such-stuff-as-dreambourne

Detective Hermione Granger had seen plenty of strange things in her decade on the police force, but nothing had quite prepared her for Draco Malfoy. He’d swept into her crime scene at three in the morning, immaculate in a bespoke suit that probably cost more than her flat, silver eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light.

“Detective,” he’d purred, and she’d felt something dark and delicious uncurl in her stomach. “I believe the victim was at my establishment earlier. Lux. Perhaps I can be of… assistance.”

That was the beginning.

What followed were months of the most infuriating partnership she’d ever experienced. Draco—who insisted he was actually the Devil himself, cast out from Heaven for rebellion—had become her unofficial consultant. He had an uncanny ability to get suspects to confess their deepest desires; he claimed it was a divine gift. She’d assumed it was exceptional psychological insight mixed with devastating good looks.

She’d been wrong about so many things.

The true scale of her mistake had only revealed itself hours ago. Before the demons. Before everything went to hell—literally.

Hermione Granger, trembling but resolute, was holding the blade. Draco Malfoy wasn’t fighting back, just watching her with sorrow.

Her voice, shaking with a conviction she no longer felt: “If I pushed this into your chest… it would kill you?"

He answered quietly: “Yes.”

The world had tilted on its axis. It wasn’t supposed to be that simple. “Because I’m close to you?”

“Yes.”

The memory of the shooting had faltered—of him standing between her and a bullet, of his true face emerging for the first time: beautiful, ancient, and devastatingly familiar. “But you jumped in front of it?”

“Yes,” he’d said, his silver eyes holding hers, raw and utterly honest. “And I would do it again. And again. Don’t you know that, Detective?"

The dagger had slipped from her numb fingers then, clattering uselessly to the marble floor. He had never told her. The Devil himself was mortal in her presence, and he had never once used it against her, had only ever used it for her.

“Hermione, move!”

Draco’s voice cut through the chaos as another wave of demons poured through the shattered windows of Lux. His usually pristine nightclub was in ruins—overturned tables, shattered glass, and the acrid smell in the air.

Hermione dove behind the bar, her service weapon useless against creatures that wore the faces of the dead. Her hands shook as she reloaded anyway.

“This is your fault,” Dolohov snarled from across the room, his stolen body moving with unnatural grace. The real-Dolohov had died weeks ago, murdered by a zealot who believed he could force Draco back to Hell. Now something else wore his face. “You abandoned your throne, Draco. Hell needs a king.”

“I’ve told you, I’m not going back.” Draco’s voice was calm, but Hermione could hear the strain beneath it. 

“Then we’ll take the child,” the thing wearing Dolohov’s face smiled, and it was wrong, wrong, wrong on that familiar face. “The nephilim will serve just as well. Half-angel, half-human—imagine the power.”

Hermione’s blood turned to ice. They were talking about Charlie, the baby born to their friend and Draco’s brother. A child she’d held just yesterday, whose impossible heritage made him a target for every demon.

“Over my burnt corpse,” Draco growled, and for a moment, Hermione saw something terrible flicker across his face.

She’d seen it once before, when the same demon wearing a different stolen body had shot her. Draco had cradled her in his arms, his perfect mask finally cracking, and she’d seen the truth; his face had transformed—skin like obsidian, eyes like the heart of dying stars.

She’d fled to Rome, searching for answers, and found a priest named Kinley who had armed her with lies and a consecrated dagger. The memory of her return, of confronting Draco in his penthouse, was seared into her mind.

“Granger!”

His voice brought her back to the present. “When I tell you to run—”

“I’m not leaving you,” she said fiercely, standing despite the danger. “Not again.”

His silver eyes found hers across the carnage, and something raw and desperate flickered there. “Stubborn woman.”

“Pot, kettle,” she shot back, rewarded with his faint smirk.

More demons poured in—dozens of them, wearing faces of the recently dead, their eyes completely black. Hermione recognised some of them from recent case files—murder victims, accident casualties. All pressed into service for Hell’s invasion.

“Enough!”

The command tore from Draco’s throat; every demon in the room froze, and so did Hermione.

“You want your king?” His voice was different now—layered, harmonic, like a thousand voices speaking as one. “Then KNEEL.”

His human mask didn’t fall away gradually this time—it shattered. The being revealed was not the red-skinned, horned caricature, but something far more magnificent and terrifying. His true form was a being of shifting states, beautiful and monstrous. The air around him grew cold; wings of shadow unfurled from his back—vaster and more terrible than the feathered ones she’d seen before.

Every demon dropped to their knees.

“You dare come to my city?” he roared, and windows shattered down the street. “You dare threaten what is MINE?”

Hermione should have been terrified. But now… now she saw past the horror to the man beneath—her partner. Her infuriating, impossible love.

She stepped out from behind the bar.

“Granger, no—” Draco’s voice cut off as she reached his side.

“I’m not afraid,” she said simply, and reached up to touch his transformed face.

He flinched, but didn’t pull away. Beneath her fingers, his skin felt like a warm stone, solid and real.

“You should be,” he whispered, and he sounded human in that moment.

“I’m not,” she said. “I’m afraid of losing you. I’m afraid of waking up tomorrow and you’re gone.”

The demons stirred restlessly, and the creature wearing Dolohov’s form rose despite the command to kneel.

“Touching,” it sneered, its stolen voice cracking. “But the infernal clock is ticking, and Hell still needs—”

Draco moved swifter than ever; his hand clenched around the demon’s throat, effortlessly lifting the corpse.

“Hell needs nothing from me but obedience,” he snarled. “And you WILL obey. All of you—return. Now. And if any of you dare surface again, I will personally ensure your existence becomes an eternity of agony. CLEAR?”

The demons vanished. Dolohov’s body crumpled, finally allowed a peaceful death. Draco’s true form flickered and faded, leaving him human-shaped but haggard.

He didn’t turn to face her.

“...They’ll keep coming,” he said quietly. “As long as I remain here, they’ll see it as abandonment. And next time, they might succeed in taking Charlie. Or you.”

“Draco—”

“I have to go back.” He swallowed. “It’s the only way to keep you safe.”

“No.” She snapped, shaking her head. “No, we’ll find another way. You can’t—after everything—”

He turned then, his silver eyes bright with unshed tears. “My stubborn detective. Always trying to save everyone.”

“Just you,” she said, her own eyes burning. “I’m trying to save you.”

He crossed to her, cupping her face. “You already have. These months with you… I’ve lived more in this time than in millennia before.”

“I love you,” she said, the words spilling out. “I should have said it before, but I was scared and stupid and I ran when I should have stayed. I love you, you impossible, infuriating—”

He kissed her, deep and desperate. When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard.

“My first love was never Eve,” he said against her lips. “Never anyone else in all my aeons. It was you, Hermione. It always has been. My soul knew yours would come.”

“Then stay,” she begged. “Please.”

“I can’t.” His thumb traced her cheekbone. “But this isn’t goodbye. Not forever.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because,” he smiled, sad and beautiful, “I’m exceptionally stubborn too. And Hell itself won’t keep me from you forever.”

He kissed her again, then stepped back. Reality rippled around him, a portal limned in fire.

“Draco—”

“Take care of our city, Detective,” he said, his smirk not quite reaching his eyes. “Try not to let standards slip in my absence.”

And then he was gone, the portal sealing with a sound like the world’s heart breaking.

Hermione stood alone in the ruins of Lux, her heart a shattered thing in her chest.

“I’ll find a way,” she whispered to the empty air. “I promised I’d save you. And I keep my promises.”

Six Months Later

The air in Hermione’s flat crackled, smelling of ozone and ancient dust. She didn’t look up from the Aramaic text spread across her coffee table, her fingers tracing the final, complex sigil. For six months, her life had been this: a frantic quest through grimoires and forbidden gospels. Her living room was a testament to her grief-fuelled determination, a conspiracy theorist's dream of yarn connecting maps, diagrams, and scraps of dead languages.

She had found it a week ago. Not a way to bring him home, but a tether. A loophole. A law of divine equivalence so archaic she suspected even God had forgotten it. If a mortal willingly anchored a celestial being to their soul, reality couldn't simply reject them. It would be a beacon he could use to pull himself back. The price was her soul, her life force forever linked to his. A small price to pay.

With a final, whispered incantation, she pressed her blood-pricked thumb to the centre of the sigil.

For a moment, nothing happened. The silence was absolute, mocking. Her shoulders slumped. She’d failed.

A soft scraping sound came from the kitchen.

Her head snapped up, heart hammering. She reached for her service weapon.

Draco stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He wasn't the immaculate man who had left. His suit was rumpled, his hair less than perfect. He looked utterly, profoundly exhausted, with shadows under his silver eyes that spoke of millennia of torment. But he was whole. He was here.

He looked from the sigil on the table to her face, a slow, weary smile touching his lips.

“Hello, Detective,” he said softly, his voice rough. “Did you call for me?”

The gun fell from her limp fingers. She launched herself across the room, a desperate, stumbling charge. He caught her, his arms wrapping around her like steel bands, and she buried her face in his neck, inhaling the impossible scent of him—brimstone, expensive cologne, and something that was just… Draco.

“How?” she gasped. “I didn’t know if it would even work—”

“It worked,” he murmured into her hair, holding her so tightly she could feel the frantic beat of his heart. “You shone like a star in the endless dark, Granger. A beacon. I just had to follow you home.”

He set her down but didn’t let go, his hands framing her face. She saw the cost of the last six months in his gaze.

“So the throne?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Hell?”

“Still mine,” he sighed. “This wasn't a pardon. I didn't negotiate a timeshare. I broke out. Abdicated. Again. The moment I felt your anchor, I named a regent and walked out. They’re likely tearing each other to pieces down there as we speak.”

“Then they’ll come for you again,” she realised, fear a cold knot in her stomach. “This changes nothing.”

“It changes everything,” he corrected her, his eyes intense. “Before, I was here on a whim. An extended holiday. Now…” He tapped his chest. “I’m tethered. Anchored. Thanks to a ridiculously reckless, brilliant witch who bound her soul to mine.” A genuine, breathtaking smile finally broke through his exhaustion. “They can’t simply drag their king back. But they will try to sever the anchor. Which means they’ll be coming for you.”

She didn’t flinch. “Let them try.”

He chuckled, a low, rich sound she had missed more than breathing. “I knew you’d say that.” He rested his forehead against hers. “It won’t be easy, Hermione. I’ll have to return periodically, to quell the rebellions. I’m no longer just a consultant enjoying earthly pleasures. I have… responsibilities.”

“You’re here,” she whispered, her hands clinging to his lapels. “That’s all that matters.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his devastating smirk finally returning, a bit frayed around the edges. “Well then, Detective. We have a demonic insurrection to prevent, a celestial balance to maintain, and six months of lost time to make up for. Where do you suggest we start?”

As she pulled him towards her, Hermione thought about destiny, choice, and roads forged by stubborn hearts. They had work ahead—balancing his dual existence, protecting their found family, and solving the inevitable murders that seemed drawn to their orbit.

But they would face it together. The Detective and the Devil. Partners, anchored in every sense that mattered.

And if sometimes she woke to find him watching her with ancient eyes, carrying the weight of Hell’s broken throne on his shoulders—well. She’d learned that love meant holding the anchor steady, even when the abyss pulled back.

The rule was simple: don’t look back.

Hermione’s fingernails dug into her palms as she climbed.

Behind her, Draco’s footsteps echoed—were they his footsteps? Or just the memory of them, the way amputees felt phantom limbs?

“Granger,” he whispered. “You promised.”

But the Death Chamber had taught her about voices—about how the veil made puppets of sound, made you hear what you needed to hear.

Don’t look back.

The archway glowed ahead, real sunlight bleeding through.

Ten more steps.

Nine.

Eight.

“Hermione—,” his voice is quieter now, “Said you wouldn’t…”

She stumbled, caught herself, and kept climbing. Behind her: silence, no footsteps, no breath; just her own heartbeat muffling every sound.

Three steps.

Two.

“…Promised you wouldn’t come.”

Her steps halted; then she turned back.

The thing wearing Draco’s face grinned, the way it stretched too wide, unnatural, its fingers already fading to smoke where they reached for her.

Draco was three days dead, she’d held his body, and she’d—

“No,” she whispered, but the archway was already closing, the sunlight dying, and the last thing she saw was silver eyes going black as the veil claimed them both.

Unspeakables found her body at dawn, had stretched toward the archway, fingertips worn bloody from clawing at the stone.

Draco Malfoy was draped over a velvet settee, an arm thrown across his eyes. The sulky violet of his hair bled to indigo at the tips.

“You’ve ruined it,” he said, his voice muffled against his sleeve. “The entire aesthetic. It’s… wrong.”

Hermione dropped her bucket. The clang on the flagstones echoed. She, the so-called brightest witch of her age, was scrubbing grout while one of the most feared wizards catalogued his face creams.

“There was mould in the grout, Malfoy.”

“It was sentient.” He shifted his arm just enough to pin her with one grey eye. “They were starting to develop a culture; cave paintings, I think.”

From the fireplace, Calcifer snorted. “Go on, tell her about the hair.”

“Shut it.” Draco’s voice went flat.

Hermione moved to the tea service, her joints grinding with a hateful protest. The heat of his gaze followed her, a weight she’d grown accustomed to.

She understood the hair, mostly. A living barometer of his moods: violet for petulance, crimson for embarrassment, and that soft rose-gold that bloomed when he thought no one was watching. The why of it all was still a black box, tied to whatever made him flinch if anyone lingered too close to the hearth.

She dumped four sugar lumps into his cup. He had a raging sweet tooth he’d never admit to. Just the simple act sent a phantom ache through her, a memory of a crowded corridor, of Ron’s laughter with Lavender, of the desperate, stupid dive into forbidden magic that had followed, a choice that had promised to numb the humiliation but instead left her nineteen in a body that felt ninety.

“The castle had to jump twice this morning,” she said, focusing on the swirling tea. “West, then north. Nearly shook the astronomy tower loose.”

His hair flickered, settling into an ashen grey. “Calcifer’s getting clumsy.”

“Or something’s tracking us.” She didn’t look up. “There was talk. In that last village. Bellatrix. She’s asking questions about a moving castle.”

“Dreadfully boring for her.”

“She’s getting closer.”

“Right. Well. I was never very good at geography.”

Liar.

She carried the teacup over. As he reached for it, his cold fingers brushed hers. A familiar, dead touch. Her eyes caught the book on the table beside him, its dark leather worn smooth: Soul Pacts and Symbiotic Curses. A scorched piece of parchment was jammed inside as a bookmark.

“I was always good with curses,” she heard herself say. “Top of my year. Even reversed a blood malediction once. All about the loopholes, the tricky grammar…”

A streak of gold shot through the grey in his hair. “Were you,” he stated.

“Mm.” She sank into the armchair across from him. "Fiendishly difficult. But the caster’s intent… it always leaves a flaw."

His fingers tightened on the porcelain.

Good.

Later, with Draco having retreated to the upper floors, Hermione approached the hearth.

“Calcifer. That book.”

The fire demon’s flames shrank to an orange. “What of it?”

“The burned scrap of parchment inside. It’s part of the bargain, isn’t it?”

The castle’s groaning gears were the only answer.

“...He’ll douse me,” Calcifer grumbled.

“And I’ll figure out how to bind you to a wet log,” she shot back. “I just need to know why we’re running.”

“Pile of sticks,” the demon flared. “This castle is a masterpiece of—”

“The bargain, Calcifer.”

The flames sank again, the sound like crackling embers. “...His mother was dying. No one could stop the curse, and it tormented him.” He hesitated. “Bellatrix offered... a trade. His heart for her, in exchange for a life free of pain”

“But he does feel pain,” Hermione whispered.

“Ah. Right.” Calcifer hissed. “It wasn’t that he’d never feel pain. It was that he’d never feel his own pain again.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

It was a transference.

Symbiotic Curses.

Then, a violent shriek tore through the castle, throwing her to the floor. Books and shattered glass rained down as cold bled through the walls, leeching the warmth from the room.

“Found you.” The voice was a venomous whisper that coiled in her gut. “Did you think you could hide from me forever, pretty boy?”

The wall exploded inward, stone and plaster atomised into a debris cloud.

Bellatrix stood in the gaping hole, her eyes burning with triumph. “And with a Mudblood. Oh, this is simply delicious.”

Draco was there, a blur of motion, shoving Hermione behind him as his wand came up. His hair was dead white.

“I prefer,” Hermione clipped, stepping to his side, her wand shaking. “the witch who’s gonna ruin your entire evening.”

Bellatrix’s gaze dismissed her. “Sit down, little girl. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Everything about him concerns me.” Hermione’s mind raced, stitching the pieces together. “Your curse… it’s a parasitic magic.”

The smile on Bellatrix’s face tightened.

“Avada—”

Draco shot Hermione a bewildered look; his shield flared, the green bolt cracking against it. The castle groaned.

“She feeds on it, Draco!” Hermione yelled above the din. “Your pain—she’s been drinking it! That’s the symbiosis!”

“Clever little Mudblood,” Bellatrix snarled; she unleashed the curses.

Hermione moved to counter, her mind sharp, her magic answering. 

But her body failed. Her knee buckled, agony shooting up her leg; she went down hard. She deflected a curse into the ceiling but saw the other, a jet of purple light, screaming toward Draco. He threw himself aside as the floor erupted.

“Remember your mother’s face, Draco?” Bellatrix crooned, advancing. “The way she screamed? I do. I taste it every time you feel that grief.”

Draco’s face was full of revulsion; his hair flashed through a chaotic spectrum of colours.

“The vessel!” Hermione gasped, dragging herself up. Her leg wouldn’t hold her. “The pact—it’s void if the vessel reclaims the suffering! It’s yours! You have to take it back!”

Bellatrix’s head snapped toward her. “Crucio!”

Draco moved, placing his body between Hermione and the curse. He didn’t flinch. He wasn’t looking at his aunt; he was looking inward, at the hollow space in his own chest. His hand clenched over his heart, a guttural sound tearing from his throat. It was an act of pure, agonising will.

A faint silver thread erupted from Bellatrix’s chest, tethered to Calcifer’s fiery core, as Draco’s fingers dug into his own sternum; the thread snapped.

Bellatrix shrieked. The glamour cracked off her face like a porcelain mask; her skin withered, pulling taut over bone. The sound from her throat thinned to a rattling gasp as she folded, collapsing into a heap of robes and fine, grey dust. And then—

Silence. 

The dust settled in the sudden warmth of the room.

Draco staggered, a hand pressed to his chest, his hair a brilliant, steady gold; a choked laugh escaped him. It sounded new, as if he didn’t know how to work the muscles. “Your research methods… are terrifying.”

“Thank you.” She tried to stand; now her leg didn’t give out.

He held her, his grip strong. His hand was warm.

“You okay?” His other hand came up, carefully tucking a curl behind her ear. “I— Granger, I can feel my— It’s…”

“Overwhelming?” Hermione looked up, putting her hand on his chest.

“...Yes,” he managed.

From the hearth, Calcifer sniffled. “If you two could move, I’d like to stretch. Ugh… that was exhausting.”

They stepped back. Hermione’s hand was still on his chest, and she felt it. A soft, grounding thump—and another.

“It worked,” she breathed.

“Brilliant witch,” he repeated. “Your filing system, however, is a catastrophe.”

Her eyes narrowed, “My filing system is perfect. It’s—”

He kissed her.

Carefully, hesitantly, but it tasted like relief. When he pulled back, his eyes were clear; he opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly averted his gaze and closed it again. A crimson light flickered at the tips of his hair.

She looked at the hole in the wall, and then at the man whose heart was finally beating under her palm.

“Well,” she said, a smile touching her lips. “Someone has to finish organising that bathroom.”

Calcifer’s flames settled into a contented glow. “Finally. Do you know how exhausting he’s been? Wrote sonnets.”

“Sonnets?” Hermione tilted her head.

“He’s— he’s delusional,” Draco snapped, now half of his hair flaring crimson.

“Twenty of them, hidden in the greenhouse—disguised as ‘Rare (H)erbology Texts,’” Calcifer pressed. “All of them… yeah, about a certain witch’s hands... He kept scribbling around the—well, I don’t know—the ‘h’s. Brackets? Maybe. Or just restless penmanship.”

Hermione grinned. “Twenty?”

“I’m evicting you,” Draco ground out, glaring at the fire.

In the quiet that followed, she felt his heartbeat, steady and sure under her hand.

“So,” she said. “My hands.”

He simply drew in a deep breath without a word; a crimson flush crept up his neck, now blurring the line where his hair began.

She laughed. “Coward.”

“... I’ve changed,” he insisted, kissing her forehead. “One… one request, though.”

“Hm?”

“The hair tonics,” he started, a smile in his voice. “When you reorganise them… could you leave the daffodil fragrance next to the lemon oil?”

“Why?”

He was quiet for a moment. “My mother used it,” he murmured, voice dropping. “That combination. It smells like her. Before.”

A warmth bloomed in her chest; Hermione smiled.