Chapter Text
On enchanted paper, she watched him lean down, enveloping her lips with the undiluted passion of newlyweds.
It was terrifying how easy it was to accept her fate.
The swirls of black ink minted the truth: Draco’s hand threading through her hair, grasping the nape of her neck fervently. The hunch of his abnormally straight shoulders to reach her. The tiny crease of his dimple begging to be revealed.
Then, with equal horror, she watched herself open up to him in response.
She didn’t know what overcame her. Was it a blackout daze, or rather she wanted everyone to finally leave her the fuck alone for a moment? It didn’t matter. Sparks had shot through her mind and down her body as she realized she was, in fact, kissing Draco Malfoy.
Cheers erupted in the back that she knew was from a certain Healer. The photographer captured as she finally broke away from Draco, a quick swipe of her mouth with the tip of her thumb.
Chancing a glance at Draco, he had a slash of smirk as he looked out at the crowd and back at her. It was a claiming sort of look. Something she wasn’t sure she could admit to herself without blushing. He looked proud.
Hermione looked away from the Prophet. Staring at the continuous loop made her uncomfortable with such stark reality, but her attention was caught either way. At least that was the point of a cover story.
She rubbed her left side, feeling the knolls of her ribs between cartilage. They bubbled when she kissed Draco back. A peculiar feeling. It didn’t hurt, rather felt as if someone was rolling bubble wrap across them.
The headline declared what they sought to achieve: “Lord Malfoy and the Heir of Merlin Celebrate Marriage!”
The subhead irked her the most: “Countdown to Merlin’s Next Heirs, What We Know.”
What was with this society and bloody procreation? As if it was her requirement to repopulate the Wizarding World.
Hermione huffed, the rogue curl lifting with her breath.
It almost killed her not to crumple the damned paper in her hands when she read the article. More idiocy spewed across ochre-colored paper: how after seeing that kiss, the public wouldn’t wait long before there was a bump on her.
At least the elves would be happy. That is, until Hermione proved it wrong.
It was still early in the morning. Kingsley had finally given her the approval to return to work, and she was more than ready to accost the Wizengamot to pin down a hearing date for the Lupin Bill.
Glancing at the clock, she thought the elves would be making breakfast. She tiptoed down the steps of the Manor, telling herself she wanted to thank them profusely for providing for her every morning.
More than not, she wanted to head off any absurd ideas that they needed to cook for two.
The smell of coffee and breakfast sausage floated through the corridor leading to the kitchens. It was mouth-watering. She practically tripped on her own two feet wrenching open the door.
“Topsy?” She said into the depth of the kitchen. Steam and the sounds of grease popping permeated the air. But alas, not a house elf looked back at her.
Draco turned to look back at her from the stove. The sleeves of his Oxford shirt were rolled up to the elbows, and a thin layer of sweat on his forehead reflected the morning sun fighting against overcast clouds. He blinked at her intrusion.
She stopped between the swing of the door. Coffee was brewing in a pot on an adjacent counter in a repetitive fashion.
“What are you doing?” she asked dumbfounded.
It didn’t take long for a smirk to appear on his face. “I would’ve thought it was rather obvious what I’m doing.”
“You’re making coffee.” She stated. She looked accusingly between him and the coffee pot.
“Well I certainly couldn’t make you tea. You said no one can ever beat your secretary’s way around a kettle,” said Draco cheekily.
She blinked past him and towards the food he was hovering over. “You’re making this for me? Breakfast, too?”
Draco’s brow furrowed, “Of course. Who do you think was making you breakfast this entire time?”
“But you said…the elves–”
“Come off it, Granger. I knew you wouldn’t accept the elves cooking for you.” He said matter-of-factly.
Her mouth sealed shut. Actually– she had. She knew they were being paid a fair wage with benefits, so she didn’t think twice. But it seems Draco thought her so noble as to refuse such a thing.
She looked towards the coffee pot filled with her caffeinated salvation. It was rather domestic of him if she thought about it.
“You aren’t using magic.” She stated, but they both knew it was a question. Wherever did the Muggle-hating Malfoy go?
Draco rolled his neck as he used tongs to turn the sausage over. “I find it therapeutic. Using your hands, working to achieve a certain outcome. It didn’t feel satisfying the first time I tried cooking with magic.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. It was ridiculous the things she didn’t know of him, yet he didn’t demand it of her. She wondered if there were ever rules to navigating an arranged marriage, or if she would wade in the abyss of the unsettled until they parted ways.
He glanced at her for a second, light eyes glittering. “Breakfast will be finished shortly. I didn’t realize you had an early morning, or I would’ve awoken earlier.”
“No, don’t trouble yourself. I couldn’t sleep last night.” She settled at the island, facing him as he worked. Rivulets of veins crawled up his arms, a physiological waterfall cascading across his skin. The muscles of his forearms flexed as he scooped the sausage out of the pan and onto a plate. “When you were gone those five days, who cooked then?”
He didn’t turn, and she watched the curvature of his shoulder blades imprint on his shirt. As her gaze lowered, she noticed his wand sticking out of the back pocket of his pants. It was a heinous crime to violate him in such a way with her eyes, yet she couldn’t find it in herself to pull them away. A secret only she would know.
“The elves did, but only then. I sent a note asking them to care for you. I didn’t think you would know.”
She bit her lip. Guilt began gnawing on her stomach when he placed the plate in front of her. He filled a bright red mug with coffee, sliding it over to her with the utmost grace.
“You’re not eating with me?” She asked, hopeful to relieve the hole being dug into her chest. Perhaps she could take the time to know a little more about him.
He frowned. “I don’t normally eat breakfast. It’s made me sick since Sixth Year.”
She laughed at the irony. “But you make it for me every morning?”
He shrugged. “I like taking care of you.”
Hermione’s throat was thick with the next breath. It was impossible to swallow. Her hand twitched to grasp onto the silverware–to show her appreciation or to do absolutely anything with her hands–but it was as heavy as lead.
Why did she feel this way? Was it possible for her to allow herself to be taken care of? She couldn’t fathom such a thought. They had so much past. He practically saved her life twice. She was begrudgingly being taken care of by him from the periphery. She didn’t think she could allow him to do it in such a direct manner.
Her hands rubbed together in her lap as she attempted to move the conversation elsewhere. “‘I’m going back to work today. I’m positive work has been absolutely abysmal without me. They probably had to do their jobs in my absence.”
His brows lifted in curiosity, a twitch of mirth. She called that a small victory.
He was washing the dishes, his hands moving rhythmically with the dish towel. Soap suds were filling the gaps between his fingers, and she thought it best if she looked away before another heinous crime infiltrated her dreams.
“Do you still plan to introduce that new lycanthropy bill?”
She was startled at his attentiveness. “You know about the Lupin Bill?”
He was over the sink as water doused the pan. “I am a part of the Wizengamot, Granger. I happen to know what goes on in those underground walls you slave away in. Though I’ll have to recuse myself from the vote when your bill comes to fruition.”
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. “You won’t have to. It’s not my bill anymore. I won’t attach my name to it.”
That made him pause.
He stopped the water flow with a wave of his hand and set the pan down. “What?”
“I won’t attach my name to the bill. It’s being introduced by the Survivors of Greyback Project. Another advocate will be presenting it.”
He turned, the fire in his eyes undeniable. “And what, dare I ask, could possibly make you do such a thing?”
Hermione was taken aback by his sudden ferocity, though his full attention has always been slightly jolting. “Early in my career, every time I put my name on a bill, it was voted against. I am aware of what my name means to a certain pureblood demographic, and I refuse to allow such an important bill to be denied due to secondhand racism.”
Draco leaned against the island, his hands splayed against marble. “Kingsley told me you plan to run for Minister when he retires. Your name on this bill could fast-track your future for that.”
“Not if I lose the vote.”
“You will lose the vote if you act like that. Where is the fiery Granger from Hogwarts with the pins and elf hats? Fight back against those old fucks.” His voice grated with an underlying resentment.
The guilt in her stomach flipped into rage, and she sneered at his venom.
“I am the same Granger you knew. I am just playing the game dealt to me. To them, I’m just a lowly muggleborn.”
“You are the Heir of Merlin.” He hissed, “Start acting like it.”
“Don't refer to me as that. I will not subject myself to your tactics.” The fire rose from her diaphragm. It was possible steam would admit next.
He scoffed. “What? As if you are holier than I am? Play the game now modified to you. That means more to the pureblood demographic than ever before.”
She flinched at the raw truth scraping against her subconscious, but she wouldn’t be deterred from a fight of what was right. “You appear at the Wizengamot vote when you feel like it. You throw the Malfoy name and money around at charities when it serves you. I am doing this for the most vulnerable of people.”
“Can you not do great things and benefit from them as well?”
She was briefly stunned. There had always been the idea in her mind that doing good things required sacrifice, that she would have to hurt for it, crawl and beg and scream for it. Was this how Draco felt when he donated to charities? The charities won, and his notoriety won as well? She paused. Was that so wrong? Was it any different than her accepting meals from house elves as long as they were properly compensated for it?
“You want to be Minister, so fight for it,” he countered.
“I’m trying!” She yelled, the regret almost instantaneous at the vitriol she emitted.
He fell back then, his shoulders lowering as his hands slipped from the marble. Their chests both rose and fell, of words left unsaid or perhaps too many words floating between them. The air was heavy with defeat, and she was positive they both felt the weight.
He pulled his wand from his pocket, and the dishes flew into their respective cupboards.
“Draco, I’m sorry–” She began, but he raised a hand to stop her.
“It’s fine. Have a good day at work.” He turned to leave.
She jumped up. There was so much to say, but she couldn’t seem to make sense of her mind for once. “You don’t plan to join me today?”
Draco paused in the doorway. She waited, hope half-heartedly sitting in the palm of her hand.
“I don’t think so, Granger.” His words were low.
She couldn’t help the disappointment that settled in the wake of him. He left, and she noticed the Prophet next to the stove where his frame had covered.
Their kiss danced across the cover, the continuous loop she hated so much, mocking her.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He plagued her thoughts throughout the day. Or perhaps, his words did.
She spent her morning confirming the hearing for the Wizengamot on Friday. Then she moved on to confirm the children who would be interviewed. By lunchtime, she moved onto her next order of business.
But it never seemed to fail that her mind wandered back to Draco.
Would he disappear on her again after their fight? Did he classify it as a fight? Surely not. A mild disagreement at best. Chills ran down her spine at the thought of drowning in that blood tainted tub.
No, he said he wouldn’t. So what was she upset about?
Perhaps it did frighten her to use the nepotism attached with her title to further her career. She thought Wizarding Britain would rue the day they thought so little of her and her blood.
But she failed as muggleborn Hermione to pass her legislation. Would it be foolish to present the case herself, leading the pathway for a greater government that took care of their citizens?
The more she thought of it, the more it bothered her that he could be right.
It began when she stalked towards Kingsley’s office. Marge didn’t scowl at her, but instead quickly excused herself, interrupting Kingsley in a meeting just to urgently tell him Hermione was there. The old bat didn’t say one scathing insult.
Which was quite annoying. She always had quips at the ready.
She met Harry in the cafeteria for a late lunch after he finished his afternoon reports. Random wizards and witches smiled at her, waving as if they were old childhood friends. It was unnerving to observe the switch in their view of her. Some tolerated her. Many viewed her as snobbish before they actually got to know her. How many times did someone say ‘You’re nicer than I thought you would be’? But the timing wasn’t coincidental.
It was an absolute infuriation how quickly she rose in the ranks of their minds.
Was it being the Heir of Merlin? Or was it officially being Lady Malfoy?
There were too many questions circling her mind, and the heaviness on her chest hadn’t lifted.
Hermione came home, settling into her favorite chair in the library. The books on Wolfsbane and lycanthropy sat in front of her, yet her eyes continued to find their way to the door. She memorized the crown molding before there was a disturbance.
Draco walked in after nine, a tiny pink book sat in his hand. She tried not to allow her breath of relief to be heard as he settled in a chair not far from her, and opened his book.
She strained to see what he was reading over the tops of her own book.
Quiet curiosity enthralled her as she discovered it was “Love Poems” by Pablo Neruda. A dark pink script shone back at her. She turned back to her own book, tired of the japery of damning paper.
By Tuesday, she wrote her speech. She owled the advocate for the Survivors of Greyback Project to inform him she would be introducing the Lupin Bill.
By Wednesday, she started lobbying.
Each member of the Wizengamot was surprised at her visit but overall welcoming. As she expected, most inquired about her marriage or had a Merlin question at the tip of their silver tongue.
They listened intently as she pleaded the case of Greyback’s victim, highlighting the war hero that Lupin was and how he was once just like these Hogwarts students.
When their eyes glazed over, she knew they had stopped listening.
By her seventh meeting, she decided to damn it all to hell and follow Draco’s advice. But she would not play the modified game he suggested. She planned to destroy it from the inside out.
“I know Draco is excited to start a family, as am I.” She gushed, “It’s so important to pass on the beautiful magic of Merlin.”
Elphias Doge nodded back, his irises alight with fresh gossip, a hyena watching roadkill dangle in front of him. “But aren’t you afraid of them being born a Squib?”
She bit down on the inside of her cheek until her eyes watered. She didn’t think violence would help her case, so she ran headfirst deeper into her lies. It was better to lean into the prejudice, as if she had already thought of such a possibility. “We’ve discussed it, but Draco’s genetics are so strong, we don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
She leaned in close, the scathing comment slithered out, “and I would never discredit the power of Merlin’s magic.”
“Oh of course not!” Elphias exclaimed, his fat cheeks ricocheting from such sudden whiplash. “I didn’t mean any harm, my dear.”
She smiled the sweetest smile. “Of course. That’s why I wanted to come to you and tell you of a cause that is near and dear to the Malfoys. We would take it as a personal honor if you believed in it.”
She spun her web, and Friday came with reluctant excitement.
Her witnesses sat nervously, piled in her office with their parents. Hermione tried not to pace; instead, reciting the speech in her mind. It was to keep herself busy, though she couldn’t figure out how the bloody clock kept appearing before her eyes. It had to be charmed.
Harry and Ron came round, bringing all the kids sweets from Honeydukes. Their parents visibly relaxed when the kids started playing with each tiny Weasley invention. She bit back a laugh when the smallest of children tried climbing Harry.
It was a soft moment in the hard lines of legality and justice. A luxury she didn’t realize she craved until it was before her, beckoning her to accept it.
She almost teared up at their reassuring smiles. They knew what this meant to her.
At two, Hermione took the stand at the bottom of the Wizengamot, where prisoners and parishioners alike stood before their looming government.
She glanced up roughly. Ten rows up, one space to the right. In the Malfoy seat sat the family’s patron to vote in their stead.
The crowd filling the spaces around the Wizengamot settled when she cleared her throat. In the distance, she made out Kingsley’s outline. The spotlight was entirely unflattering yet imposing enough to be intimidating.
But not for Hermione.
“In the last several years, we have made great strides in strengthening our government, yet there is much to do.” She was steady in her speech. Many nodded in response to her statement.
“We have made wonderful strides in progress as well, except for the very thing that separated us before the war: caring for the underserved. Lycanthropy victims have skyrocketed during the war, and it is our duty as wizards and witches to take accountability for it. Too many children have suffered at the hands of evil.”
More nods. Some whispers. The Wizengamot sat tall, their expressions stoic. She made eye contact with every single member she visited, her gaze bouncing over the Malfoy seat. She hadn’t asked Draco to vote in favor for her. A part of her wished she had. She hadn’t a clue what this patron planned to do.
“If you vote to pass my bill, of free Wolfsbane for all Hogwarts students affected by lycanthropy, you honor the memory of war hero and former professor of Hogwarts, Remus Lupin.”
She saw Harry give her a thumbs up from the front row. Teddy Lupin sat quietly next to him, his hands folded in his lap and his focus on her. A perfect little gentleman. She smiled at him as she pressed on.
“Remus Lupin was not only a hero and an educator. He was a werewolf, bitten by Greyback as a small child.” She declared.
The murmurs throughout the crowd extended to the Wizengamot now, trickling all around Kingsley’s seat. Werewolf was vulgar word to say–it always had been–but Hermione refused to sugarcoat what happened to these victims.
“Many of you knew him. Many of you fought alongside him,” she continued. “If you knew him, you knew how badly he desired to be liked. Because in this society, werewolves are so often hated for what they cannot control.”
She paused, allowing her words to sink in.
“Wolfsbane allows these victims to take control of their lives again. They keep their mind when transformed, containing any foreshadowed violence. They deserve to have the healthcare they need. They are children, and they want to be children.” She took a staggered breath. “I ask of you all, as parents and siblings, sons and daughters, what would you do if your loved one was a werewolf? Would you simply shun them, or would you reach the ends of the earth to give them what they need?”
Looking back up towards Kingsley, a flash of white appeared at the very top row of mild spectators. Not even the darkness of the building could hide him from her.
“I would give up anything if I could do that.” Her stare moved past Kingsley, into the depths of the unknown of surrendering herself to being taken care of. “Please, listen to these witnesses. Listen to what these children go through each full moon. The sacrifices their parents must make for them. I ask, please allow them as normal of a life as possible. We only have one life, and we must live it well.”
Gradually, each child took their turns moving through the stands. Some of them cried when the spotlight hit them until their parents sat with them, their eyes nervously looking up at their fate.
Most of the Wizengamot were kind in their questioning. Each child had the opportunity to tell their story of being bitten, and how their peers have treated them since discovering what they were.
One in particular asked if they felt the need to kill another child while playing.
Even after the question was sustained by Kingsley and stricken from the record, Hermione wrote the member’s name down. There would be hell to pay for such cruelty. The girl was just eight, her hazel eyes as wide as saucers.
It was her mother that sobbed instead.
The hearing was hours long. Hermione couldn’t stop her leg shaking, constantly crossing and uncrossing. Harry practically had to Stupefy her to stop her from biting clean through her lip.
“It’ll be fine. We believe in you.” He said with confidence. She smiled, but didn’t feel reassured. Perhaps she should’ve allowed that stuffy old lawyer to present.
Some voiced their concerns after the interviews were done. Most were logistic based, in which Hermione had the ability to stand and refute such claims.
What if they ran out of Mandrake leaves? What if the dragon's blood was late in shipment? Would there be senseless killings if they reside in Hogwarts each full moon? Where should they go? Is the Shrieking Shack available? As an arrow hits each target, Hermione shot them all down with her extensive research.
Kingsley’s voice boomed throughout the chambers. Hands were raised. Hands went down.
The vote passed, and she gasped the violent sob of joy.
The children were immediately escorted out. Many of the parents waved at Hermione, but all of the children waved at Harry and Ron. She was overjoyed and entirely too relieved to ever feel offended.
“I have to get Teddy back. Andromeda is waiting.” Harry said.
Ron pushed her forward, “Go get your fame, Golden Girl.”
Hermione shoved him back. “Oh shut it.”
Journalists swarmed her. Flashes erupted from large bulbs.
“Lady Malfoy, how do you feel?” one asked.
How did she feel? Laughter came from her. “Relieved that these children can have the right to healthcare. Victims of lycanthropy been denied too long, and this is just the start.”
More questions were asked towards the rest of the members as the Wizengamot adjourned, filtering out for the day. Kingsley stayed to answer a few, but quickly left after. It seemed the press was more taken with Hermione’s contributions.
“Lady Malfoy, why did your husband recuse himself from the vote?”
Hermione’s brow flicked upwards. Wasn’t it obvious? But they were scavangers looking for their next headline. “Draco wanted to prevent any conflict of interest. Today is a win for all of Britain as we reach another level of progression. I am proud to be the Undersecretary of the Minister.”
A voice in the back. “Will we expect a Minister run from you?”
“Today is a day for the victims of Grayback, not for my political aspirations. Thank you, but that will be all for the questions.” She replied, her posture practically mirroring a pureblood. But she was no pureblood.
She was the heir of Merlin god damnit.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five pints at a Muggle pub had her practically dancing to the Leaky Cauldron’s floo. She couldn’t help it. Penelope practically forced her, that cheeky girl. Victory made her drunk, so she indulged.
She was overwhelmed with gratitude. After the celebrations, the cheers, the nostalgic stories of their time at Hogwarts, her thoughts flew back to Draco. She wanted to thank him.
It was ridiculous she didn’t believe in herself when he so clearly did.
It was well after dark when she floo’d back to the Manor. She must’ve lost the concept of time between each Guinness, the time reaching almost ten on the mantle’s clock. The lights under Draco’s door were out, and he was nowhere to be found when she searched the library.
Her head was fuzzy with alcohol, she contemplated stomping into his chambers to see if he was indeed in there, but her stubbornness stopped her.
What the hell is she thinking?
She was properly chuffed. Where was the bloody bastard? Encouraging her to do this, showing up at the bloody vote when he didn’t have to? Just to disappear when she needed him most.
She shook her head.
Perhaps she was too vulnerable. Perhaps it had been too long since she'd been intimate with anyone. Perhaps it was the children and their sweet faces when they realized they won the fight. But she craved connection far deeper than she could have with Harry and Ron. It was natural to want her husband, she thought, even it was Malfoy. But there was a deep seated insecurity in her that thought it was possible she only wanted him for convenience.
No. She wouldn’t do that to him. She barely knew him, judging from their past encounters.
Would it be so bad to know him?
She dismissed the thought. If she was this vulnerable drunk, she would be fine in the morning. She needed to sleep.
Collapsing on her bed, she threw her bag to the side. Out slid a book of deep burgundy she didn’t recognize.
Curiosity captured her in a snare every time, and she sat up to look at it. Theories of Merlin, it read.
Hermione could never quell the turning gears in her mind. It’s why she was never good at Occlumency.
Gripping the leather cover, she opened it.