following every single rule. About dreamy blondes with excellent bone structure who don’t waste their time being afraid of everything.” She blinked, as if surprised by her own words. The heat in her cheeks was furnace-blast now.
Neville paled. “Malfoy.”
The name hung in the dusty air, a key turning in a lock.
“He has a name, you know,” she murmured, gathering her things with a clumsy energy. Her usual meticulous packing was abandoned; books were shoved, vials clinked dangerously. “He’s been so helpful. Resourceful. His family’s private greenhouses are apparently beyond compare. He mentioned… showing me.”
“Hermione, no.” Neville moved to block the doorway, his solid frame filling the space. “Draco Malfoy is not helpful. He is not your friend. He is a poisoner. A saboteur. This,” he gestured wildly at the room, at her, “is his work. Can’t you see it?”
She paused, her arms full of chaotic parchment. For a second, something ancient and logical flickered in her gaze—the Hermione who solved puzzles, who saw traps. It fought against the warm, syrupy feeling drowning her thoughts, the magnetic pull that had been drawing her eyes to a certain tall, pale figure for weeks. The pull that right now felt like a physical thread, tugging her toward the door.
The logical spark died. Snuffed out by a wave of delicious resentment.
“You’ve always been small-minded, Neville,” she said, and the cruelty was casual, effortless. “Always seeing monsters in the shadows. He’s just a man. And I’m just… curious.”
She shouldered past him. He was stronger, but he wouldn’t manhandle her. He couldn’t. He just stood, helpless, as she walked into the dim corridor.
“Where are you going?” The question was a hollow echo.
She didn’t look back. “To get some air. The… the atrium gardens. I need some air.”
Her footsteps faded, uneven on the stone.
From a deep alcove twenty feet down the corridor, a shadow detached itself from the wall. Draco Malfoy stepped into the faint, greenish light of an emergency sconce. He had heard every word. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, his expression one of serene, academic interest. Only his eyes, silver and hungry, betrayed a different truth.
He watched her stumble slightly on the threshold to the stairwell, right herself with a soft laugh. The sound was a melody he’d composed note by note, plant by plant.
Neville appeared in the office doorway, his face stricken. He saw Malfoy. Their eyes met across the gloom.
Draco didn’t smirk. He didn’t gloat. He simply gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod—a botanist acknowledging a failed competitor. Then he turned and walked, a silent predator, following the path of his increasingly pliant, unraveling prey.
The torn corner of the list lay on the floor at Neville’s feet. He picked it up. The ink on it was dark, unfamiliar, and it smelled faintly of belladonna and desire.
He was too late. The poison was in the bloodstream. The harvest, he realized with a sinking horror that chilled his very soul, was already beginning.