Beta'd by raa and catcachoo

Much Madness is divinest Sense -

To a discerning Eye -

Much Sense - the starkest Madness -

`Tis the Majority

In this, as All, prevail -

Assent - and you are sane -

Demur - you`re straightaway dangerous -

And handled with a Chain

- Emily Dickinson

Chapter 01: It Starts with Wolfsbane

Granger's hair only got worse after the bite. Unfortunately, so had his.

She pushed her heavy fringe out of her eyes, exhaled in such a way that her whole body seemed to deflate, and stared down into the cauldron on her kitchen table.

Draco leaned over to peer in. 'What are you doing? You're not even half-done stirring yet.'

'I know, Malfoy,' she said. 'It's just so hot in here. I can barely breathe, for Merlin's sake.'

Draco swished his wand and a set of numbers shimmered into existence. He cocked an eyebrow. 'It's 18 degrees.'

Still cool, despite the two bubbling cauldrons in her hearth, and the two more they were finishing up on the table. No rest for the werewolf, apparently. Such was his life these past seven years. The morning before the full moon was always the busiest day of the month for him.

'I know!' she said.

There was something off about Hermione today, he thought. He'd never paid attention to it before, but now that he thought about it, it had always been there on moon days. How had he never noticed before? Draco sniffed to be sure, then smirked. 'Are you—?'

'Yes!' she said, smacking her palm against the table. Her hand left behind a dent in the wood. 'I'm in heat, Malfoy. Yes. You're so clever! I must be the only female werewolf in the whole bloody world who ovulates at the full moon and menstruates at the new moon. It's not fair! Other witches only have one crap week a month; I get two.'

Draco lifted an eyebrow and turned back to his decanting. It wasn't very polite to sniff other werewolves on purpose, but Draco was not a very polite person, and she was not just any old werewolf. She was his werewolf. Draco frowned. His friend, rather.

They had a few hours yet to get all these Wolfsbanes distributed, but there was no sense in risking the potency by letting them oxidise overmuch. He cleared his throat and said, 'You could take a potion for that.'

She growled. 'I wish I could take a potion for you sometimes.'

'But not today,' he said.

She sighed, picked up her stirring rod. 'Not today,' she agreed.

Draco finished decanting the first cauldron and pulled another from the fire. Granger passed him the stirring rod without missing a beat, which was nothing unusual. She'd been his partner for five years, since they both finished the morally questionable, likely illegal, and highly secret training program for the Unspeakables. While he'd never admit it to their twat boss, Graves, the department hadn't been wrong when they said he and Granger had compatible magic. And compatible tempers.

And compatible monthly schedules.

They were the only two werewolves in the department, but not the only ones in the Ministry. There was Weasley, of course; Draco couldn't ever escape him, now matter how much he tried. And then there was Weasley's on-again-off-again something, Brown. Her Auror partner, also werewolf, was Draco's cousin Nymphadora.

On the new moon, the they—and of course, Potter—got together in the canteen and had a big, loud, werewolfy lunch together. It was undignified, and while Draco would have loved to put the blame for that humiliating idea at Granger's feet, it had, unfortunately, been one of his mother's schemes.

'Let them see that you're just like everyone else,' she'd said, and had then paused—no doubt remembering the crushed tea set she'd had to replace just that morning. 'Perhaps just a little stronger. Ah—we could add that to our public relations oeuvre. Do you suppose that werewolf fitness programmes would take off?'

Her own fitness programme now included a morning jaunt around the perimeter of the Manor grounds, and fox hunting at the full moon.

The bit about "stronger" was certainly true, even if the "normal but" part wasn't. Granger was the worst. She'd always been such a tiny thing before the bite (a year on the run with very little to eat certainly hadn't helped that) and Draco supposed she still wasn't used to being able to unscrew jar lids on her own, much less dislocate Weasley's shoulder when she was trying to mother hen him into sitting down to tea.

Draco gave her credit for it, though. Weasley had been a burly git even before the bite. Draco might've been an Alpha, but he could admit that it was only because Weasley was too simple to have a go at it himself, not because Draco was physically the strongest. Mentally strongest? Of that, there was no contest.

'I'm going to drop this batch off at Slug and Jiggers,' said Draco. He paused, then carefully added, 'Do you want me to take the ones down to Aberrant's, too?'

Unfortunately, she saw right through him. 'For all the fussing you make over my flat being in Knockturn Alley,' Hermione said, not looking up from her decants, 'You certainly enjoy chumming it up with my landlady.'

In truth, Draco was sort of jealous of Granger's flat. There was a nice fireplace—but it was a wizard-made building and every wizard-made building had a fireplace unless zoning ordinances were particularly contrary, so it didn't say much that there was one. It was in decent shape, had a clean loo, and was in prime location for those of abnormal circumstance. Like werewolves. No one in Knockturn Alley batted a glamoured eyelash at a werewolf, even prior to the abolition of the Werewolf Registry. It was also not the same place her parents lived, which was more than he could say for his own "apartment" within Malfoy Manor.

He pasted on a sneer. It was wasted on her. 'I was only trying to be nice. You always tell me I should do that. If you don't want my help, shall I just put on my slippers, pour myself a bowl of Ogden's, and let you have at it?'

She finally looked up at that, her mouth quirking on one side. Her pointed canine peeked out between her lips in a most becoming—and beastly—sort of way. He scowled. It wasn't enough that he was a werewolf, apparently. It had to also happen that he was attracted to the look of werewolves. Or maybe it was just Granger.

'As if, Malfoy. You sopped it all over my floor last time. Tonight it's just you, me, and BBC Four.'

Draco narrowed his eyes. 'No. I can't sit through another documentary. Global warming depresses me, and I can't do anything about it anyway since magic doesn't have a carbon footprint. I want to watch East Enders.'

The living room Floo flared to life before she could respond, and Draco's eyes widened at the extremely loud voice on the other end.

'Hermione? Sweetheart? It's Mum! Are you home? Dad's ready to come through to check the locks.'

Fuck,' Draco muttered.

Granger gave him a speaking look. It told him to behave himself around her parents or get out of her flat. The prospect of meeting Muggles was not something he stayed up late fantacising about. The prospect of meeting her Muggles the morning of the full moon was even less so.

He chose to Disapparate.

-x-

Most witches, Hermione might suppose, would have been terrified of telling their parents they were, quite suddenly, a werewolf.

Most witches were not Hermione Granger. And most witches' parents were not Wendell and Monica Wilkins, recently of Australia, who had a magical daughter, discovered they were not, in fact, of Australia, and likewise were not Wendell and Monica. They'd put up with quite a bit from her—from magic to memory charms to moving across the globe. Hermione was always haring off on mad adventures, like camping. All good learning experiences, according to the Granger-Wilkinses. If she wanted to be a werewolf, well, they would support her "life choices".

They supported her so much, in fact, that despite all of Hermione's protestations and subtle Confundus charms, it never failed that on the morning of the full moon, Wendell Granger-Wilkins (he was not comfortable returning to Clarence) would come through her Floo, in her flat, in bloody Knockturn Alley, to do a check of her doors and windows. As if a burglar might try to come through while Hermione was indisposed.

'There you are,' said her Mum, smiling through the flames. 'Having a good day off work, then?'

'Absolutely,' Hermione said.

After seven years of this routine, she'd learned to not bother trying to correct them any longer. She was, in their eyes, a hipster, and would always remain so. Muggles, it seemed, were incapable of separating real lycanthropy from Thriller music videos.

Her "gardening" didn't help matters. She didn't tell Ron and Harry about that, as inviting Aurors into one's not-quite-legal activities wasn't wise, but there was truly nothing Hermione could do that would make her neighbourhood any uglier, and so, like with robbing Gringotts, she was able to justify it in her head.

Even if she did feel sort of a little guilty sometimes.

'Any nice plans for the evening?' asked Mum.

She struggled for something suitably mundane to reply with. In her experience, her parents much preferred their land of make-believe where nothing hurt their daughter and she was just a big fan of shapeshifter fantasy novels. 'I think I'll read for a bit, catch up on laundry, have an early night, the usual.'

'Good for you, darling. You deserve a break. Dad's coming through now. Love you.' She leaned out of the fireplace and was replaced by a large hand reaching through, as if searching for something to hold onto. Hermione rolled her eyes, and grabbed hold of her dad's arm. He stepped into her flat, gracefully enough, all things considered.

'Good morning, sweetheart.' He ruffled her hair. Since it could not get any worse, Hermione remained unfazed. As was his pattern, he moved off towards the bedroom to begin his rounds, calling over his shoulder, 'Are you watching East Enders tonight? Sonia and Naomi have—'

Fortunately, her wand alarm chirruped, signalling that the last cauldron was ready for stirring and decanting. 'Let me just check my potion,' she called.

He continued his circuit apace. It was habit now. He knew her flat as well as she did. By the time she'd finished stirring and begun the decants, her Dad was finished. He met her in the kitchen, and peered into the cauldron like a first year. She was really going to have to break him of that habit. Eventually. It was harmless, and he found potions so fascinating that she hated to deny him.

'Smells good. What is it?'

It did not, in fact, smell good. Wolfsbane smelled too much. It was a confluence of dozens of highly odorous ingredients. They were all, according to human consensus, nice-smelling aromas, but they were the very definition of migraine to an actual werewolf.

To Hermione, it smelled like someone who lived off lavender and vetiver sicked up on a pollinating hydrangea bush. She eyed her father, trying not to smile. 'Potion.'

He nodded sagely. 'Is this your wolf potion?'

'Yes.'

'What would happen if I drank some?'

Hermione paused in the middle of corking a vial. Their eyes met over the steam of the cauldron and Wendell's mouth quirked up on one side. With him as her father, she'd never stood a chance against the appeals of science. He would've been a Ravenclaw, no doubt about it. With his experimental nature, he probably would have also been a dead Ravenclaw.

'I don't know. Probably nothing, since you're a Muggle.' Which reminded her to take her own. She did so, grimacing at the taste of flowers.

Her father pursed his lips as if this were a great mystery to consider. He met her eyes again. Their stare held. Hermione huffed out a sigh. She always gave in, in the end.

'Oh, fine!' She passed him the vial. 'If you tell Mum I gave you this—'

'Yes, yes,' said Dad. He uncorked it and took a small sip. His nose scrunched. She smirked. Scents could be deceiving. After a moment, he said, 'I don't feel very wolf-like.'

'That's the point.'

She sent him home with the excuse that she had errands to run, and sincerely hoped that this would not be the time that his penchant for experimental potions was the time that poisoned him, as she would be unable to hold a wand after 6:08 this evening. Knowing her father quite well, she'd triple checked multiple sources to make sure the potions she kept to hand were not harmful to Muggles. She then re-checked those sources once a year. Hermione knew it was perfectly harmless, but it was her dad, so she always felt a tiny bit nervous when she gave in to his scientific-inquiry side. It was for this reason that her mother had the St Mungo's Floo address and her father had a spare bezoar.

Downstairs, in her apothecary, Mrs Aberrant was restocking the gurdyroot while listening to Celestina Warbeck's 2004 Christmas album. It was only November. While Hermione and Draco had been up since seven completing the last stage of the Wolfsbane potions, the shops here in the Alley were just starting for the day, and it was already after nine. Lazy buggers.

'You can set them by the till, dear,' said Mrs Aberrant. 'Abner'll transfer the money to your account in the morning.'

Being partnered to a Potions Master made Hermione's life infinitely easier. Even if that Potions Master was Malfoy. Because of the importance of Wolfsbane, the potion could only be sold commercially if a licensed brewer prepared it. There weren't many of those in the UK and even fewer who'd sell it for the price of materials, which Hermione found to be exceedingly dastardly. In retaliation for those beastly old wizards' avarice, she elected to spend every full moon distributing cheap Wolfsbane to partnered apothecaries around the UK.

Naturally, Draco was indentured into helping, by way of being her friend and susceptible to her "determined" look.

She met Harry and Ron for lunch after dropping off the last of her potions at the Cardiff Werewolf Association guildhall. It had been a long morning, and she found herself slumping into the seat opposite them at the new Impervious Cauldron, Hannah Abbott's first of many planned cauldron-themed cafés. Hermione reached into her bag and fished around, withdrawing the last of her vials.

Ron took it from her with barely a glance, uncorked it between two bites of crepe, and swallowed it back. He barely grimaced. 'Thanks, Hermione. Yours are always the least revolting.'

Harry snorted. He was picking at a ham and cheese sandwich while eyeing Ron's crepe with some concern.

Hermione's eyes crinkled. 'Malfoy made that one.'

Ron faked a gag. 'Figures.' He gestured with his fork. 'Want some? It's blackberry-bacon-venison.'

In fact, she did. She pulled his plate across to her, and Ron barely scowled. He lifted his hand for Hannah's attention, gestured pointedly at his erstwhile crepe, and she nodded, hustling back to the ovens to find him a new one. Hermione munched on.

'I've no idea how you can eat that vile thing,' Harry muttered, watching warily for Hannah's blonde head to reappear. 'I can smell the blood from here.'

'So can I,' Ron said, but with far less disgust in his voice, and far more delight.

Hannah's full moon menus were stuffed with all sorts of different rare meats, and as werewolf appetite rarely subsided, it turned out to be a smart business decision on her part. The week before and the days after a full moon always saw her café full to bursting with tired, hungry werewolves and their families.

'So,' said Hermione, upon finishing the last of Ron's crepe. 'Sure you don't want to come over tonight? There's a new documentary on the cycles of climate change over the Earth's his—'

'Can't,' Ron said, before she could really get going. 'Harry's having a pick-up game of humans versus werewolves versus quaffle. I'm keeping for the werewolf team.'

'It's going to be brilliant!' Harry added.

Hermione scrunched her nose, looked from Ron to Harry. 'Is that like football?'

'Yeah, it's brill. We just made it up today at work. Lavender's the best striker in Muggle football, and she wondered if she'd be any good in wolf form, and it just sort of spiralled from there.'

'Want to come?' asked Harry. 'I suppose Malfoy's welcome, too, if he's not worried about getting dirt in his coat.'

Hannah came over and set a fresh crepe in front of Ron, smiling fondly at him. Hannah did love a man who could put food away, and given Ron's lycanthropy and natural inclination to graze constantly, he blew Neville out of the water in that department. 'Thanks, Hannah.'

'Thanks, Hannah,' Hermione echoed, already forking off a piece of Ron's new crepe. 'Could I get a cuppa, too?'

Ron suffered the theft about as well as Hermione had in school, when he'd been the one picking from her plate. Sometimes she felt guilty for how much she ragged on him then. She knew what it was like to be constantly hungry now. Because she was. Especially, during the week leading up to the moon and the couple of days after. Werewolf metabolism ran so fast, she'd probably starve in two days if she didn't eat.

She turned back to the men. 'Is that safe? With humans about?'

'Wolfsbane,' Harry said, waving his hand dismissively.

'Hmm,' said Hermione.

She chewed on a fat piece of blackberry-flavoured venison as she considered it. Harry didn't always come up with great plans, but sometimes he inadvertently struck gold. It was possible this was one of those times.

Every now and then, Hermione threw a little "changing party" for a handful of close werewolf friends. Nothing extravagant, but just a few people over to break up the monotony of her and Malfoy parked on the rug watching Top Gear reruns. Those little get-togethers were all fine and good, but she'd never considered the idea of a party with humans about, too.

It just seemed so—so dangerous.

After all, it'd only been two years since they'd finally succeeded in abolishing the Werewolf Registry. She and Narcissa Malfoy had worked on it—anonymously on Narcissa's part—for almost five years before anything came of it. A targeted, relentless, Malfoy-funded pro-werewolf marketing campaign had helped, but there were still shops in Diagon Alley with crude signs declaring NO BEASTS. THAT MEANS WOLVES TOO.

They had a ways to go, for sure. And one drunk or git-ish werewolf could ruin the whole thing for all of them if he accidentally or on-purpose nipped a human. Hermione was deeply opposed to such a thing. She'd spent many years of her life fighting for equal rights for werewolves, but they were not yet at a place where they could weather the inevitable political storm if a new werewolf was made.

On the other hand, Harry was a private person, and it was unlikely that he would have over on a full moon any humans who were the type to cause trouble. And with Luna, Teddy, and baby Portentia about, Hermione could trust that every possible precaution would be taken.

'You trust all the humans?' she asked, just to be sure.

Harry nodded. 'Yeah, we're doing it at the Burrow, so Arthur and Molly'll be about, too, anyway. And Andromeda's coming over to help chaperone since Tonks won't be able to watch Teddy. He was dead set on coming. Hey—know anyone else who could play for the human side? We're short one.'

'Millicent, maybe,' Hermione said, barely paying attention to the conversation. She was too busy calculating all the different ways this could go horribly, irreversibly wrong—and the few ways that it could be brilliant for their cause. If it got out that Harry Potter hosted werewolves at the full moon—with his wife and toddler about—then people would take notice. No doubt there'd be a front page spread in the Prophet this weekend at the latest.

'All right,' she decided. Ron and Harry beamed at her, as if they were wired up to the same smile switch. 'Draco's going to want to play centre-half. You know how he likes to stop other people from doing things they want to do.'

Harry rolled his eyes, shared a look with Ron. 'We know. Believe me.'

'Still can't believe his fantasy team's in the lead again this season,' Ron grumbled.

The crepe had disappeared sometime between when it arrived and now, without Hermione noticing. She frowned down at Ron's empty plate, still hungry. Merlin, she hated moon days. It was a wonder she hadn't gained a whole stone since her bite.

Hannah brought the bill over and Ron paid before Hermione could get out her purse. The boys stood. 'Just noticed the time. We've got to run. Yewsap has Harry and me on a quick scouting mission this afternoon. Wants my nose.'

'And your ginger arse,' Harry added.

Ron ignored him, pointedly. 'You're lucky your department considers you incapable of cognizant thought processes on moon days, Herm. Mine just capitalises on it.' He checked his watch again. 'Bugger—Harry we've got to go if we're going to get done before moonrise. I don't want you to have to apparate me home again. You're shit at side-along.'

Harry stopped to give her a brief hug on the way out. 'You'll really come?' he asked. He frowned, chewed his lip. 'Don't spend another moon night watching shit documentaries. We all know there's global warming; no sense in depressing yourself about it once a month. It's been two years since you killed the Registry; it's okay to have fun on the full moon.'

'We'll come,' said Hermione, suddenly feeling wrong-footed.

Harry's eyebrows went up. 'Does Malfoy know that you've started making decisions for him?'

'If he hasn't figured it out by now, he doesn't deserve to know,' said Hermione.

Harry smiled at her, and left. She sat at the table frowning down at the empty crepe plate for several long minutes. She had fun, didn't she?

Yes, she was quite sure she did. But—well, maybe she didn't love watching documentary marathons once a month. And after seven years of it, it was becoming quite old. Andromeda, Mr and Mrs Weasley, Harry, and Luna at least would be human. They were all competent wizards. And Wolfsbane was ubiquitous now, thanks to her and Draco.

It was safe. Of course, there was always the possibility something could go wrong. But then Harry would be there, and he wouldn't let anything happen. The Weasleys had a state-of-the-art changing paddock—very secure. They could use the public relations capital. Hermione wavered. What was it that Draco was always telling her?

Untense. Hermione sighed. She could do that. Safe enough, she decided.

Hermione bought two more blackberry-bacon-venison crepes to take home with her. No global warming documentary she supposed, but at least she didn't have to watch East Enders.

-x-

Draco was already back at her flat when Hermione returned. His nose twitched in the direction of her takeaway bag. He rose from the settee and prowled closer, neatly plucking the bag of crepes from her hands. Hermione rolled her eyes and followed him back to the living room, where he resumed flicking boredly through channels.

'How're your best twats doing?' he asked during an advert. He was definitely in a mood, most likely because he'd flounced off when her mother Floo'd and therefore wasn't around for her to invite him to lunch. 'Still unreformable gits?'

Hermione snatched her half-eaten crepe back from him and took a bite, chewing extra long to avoid responding since he hated waiting. 'Fine, yes,' she said at last. Then, 'You up for something a little different tonight?'

Draco turned to face her rather more quickly than she'd expected. 'What kind of something different?' he asked. His eyes were already beginning to glow faintly yellow from the upcoming moonrise, and Hermione's heart fluttered strangely. She always liked that colour on him.

Hermione handed the crepe back to him because her hands didn't seem to know what else to do. 'Well, Harry had an idea.'

Malfoy sighed and flopped back against the couch. 'Lovely. I've already entertained him once this week. Isn't that enough?'

'Humans versus werewolves versus quaffle,' Hermione continued.

He cracked one yellow eye open. 'I'm listening.'

'I told them you'd want to play centre-half.'

'Obviously,' said Draco. He began to smirk. 'It'll be Weasley and me against Potter?'

'Well, yes, obviously,' Hermione said. 'But seven on seven, like football. And with very strict no-contact rules.' She gave him a stern look at this to reinforce her point.

Draco was still smirking, no doubt thinking of the unceasing competition he and Harry had going with everything. They managed to compete on things that Hermione would've never even thought could be won, like who got out of the interdepartmental meetings quickest or who could guess which pudding Ron would order at Hannah's. 'Will there be food?'

'It's at the Burrow, so of course,' Hermione said. 'Molly does love a barbeque.' In fact, the thought of some rare chicken with lots of sauce was making the entire evening sound rather more enticing to Hermione, as well. Her stomach grumbled. They both looked towards the takeaway bag, but somehow the two extra crepes were gone. Hermione frowned.

'Yes, let's,' Draco decided. 'Anything's better than Channel Four again.'

Hermione really wished she could argue that, but she couldn't. Even watching sport would be more fun.